The little girl knows the words to all the songs, and sings along, with a very beautiful voice. In fact, she knows the words to the entire movie and talks at the same time as the actors.
The story is about a king who falls in love with his daughter. He wants to marry her. She loves her father but doesn’t want to marry him. To discourage him, she tells him she will agree if he gives her a dress the color of the weather. To her surprise, he succeeds. She tells him she wants a dress the color of the moon, thinking it’ll be too difficult, but he succeeds. She tells him she wants a dress the color of the sun. He succeeds. She tells him she wants the skin of his magic donkey. He is indignant at this request because he loves his donkey, which defecates gold. But he kills the donkey and gives her the skin, thinking that now she will marry him. She wears the skin as a disguise and runs away. Eventually she meets a prince.
Once, Lady Henrietta watches the movie with us. She tells me that the fairy tale was written by Charles Perrault, the same guy who wrote the stories of Sleeping Beauty, Little Red Riding Hood, Bluebeard, and Cinderella. Henrietta says she often wondered why “Donkey Skin” never became as well known in America as the others. She suspects that it must be because the subject of a father being in love with his daughter is too shocking and objectionable to Americans. And of course, she says, it is shocking and objectionable in real life, but does that mean you can’t have a fairy tale about it? Bluebeard killing his wives is even more shocking, and yet Americans don’t object to that. Interesting phenomenon, she muses.
The little girl is very intelligent, but strange, quite articulate for her age. One day I’m sitting on the couch and she comes and sits on my lap, wraps her arms around my neck, and rests her head on my shoulder.
Holy shit, I think.
From then on she often sits on my lap. She sometimes kisses my cheek passionately. She even gives me hickeys on my neck and cheeks, which I don’t feel but notice in the mirror when I get home. I realize then what the red marks are on my neck and cheeks.
Every time I go to their apartment, Sara has thought of new things to tell me, more imagery like the time she told me I was a poor naked turtle. Or the time—it really beat all the others—she said I should be kept in a cage. “You are a creature to be owned” were her precise words. “To be shown to guests.”
Other times she says things like: “I love you because you’re not embarrassed to buy me Jane dolls. And because you think of me.”
She’s wrong. When I buy her Jane dolls I am thinking of her mother.
I could never be intimate and comfortable with Sara, and I feel bad that she will be disappointed.
Henrietta, who is often present during her daughter’s strong displays of affection for me, doesn’t seem to think that her behavior is in the least bit strange, and I guess maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. I’m confused. Children are allowed to be affectionate: It’s their innocence. But this girl is so pretty, and there’s something so sexual in her affection. I’m not sure if it’s really there or if I’m just a pervert. She often comes in scantily dressed. But then I think, is it really scantily dressed, or am I just choosing to see it that way? After all, shorts and a T-shirt are a perfectly proper way of dressing, but on her they seem like a provocation. Maybe it’s because she wears them every single time I see her. She’s not letting me catch my breath. I feel like saying, “Give me a break! Refresh my eyes for once. Wear a potato sack.”
But no, she keeps at it, she keeps at it. Her arms are smooth, and there’s a strange glow to her skin that more mature women don’t have. It’s almost magical, again like a cartoon.
I’m madly in love with Lady Henrietta, but I’m starting to feel sexually attracted to the daughter, which horrifies me. I try to become cold to her, to make hints. I stand up and say, “Come on now, act like a lady, you’re not a baby anymore.”
She looks at me uncertainly for a moment, but then jumps up, putting her arms around my neck and says, “Yes I am.” Lady Henrietta often leaves us alone together, which annoys me. She continues to see Damon, and I continue to be jealous, but I don’t hear of any real intimacy growing between them, which makes me feel better.
One day Sara invites three of her friends “for tea.” The girls are basically rather unattractive, but on top of it, their hair is disheveled, they wear very ugly, unflattering clothes, and two of them are overweight. Sara, on the other hand, looks more beautiful than ever. I understand her little trick right away.
When her friends leave, Sara asks me, “Which part of my appearance do you dislike the least?”
“Don’t be so modest. You mean, which part do I like the most?”
“Well, yes, assuming that there’s any part you like.”
“Your hair.”
When I get home from work the next day, I see a long flower box at the foot of my door. There’s a card with it, which I open. I don’t recognize the handwriting, and there is no signature. It says, “Here is a lock, a token of my affection.”
I open the box, and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. I feel as though I’m holding a decapitated head, except that the head is not there.
Pee-U, yucky ducky. Where is the head? is my instinctive thought.
There are two long blond braids lying inside the box. They look like a corpse. Disgusting. Sad.
I pounce on the phone and call Lady Henrietta. She answers.
I say, “Sara cut her hair?”
“Yes.”
“She gave it to me in a flower box.”
“I know.”
“How could you let her do it?”
“My daughter can do anything she wants as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“But she had beautiful hair.”
“She wanted to cut it. It looks very pretty now.”
“Do you want the braids? I don’t want them; I think it’s disgusting. And it’ll probably mean more to you than to me.”
