Soap Bubbles

by Denise Dietz

  “No, I meant the piano.”

  Delly said, “You plan to become a singer?”.

  “I am a singer. I just need a gig.”

  “Sami, it’s not that easy. Jon, tell her.”

  “It’s not that easy,” he said, sitting on the couch.

  Samantha sat next to him, crossed her legs, and leaned back against an embroidered cushion. “Sure it is. While Dell was wasting her money on acting lessons, I turned my trust fund over to my stepfather, Samuel Curtis, and he made me a big fat profit. I can afford backup musicians and you can find me an arranger, Jon. I know you have contacts within the film community. I’ve thought about this for a long time. I want to pay my share of the rent, too.”

  Delly’s head whirled. Pay her share? How long was Sami planning to stay? A piano? Practice? La-la-la? Peace and quiet? Desperate, she focused on Jon. Say something!

  “Don’t worry about the rent,” he said.

  “I won’t free-load and . . . oh my God, Monty!” Leaping up from the couch, Samantha ran toward the guest room. When she returned, she carried a tiny animal. “Folks, this is Ricardo Montalban. He’d bark hello but he’s sedated.”

  “A rat!” Delly screeched.

  “Don’t be silly. Monty’s a Chihuahua. He’s pure-bred, with papers a mile long.”

  “Ricardo Montalban?” Jon stared at the small creature.

  “I wanted a name that sounded Hispanic, and I’ve always loved Fantasy Island. Fantasies are fun, don’t you agree?”

  Montalban wriggled from Samantha’s grasp, staggered over to the American Shaker rug, lifted his leg, and arced a stream of urine toward the rug’s braided edge.

  “I’ll pay to have it cleaned,” Samantha said.

  She brought her rat but left her kids behind, thought Delly, carefully placing her empty mug on the coffee table.

  This time Samantha offered her sugary smile to both Jon and Delly. “Monty’s trained, really he is. He’s just nervous from the long trip, aren’t you baby boy? Itsy, bitsy, pretty baby. I’ll keep him inside my room at night. Obviously, he doesn’t eat much. I almost named him Anorexia, but it sounds like a girl’s name. Have you had supper yet? I hate airline food so I gave mine to a nun. Why don’t I whip up omelets? You two can go back to whatever I interrupted when I knocked on your door.”

  Samantha’s words blurred. Delly lost the coherency at Anorexia. She swayed and felt Jonny’s hands steady her.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  “No.” She watched her sister stroll toward the kitchen, trailing fingerprints across every surface. “Jane drank too fast on empty stomach.”

  He gave her a rueful grin. “Tarzan’s jungle juice like boxer’s punch.”

  She felt an overwhelming desire to claim Jon as her own by playing their wacky definition game. “Boxer, underwear,” she managed. “Punch, Hawaiian.”

  “Hawaiian is what comedian Phil Silvers used to say. Jesus, honey, are you planning to throw up or pass out?”

  “Throw up.”

  “I’ll hold your head,” he offered, propelling her toward the bathroom.

  “Never mind.” She stopped abruptly. “June Cleaver.”

  “What about June Cleaver?”

  “She’d never toss her cookies. I’m so dizzy, Jonny.”

  He scooped her up, carried her to their four-poster, and placed her on top of the quilt.

  “That dog’s awful,” she wailed. “I don’t want a piano. I want to make love and now we can’t.”

  “Sure we can, after your sister goes to bed.”

  “Oh, God. Now the bedroom’s spinning.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Make love to crocodelly. Please?”

  “We can’t right now.” He stroked the tangled hair away from her forehead. “I wish we could.”

  “Why did she come here?”

  “We can handle it. Tomorrow I’ll call musical arrangers and start looking for a rental house. Pass out, my love. I’ll tell Samantha you’re studying lines for tomorrow’s show.”

  “Monday.”

  “What?”

  “My next show’s Monday. The taping, I mean.”

  “Samantha doesn’t know that.”

  “Tell her my job’s full time.”

  “Okay. And later we’ll lick stamps and envelopes.”

  Jon watched long lashes shade Delly’s pale cheeks. She lay sideways. The kimono revealed the sexy curve of her small breasts, and he realized they hadn’t made love in ages. She should find a good shrink. She was on the verge of a mental breakdown. Unfortunately, Jon knew all the signs. Duck Pond’s Virginia had been inspired by his little sister.

