by J. J. Murray
Shoot. Now I have to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Psyche, hi, it’s Q.”
Venus Dione’s son, the anointed one, People magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” a few years ago, the dread prince of the petticoats who loiters around Aphrodite Inc. waiting to take over the company. Right now, he’s just Venus’s errand boy, probably with a message from Venus for my next shoot.
I haven’t talked directly to Venus in years, and that’s fine by me. She scared me the first time I met her: “You ain’t nothin’ but a piece of meat, a piece of eye candy, girl, nothin’ but a Milk Dud,” she had told me. “So don’t you go thinkin’ you’re a queen or nothin’ cuz I’m the queen.” As sophisticated as she acts in public, Venus Dione is as common as any chair in a beauty salon, and rumor has it that a chair in a salon has more real hair on it than Venus has left on her head.
That wasn’t nice! Funny and accurate, though. And I feel almost the same way about Venus. Hmm. I’m starting to identify with this Psyche woman, even though she is the exact opposite of me physically.
“Hi, Q.” Isn’t that a kid’s game? I wonder what his real name is. I hope it’s not Q-pid. “What’s up?”
Ah, I get it. Cupid. Psyche and Cupid. I’ll have to look up that story in my mythology book. I’ll bet it explains the rest of the book. Ho-hum. Another author who steals a plot.
“That Maxim cover, ooh, girl, you got it going on.”
Don’t fall for it, Psyche. He’s only after one thing, and then he’s going to fire you. Be strong, my sister.
Sigh. I’m talking to her now. I’m almost hooked.
I draw the comforter around me even though I know Q can’t see my nakedness. Something about the way he looks at me with those gray eyes of his makes me squirm. “Thanks. It was kind of unexpected.”
“I’m sure it will set a sales record for them. Did you get my flowers?”
I haven’t opened my condo door in two days. The Maxim shoot in the Bahamas took a lot out of me. That’s not sprayed water on my body on that cover—it’s my own sweat. Why we had to shoot a close-up on a hot beach in June in the Bahamas is beyond me. And even though it looks as if I’m naked under those towels, I still have everything important covered. I’ve been offered millions by Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler to pose nude, but that’s not for me. What God has blessed me with will be shared only with my future husband.
I knew she had a conscience. Hmm. Up to two stars, J.K. I like the unexpected, and I really like a spiritual main character who actually lives a spiritual life.
And I hope my future husband doesn’t send me flowers. At first, it was nice, you know, getting flowers from strangers for simply being beautiful. Now it’s a chore. I’m sure Q’s flowers are wilting gloriously just outside the door in the hallway. I get so many flowers and letters from admirers, and I can’t have an e-mail account anymore, not that I have time to go on-line. I used to be propositioned about a hundred times a day on-line, and it seemed as if every male past puberty had me on his buddy list. The millisecond I’d get on-line, I’d get hit with a couple dozen instant messages. How they found out it was me, I don’t know, and I changed my e-mail addresses almost daily. I even changed it once to whitegirl7845, and they still found me. Then someone told me that my IP address—my laptop’s address—can’t be changed. So now, I turn off all instant messages and delete most of my mail before reading it.
Same here. Not that I get bombarded by IMs. I’ve almost joined an on-line dating service. Almost. They all require a picture, and I don’t want men scrolling past my face on their way to find a prettier woman.
“Yes, I got your flowers, Q, and they’re beautiful.” I’m sure they are—if they’re outside my door and they’re still alive. “Thank you. Um, where am I off to next?”
“I’d rather discuss it over dinner this time, if you don’t mind.”
Dinner? Q, the duke of drawers, the king of kinky, the prince of—no, I won’t say that word—wants to meet me for dinner? In public? The paparazzi will have a field day, especially after that Maxim cover. It is so hard to see your food with all those flashes going off. “Um, Q, do you think that would be a good idea?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean we’d go out, Ginger. We could order in.”
He called me Ginger! I feel a flush come over my face, even though I don’t want it to. Is he asking me out? That didn’t make sense. We’re ordering in, so how could he be asking me out? I’ve had a minor crush on him for ten years, but I haven’t pursued him for fear his mama would put me out on the street. It seems that every woman Q has seen for more than two weeks has vanished from the planet, and I saw the last model he dated in a department store window as a living mannequin.
Harsh. But aren’t all models living mannequins? Is this what J. K. Growling is trying to say about the modeling industry? I know, I shouldn’t hate these women for their beauty. They were blessed. I just wish I could find a man who didn’t “read” a woman with his eyes. I want a man who will “read” every chapter of me…. Whoo! Just the thought of any man turning all my pages is making me hot!
But my face is so hot! I haven’t had this feeling in…I can’t remember having this feeling. “Um, yeah, Q, that would be great.” But where? I look at the random clumps of clothes on the floor of my bedroom. Definitely not here. “Your place, right?”
“I was hoping…yours.”
My fingers tingle, and I get cottonmouth something fierce. Lord Jesus, help me here. “Oh, I don’t know. My place is a wreck. I haven’t been home in weeks, so maybe not.”
“I’ve already gotten us a pizza, and I’m calling from the sidewalk right under your window.”
