by Denise Dietz
Drew stayed within the lines.
“Andrew’s son has inherited his father’s art talent,” Valerie told her friends, silently thanking God that Drew had inherited something of Andrew’s. Because she had a feeling Andrew Junior wasn’t her husband’s son. Furthermore, she could have sold her 1952 diary to Candid Confessions.
In one short week, Valerie Bradley lost her virginity twice. First to Andrew Florentino, then to Buzzy Beeson. Andrew was a fluke, a chance encounter at the Flushing Meadows Ice Rink. They had ended that memorable evening on the front seat of her father’s Chevy, sharing a bottle of cheap Chianti. Wet and woozy, Valerie had shouted, “No! Don’t!” But Andrew had penetrated anyway, the louse.
Hours later, when Valerie opened her eyes, Andrew was gone. Her mouth was dry, her undies wet, and before passing out she had thrown up all over the car’s dash. Weeping into a wad of tissues, she fervently hoped that some of her throw-up had landed on the dashing Mr. Florentino.
Valerie had once been described as “the spittin’ image of Shirley Temple, only older and taller.” She worked as a receptionist for a Manhattan-based talent agency, and she adored being employed by a company that created properties for the fledgling television industry. Her agency handled writers, directors, and a dozen rising stars. The brightest star was Buzzy Beeson, a poodle-haired comedian who wore checkered pants, plaid jackets, and polka-dot bow ties. Buzzy established the popular expression “So what’cha’ say, bootsie?” The public wasn’t sure what bootsie meant, exactly, but from the way Buzzy said it they figured it was something dirty.
A few days after Valerie’s horrible experience with Andrew, Buzzy invited her to a party. A dazzled Valerie accepted and actually met Eddie Fisher, her favorite singer. And Lucille Ball with her handsome Cuban, Desi Arnaz. And the prizefighter, Rocky Marciano. And—
Buzzy insisted she drink glass after glass of bubbly until she was practically falling-down drunk. At one point, she batted her false eyelashes at Eddie Fisher. “I’m Shirley Temple,” she slurred, but Eddie wasn’t fooled. God, how embarrassing. Tearfully, she let Buzzy guide her upstairs and propel her into a guest room. He tossed her on top of the bed, unsnapped her garter belt, peeled off her stockings and cotton underpants. “Nice bootsie,” he proclaimed. “So what’cha’ say?”
This time she said yes, because she was drunk and he was a star and one didn’t screw around with stars.
Several weeks later, when Valerie told Buzzy she was pregnant, he suggested a discreet operation. “No way,” she said. Abortions were illegal and she had seen movies where the doctors had dirty fingernails and talked in foreign gibberish. Did he want her to die of an infection?
Buzzy had her fired.
Valerie haunted the ice rink until she found Andrew again. The artist, recently transplanted from Detroit, accepted responsibility. Thank God he had played on his high school hockey team. Thank God he owned a pair of skates and grooved on gliding around the ice, looking for girls to seduce.
“It was all so romantic,” Valerie told her friends. “Andrew skated straight into my heart.”
Thank God Drew didn’t look like his other father.
* * * * *
Maryl had just finished her best picture yet. She’d crayoned a piece of paper with every color of the rainbow and covered the whole thing with black India ink. Then she’d fingernail-scratched a doggie that looked like Chien. Maybe his eyes were lopsided and one shaggy ear longer than the other, but a person could hardly tell the difference.
Securing a pencil between her ink-stained fingers, she printed her name and the date across the paper’s white border: MARILYN MONROE BRADLEY FLORENTINO 1962. There! Now it could be hanged on the wall, right next to her brother’s neat pictures.
Bursting with pride, she wanted to show somebody. But Mommy was at the dentist with Drew. Daddy was in his studio, and he said to stay out when his door was closed.
“Shit,” Maryl swore, then glanced around to make sure she hadn’t been overheard. Was she nuts? She was alone. Even Colleen, their twice-a-week-maid, had disappeared.
Maryl sighed. Colleen was young and spoke with what Mommy called “a Maureen O’Hara singsong lilt.” Colleen would appreciate Maryl’s hard work, maybe even thumbtack it on the wall.