“You can do what you want. Though you should be touched. She did it to be nice. It’s a really big deal, her gesture.”
“I know. That’s what’s so annoying. It’s indecent. Yeah, I’m touched, but I’m mostly troubled and worried about her mental and emotional health. I’m surprised you’re not worried also.”
One day Lady Henrietta says something that horrifies me beyond belief.
She says, “Would you do me an enormous favor?”
“Yes,” I answer, overjoyed at the opportunity to please her. I wait for her to tell me what the favor is, but instead she gets her handbag and takes out two plane tickets. She stands there, not saying anything, just looking at me. I open the tickets and see that they are for Orlando, Florida.
“What is this?” I ask, suddenly deeply excited, because I am thinking that maybe she wants to go on a vacation with me.
“I would like you to go there with my daughter next weekend.”
What the hell’s going on? “Why?” I ask. “What’s there?”
“Disney World. I think things are finally moving forward between Damon and me. I’d like to have a very intimate weekend with him, without my daughter. She’s always wanted to go to Disney World. This way I’ll be rid of her but won’t feel too guilty about it. Will you please do it?”
I am crushed by the news about Damon. On top of it, I am not happy about what she wants me to do, not in the least. I feel that Lady Henrietta is now being really obnoxious, but I mean really. For the first time since I met her, I find her annoying.
Before I can respond, she says, “You are one of the few people I trust. And you are one of the few people Sara likes. So it’s perfect. It would be such a help if you could do this. I would owe you for life. And anyway, Disney World is supposed to be pretty fun for adults also.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think it’s a little strange.”
“What’s strange?”
“I mean, I’m not her father after all. Is this an acceptable thing to do?”
“She doesn’t have a father,” says Lady Henrietta coldly.
“If you don’t want to do it, it’s fine. I’ll have her stay with one of my other male models, whom she hates, but she’ll have no choice.”
I have a feeling she’s inventing this little threat to make me feel bad.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s not that I don’t want to do it. It’s that—” I can’t finish the sentence. What am I going to say: “It’s that don’t you think she’s acting a little too affectionate”? Or: “I don’t know what I might do”? No, I can’t say these things, or she’ll think I’m a dangerous maniac and will never want to see me again.
Finally, I say, “It’s that people might think it a little strange.”
“Nonsense. You’ll just say you’re her father.”
I don’t say no. I just sort of slide into it, not knowing how to refuse. I don’t want her to be upset with me and to dislike me. After all, I still have hope that she’ll break up with Damon. Just because she’s going to spend one weekend with him doesn’t necessarily mean that she’ll spend the rest of her life with him. And in a way, it’s sort of good that she trusts me with her daughter. Maybe it means that unconsciously she wants me to be the father and she’s getting me ready for that role. This possibility may seem farfetched, but I always like to fantasize about the best possible thing that a seemingly negative situation might bring.
The next day I get a good idea that makes up a tiny bit for having to take Sara to Disney World alone. It’s to bring my mother to Disney World with Sara. This would kill three birds with one stone: (1) I would be doing the favor for Lady Henrietta. (2) I would be pleasing my mother, who wants to spend time with me. (3) I wouldn’t be alone with Sara.
When I mention the idea to Lady Henrietta, she does not seem thrilled, and I can’t figure out why. I thought she would feel even better about the whole thing. Instead she says, “Oh. Why do you want to bring your mother? You think you’d be bored just with Sara?”
I am annoyed at her, and I feel like replying, “No, you idiot, that’s the problem: I’m afraid I wouldn’t be bored at all.”
But I say, “My mother has been wanting to see me for a long time, so I thought this would be a good opportunity. I’m sure she’d love Disney World. On top of it, I’m surprised you’re not glad that an older woman will be there to help me look after Sara.”
She does not say anything more, but she doesn’t seem very pleased about the idea. Nevertheless, the next day she gives me another plane ticket. I offer to pay for it, even though I can’t really afford it, but Lady Henrietta says she won’t hear of it. I try not to feel guilty, reminding myself that she’s rich.
“At least you won’t have to pay for an extra room,” I say. “Sara can share a room with my mother.”
“No,” replies Lady Henrietta. “You will all three have your own rooms.”
London Bridge is falling down Off to Disney World we go
Falling down World we go
Falling down World we go
London Bridge is falling down Off to Disney World we go
My fair lady. Shit fuck shit-fuck.
My girlfriend, Charlotte, thinks the whole thing is a little strange, but she doesn’t pay as much attention to it as I was afraid she might, because she happens to be very busy right now. She says she’s even sort of glad she’ll have the whole weekend to work, with no distractions.
chapter six
My mother is at first very glad, but her happiness at spending four days with me fades when she starts taking it for granted. She gets cranky about everything.
Yes, I did say four days. Lady Henrietta first told me it was just for the weekend, probably because she wanted to give me the bad news in small doses. Once she felt confident I had accepted the idea, she said it was Sara’s Easter vacation, and the more days she, Henrietta, could have alone, the better.
She gives us a lot of money to spend at Disney World. She says it’s very expensive there.