I wrap the comforter tightly around me, go to my bedroom window, and look down ten stories to the sidewalk. I see a man holding a pizza box and wearing a baseball cap. “Are you wearing a Yankees hat?”
“Yes. I’m incognito. No one has recognized me yet.”
I look at the nothing I’m wearing. “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll let security know it’s okay for you to come up.”
I can’t be too careful. When I first started out and had Mama and Rosemary living with me, we had a few scary evenings with our backs pressed into the condo door because of several stalkers who got by the doorman.
“Don’t make me wait too long. The doorman is looking at me funny. We wouldn’t want him to call any photographers.”
“He won’t,” I say. But Dwight the concierge might. I’ll bet Dwight makes more money tipping off gossip columnists than working here. I limped in one day last year after stumbling during an aerobics workout, and the Star had me as a victim of a mugging the very next day. “The doorman looks at everybody that way, Q. See you in a few minutes.”
I hang up, shut the drapes, and look at my messy bedroom. “He is not coming in here, no matter how much he wants to,” I say to the piles of clothes as I head to one of my bathrooms. I have three and a half bathrooms to go with three bedrooms, which was fine when Mama, Rosemary, and I shared the condo, but now…I live in a 2,165-foot, $15,000-a-month cavern with south views of the city, sunset views of the Hudson River, and breathtaking views of Central Park. I should really move out, but I haven’t found the time.
And now I hate Psyche again. Fifteen grand a month? I could pay off this little house in four months with a salary like that! Why in the world do we pay the beautiful people so much money? Oh, this world is getting too trifling to bear sometimes!
I stop in front of my bathroom mirror. “And he is not coming in here either, no matter how much I want him to,” I whisper.
Sorry, Lord. I can’t help it if I’m horny. It’s how You made me. And You made him…beautiful. Q’s not too tall—those basketball players have always made me feel like a midget. Q’s not too uppity—those rappers made me feel as if they were God’s gift to women, and they weren’t, with all those tattoos, piercings, and bee-otching. And Q’s not too worldly.
Yes he is, girl.
I bite my lip
.
Okay, he’s worldly, Lord. Maybe I can, you know, bring him back into the fold, make an honest man out of him.
Not a chance.
I bite my lip again.
Then he wouldn’t be Q. Hmm. This could be tricky.
I feel my hands, and they’re sweaty. See what he does to me, Lord? I hear he can be very persuasive, and I’m tired, and weak, and it’s been so long since I was even kissed for real. Posed kisses in magazines do not count.
I throw cold water on my face. It’s only a pizza, Ginger, and you don’t even like pizza, because it goes straight to your thighs. And it’s not like you can throw on a designer dress to eat pizza. I’ll just throw on some sweats, not put on any make-up, and wear a Mets cap.
“He’ll just have to take me as I really am.”
Did I just say, “Take me”? Sorry, Lord. I meant that Q, in all his sexiness, will just have to see me as I am: sanctified sister Ginger Dane, from Athens, Ohio.
I shut the book. So far, I have a love-hate relationship with this novel. I like Psyche because she has a soul, even though she’s far too pretty to be believable. Q has no soul, Venus sounds as if she’s out to take Psyche’s soul, and…and what else? Yes, it has my attention, but…
I pick up Thicker Than Blood. “Grandpa Joe-Joe, here I come.”
8
Jack
After making three trips to the Salvation Army with Noël and Stevie’s clothes, many of them tear-stained, I had made the world’s worst-looking snowman in the backyard.
You’ve made worse.
The sticks I had used for arms were bigger than the snowman’s body, the eyes were two mismatched wood chips, and the hat was an upside-down bird’s nest.
At least it doesn’t have crushed beer cans for ears like last year.
I had tried rolling the snow into balls, but it wouldn’t stick together until I added some dead grass, old clover, and dirt. It sure was colorful.
I know Stevie is up there giggling about it.
And Noël is, too.
“It’s a nice snowman, Jack. And thanks for skipping the beer ears this year,” she’s saying.
Beer ears this year. Yeah, that’s something she would say. She was always better at rhyming than I was.
I had sat on the big swing for the longest time, gently gliding back and forth, as more snow floated down. It was…peaceful. It was as if Nature was covering up my world with a fresh, clean blanket.
Until the snowman had decided to fall. I had to prop him up with a couple of bricks.
So, now he’s a snowman with red feet.
That point out behind him?
So, he’s forever walking backward, like you.
I’m making progress.
You could be making more.
I’m inside the kitchen warming up and staring at a Russell Stover candy box sitting on the table. I’m afraid to open it, though it still has its plastic wrapper, because it has to be at least six or seven months old. It was a “just because” gift to Noël; I forget what for. Just one of those loony romantic things I used to do “just because” right before…
Don’t think about it.
It was the last gift I ever gave her.
I’ll bet they still taste good.
I’m not hungry.
A little chocolate never hurt anybody, and you need to gain some weight.
I won’t eat the ones with the nuts. Noël loved the ones with nuts.
Because she said she married one.
I’m not that nutty.
Yes, you are.
If I keep talking to myself, maybe I will be.
No. It’s good therapy.
