Blaine says that Jayne likes to cast herself as the tragic heroine of her own life. But what sane person would not be upset that her fiftysomething mother surpasses her in feminine wiles and is bonking some fellow Catholic and just begging God to strike them dead? As if marrying a Jew was not rebellion enough. Her mother is the black widow. Her mother has black lingerie. Jayne has zits and increasingly feels like live veal in the cramped, dark box of her apartment, waiting for her phone to ring. She has no tangible reason other than pride not to wear briefs with holes around the elastic waistband.
So come on.
The phone rings at work. Jayne cradles the receiver in the wool of her sweatered shoulder, chirps like a Stepford Wife, “Saint Xavier’s Day School, how can I help you?”
“Honey,” Mom says. “You sound thin. Let me take you to lunch.”
“I . . . sound . . . thin?”
“Wan,” Mom clarifies. “Insubstantial. Peaked.” If she’d had the money to attend, her mother would never have dropped out of college. “What do you say? I’ll pick you up so I can say hello to everyone.”
“Whatever. I can’t be late back to work like last time—the fundraising auction’s on Friday night; I’m swamped.”
“See you soon then!” Mom sounds breathless, like a porn star. “I can’t wait.”
“The stigma against infidelity is more about honesty than about sex,” Blaine said the first time he told her he was not “into” monogamy. “It’s an issue of one illegal fuck making future acts of deception easier—you get acclimated to lying, so pretty soon you don’t just lie about big stuff like where your dick was last night, but anything, like where you work, how much you drink, what you ate for dinner. It’s like you have to stay in practice. Deceit’s rough. That’s why I’m up front—I cut all that shit off at the pass.”
It was typical of Blaine to twist everything so that the partner being cheated on (à la Jayne; à la Marty) became an irrelevant sidebar to some broader, esoteric moral question—one that somehow spit him out smelling like a rose atop a pile of misguided bourgeois turds. Now, watching Mom waltz into the Day School on the arm of a stiff-backed, salt-and-pepper-haired facsimile of J. Peterman from Seinfeld, Jayne’s nostalgia for deception and repression is as sharp as cardiac arrest—has Blaine gotten to Mom, too?
“Sophie,” booms Mom. “This is Lawrence. Larry, this is my Sophie Jane.”
Jayne mouths, “Uh.”
Beaming with the authority of a woman with her husband’s checkbook in her handbag and her lover’s semen warm and glowing inside her, Mom says, “I’ve so wanted you two to meet. Let’s splurge and go to Season’s. Sophie, they have lots of healthy, low-cal options.”
Lawrence holds the door open for them, also grinning—he is an argyle and toothy breed: executive jocular. He doesn’t look religious. Doesn’t have the same weird, rapturous vacancy in his eyes her mother often wears, or that breathy voice so common in holy women, the Carl Rodgers counselor-speak so common in the men. He looks like an extraordinarily subtle car salesman, or a politician’s sharkish brother. He looks like the kind of man you can immediately imagine owning a penis, a phenomenon both disquieting and rare. Jayne takes the door from him, stands with its knob in her hand until he slinks forward to join her mother. With the heavy-footed trudge of her adolescence, she trails them to what she is certain will be a shiny silver luxury car.
“Hurry up, Sophie. You’re the one who doesn’t want to be late!” Mom reaches, without thought—always without thought—for Lawrence’s hand; Jayne nearly covers her eyes. But no, it is over, they will not start making out right here on the street. Lawrence, out of some vestige of shame, perhaps from his pre-adulterous days, has oh-so-subtly pulled his hand away.
Snapshot number nine: Dad wearing a suede, fringed “draft dodger” jacket, red bandana barely visible below new, jauntily-angled cop’s cap, mouth open from singing “Magic Carpet Ride” by Steppenwolf, unidentifiable bottle in wedding-ring hand resting on Formica counter.
