Cheap Diamonds

by Norris Church Mailer

  “I guess you can’t change Arkansawyers. They grew up on that stuff.”

  “Yeah. And secretly, I think the hospital figured it’s good for business. We fill ’em full of grease down here and take it out of their arteries upstairs.” Cassie smiled, not sure if he was kidding. It sounded plausible to her.

  They filled their trays and when Cassie started to pull out her wallet, Dr. Barker wouldn’t let her pay.

  “Doctors get a discount. You’re with me.”

  They went to the corner table just vacated by a gang of nurses and Cassie wiped it off with a napkin.

  “Sorry. It’s the waitress in me. You’d think nurses would be neater, somehow, wouldn’t you?”

  “Let’s hope they’re neater in the operating room.”

  “How do y’all surgeons do it, Dr. Barker? How can you bring yourself to cut open somebody and rearrange their face or take out their cancers and then come down here and eat like you’d just spent the day baking a cake or something?” Dr. Barker squeezed lemon into his tea and added three packets of sugar, shaking them and then ripping them open all at once.

  “You get used to it. It’s hard at first, especially if you work with children. But you wouldn’t last long if you let yourself go around in tears all the time. Sometimes some of the nurses, especially the ones who work with the sickest kids, get burned out, and they have to rotate to another job for a while. It takes a special person to come in to work day after day and not know if somebody they’ve gotten attached to will be there or not. And we can’t help but get attached to our patients, no matter how hard we try not to.”

  “Do you work on a lot of kids?”

  “Quite a few. Cleft palates, mostly, like your baby. Though my main business is cosmetic surgery.”

  “That seems a little…not to hurt your feelings…shallow or something. I mean, to go through all that when you don’t need to, just for vanity.”

  “I don’t look at it like that. I believe the way we feel about ourselves has everything to do with how happy and healthy we are. It’s good to think you have the power to change someone’s life by making them beautiful. Or even just making them look a little more normal.”

  “Must be kind of like playing God.”

  “I suppose you could say that. But then God gave man the brains to do it, so maybe He intended for it to happen, if we try to do some good. Like the old church song goes, ‘God has no hands but our hands.’”

  “I missed that old song, I guess. I’m Catholic.”

  Cassie picked up her fork and started to eat. She felt a little self-conscious. Dr. Barker kept staring at her. Her cheeks got hot.

  “What? Do I have something on my face?”

  “I’m sorry. No. You have a lovely face. I can’t help it, being a plastic surgeon.” He laughed. “I’m like a dentist friend of mine who always, in his mind, fixes everyone’s teeth he meets. He married a girl who had a cute little overbite that made her look pouty and sexy, and I think the chief reason he did was so he could straighten her teeth. Right after the honeymoon, he put her in braces. She wore them for three years and when they came off, she wasn’t cute and sexy anymore. Her lip had fallen in and her whole face was different. She hated the way she looked and so did he, so he put braces back on her to make them the way they were to begin with.” He took a big bite of his barbecue. Cassie waited.

  “What happened to her?”

  “Oh. When the braces came off two years later, she divorced him. How’s that barbecue?”

  Cassie laughed. A small laugh, but it was the first one in a long time.

  “I get it. You’re thinking you want to fix my nose, don’t you?”

  “You have such a beautiful bone structure. If you had that bump taken out of the middle of your nose and just the tiniest little bob on the end, you’d be perfect.”

  Cassie laughed again.

  “Are you going to marry me so you can fix it?”

  “That might not be the worst idea in the world.” He said it like he wasn’t kidding.

  Cassie looked at him and took a bite of her sandwich. He was crazy, but he did have nice eyes.

  35

  * * *

  THE TRIO

  Lale felt better after we ate, and I got some painting done before Sal got home, at least the preliminary sketch and the background colors laid in. The photograph I was working from didn’t have a lot of detail, though, so he would have to sit for me at least a time or two so I could get things like hands and ears and nostrils a little clearer. It couldn’t be a surprise anyway, so I just let him see it.

