Lying in Bed

by J. D. Landis

  I started on myself. My eyes were closed. Someone I could not see was making love to me.

  “No, don’t touch her!” It was so sweet. Ron was my protector now. I came without opening my eyes.

  “Your turn.”

  It was too late for poor Stan. He’d come just watching me. Listening to me. I was sorry I hadn’t seen it.

  We got to watch Ron labor over himself. He seemed very self-conscious, which he’d learned not to be when he was alone with me. But Stan made him nervous.

  “Please,” he said to me. He knew better than that. I wouldn’t touch him.

  “Close your eyes,” he said to Stan.

  Men are so unevolved. Each one exists in his own little world. They see nothing.

  Stan actually obeyed.

  So there they were, the 2 of them with their eyes closed. While I watched them both.

  Stairway to Heaven

  It was raining when we got out of the concert tonight. There weren’t any cabs. So we walked down Lexington and there still weren’t any cabs and I said let’s take a subway. Johnny said the rain wasn’t going to last, “Let’s go in here.” He didn’t wait for me to agree. He pushed through the doors of HMV, which is not like him, he’s usually such a gentleman. “I’m going downstairs,” he said. “Want to come or …” The ground floor made him very uncomfortable. I’ve gotten him to listen to some pop music, but when he’s in that part of a record store he gets nervous. The names of all the artists make him squint and scowl. “I’m not letting you out of my sight,” I said. So I followed him downstairs. His hair was wet and dripping on his collar. But he doesn’t own a hat or an umbrella. He’s always hoping he’ll never have to leave the loft again.

  Even though I went with him downstairs he still took almost an hour. I can never figure out how he does it. He rushes from one part of the room to another to another to another. He flips through discs and either talks to himself or sings to himself and then suddenly leaves and dances over to another bin and flips through those discs. He looks like a bee in a field of flowers. He doesn’t go alphabetically by composer. Or by artist. He doesn’t stay at new releases. Maybe he hears music in his head and then goes to look for it. Maybe he thinks of a piece of music and goes to see if they have a particular recording of it. All I know is I love to watch him. Even if not for a whole hour. I particularly like it when he stops in his tracks and listens to something they’re playing over the speakers in the room. He stands there stock still. Frozen in the middle of an aisle. I get to stare at him in public. I get to see him in ecstasy from across a room.

  Tonight he ran up an aisle to me waving a jewelbox practically over his head. “Look!” he said. “Clara!” he said. “Das Marienleben!” he said.

  “Buy it and let’s go.”

  “Glenn Gould!” he said. “Hindemith!” he said.

  “I hope it’s better than those sonatas.”

  He stopped waving the jewelbox. “You don’t like the sonatas?”

  “It’s not me. It’s my ears.”

  He didn’t laugh. He just said, “Maybe you’ll like this more. Roxlana Roslak is the singer.”

  “Somebody sings?”

  Somebody sings for sure. It’s been playing ever since we got home, and I have to say I really don’t think the Virgin Mary would want to get up and sing these songs.

  So it was still raining when we left HMV. Johnny’s hair got wet again and dripped again, but he still stood out there waving for a cab. He kept dashing from one corner to another. He’d stand on Lexington. He’d stand on 86th. No cab.

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  “But I’ve never taken the subway. You know that.”

  “There were a lot of things you hadn’t done before you met me.”

  “Not as dangerous as this.”

  We waited on the local track. Going down to the express level would have been just too cruel.

  The 6 came and we got on. The windows were fogged up from the rain. There were puddles on the floor. Johnny had hold of my hand and was practically pulling me into a seat. But I wouldn’t let him. There was a puddle on the seat too. He couldn’t understand it. “Does the rain come right through the surface of the earth?” “No. The train runs outside before it goes underground.” “Then they shouldn’t call it the subway.”

  I looked down to the far end of the car. “The seats look dry down there.” “Let’s just stand here,” he said.

  So we stood there. The doors were closed but the train took a while to move. When it finally did, Johnny took off in the opposite direction. I grabbed his wet sleeve and pulled him back to me. “You have to hold on,” I told him. I pushed his hand up to one of the metal straps. I watched it close over it. With hands like those, I thought, we’re safe.

  “Who are all these people?” Johnny hollered. He was looking around. Every time he caught someone’s eyes, they looked down.

  “How should I know who they are. Don’t stare at them.”

  “But I could feel them staring at me.”

  “Maybe that’s because we’re the only people standing in the whole car.”

  “What did you say?” He leaned down to bring his ear to my mouth.

  “Nothing.”

  “I still can’t hear you. It’s incredibly noisy in here.”

  “It’s the subway.”

  But he only shook his head. How come I could hear him and he couldn’t hear me.

  “I don’t like it,” he said.

  He seemed relieved when we pulled into 77th Street. “Is that it?”

  “That’s only one stop, Johnny.”

  “Let’s get a cab,” he said, but by that time the doors had closed and we were on our way.

  I could hear him start to sing as the train sped up. Not words. Just music. Something we’d heard at the concert. The faster the train went and the more noise it made, the louder Johnny sang.

