by Robin Gold
“Well, I suppose if you insist,” Todd conceded. “Who am I to argue with Milk Dud’s mom? Not to mention Libby Black’s daughter.”
Todd certainly was a charmer, Clara thought to herself. He was also an excellent conversationalist. She appreciated that he really seemed to listen when she spoke about Scuppernong and Boston and rare gingerbread decorations. He knew when to crack a joke, yet he also knew when to be serious and sincere. And Clara had no idea how it had taken her this long to notice Todd’s strong, chiseled jaw, or those perfectly shaped lips, or those big, sexy, capable hands. There was no denying the man was blessed with incredibly attractive physical features.
Bouncing to her feet, Clara excused herself to visit the señoritas’ room.
Before Todd had a chance to rise, Clara was already slipping in and out and sideways between groups of animated people waiting to be seated at the crowded bar. Shaking his head with a chuckle, he waved their waiter over and ordered a final round of drinks.
Clara hadn’t quite realized how strong the beverages were until she took a few steps and noticed that her head felt pleasantly light, and the chaotic, Technicolor room appeared to be slightly off kilter, like a carnival fun-house attraction. “Hi!” she said to a primitive-looking mask hanging on the wall when she almost bumped into it on her way to the bathroom. “Wow . . .” She opened her eyes wide, aware that she was mighty buzzed from the booze.
Although able to hold her liquor like a professional, it had been a long, long time, and many lost pounds, since Clara had last partaken of anything stronger than a pint or two of Scuppernong, and she’d completely forgotten what it felt like to be even mildly intoxicated. At the moment, it didn’t just feel good. It felt freakin’ fabulous. It was about darn time she finally let loose and indulged in some real fun, she decided while searching for a paper towel by the bathroom sink. When she couldn’t find anything to dry her hands with, she bent over and wiped them on the inside layer of her skirt.
“Good idea,” said a woman in a revealing black mini-dress standing at the next sink over, mimicking Clara’s impromptu maneuver.
The return trip from the bathroom back to her table was a winding, jumbled journey that involved a narrowly avoided collision with a waitress balancing a tray of flan and an accidental pop into the kitchen as Clara struggled to remember where she and Todd were sitting. Eventually, she spotted the hostess, who kindly escorted Clara to her table, winking. “Trust me, between the killer margaritas and the size of this place, guests get lost here all the time.”
“Well, thanks for the assist,” Clara said with a smile. “Next time I go to the bathroom I’ll be sure to bring my compass!”
After she and Todd had said a quick hello to his friend Luke and finished their last round of drinks, Todd paid the bill, peeked at his watch, and grinned. “Well? What do you say? Shall I take you home?”
Clara thought about it for a moment. She reminded herself, like a good little dedicated voyager, to sail thou forth . . . Then, pushing her hair away from her face, she coyly replied, “No.”
Months ago, while taking a summer stroll through the Boston Common with Tabitha, she had discussed how strange and unsettling it was to know that the last person she had slept with was dead. “It’s a tough feeling to describe. It’s just . . . I don’t know”—Clara had tightened her face, searching for the right word—“morbid, if that makes any sense. I know it sounds like a bizarre concept, but I’ve spoken about it with other people who’ve lost their partners, and it’s a common issue. You’d be surprised. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I’m interested in having sex for the sheer sake of having it. That’s not it at all. It’s just weird to know that the last person I did it with is no longer living,” she had explained, trying not to remember how wonderful and exciting things had always been with Sebastian in the bedroom. And the shower. And the kitchen. And once in the attic crawl space, but that had been an isolated incident interrupted by a raccoon. Turning to her friend, she had inquired, “Have you ever had sex with a dead person?”
With a horrified look of shock, the elderly gentleman sitting on the opposite end of Clara and Tabitha’s park bench feeding the pigeons had stood up and quickly walked away.
“Well, then where would you like to go next?” Todd asked Clara, a look of intrigue crossing his handsome face. “There’s a lounge I like called Nightingale’s down the street from here. Not that I’m suggesting we need anything more to drink.”