  Maybe he should take the bull by the horns, so to speak, and get rid of Pendergraft himself. He had clout, contacts, and he could request, as a personal favor, that Delly be cast in Spielberg’s next film.

  Staring down at her small, firm body, Jon felt an erection build. To hell with Samantha. Spitting on his fingers, he inserted his hand beneath Delly’s robe. He would lubricate her quickly, penetrate quickly, and—

  “Jon? Dell? Where are you? The food’s ready.”

  Eyes still shut, Delly felt Jon remove his fingers.

  “I’m coming, Samantha,” he yelled.

  But he didn’t have time to come. Neither did I.

  Delly heard the bedroom door close. Opening her eyes, she focused on Mumpsy, the old stuffed bear that Daddy had given her when her fever had soared and her glands had swollen and she’d stayed in the guest bedroom and sipped cup after cup of Daddy’s medicinal grape jelly tea. “If I catch your mumps,” Samantha had said, “I want Elvis records, not some dumb baby toy.”

  Before Randy’s suicide, Delly had watched Anissa feed Oscar Wilde a can of Alpo, goopy and pungent, straight from the can.

  Even with the door shut, Sami’s omelets smelled like Alpo. Well, why not? Hadn’t she cooked one for Delly-Dog?

  * * * * *

  “The stars at night are big and bright,” Delly sang. “Deep in the heart of Hollywood.”

  Twinkie, twinkie, little star, she thought. Like a Diamond.

  The convertible top was down, so she maneuvered her arms into a hooded gray sweatshirt. The hood would keep her ponytail from blowing apart.

  Jon had asked her to cancel the Judith appointment and she had said yes. So why was she sliding her white middy-blouse, short blue shirt, argyle knee-socks, and white sneakers behind the Rabbit’s steering wheel?

  For a trip to the drugstore, of course. They needed toothpaste and shampoo and toilet paper, especially toilet paper. An extra person used lots of Charmin, not to mention charm.

  Sami could be so charmin’.

  Delly had lathered her body with lemon-scented soap, but the aroma of Sami’s heavy Ninja perfume filled the Rabbit’s interior. She had borrowed the convertible to “acclimate.” Acclimate meant a shopping spree on Rodeo Drive, where she had accumulated a dozen boxes, a gilded, jewel-encrusted bird cage, a portable TV, and a parking ticket.

  Trust me, I’ll be mouse-quiet, she had promised. But her rat barked at shadows or at the newly purchased parrot, Sinbad, who swore a blue streak. Sami couldn’t exist without background noise. Her new color TV perched on the guest room bureau. Sami was addicted to Johnny Carson, Jonah Wiggins, and the not-ready-for-bed-yet movie channel. Meanwhile, in the living room, a reel-to-reel never ceased its repetitive music.

  Then there was the piano, the damn upright piano. Delivered this morning, its light wood veneer clashed with Delly’s antique furniture. Sami had tested chords all day, playing scales, chopsticks, la-la-la.

  Jon had escaped to his health club.

  Compulsive in her personal habits, bathing at least twice a day, Samantha was sloppy about leaving soiled clothes draped over Delly’s “dopey couch.” A brush filled with strands of palomino hair lay next to the family photos. Pantyhose curled, like sleeping snakes, on top of the rocker.

  Montalban used the braided rug as his personal toilet until Jon scrubbed the spot and covered it
with newspaper pages—the entertainment section, which included TV listings.

  Tonight Drew’s movie of the week would be telecast. Anissa had invited Delly to watch, but she had a previous engagement, a shopping spree at the ole drugstore.

  Making a sharp right turn, she dovetailed the Rabbit into a driveway and parked behind a white Cadillac.

  Judith wore an ankle-length paisley caftan that slimmed her wide hips. “Hello, Pandora,” she said. “How are you?”

  “Fine. Do you have any Charmin?”

  * * * * *

  Jon had traveled the length of an Olympic-sized pool, swimming lap after lap, automatic, mindless activity. Finally, exhausted, he headed for home.

  He had asked Delly to cancel her Saturday Pendergraft appointment, using her sister’s unexpected visit as an excuse. Delly had agreed, but when Jon turned into his driveway he saw that the silver Rabbit was missing.