  I was worried he would keep singing when we stopped in the next station but his voice dropped into a hum.

  “Is that the Haydn?” I asked him.

  “The Schubert.” He started to sing it again as the train pulled out. But now he sang it so loudly I knew everyone could hear it. People sitting near us got up and moved to the other end of the car. At 59th, people who got on the train didn’t sit near us because they could hear him humming. By the time we were pulling into 42nd we were completely alone in our half of the car. He drove the last person away by singing so loudly that he drowned out the screech of the wheels on the curve into Grand Central. And that’s the way we rode all the way down to our stop.

  We walked home from the station through the rain. “You can stop singing now,” I said. “You’re safe.”

  “But it’s such a beautiful piece.”

  “I recognize it from The Hunger,” I told him.

  “What’s The Hunger?”

  “It’s a movie. Starring Susan Sarandon and Catherine Deneuve. They’re lovers. And vampires.”

  “Vanessa and Virginia. They had that look. And the Schubert was used?”

  “I didn’t know what it was until tonight. But I did remember it. It was inside me this whole time.”

  “I don’t care for movies.”

  “I know.”

  “But I did see a movie once with another French actress. Jeanne Moreau. I’ll never forget it. She had sex in a rowboat while the first Brahms sextet was playing. I’d never heard it before. It was incredible.”

  “How was the sex?”

  “I closed my eyes.”

  I stopped him to give him a hug. We were both soaked through. The rain had flattened his thick hair.

  When we got home we stripped and dried each other off with towels. One thing led to another. We made love to Das Marienleben but even that couldn’t stop us. In the middle of it he said, “Admit it.” “Ok, we’ll never go on the subway again.” “Not that. Admit you couldn’t stop thinking about Sharon Robinson and Jaime Laredo making love.” “You read my mind,” I said.

  Lawyer’s Puz
zle

  It’s amazing, but every boy I had there, every single one, said just the way Kevin did “What about your parents?” I mean, the door was closed. What’s the problem. Not that my parents were ever home in the afternoon. And not that I would have done it if they were. Because then they would have known. And I didn’t want them to know. Not because I thought it was wrong. But because it was private. This was for me to do. This was me becoming me. This was innocent. I was innocent.

  Eagles with Cigars

  A man comes into the shop. He says, “What can you tell me about your quilts?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  He’s disgusted. “If I ran my business the way you run yours, I’d be out of business.”

  “If you were out of business then you wouldn’t be in here telling me how to run mine.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You wouldn’t be able to afford a quilt.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to buy one? You won’t even tell me about them.”

  “That’s right. I won’t.”

  “Now I know why stores open and close on this street before the ink’s even dry on the lease.”

  “Do you see one that appeals to you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A quilt.”

  “That appeals to me?”

  “Yes, a quilt that appeals to you.”

  “How would I know?”

  “Look around.”

  I go back to my paperwork.

  “What about this one?” He points.

  “That’s a pieced quilt. Cotton. It has 48 white blocks. As you can see, 24 of them have red quarter circles in the corners and the other 24 have red pinwheels in the middle. When the blocks are pieced together they give you that wandering design. That’s why it’s called Drunkard’s Path. It was made in Missouri during the Depression.”

  “And that one.” He points.

  “That’s a Cape Cod Bridal quilt. It’s much older—early 19th century. I see you like red on white. Those are appliqued oak leaves. Oak leaves represent longevity, at least when they’re on bridal quilts. Are you married?”

  “Was.”

  “Then don’t buy this one.”

  “But that’s the one I like.”

  “It doesn’t speak your language, sir.”

  “You mean you won’t sell it to me?”

  “Right.”

  “And that Drunkard’s Path does?”

  “Does what?”

  “Speaks my language?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Will you sell the Drunkard’s Path to me?”

  “Of course.”

  He throws his gold card down on my desk.

  “I don’t understand you,” he says.

  “Why should you.”

  He ignores that. “When I came in here you refused to tell me anything about your quilts.”

  “Of course.”

  “But then you …”

  “You have to be specific.”

  He signs. He leaves.

  “Close call,” I say to the Cape Cod Bridal.

  Crescent Moon

  I was sitting here with nothing to say when I noticed the Crescent Moon cover I put on this book and thought about how it symbolizes virginity.

  I love being a virgin. Almost as much as I love sex.

  I’m not going to fuck anybody until it’s my husband. And I’m not going to marry anybody until I find someone I can trust my secrets to.

  It’s probably too late for me. I’m 21 years old. I have a bunch of quilts. I’d love to get more and sell them and get more and sell them. I’d love to have them pass through my hands. Every beautiful quilt ever made. But I don’t want to make one myself. I have no desire to do that. Even if I did, it’s probably too late for me.

  At your quilting, maids, don’t dally,

  Quilt quick if you would marry.

  A maid who is quiltless at 21

  Never shall greet her bridal sun!

  Underground Railroad

  I’m always in heat. Or almost always. Or I can be warmed up. Easily.