Wait. If Maryl hurt herself, she could ask Daddy for help. That was the rule. Placing her beautiful drawing on the kitchen table, she eyeballed a sharp knife. Then she opened the refrigerator and grabbed a clump of carrots.
A few minutes later her thumb bled nicely. Now all she had to do was tell Daddy she wanted to surprise Mommy by fixing a salad for dinner, and—oh, gosh, Daddy—the knife slipped.
Carefully grasping her picture with her un-injured hand, Maryl tiptoed toward Daddy’s studio door.
The door wasn’t locked. Maryl inched it open and sneaked inside, expecting to see Daddy scrunched over his drafting table.
Instead, he sprawled across the studio couch, looking just like an octopus. Four arms, four legs, two heads—
Two heads?
Daddy’s head and Colleen’s head.
Maryl felt a giggle ripple through her. She dropped her picture and covered her mouth with both hands because she had a feeling Daddy might be mad if he saw her standing in the doorway. Because Daddy was naked. Colleen, too.
Bending down to pick up her Chien drawing, slinking through the doorway again, Maryl saw that she held her pretty picture between her bloody thumb and her first finger. Which was probably why she cried and cried.
When she finished crying, she fainted.
* * * * *
1967 waved good-bye, and Andrew Florentino, laughing all the way to the bank, developed a line of greeting cards, posters, clothing, sheets, towels, and stuffed animals.
Chien ran for President. His platform included bringing the “dog soldiers” home from Vietnam, National Veterinarian Care, and the legalization of drugs, starting with catnip. Chien promised to stop all bugging by the F.B.I.S.—the Federal Bureau of Iguanas and Spiders. Then, just for grins, Andrew created another cartoon character, Mary-wanna, a promiscuous spaniel who looked like Disney’s cocker spaniel, Lady. Disney protested. The Catholic Church protested. And the strip’s popularity soared to new heights.
* * * * *
By the time Maryl entered high school she was five feet, ten inches tall, and except for the basketball team, she towered above her classmates. Her mud-brown eyes hid behind thick eyeglasses while braces fortified her perpetual scowl.
She was intelligent, but could hardly sit still long enough to concentrate. Valerie called her daughter a Jackie-in-the-box with batteries that never wore out.
But Maryl knew damn well her batteries atrophied, because she fainted at the drop of a hat.
One doctor called it a “temporary suspension of respiration and circulation due to cerebral ischemia.” Another doctor claimed it was all in her head and suggested a psychiatrist.
“I’ll play shrink,” said Drew, sitting at the kitchen table and sharing a box of Girl Scout cookies. “Tell me, Maryl, do you hate your mother?”
“No. I think she’s great.”
“Do you want to sleep with your father?”
“God, no.”
“Okay. You’re cured.”
“I could cheerfully kill Daddy,” Maryl said.
“Why?”
“He just introduced a peacock named Monroe.”
“So what?”
“Look at me, Drew. Peacock?”
“How do you know the peacock’s supposed to be you?”
“Because Daddy’s peacock, Monroe, faints at the drop of a hat. May I have another cookie, please? Where are you going?”
“Out.” His cheeks reddened. “This cheerleader saw me at a basketball game and invited me to the movies. She cheers for Bayside High and her name is Samantha Gold.”
“I’ll bet she looks like a peacock.”
“It’s just a date, Maryl.”
“Right. And the fainting is all in my hea
d. Do you hate your father, Drew?”
“No. I think he’s great.”
“Do you want to sleep with your mother?”
“God, no. I want to sleep with Samantha Gold.”
* * * * *
“I could never win the Miss America title,” Maryl said. She and Drew were curled up on the sofa, watching TV.
“Why not?” Drew grinned. “You’re tall enough.”
“Thanks a lot. I couldn’t win because I have four names. Marilyn Monroe Bradley Florentino. The winner can only have three names.”
“Terry Anne Meeuwsen,” said the TV reporter, “is 1972’s Miss America. She’s twenty-three-years-old and she hails from Wisconsin.”
“Speaking of Miss America,” said Maryl, “I heard a joke but it’s kind of dirty.”
“I’ll try not to blush.”
“What’s the difference between a slut and a bitch?”
Drew said, “A slut screws everybody. A bitch screws everybody but you.”