  Mouth-watering odors permeated the house. Samantha stood on the glass coffee table, barefoot, harmonizing with Paul Williams. Paul sang about finding the rainbow connection, and Samantha was a glossy-lipped Muppet.

  Her piano guarded the room like a grinning sentinel.

  “Hi, Samantha. Where’s Delly?”

  “Hi, Jon. She said something about a rehearsal for her show.”

  “Shit!”

  “I know what you mean. Work, work, work. All work and no play makes Delly a dull girl, right?” Samantha turned off the stereo. “I cooked us some dinner. I’ll serve it in here.”

  Ignoring the dull-girl remark, Jon let his body sink into his director’s chair. Then he kicked off his sneakers. Maybe he should phone Delly and beg her to come home. No. He was tired, couldn’t deal with Pendergraft right now.

  He couldn’t deal with Pandora, either.

  Samantha entered the room, her hands mittened by pot holders. Two plates rode atop her stuffed palms. The food looked delicious—steaming volauvents, surrounded by baby potatoes boiled in their skins.

  “That looks great,” he said. “Delly can’t cook.”

  “Since my marriage all I’ve done is experiment with food.” Samantha flung her pot holders toward the rocker. “You never met Jules, did you? Christ, I forgot. You never met me.”

  “I feel like I know you. Delly—”

  “Jules was gorgeous in high school. Tall, captain of our basketball team. A shame he’s not athletic beneath the sheets. He wants to shoot baskets, but all he can hit is the backboard.” She grinned impishly. “Am I embarrassing you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jules is still tall, but very heavy. It’s probably my fault since he gobbled my food down. Now that I’m gone, maybe he’ll lose a few pounds. I think Delly’s too thin, don’t you?”

  “No, not really.”

  “How do you like my new piano?”

  “It’s nice.”

  “Nice? It’s marvy. Listen.”

  Jon watched her dance toward the piano. She wore an I-heart-NY, oversized T-shirt, stenciled with a huge red apple. Her breasts bounced beneath the white cotton material. No bra. Delly rarely wore a bra, but her breasts didn’t balloon like her sister’s did. Not that Samantha’s were rubbery. On the contrary, they were statuesque. And why was he comparing breasts?

  After playing a few simple background chords, Samantha’s voice soared into a haunting melody that Jon had never heard before. A girl crooned to her infant about his father, a civil rights activist, soon to be released from prison. Samantha’s vocal range changed several times, and she slid from octave to octave with ease. First, a husky contralto, then a high soprano.

  Despite the cliché lyrics, Jon’s throat felt lumpy as the lovers reunited, only to be torn apart again. The young father, handcuffed, was transported back to jail, where he would serve additional time for visiting his new son.

  “You’re terrific.” Rising, Jon applauded. “Where did you find that song?”

  “Inside an old attic trunk. My mom wrote it. That’s why I need an arranger so badly, for all the other instruments. Do you really like my song?”

  “It’s great. Have you got more?”

  Samantha sang a second ballad. This time the lyrics told about a photographer who fell in love with an imaginary subject, a composite of several different models. Upon his death, a negative was found clutched in his fingers. The developed picture showed the photographer and his dream girl, walking hand-in-hand through the misty fog.

  Once again, Jon felt moved by the sentimental lyrics.

  “Mom wrote that song, too. It’s called ‘Portrait of my Love.’ A bit Wuthering Heights, but what the hell.”

  “Samantha, I’m curious. No, baffled. Why didn’t your husband recognize your incredible talent?”

  “He was jealous. One night I sang at a party. When we got home he slapped me.” Her bottom lip quivered and her amber-tinted eyes brimmed over with tears. “Jules said everyone made fun of me because I sounded like our old family puss, Southern Comfort. Jules said I was so fat I looked like a cartoon opera singer. I was hurt, but mad, so I spit in his face.”

  “Don’t cry. Hush, honey, it’s all right. You’re safe now.”

  “After I spit, he hit me again, bloodied my nose.”

  “Poor baby, don’t cry.”

  “So I kicked him in the balls.”

  Instinctively, Jon’s hands traveled to his crotch. A woman could never feel the pain, he thought, feeling the pain.