  My sex is all over me. In my hair. On my ears. Toes. A finger in my nostril. (Not my own finger!) My spine. My ass parted to the air. Fingertips on my teeth. And my lips. My lips are impossible. They burn my mouth. My waist. At the sides. Like I’ve got nylon zippers there and when they’re down I open up. There are times when one man’s not enough. I swear I think I could fit them all inside me. Then they’d have nothing to talk about but me. Sing my silly praises to the guys. The skies. Disguise. The insides of my thighs. The skin there must be what God is covered with all over. And Its final creation was cheerleaders in their little skirts. The backs of my knees. If I don’t let it tickle, I bliss. And when I’m on my knees, I pray. Even the pain is plush. My throat’s a waterfall. My eyes are bigger than my mouth. And my eyelids. How could I ever tell anyone what it means to have them touched.

  Streak of Lightning

  This is the first time I’ve ever been faithful to anybody. I like that I didn’t choose it. I didn’t decide to be faithful. I didn’t swear off other men. I just found I didn’t need them. I can get from 1 man what it used to take 10 to fail to give me.

  We’re together all the time. We’re obsessed with ourselves. The sex is spectacular. And I’m finally at peace with myself. I can’t imagine ever wanting anyone else. Even my fantasies are less intense. I’m no longer interested in getting fucked by phantoms.

  I told him: “I’ve stopped seeing other men.”

  “So have I, Clara,” he said.

  Robbing Peter to Pay Paul

  Johnny told me Julia Duckworth used to lie for hours on her dead husband’s grave.

  After she married again and had Vanessa and Virginia her son by Mr. Duckworth used to explore Virginia’s private parts.

  “How did she say it?” I asked.

  “Just like that. “He explored my private parts.” Vanessa’s too, I gather. But Vanessa didn’t write about it.”

  “Read it to me.”

  Johnny went into his closet and came out with a book. He didn’t come back on the bed with me. (I made him give me the book afterward so I can copy down what he read to me) “I can remember the feel of his hand going under my clothes, going firmly and steadily lower and lower. I remember how I hoped he would stop; how I stiffened and wriggled as his hand approached my private parts. But it did not stop. His hand explored my private parts too.”

  I could see Virginia with his hand down her clothes. A girl like me, posing for pictures while my hand explored some boyfriend’s private parts. The Bell girls who aren’t real Bell girls get violated. Why does it arouse me all the time?

  Johnny knew me too well. That’s why he stood at the end of the bed. He shook his head at me.

  “She was only 6 years old,” he said.

  And I was only 15! I want to scream at him.

  True Lovers Knot

  Ike told me he wanted me to make a studio visit with him so we closed the gallery and he called a car to take us downtown and asked for a limo because he said that’s what artists like to see. I have never been in a limo before and from the way Ike was looking at me and I found myself looking at him I could understand how dangerous they are. You feel everybody’s looking at you but at the same time you feel you have a separate existence. You can do anything. Not that we did. But I spent the whole time on the opposite seat looking at Ike with my hand halfway up my skirt. He had to drape his raincoat over his arm when we got out.

  “Let me do the talking Clara,” Ike said as we climbed the metal stairs to the studio at the top of the building.

  Fuck you I would have said if I had been permitted to speak.

  The artist was brilliant. Fortunately so was some of his work. His name is Franco Rothberg, or at least that’s what he calls himself to take advantage of this year’s ethnic sales pitch. He’s kind of Marquez meets Chagall in the
suburbs. Nothing is grounded in his huge canvases. People such as they are bungee by. All human movement is vertical. Which to me means you can be buried in the ground or in the sky. You can believe in the earth or in heaven. But not in both. Industry encroaches from the periphery. Grass and flowers grow, Franco says, “excrementally.”

  “What do you call this one?” Ike asked.

  “The Jewish Community Center Cannot Hold,” Franco answered.

  “Yeats,” said Ike.

  “Oh please,” I said to stop him from making a fool of himself.

  Ike shot me a dirty look. But it was too late.

  “I’m joking,” said Franco. “I’m from Newton Mass. So everything I do is called Newton. With Roman numerals. Who cares? Fig Newton. Isaac Newton. Titling makes me self-conscious. It’s like having to give names to your fingers.”

  On the way back uptown Ike said he wasn’t going to represent him.

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  I didn’t but Ike did. Franco called me late this afternoon.

  “Come back by yourself,” he said.

  I went in to Ike’s office. “Reconsider,” I told him.

  “Was that he on the phone?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’m not going to take him on just to keep you away from him, Clara.”

  “I won’t see him if you do.”

  “Just which one of us are you bribing, me or him?”

  “Myself.”

  “Go,” he said. “I’m not interested in his work.”

  “What about me?”

  “I’m not interested in you either.”

  “I meant what about my interest in his work.”

  “Go and indulge it.”

  Ike picked up his phone.

  “Don’t you dare call him.”

  “I’m not.” Ike smiled. “I’m just getting the limo back for you.”

  So I went. Franco made love to me. From the periphery.

  I don’t know if Ike’s jealous. But I know I am.