“The person who told me the joke used the F-word.”
“They mean the same thing, Maryl. But,” he added, “a nice girl makes love.”
“What about a nice boy? Do you make love, Drew?”
“Ever hear of Mike Nichols?”
“Of course. The Graduate. Why?”
“Nichols once said, ‘A movie is like a person. Either you trust it or you don’t.’ ”
“How’d we suddenly go from dirty jokes to movies?”
“I’m thinking about an acting career, Maryl. Want to hear a secret? I believe that a successful actor thinks of his audience as one person, one woman, whose sexual appetite he’ll whet and whose fantasies he’ll satisfy.”
“Like Miss America does with men?”
“Yup. That’s the real difference between a slut and a bitch, between a nice guy and a bastard. You see, Maryl, an amateur nice guy hopes for success while a bastard works at it. That’s why Dad’s a true bastard.”
“Oh my gosh! Did you know about Colleen?”
“Sure. How’d you know?”
“Long story.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Are you a true bastard, Drew?”
“Yeah. But don’t let my girlfriends find out. They think I’m romantic.”
* * * * *
“It was so romantic.” Maryl braced herself against the passenger seat while Drew’s Thunderbird screeched to a halt. The stoplight, momentarily yellow, had suddenly turned the same color as her new Cashmere sweater.
“Alice is at the diner,” Maryl continued, adjusting her backbone. “All of a sudden Kris walks inside. Now remember, she’s had bad luck with her husband dying, even though he was a stinker, and she wants to be a singer, and she had this really horrible experience with another guy. Anyway, Kris says he’ll give up his ranch because he loves Alice and—”
“Enough,” Drew said.
“You could have played the Kris part.”
“What a memory. Three years ago I mentioned something about wanting to be a movie star.”
“And fulfilling fantasies.”
“A person can change, Maryl. Now I just watch movies.”
“You’ll never watch Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. You’re twenty-three years old and you outgrew every romantic bone in your body, along with your Little League uniform. Besides, why should you pay to watch love when you can get screwed for free?”
“Screwed, Maryl? Thanks a lot.”
“Would you prefer the F-word? You once said they meant the same thing.”
Drew pressed his pedal to the metal. “Why do we always end up talking about sex?”
“Who else can I discuss it with? Dad? Mom? Dear Abby? By the time you were a senior in high school, you’d become a legend. The eleventh commandment. Thou shalt honor thy basketball jock. Kids swore that Florentino could F-word the hall monitor and still make home room by the third bell.”
“Knock it off!” Drew turned on the radio. Barry sang about writing songs that made the whole world sing.
“Whatever happened to the shy little boy who used to stay within the lines?”
Drew turned off the radio. “Miss Rodale happened.”
“That skinny math teacher who looked like Miss Grundy?”
“Yup. Beneath those shapeless polka-dot dresses, Jean Anne Rodale wore silk bikinis. And she had breasts, Maryl, breasts a kid only dreams about during football, basketball and ejaculation season. If you recall, math was my only decent grade. I wanted to sew new letters across the back of my jock jacket. J-A-R.”
“Jar?”
“Jean Anne Rodale, you nut.”
“The kids used to call her Miss Rodent.”
“Nibble, nibble, little mouse.”
“Oh my gosh! You didn’t do it inside the classroom, did you?”
“I’ll always love the smell of chalk dust.” Drew sighed theatrically. “I’ll always picture George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and Richard M. Nixon gazing down at us from above the blackboard. The idea of discovery turned Jean Anne on, but it scared me to death.”
“Speaking of scared, I’m shaking like a leaf.”
“Why?”
“The audition.”
“I’m the one auditioning.” He considered a yellow light, glanced around for cops, downshifted.
“Are you nervous, Drew?”
“Yes. My mouth is full of . . . shit!” He slammed on the brakes.
“That’s true,” Maryl said, adjusting her backbone again.
“Crackers. My mouth is full of crackers and dry as dust. No spit.” He tried a whistle. “See? Damn! I don’t know how I let Deborah talk me into this.”
“Poor baby. You probably promised her in your sleep.”
“No. I was awake. Don’t ever make promises while you’re having sex, Maryl.”