While I eat only the nougats, I look around the kitchen. I should have carpeted the floor. It’s so cold. Oh, and that border still looks so good! I thought it would come out crooked, but Noël was there to help me. I should remove all the latches on the cabinets that kept Stevie from messing around. But…maybe the next family will need them.
You can’t stay here much longer.
I know.
I can’t stay in a four-bedroom house alone. It’s a waste of space. I haven’t been downstairs except to throw dirty clothes into the laundry room, and some of the crumbs in this kitchen are starting to move. Most of the crumbs are at Stevie’s place—
Don’t go there.
I can’t help it.
Get out of the kitchen, then.
I wander down to Stevie’s—my—room and jiggle the top bunk. I’m sure it will come off the other one. Maybe I can set them up side by side and put Noël’s king-sized mattress over top of them. That would save me a daily bump on the head anyway.
Good thinking.
Thank you.
Though your daily bump knocks some sense into you.
I grip one end of the top bunk and lift, and the entire bunk bed comes off the floor. Is that supposed to happen?
Evidently.
There must be some trick to this. Hmm. I should take off the mattresses first, maybe put the entire bunk bed on its side…What’s this?
Sticking out from under the top bunk mattress is a picture book about planes, trains, and automobiles. As I slide it out, I see two more books wedged underneath, each of them a picture book about animals. How did Stevie get up here? And why did he hide them? And where and when did he get them?
I see a bar code on the back of the first book, “Roanoke Public Library” in bold letters underneath the dark lines and numbers. Noël used to take him nearly every Saturday morning to the library for story time. It gave me most of the morning to write since they would often go to a park or a museum afterward.
I guess I should return these.
Tomorrow.
Yeah, I guess tomorrow is as good a day as any. I have lots of nothing to do tomorrow, all day as a matter of fact.
Nothing to do and all day to do it.
Is “nothing” something to do?
Sure. And you’re good at doing it.
The phone rings, and I answer without checking the Caller ID. “Hello?”
“Is Thomas Mann there?”
We used to get Mr. Mann’s mail when we first moved in, and we—I—still get phone calls for him. “Thomas Mann hasn’t lived here in six years. Please put me on your do-not-call list.”
“Are you the new home owner?”
“Yes, but—”
“And is there still a VA loan on this property?”
“That’s none of your business. Now please put me on your do-not-call list.”
“Is your current loan at seven percent or higher?”
Pushy bastard.
“It’s none of your business. Now please, put—”
“We here at the Financial Group can help home owners like yourself who have high-interest, VA loans and—”
I hang up. I doubt anyone can help me.
Don’t be so sure.
Now what am I really supposed to be doing?
You’re doing fine.
No, I’m forgetting something.
You’re supposed to be writing another book, but don’t rush it. Live a little first.
You call this living?
I had signed a two-book deal. I have no idea what to write about for the second book, and I’ve been avoiding even thinking about writing it.
You’re good at that.
What?
Not thinking.
Thanks.
It’s all a part of doing nothing.
My agent and editor are expecting something similar to the first one. It’s supposed to be full of dramatic, guilty pleasures on every page. And I have a January 31 deadline for three chapters and an outline.
I’m screwed.
No, you’re not. You’ll think of something.
I can barely function in my own wearisome life, and I’m expected to create other, more exciting lives?
So, they’ll be as dysfunctional as the characters in the first book.
What I should do is write the exact opposite of what they ex
pect. I should give readers dramatic, innocent pleasures.
Like a picture book for children.
Yeah, like a—No. I write for adults.
It’s not possible to write a book about innocent, adult pleasures.
Well, I’m going to try.
Your agent and editor won’t like it.
What can they—or anyone for that matter—do to me that hasn’t already been done to me?
Good point.
I am going to the library to return these books tomorrow, and while I am there, I will read up on some of my competition.
But you’re supposed to be writing.
One step at a time, right?
You’re the boss, chief.
9
Diane
I pick up the fourth and last book, Wishful Thinking, by D. J. Browning. Nice, colorful cover photograph of an average sister in a hard hat with a Mona Lisa smile. Different. Opening the book to the first page, I read:
1: Daniel “Dan” Pace
I know I am in trouble when Beth says she wants to eat at Hooters on a Monday night.
Asking a guy to Hooters has to be some kind of new test for men, and I’m failing miserably. I am trying not to look at all the reconstituted breasts and buttocks bouncing and all the pierced and tattooed belly buttons undulating around the restaurant. And all those tan legs! Pairs of them everywhere I look! How can a man not look at Darcy, his server, when the sun on her sunrise tattoo below her belly button has set somewhere lower? How can I not stare at the freckles practically staring back at me through Darcy’s tight
shorts? How can I not stare at Darcy’s hooters at a place called Hooters?
You could respect your date and look into her eyes, Dan. Uh-duh. And is this guy white or what? He’s staring at “tan legs.” This must be one of those interracial books I’ve heard about. I read on:
“You remind me of my mother, Dan,” Beth says, her eyes following Darcy instead of looking at me, a plateful of shiny clean chicken bones in front of her and five empty bottles of Sam Adams guarding her side of the table.