  “Oh, my God! It is me already! You are amazing, Miss Cherry. I can’t believe you are doing my portrait. I’m so honored!”

  “It was going to be a surprise, but you’ll have to sit. So sit.” I got my sketchbook out and did some pencil sketches of the various ears and things I needed. He was pretty patient, up to a point, and then had to get up and move around.

  “Sorry, sweetness. I was just not made to sit in one spot too long. Let me change and we’ll take you out to dinner. Want to go to Fanelli’s?”

  “Well, if it’s just for a quick bite. I have to meet a friend on Prince Street at ten.”

  “Do tell—who is it?”

  “Just a friend. He’s in a jazz trio and they’re playing at a loft over there.”

  “Really? Can we go? It sounds groovy.”

  “Uh, I don’t know. It’s one of those invitation-only things. I didn’t know you were into jazz.”

  “I’m into life, baby-o! It sounds like a blast. I’m sure you could get us in. As gorgeous as we are, how could they turn us away? Zack, what do you think? Want to meet Cherry’s beau?”

  Great. I had to open my big mouth. Now they would go with me and meet Aurelius. What would he think about me walking in with a handsome model and a guy in a dress?

  “I didn’t say he was my beau. I said he was a friend. You won’t take Miss Sally, will you, Sal? I mean, not that she’s not wonderful, but you know…”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to? Miss Sally only goes where she knows in advance she’ll be loved and appreciated.”

  “I think I’ll just stay here, Cherry. I’m kind of tired.”

  “Don’t be silly, Zack! It’ll do you good to get out and about. You look a little peaked.”

  “So this guy you’re meeting, is he the boyfriend you talked about?” Zack did look a little worn out from the afternoon, but who could blame him?

  “Kind of.”

  “Well, in that case, sure. I’ll go.”

  Fanelli’s was the other workers’ bar in SoHo, framed pictures of boxers hanging on the dark, wood-paneled walls. It was what they call a beer-and-shot place. A guy who unloads trucks all day would come in and, without even asking, the bartender would set a shot glass of whiskey and a mug of beer out on the bar. The guy would down the shot, then drink the beer without drawing breath. The bartender would also pour you a nice cold Chardonnay if you asked, thank goodness, which was about all I could handle, and they had pretty good pasta e fagioli. While I wasn’t too comfortable going there by myself, with the guys it was okay.

  By the time we finished dinner, it was nearly ten and had started to rain. The snow from earlier hadn’t really stuck, and the rain was turning what was left to mush. I was glad I’d worn my rubber boots and not the new green suede ones. The streets were nearly deserted as we found the loft on the corner of Prince and West Broadway. A guy standing downstairs with his coat collar turned up asked us who we were invited by and let us in when I showed them the invitation Aurelius had given me. We had to climb four flights of rickety stairs. It didn’t seem like these places were ever swept, or if they were you couldn’t tell it. They for sure hadn’t been painted since the first coat was put on—that I’d bet money on. The dented metal door opened up to a dark space that somehow seemed cavernous and intimate at the same time, floors painted black, brick walls, with a lot of people hanging around at little tables, candles everywhere. B
alloons tied with long ribbons were thick on the ceiling. At one end of the room was a rigged-up spotlight, focused on three musicians, Aurelius with his saxophone, a black guy named Justin de Mar on drums, and a skinny white man, Arturo Furness, playing bass. I caught Aurelius’s eye and waved. He nodded in my direction. Lale turned and stared at me.

  “Is that the guy?”

  “Yep. That’s him.”

  I could kick myself for bringing him. What was I thinking?

  36

  * * *

  JAZZ

  Dear Baby,

  Last night was not the best night I’ve ever had, understatement of the year. First of all, Lale and I finally talked about Cassie and the whole thing, and instead of bawling him out, I really felt sorry for him. He’s not a bad guy, just young and not ready to settle down, and not terribly concerned with anybody but himself—big revelation. But, get this, he was the one who let Janet think the baby was not his, and he is miserable about the whole thing. I think he really feels bad for what he did and how it turned out, and he is going to at least set his mother straight, so that is something.