“I know what you mean, Drew. Last night I was in bed with Dustin, or was it Pacino? It’s so hard to keep them straight. Definitely Pacino. He used the F-word a lot. Anyway, I found myself promising—”
“Shut up, you nut. I wouldn’t trust Al Pacino for one moment with my favorite sister.”
“Favorite? I’m your only sister.”
“Thank God.” Drew skidded to a stop. “Why are all the lights red tonight? Here’s an idea. Let’s skip the audition and grab a pizza.”
“No way. You talked me into going with you and I can’t wait to see my favorite brother make a fool out of himself.”
To Maryl’s secret delight, Drew performed flawlessly and was awarded a leading role in the next production.
“You said you were nervous,” she teased later. “No spit, you said.” Discarding the mushrooms and olives from her slice of pizza, she winked. “You stalked that stage like a wild panther.”
“The girl in the front row kept crossing and uncrossing her legs. She wasn’t wearing underpants.”
“How could you see that? You were growling lines like Pacino on an F-word rampage.”
Drew drained his mug and signaled their waitress. “The redhead in the second row kept fiddling with the buttons on her blouse. No bra. Deborah was painting sets. The chick with the long braid—”
“I give up. And here I thought you were focused.”
“I was. Maryl, why’d we order olives and mushrooms?”
“I adore olives and mushrooms.”
“Why don’t you eat them?”
“I’m afraid they’ll get stuck in my braces.”
“You don’t wear braces any more.”
“I know. Habit.”
“When you blush like that . . .” Drew grinned. “When your face turns the same color as your sweater, you’re a very colorful personality. Why didn’t you audition tonight?”
“Me? You’re kidding, right?”
“No. Community theatre is a great place to meet members of the opposite sex.”
“Puh-leeze! I have no intention of becoming involved with an F-word actor. No writers, either. There’s this guy at Dad’s office who thinks up Chien dialogue—”
<
br /> “Aha! A secret love. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He’s married, Drew. Besides, I said no writers. No actors, stars, celebs of any kind. They all have egos bigger than King Kong.”
“I have a big ego, and as of tonight I’m an actor. I’m hurt, Maryl. You’ve hurt me to the quick.”
“Your ‘quick’ will recover, probably get you in big trouble some day.”
“Why’d you mention the guy in Dad’s office? Do I know him?”
“I guess you work with him sometimes. Ed Vega wants to write historical romance novels. I promised to edit his manuscripts, even suggested he write a Maryl series. ‘Maryl Almost Loses Her Virginity.’ That’s the first book, where she’s married off to a wealthy leper who, beneath his hideous scars, is really a hunk. He discovers a cure for leprosy but before they can consummate, he’s guillotined. ‘Maryl On The High Seas.’ She’s captured by a pirate, who’s really her husband in disguise, miraculously brought back to life, only she doesn’t know it. Before they can consummate, there’s this Bermuda Triangle disaster. ‘Maryl Reaches Mid-life Crisis Still A Virgin,’ followed by ‘Maryl Has A Hysterectomy.’ ”
“You nut.”
“I’m up here in the nuthouse,” she sang. “My mind is in a rut—”
“My keeper thinks I’m crazy,” Drew cut in. “Christ, Maryl, camp songs? A million years ago.”
“Is this a private chorus or can anybody join?” Deborah, a tiny divorced blonde with Siamese-cat-eyes, leaned across Drew’s shoulder, captured his hands, and raised his beer mug to her own lips. Then she gave him a wet kiss somewhere to the left of his right ear.
“Excuse me, pit stop.” Maryl stood and brushed crumbs from her jeans.
“Nice sweater.” Deborah eyeballed Maryl’s small breasts.
F-word you, Maryl swore silently. I’m gonna wed a hunky leper and get captured by a pirate.
On her way back to the table, she ducked behind the restaurant’s attempt to create Italy—a white trellis covered with green plastic vines and fake purple grapes. Through slats of plywood she watched Playhouse cast and crew members converge upon her brother. A gorgeous British model named Jasmine Cresswell pushed Deborah aside and draped her own body across Drew’s broad shoulders. The woman from the second row, the one with no bra, slid into his lap. Others spread out like flower petals.