  “I was wearing heels with pointy toes,” Samantha continued. “Jules left me alone after that night. I had an affair with my voice teacher. He taught me how to control my vocal range. He couldn’t get me to stop smoking . . .” She paused, her tears shining like crystal. “You’re not being polite, are you Jon? You think I’m good, don’t you?”

  “Better than good. Professional. Terrific.”

  “Thanks.” She wound her arms about his neck.

  Jon felt her heat and stepped backwards, encountering the coffee table. Off balance, he leaned forward to compensate, and they both tumbled to the floor. Samantha didn’t release her hold, straddling his hips, nibbling at his earlobe.

  “Enough,” he yelped. “Uncle!”

  “I want you, Jonny.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do. I can’t get pregnant. My tubes are tied.”

  “Delly—”

  “Will never know, I swear to God.” Samantha unzipped his jeans and pulled them free from his legs. Next, she removed his shirt and tugged her own shirt over her head. “Take my undies off,” she urged.

  “I hate to hurt your feelings, Samantha, but we can’t do this.”

  “Yes, we can. Consider it a therapeutic fuck. Please?”

  Jon had heard women use the F-word before, numerous times, but Samantha made it sound like a caress. He felt her tongue lick, the warm saliva leaving an erotic trail across his nipples.

  I spit at him. Jules hit me, bloodied my nose. Poor, brave Samantha. Slowly, Jon’s arms moved on their own accord, pulling her body up along the length of his, stroking her plump curves. He buried his face in her large breasts, tasting new, exciting flesh. I’ve been faithful, he thought, tugging her panties down, feeling her wriggle free from the silky material, feeling her silky hair tickle his throbbing groin. I’ve been King Arthur while Delly lusts after Sir Judith Lancelot.

  “What a marvy bod you have,” Samantha purred.

  She needed him, made him feel like Jon Lancelot, a knight in shining armor. Carefully, he maneuvered their bodies until she was on her back, a defenseless turtle.

  “Do you want me to suck you?” she asked, fondling his erection. “I’ve never done it before, but—”

  “No, honey, this is my gift.”

  She was larger than Delly there, too, and Jon felt as if he’d entered a wet, heated cave. He couldn’t get enough of Samantha’s swollen nipples, the musky scent of her perfume, and her voice urging him on, singing his name.

  God, he was a bastard, screwing Delly’s twin sister, but he couldn
’t stop. He felt Samantha’s imperative contractions and timed his own response perfectly.

  “You’re so marvy,” she panted. Directing his first finger toward her anus, she quivered like an orgasmic cheerleader.

  Jon withdrew, flipped her over, and penetrated. She rocked back and forth, delirious with passion.

  “HolyMaryMotherOfGod!” she screamed, and he had just enough time to wonder where a nice Jewish girl had leaned that particular phraseology before she flipped him.

  Even though she’d never sucked a penis before, she managed to practically swallow him whole.

  Like a boa constrictor ingesting a live rat.

  Chapter Twenty

  Delly stared at her reflection in the octagonal mirror above Judith’s wet-bar.

  Except for her knee-socks, she looked like a high school Mariner.

  As a Mariner cheerleader, Samantha’s petite feet had sported white ankle-boots. She’d worn a sexy sailor outfit with a skirt that flipped, showing her butt. To make the squad you had to be able to turn a cartwheel.

  Orange and blue pom-poms.

  Jules and Neeley running down court, dribbling, scoring.

  Dribble, dribble, six foot star.

  Listen, Delly, your sister thought I was real good.

  Delly Good-as-Gold had never opted to become a Mariner. She had wanted to play Nellie Nurse. Instead, she’d played a sailor, clothed in white bell-bottoms that etched her panty line. She prayed she wouldn’t get her period, and God had answered that small prayer. Thank God for small favors.

  However, God had a weird sense of humor, allowing Delly’s classmates to witness her loss of virginity. But that had led to her physical transformation. Had God wanted Delly to take control of her life?

  So why was she losing control now? Why—

  “Are you staring into the mirror?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why are you staring into the mirror?” Judith repeated. “What do you see?”

  “I see Pandora’s box.”

  Judith laughed. Then she held out a thick crystal glass. As Delly sipped her second scotch-splash, they discussed the new script. Charl’s fire was a ruse, Judith promised. Panda would remain unscathed. The writers were considering a romance between Panda and Cal.