“Oh dear, definitely not.” Clara giggled, kicking her feet back and forth underneath the table. “Hmmm, I don’t know.” She shrugged innocently, as if she hadn’t a clue in the world. “How about we go back to your place?” She looked him directly in the eyes when she spoke, consciously deepening her seductive smile.
Todd appeared enthralled, as she intended him to be. But, once again, he narrowed his eyes, giving her that familiar, skeptical grin of his. “Those margaritas were pretty potent.” He enunciated his t’s as if he were performing on a stage. “I must say, I’ve never been one to take advantage of a beautiful woman. And, in case I haven’t told you yet, you are beautiful.”
“Oh, hot-Toddy.” A blush came to Clara’s cheeks. “You say the sweetest things. Don’t you want to tune my pipes?”
Todd’s brown eyes expanded and his eyebrows arched in a seemingly subconscious gesture.
“Joking!” she blurted. Seeing his immediate surprise, Clara bowed her head in a girlish manner, trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress her laughter. “I’m only teasing, of course. Thought I’d throw in a little piano humor for ya there . . .”
“I appreciate that.” Todd flirted back, gazing at her. “The world needs more piano humor.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Clara’s smile vanished and was replaced with a serious, sultry visage. “But I would like to go to your place.” Biting her bottom lip, she stared at him, waiting.
By the time they arrived at Todd’s apartment near the John Hancock Building, Clara had already determined that she had no intention of returning to Libby’s. Not that evening, at least.
“I have a confession,” Todd whispered, standing just inches away from her in the living room next to his shiny, white, candelabra-topped grand piano that reminded Clara of Liberace. “This is not how I imagined our date ending.” He slowly traced his hands up and down her back, causing her to shiver.
“Really?” Clara’s mind was swirling. She couldn’t think of a single intelligent thing to say.
Reaching out, Todd lifted her chin, examining her in the glow of the dimly lit chandelier. And then, with a hungry smile, he slowly leaned in for a kiss.
Right before their lips were about to meet, when there was but a fraction of a millimeter between them and Clara could taste his spicy burrito breath, she suddenly snapped her head to the side and grabbed his hand, slurring, “Take me to bread . . .”
13.
When on earth did her mother develop an affection for Meat Loaf? Clara wondered, awoken by a dramatic rendition of the stringy-haired musician’s famous ballad “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)” being played on the piano. Cracking one eye a quarter of the way open, she glanced at her watch beneath the covers. And since when did Libby tickle the ivories at seven-fifteen in the morning? This was not at all like her. She wasn’t even usually awake at this hour, let alone already fast at work in the music room.
Clara could not only feel her head throbbing, she could actually hear it, as if someone were rhythmically pounding a low-toned tympani drum inside of her skull. She tried to swallow, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her palate, and her chalky mouth was too dry. “Oh God,” she muttered out loud, suppressing the urge to vomit.
When Clara finally managed to open both eyes, her vision was blurry at first, but eventually, with some effort, she was able to focus clearly. She saw a familiar old banjo leaning against the wall. It had a brightly colored donkey painted
on it. “OH GOD!” she said louder, instantly recognizing the homely instrument from Frank’s Antiques, where she’d purchased the vase for Lincoln Foster’s mother. Never in her life had she seen another mule banjo like it. “Oh God . . . Oh God . . . OhGodOhGodOh . . . Lord, have mercy . . .”
Jolting upright in a disoriented, wide-eyed panic, she wondered if she was dead. In her mind, it was a distinct possibility.
Then, feeling a chill on her fanny and noticing that she was naked, she wondered where the hell her clothes were.
And that’s when Clara heard the singing.
“And I would do anything for love, I’d run right into hell and back . . .”
Horror-stricken, she covered her face with both hands as she realized that it was not Libby crooning the mushy opus. It was Todd. And she had slept with him. Like a sleazy, margarita-guzzling, two-bit whore. Or even worse—a one-bit whore.