Subtext: Mom chose this as the photo to be displayed. Though Dad’s relatives don’t like it (Sophie has heard their whispers for three days straight), nobody says anything because Mom is the one who found Dad in the bedroom with half his head blown off, and they all agree this was “traumatic,” though none of them can seem to bring themselves to get near her. They keep staring as though she pulled the trigger. At the luncheon afterward, at Red Apple, Sophie is invisible and bored. She sits under Dad’s sisters’ table, watching smoke from their Benson & Hedges drift across the room, pretending to inhale on her straw.
Script:
“He finally confessed to Ma that the bitch was screwing around—with his own partner, can you even fucking believe! She had the gall to ask him for a divorce just three days before he . . . I mean, he never even looked at anyone but her, not since he was fourteen. Geez, plenty of my friends woulda killed to go out with him. That poor little girl, to have a mother like that, but I have to tell you, the kid looks so much like her, it’s just . . . I know it’s not right, but the sight of her makes me sick.”
Jayne has not been home long enough to remove her shoes, has only just poured a Jameson and downed one long sip, when the phone rings.
“Hey, baby.” Glorious, half-drunk, Southern drawling. Blaine. “We still on for Friday?”
“Oh, um . . .” Has he forgotten that they have not seen each other in three weeks? Can casual heroin use cause amnesia? “I thought you work Friday nights.”
“Oh, I get it, Diamond Girl,” he says. “You have another date.”
“No, I—” Stupid, stupid, should have said yes. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Did you have a bad day, baby? You sound stressed.”
“A bad day? My mother and her lover came to take me to lunch.”
“Oh. Cool. Is he hot?”
“Blaine, the woman has been married for nearly twenty years.”
“So what you’re saying is that she really deserves to finally have a little fun.”
“So what you’re saying is relationships aren’t fun? That’s why you’re calling?”
“Girl, don’t make me come over there and smack you around.” He is smirking through the phone wires and right into her churning stomach. “I’m on till 2 AM tonight—do you have any idea what kind of whack jobs have need of a Kinkos past midnight? Don’t give me a hard time.”
The muscles of Jayne’s face hurt with trying not to whoop for glee. “Six thirty on Friday is fine,” she manages. “I just thought you forgot.”
The flowers she gave Blaine are still alive. She is momentarily stunned—nothing she has ever planted for herself lived out the week. He must be taking care of them like a mother bird, dropping food and water into their eager mouths buried under dirt. The soil is moist and cold—they will not last long; the weather is turning. All the petals are red, the color of love and drama and blood and passion and warmth: everything that matters. She knew he would appreciate that, but could not have guessed he was capable of such paternal ministering. The palpitations under her skin feel like disappointment, regret. Honestly, she had assumed that when she got here, they would already be dead. Though if that were true, why did she come?
It takes only seconds to yank them out by their roots, to turn this token of beauty into something ugly. She leaves the slack stems atop the raped dirt, looks fleetingly for some garbage in the yard of his apartment complex but finds it disturbingly clean. On the porch is a weathered bag of salt—it must have been there since last winter; the bottom is corroded and leaking. She grabs a handful and smears it into the soil to kill all chances of renewal. Not only is it too late in the season to start fresh, but he’d have to go to some nursery and buy new soil, and let’s face it, he would never, ever do that.
Snapshot number ten: Elizabeth in a white off-the-shoulder blouse, newly dyed red hair in Dorothy Hamill wedge. Marty in a Lands’ End button-down orange-and-white striped Oxford, Bermuda shorts, boat shoes, hair still clinging to t
op of head.
Subtext: Sophie Jayne lurks behind the camera photographing Mom and Marty on their first date. Her grandmother on Dad’s side, before she stopped speaking to Mom, always said that when Sophie got old enough to date, Mom should take a Polaroid of everyone so that if Sophie ever didn’t come home, the police would know what man to look for. Sophie wants to make sure Mom comes home, so she has become an avid photographer. Grandma did not visit but sent Sophie the camera for Christmas—since, Sophie has photographed eleven men with Mom, each smiling, innocent. Mom has always come home, but none of the men ever show up again.
Script:
“So do you want to be a photographer when you grow up, young lady?”