  I had a date with Aurelius later, but hated to leave Lale like that, so I took him and Sal with me to hear Aurelius play at this loft not far from them. It didn’t occur to me to tell Lale that Aurelius was black, or, more the truth, maybe I just didn’t want to tell him, but we walked in while Aurelius was playing and Lale was dumbstruck. I had forgotten how people back home can be. It never crossed my mind Lale would be so shocked that I’d be with a black man—he’s pretty cool about gays, but I don’t know why I was so surprised. As you pointed out, Buchanan is the home of the grand dragon of the Ku Klux Klan, and Lale grew up there. The grand dragon might be his grandpa, for all I know. Janet seems like she might have a little dragon in her. Just kidding. Kind of.

  Sal was great, though. He’s Puerto Rican, and has been kicked around a little in his life, too. He invented himself from nothing, a poor family of seven kids, the little queer one who all the kids in school picked on, so he learned how to make them laugh and they wound up being his friends. He didn’t tell me all this head on, just dropped hints, but I could read between the lines. You have to meet him one of these days, when you come up here. You’ll love him. He never meets a stranger.

  Anyhow, the trio was great, in spite of Lale’s remarks about how the music was horrible and didn’t even have a tune, etc. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was jealous. Ha. I tried to ignore him for the most part, but I was boiling inside. I was so proud of Aurelius. He looked great, wearing a white shirt that was open down the front, African beads, and chamois pants that clung to his muscled butt and legs like velvet skin. He’s a real professional and was clearly the star of the trio, although the others were good, too. At the break Aurelius came over to where we were and sat down, put his arm around me, and gave me a little kiss. I made it a bigger one. I could see Lale holding it in, wanting to hit him or something, but there was nothing he could do without being a total A-H, since I was clearly with him. Sal told Aurelius how much he dug the music and the two of them got into a discussion about jazz, people I’d never heard of, like Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane, Sonny Stitt, and Miles Davis, fusion—which I didn’t quite grasp—and I don’t know what all. It seems like Sal knows a lot about everything, and he has actually met Miles Davis a time or two. He said Miles did a concert where he played the whole thing with his back to the room, and then when he finally turned around, the crowd went wild. I’m going to have to learn a whole new culture, I can see. It’s nothing like the blues music they have out at Turkey Bend.

  Lale finally got tired of Aurelius getting all our attention, saw a girl across the room he knew, and wandered over to talk to her, giving her a big wet smack on the lips. He looked back to see if I was watching and I pretended not to see him. He is the most irritating man I know. Thank goodness he left with the girl, some trashy hippie chick who looked like a wannabe model, making sure they went right by our table, of course, and didn’t cause any more trouble. Sal drifted off to sit with some guys who were gay, a couple of them actually in drag. I guess it’s looser down here than I thought. I moved up to a table close to the trio and watched Aurelius play the rest of the night.

  I hate to agree with Lale, even a little bit, but the sweet saxophone Aurelius plays at night by himself at the apartment didn’t sound at all like the jazz he was playing at the loft, and I’m not really sure if I like it or not. You can’t dance to it, there’s no real beat, it’s more just for listening, and even though some people were bobbing their heads, frankly some of it was off-key. But then once in a while, one of them would have a solo and go off on a riff, where he would play by himself, work to get something going, like he was straining to find the notes that kept eluding him, chasing, chasing after the melody, as ragged as it was, and we sat on the edge of our chairs, not sure at all it was going to happen, whether he would find it or it would fizzle out into a toneless chaos; then all at once, he found it, and like an orgasm, the notes came, strong and loud and soul-saving, and everyone went crazy. The drummer went on for about twenty minutes by himself, and got into some kind of hypnotized state where he was pounding the drums in such a frenzy that he took us all with him, transported us to the jungles of Africa, and in our minds Justin de Mar was wearing face paint and feathers, beating on big skin drums with sticks, but it had a tough city edge to it, too, like he was drumming out all the pain, the betrayal, the enslavement, the lynching and knifing and whipping, the denial of the most basic, decent things in life; all the horrible things the blacks have been subjected to down through the ages came out in that drumming somehow, along with a possibility of salvation. It’s definitely music that can change your life. Gosh. I guess I liked it more than I thought.