Yearning to curl up into a ball and disappear, she only wished she was dead. How could she have let this happen? How could she have done this to Sebastian? HOW?
Queasy and weak, Clara strained to get out of bed, racing around the room as if she were on fire, collecting articles of clothing strewn all over the place as she berated herself. She didn’t want to know how her bra had come to be hanging on the plastic window blinds. Nor did she care to learn why Todd had an open can of Cheez Whiz on his nightstand.
“And maybe I’m crazy, oh it’s crazy and it’s true . . .” he sang in a falsetto as Clara tiptoed down the carpeted hallway toward the front door, praying praying praying with all her soul that she would be able to sneak out of the apartment unnoticed.
But when she glimpsed Todd, sitting in nothing but a snug pair of red, Santa-themed briefs at the Liberace-inspired piano with an orange juice-box at his side, she couldn’t help but gasp.
“Good morning!” he said, beaming, instantly stopping his song. “Sleep okay?”
“Oh, God!”
“Hey now, are you staring at my instrument?” He quirked an eyebrow at her.
Quickly shielding her eyes, Clara spun around. “No! Not at all! I wasn’t. I was just—I was—”
“Relax,” Todd interrupted, laughing. “I’m only teasing. I was referring to my piano. Remember? From last night?”
Clara’s expression remained blank.
“Thought I’d throw in a little ‘piano humor’ for ya.” He winked.
The previous evening was a blur, but Clara recalled her off-colored “pipe tuning” sorry attempt at a joke. And she regretted it.
“I always like to start the day off warming this baby up.” Todd patted the top of his piano. “I think it’s important to feel ‘one’ with your instrument. There’s something spiritual and grounding about it. Know what I mean?”
Clara did not know what he meant. “Was that banjo I saw in your bedroom from Frank’s Antiques?”
“Donkey Strings?” Todd smiled, impressed. “Sure was.” He explained how he had recently acquired “the beauty” when he spotted it in the Christmas display window of the antique shop on his way to lunch at the diner next-door. “She just spoke to me. I took one look, and knew I had to have her. The colors are so vibrant and inspiring. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Me neither.” Clara desperately eyed the front door. “You know, I should . . . I should really get going. I need to take Milk Dud out and feed him—he’s probably starving by now—and I still have a ton of holiday shopping to—”
“Don’t you want a waffle? Or some sausage?”
Feeling her gag reflex activate, Clara fought the impulse to cringe. “HA!” She pointed at Todd, forcing a broad, jittery smirk. “More piano humor?”
“Uh, no . . .” He nodded at the platter of waffles and sausages on the marble breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living room. “I made us breakfast. You know what they say . . . It’s the most important meal of the day.”
“That it is,” Clara concurred, inching her way toward the doorway, pondering whether he’d cooked breakfast wearing only his teeny-tiny Santa briefs as well. “Well, okay then . . . Thanks again for last night. It was—” She lost her train of thought when Todd stood up, facing her directly in all his semi-nude, hairy, stark white glory. “Oh God! I—I really gotta go.” She threw open the front door, causing the sleigh bells hanging from the doorknob to jingle. “Meat Loaf sounds great!” Gesturing an overenthusiastic thumbs up, Clara made a mad dash for the street, hoping she might have the good fortune of getting run over by a car on the way home.
14.
Outside, large, wet snowflakes fell from the gray December sky, and the sharp wind burned Clara’s lungs, causing her eyes to tear and her cheeks to sting. Spotting a public trash can at the nearest street corner amidst the winter wonderland, she hurried in its direction, holding her breath. She slid on a patch of ice along the way and nearly tumbled to the ground, but, flailing her arms, she grabbed hold of a nearby tree and regained her balance just in the nick of time. Bending over the cold, metal wastebasket, Clara clutched its paint-chipped rim with both hands as she regurgitated. When at last she was able to catch her breath, she slowly straightened her spine, but another wave of sickness immediately racked her frail body and she began heaving once again before she had a chance to lean over.