Sophie doesn’t answer. She stands with one foot on the sofa, the other on the coffee table, the camera in front of her face, bouncing up and down. In the viewfinder, Mom’s head bobs like an apple.
“Sophie, Mr. Hirsch is speaking to you!”
Sophie stares, eyes dizzy. Mr. Hirsch repeats his question then adds, “Or maybe an acrobat by the looks of it!” He chuckles at his own joke.
“I’m going to be a Satanist!” proclaims Sophie.
“Sophie!” Mom sounds terrified in a way Sophie did not think she had left in her. “Why would you say something like that to Mr. Hirsch—or to anyone for that matter?”
“Heaven’s just a bunch of harps and junk. Nobody cool goes there. I’m going to be a Satanist so I can go to hell and see my dad.”
Behind the camera’s lens, she watches her mother’s face grow larger in the frame, becoming only a nose. Mom’s rings against Sophie’s cheekbone make a muffled, crunchy sound. Mom has turned on her strappy sandals and raced up the stairs, already sobbing. Mr. Hirsch stands with Sophie, whose Polaroid has thudded to the shag carpet. She cannot hear Mom anymore, but knows she will be upstairs sprawled across her big bed, shoes dangling off the edge, door locked. Sophie will never get in tonight. Mr. Hirsch will have to go home; like the others, he will not be back.
“Sweetheart,” Mr. Hirsch says, gathering Sophie to the couch, pressing a warm, dry hand against her pulsing cheek. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to upset your mother. She loved your dad very much, and she doesn’t like to hear you talk like that about him, even as a joke. Do you understand?”
Sophie wants to lurch from his touch. On the table, two photos brighten in tandem, developing into something already out of reach. The camera needs to die now—she will smash it with a rock, throw it out a window, something. As soon as this man leaves.
“I’m sorry, Sophie.” Mr. Hirsch does look sorry, and Sophie is surprised. “Sometimes it does help to laugh at our losses. I know you’re doing your best to cope. You shouldn’t have to deal with such difficult, adult things at your age.”
“Suicide is a mortal sin if you’re Catholic,” she explains patiently, like her fourth grade teacher discussing fractions. “Mom cries about it all the time on the phone to Father Hardigan.” Sophie leans over and hands him one of the photos. Maybe he would like a souvenir of Mom, since he will never want to come here again.
They swap: his American Spirit for her Dunhill Light. Light their cigarettes off the candle burning at her bedside. The black hair of Blaine’s body stands out like ink on her cream sheets. Jayne leans back against the wall—there is no headboard, and her head hits the bottom of a framed Matisse above the bed—and inhales, tries to look casual.
“Look at you, posing,” says Blaine. “You can’t wait to get dressed, can you?”
He does not permit her a moment’s peace in her pretenses—she remembers that now, how uncomfortable it makes her. How it kills everything in the moment and only makes her love him more afterward. Jayne flings back the sheet and walks naked—what the hell do naked people do with their arms?—to the armoire and gets out the decanter of Jameson.
“Do you care for a drink? We can take it on the balcony.”
Half of Blaine’s mouth turns up. “Like this?”
“Hell yeah.”
“It’s September.”
“Oh, that’s right, Southern Boy. You’re a weather pussy.”
But in the midnight air, her pale skin glows conspicuously—he is at home in the darkness. She has never put any chairs out on her balcony; the cement is chilly on her ass. Soothing. No stars are visible—the lake is indistinguishable from black air. This is not even a balcony, really. There is no rail; it’s just a slab of cement that you have to crawl out a window to access. The management planned to install sliding doors but then changed their minds—cheaper, no doubt, to go without. Jayne scoots closer to the edge, says, “Wanna give the neighbors a show?”
“What neighbors? I don’t think anyone can see us here.”
“Them.” Jayne points a finger down.
He perks up: a little boy, curious, eager to think he can stir things up. “How?”