  We left around two, back to Aurelius’s apartment, and went to bed. It’s weird—I am so hot for him when he’s up on the stage, and he is so sexy and the best kisser I ever kissed, but, Baby, he is just not great in bed. He still won’t do anything to me—you know what I mean—and it’s so frustrating. He did let me do it to him this time, which was a step, and he was really into it, but when I gently suggested he return the favor, he just came right out and said, “I can’t, baby. I’m sorry. I just never could do that.” I asked him if it was something about me, thinking maybe I should wash (again) or put on perfume or something, and he said, “No, it’s not you, it’s me. I just never could bring myself to do it to anybody.” Oh. Well. I guess that’s that. It was also really fast again, but at least he didn’t fall asleep on me. I think he felt bad and held me afterward, which was sweet, but I sneaked out and went to my own bed. I hope it gets better. I’ve never had this problem before. What am I going to do?

  On a totally different note, I had a weird experience on the subway a couple of days ago. There were no seats and I was standing, holding on to the handstrap, when one of those Jewish religious guys, Hasidim, they call them, got on. You might have seen pictures of them on the news about Israel. They wear black suits and hats with brims and have long curls dangling by their ears, although the rest of their hair is short. They’re kind of like priests or something, but they don’t have to be celibate. I had never seen one in person before I came here, but there are a lot of them in New York, especially in the diamond district, for some reason, which is in the Forties. My booker, Liz, is Jewish, and she has taught me a lot of funny words in Yiddish, like schlemiel, which is a nerd, schlong, which is a weenie (not the hot-dog kind!), meshugana, which means crazy, and shiksa, which is a white girl who isn’t Jewish, like me. Anyhow, this chubby Hasid came and stood right beside me, hanging on to the next handstrap, our elbows practically touching. I was riding along, like I always do on the subway, reading the ads above the seats, not thinking about anything in particular, when I felt a hand on my thigh. I looked down and the hand was attached to the Hasid’s arm. I thought, “This can’t be what I think it is. He’s a religious guy. It must be some kind of mistake.” So I moved down a coup
le of straps. The Hasid moved with me. There was the hand on the thigh again. “Noooo,” I thought to myself. “He really is doing what I think he’s doing.” So I turned to him and said, “Shiksas will cause you nothing but trouble.” I don’t even know why I said that, but I did, and he bugged his eyes, stared at me with an open mouth, and turned white as a sheet. Just then the train stopped, the doors opened, and he ran out as fast as his legs would carry him, holding on to his hat, curls bobbing, like some incubus or something was after him. It was so funny! When I told Liz about it later, after she quit laughing, she said that they believe God speaks through the mouths of dumb animals (like blondes, I guess), and he thought it was God talking to him. I can’t dispute it. I don’t know why I said that to him, so it could very well have been the Lord talking to him through my mouth! Liz told me about a book called Tales of the Hasidim by Martin Buber, which I checked out of the library, and it has some good stuff in it, just like what happened to me. Well, not really, but similar. I recommend it if you can find it.

  Speaking of priests, WHAT IS GOING ON!? I’m dying to know. Write me soon.

  Love,

  Cherry

  37

  * * *

  THE CHRISTMAS PARTY

  I stood in line at the post office for what seemed like an hour holding a huge heavy box I was sending to Mama and Daddy. I got them so many things, it was ridiculous, but it was the first time I’d had the money to really get everyone nice presents, so I went all out. Mama would love all the stuff I sent, mostly clothes and jewelry I’d gotten at the flea markets and antique stores, but Daddy wouldn’t like any of it. He wanted me to save my money. He still thought this modeling thing was just a phase I was going through and I would be back soon to live next door to them in Sweet Valley. I hoped he would at least wear the pretty cashmere sweater. I didn’t think he’d ever had real cashmere before. I hadn’t until now. I thought genuine lambs’ wool was the best.