“Mommy, look! That lady’s barfing! Ewwww!” cried a little pigtailed girl in a sled being pulled by her mother.
After several minutes, when Clara was certain that there was nothing left in her system to expel, she cautiously resumed an upright position. Shaking and disoriented, she glanced over her shoulder at the Salvation Army Santa Claus standing on the sidewalk, ringing his silver bell, collecting money for the needy as he openly stared at her.
“You all right, miss?” a concerned man holding a briefcase stopped to ask, startling her.
Embarrassed, Clara wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, nodding, frightened that if she tried to speak she might vomit again.
God, she felt pathetic. “Thank you,” Clara managed to respond. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m all right. I really am,” she repeated, more to herself than to the worried-looking man with the briefcase. “If you could maybe help me hail a taxi, that would be more than kind of you.” Trembling, she tried to smile at him, but she couldn’t muster the strength.
“You just hold on right there.” The gentleman raised his arm in the air and stepped into the slush-filled street. “I got you covered. This shouldn’t take but a minute.”
A bright yellow cab came to a screeching halt and the man opened the car door for Clara. “You know where you’re going?” he asked when she was safely deposited in the backseat.
The truth was, Clara felt as if she didn’t know anything. Not anymore. Not after what she’d just done with Todd. Nodding, Clara thanked the kind man once again. She wanted to let him know how grateful she was for his assistance, but her stomach still felt queasy, and she decided it was best to play it safe. After all, she wasn’t in the habit of upchucking on Good Samaritans.
“You got enough cash to get where you’re going?” he inquired.
Again, Clara nodded. Patting her purse, she whispered “yes,” certain that this was one of the most mortifying experiences of her life.
She couldn’t help but notice the flash of pity in the man’s eyes as he gently closed the car door. “Take good care of her now,” he told the cabbie, adding, “You might want to drive extra slow.”
“Well, I’d say someone had a good night.” Libby grinned with a knowing look when Clara arrived home. She set a blossoming, red poinsettia down on the table in the center of the foyer. “If I hadn’t known who you were with, I’d have been worried.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Clara muttered as Milk Dud, thrilled to see his master, came racing her way, barking up a storm. “Shhhh! Quiet, boy.” Her body ached too much to bend down and pet him.
&
nbsp; “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Clara shook her head, turning around and slowly removing her jacket. The last thing she wanted to do was explain to her mother why it was stained.
“I know when something’s wrong.” Libby shifted the poinsettia an inch toward the right. “Didn’t you have a nice time with Todd?”
“That’s one way to put it,” Clara mumbled, spilling with guilt. Not to mention self-disgust.
“What does that mean?”
Clara cringed. “It means I did something stupid. Okay? Something stupid and terrible. That’s what it means.” The words came out with a harsher edge than she had intended. Lifting her hand to her forehead, she realized her mother probably wasn’t going to stop pressing until she had answers.
Still barking at an earsplitting volume, Milk Dud jumped spastically at her feet, begging for attention.
“Honey, what are you talking about?”
“I slept with Todd!” Clara suddenly snapped, unable to keep this shameful secret to herself a second longer. “There you have it. We had sex,” she proclaimed. “Possibly with Cheez Whiz.” Closing her eyes, she inhaled a deep breath.
Then she noticed that the room had suddenly fallen suspiciously silent.
When Clara opened her eyes again, she discovered Milk Dud licking something seemingly quite tasty off the toe of her boot. “NO!” she gasped, shaking her leg. “No! Milk Dud, stop it! Stop!” Disgusted, she tried to drive him away as she quickly removed her shoes. “I said NO!”
“Why are you yelling at him like that?” Libby demanded with a reproachful glare, her arms lifting in a gesture of confusion.
“Because it’s vomit that he’s eating off my boots. Why don’t you ask me some more questions? Christ almighty! I threw up this morning. On the street! After I had sex with Todd! Who, by the way, plays piano practically nude. I’m a cheap, barfing whore!” She stopped herself just in the nick of time before adding, “And I hate myself.”