And then she is hanging, breasts flopping toward her chin, the edge of the cement pinching into her stomach. From above she hears Blaine’s “Whoa, shit!”—she’s swinging upside down, legs and hips still steady on the slab above, straining to reach the window beneath her own. The lights are on, but she doesn’t see anyone inside. Knuckles barely grazing the glass pane, she knocks.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Blaine is pulling at her legs—no, knocking her off balance, the weight of her top half tipping her forward. She squeals, “Let go!” but he has yanked her back, cement scraping the tender skin of her abdomen. She lays naked beneath him like a fallen angel, twisted up to shield her wounds.
“Why did you pull me like that? You could have killed me!”
“Are you out of your mind? You could’ve killed yourself.”
“I’ve done it before without anyone here. I love heights. I’m not afraid.”
“Whatever, girl.” He is bored with it already: nobody defying death, nobody to rescue. She is not appropriately grateful. She suddenly wishes for her clothes.
“Thanks for trying to help, though.”
“Uh-huh.” His ass cheeks parting as he climbs back through the window strike her as less vulnerable than sinister; animalistic. His nudity seems cloaked by hair, while she is truly naked. Even with all his lovers, he is insecure—confided once that he hoped to have electrolysis done on his back once his paintings started to sell and he had some cash. Though he’s thirty-five and has only shown his work in a couple of amateurish neighborhood galleries where people came for free wine and didn’t buy anything, Jayne trusts he’ll be famous someday, if only because she won’t be at his side to enjoy it.
By the time she joins him, he has pulled on his underwear and trousers. He is dressing jerkily, agitated—she has never seen him anything but languid before. Desperation rises.
“Blaaiine. Look, I’m sorry I scared you. But I mean, you of all people should understand. It’s just a high, that’s all. It’s like drugs, only I like it more because I can control it.”
“Sounds to me like you’re trying to die but don’t have the balls to kill yourself.”
“Jesus, don’t be melodramatic. I could say the same thing about you!”
“Yeah, you could’ve.” Almost sadly. “I’m working on changing. That’s why I haven’t been coming ’round too much. Nothing personal, but I got my own demons, you know.” He tugs his belt too hard: “Ain’t you heard, baby? Thanatos can kill you.”
Snapshot number eleven: Sophie, paper thin, yellowish-white cotton blouse of uniform from Saint Benedict’s, Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, hair in Dorothy Hamill wedge. Refrigerator with a list of ingredients for Bûche de Noël, drawing of Santa Claus with fangs, carrying a machete.
Subtext: The drawing is hanging for everyone to see because Mom is afraid of “judging” Sophie, which their family therapist warned her not to do. Though not visible in the photo, the caption beneath the drawing reads: The legand of Santa is wrong because it tells kids that Christmas is about greed and getting espensive stuff instead of about the birth of our Lord. Santa Claus is vialente against Jesus’s
message. Instead of a uzi or a very sharp knife, I would just like some Tropical Fruit Life Savers and Peace On Earth. Merry Christmas to all from Sophie Claus. Mom had thrust the picture at their therapist, exclaiming, “She thinks her last name is Claus now—she must think her father turned into Santa Claus after he died! I think she’s in denial.” The therapist explained that Sophie was actually trying to take a positive step in improving Santa’s integration into the Christmas Story by recasting him in her own image: a peace-loving girl with simple, nonmaterial desires. The therapist likes to make a lot out of things, imagine complicated meanings, otherwise she would go nuts talking to so many people about their boring problems. After Mom left, the therapist asked Sophie to draw a picture of her father and write him a letter. Sophie’s picture was of a horse grazing in some flowers.
Script:
“Do you see your father anywhere in that field?”
“Mom’s boyfriend, Marty, took me for a riding lesson, and I was drawing it for Dad,” Sophie explains. “Dad used to draw horses when he was a kid. He should have gone to art school, Mom says, but he didn’t have any money. He never rode a horse—he just knew what they were from TV. He’d be glad I could have riding lessons ’cause he must’ve always wanted them and parents like their kids to have the stuff they wanted. They’re happy to sacrifice themselves for it, like Jesus sacrificed himself for our sins.”
Jayne waits until Mom has finished one glass of Sauvignon Blanc before she quips, breezily, “So I have a boyfriend.”
Slut Lullabies Page 20