At Disney World, everyone looks at Sara. Men look at her because she’s so beautiful. Women look at her out of curiosity, seemingly intrigued. It starts at the hotel, with the sleazy porter. He looks as if he smells bad, though he doesn’t. He has a five o’clock shadow, or even a twenty-four-hour shadow; it wouldn’t surprise me. Perhaps I am judgmental because I don’t like him. The way he looks at Sara as he’s pushing the cart with our bags. He looks at her with too much familiarity. He touches the small of her back when we get out of the elevator. And he asks her impertinent questions, like, “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” she answers.
“Really? You look seventeen.”
Sara smiles at me.
“What grade are you in?”
“Seventh grade.”
“Really? Isn’t that a little backward?”
“Yes. I’m not very intelligent.”
“Hmm. Anyway, ladies only need to be pretty, and that you certainly are. And docile is good too.”
“You’ve got a great ass,” says my mother to the porter. She puts her hand on his bottom.
The porter stops walking and looks at her with eyebrows raised. I do so also. Sara is trying not to laugh.
“Are you married, honey?” my mother asks him.
“Yes.”
“I’m not surprised. A cute little prick like you. I’m sure your wife must be proud to have a hunk with such nice buns.”
And she taps the porter’s bottom before continuing down the hallway. He looks at me.
I don’t know what to say, so I just nod to him.
The hairy, sleazy porter, looking confused, continues his journey down the hallway. He puts my mom’s bag in her room, my bag in my room5 an(l then he heads toward Sara’s room. I go with them, not wanting to leave her alone with that man. He does nothing else irritating, to my relief.
Sara is not interested in seeing the Magic Kingdom, which, she asserts, is for babies. She wants to go to EPCOT Center which, the bus driver informs us, stands for Every Person Comes Out Tired. She wants to go to Future World. That’s when my mother tells us what she wants to do. She says she had no desire whatsoever to come to Disney World, that the only reason she came was to spend some time with me, and that therefore we should go to The Living Seas first, as it is the only thing that might put her in a good mood. So that’s what we do. We see big fish swimming in aquariums.
My seventy-one-year-old mother may seem conventional and proper because she does not like my messy apartment, but she is not ordinary at all. She’s like a little bull. Short and stocky, less fat than muscular. A small rock. Her body looks hard, like if you poked your finger at any part of it, even a presumably mushy part, your finger wouldn’t sink one millimeter. A compact creature. Which is perhaps why, when she runs, her flesh doesn’t jiggle, as one would expect in a person her age. Or perhaps this is due to her running method, very low to the ground, knees bent, “for speed,” she says. She doesn’t bounce. But she can jump, and she does, sometimes, and does it well, even with her short, stubby legs. Children occasionally cross in front of her unexpectedly, pulling toy animals on long leashes. I cover my eyes. But my mother leaps over them smoothly.
She loves to run, especially when it’s not necessary. Her favorite scenario occurs when she sees people about to get into line ahead of us. She’ll run to beat them to it. When she visits me in the city, she runs to make the lights before the Don’t Walk signs stop blinking. But the city doesn’t offer as many opportunities to run as Disney World does, and running to make the lights is not as much fun as running to get in line before someone else does. There are so many lines to run to!
And yet, when we walk, she leans on my arm with all her weight. When we climb stairs, I practically have to carry her. It’s all an act. Sometimes she gets bored with hanging on to me. She lets me go and walks by my side with a spring in her step. And at the first glimpse of someone heading toward our line, she bolts away to get there first.
When she has won her place in line, she tries to regain her composure. She organizes herself, straightens her s
hirt and skirt, smooths her hair, feels herself all over, and clears her throat.
My mother looks like an older me. Which is to say that she looks like a man. She has a huge complex about this, has a mortal fear of one day being mistaken for a man. Her face looks like a man’s when she smiles, and also when she doesn’t smile. She has long, deep lines running from the wings of her nose down to the corners of her mouth. However, certain aspects of her face look less like a man’s than like a toad’s—let’s say a male toad’s. She has moles and no lips, just a slit. But since there could be no greater insult, in her mind, than being taken for a man, she does things to herself, wears signposts, to guarantee that no one will be confused. Most women her age try to look as young as possible. My mother’s concern is merely to look like a woman. In itself, this is such a hard thing for her to accomplish that it would be ridiculous to expect her to try also to look like a younger woman, or a pretty woman, or even not a toad. And she doesn’t worry about those things. (Good for her.) She doesn’t dye her hair. She wears it gray, but she puts pink bows in it: signposts of womanhood. And she wears frilly things, and perfume, and lots of jewelry: not the expensive kind, which she can’t afford, but pastel plastic. She says it’s more classy than fake gold. She never fails to wear bright-red lipstick, but without much success, due to her lack of lip. She does this not to look pretty, just to look not masculine. And blush on her cheeks. She doesn’t bother with eye stuff anymore, because she doesn’t have the patience. Anyway, her eyes are her best feature: “best” as in “impressive,” or even “intimidating,” not as in “attractive.” They are black, wide open and alert, flashing here and there like lightning. She never looks sleepy but always wears a frown.
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