“Martin,” I said. “Is that darling with you, because
I’ve seen him at
The Cavern?
”
“Bobby,” Perry called.
Bobby strutted over and immediately latched onto
Matt’s hand. I felt like knocking him on his ass — his gorgeous
bubble butted ass.
“Cowboy,” Bobby said, his eyes riveting. “I’ve seen
you around.” He cocked his head and winked. “Not enough for my
tastes, but some of you is better than none of you.”
“Stop it, Bobby,” Perry said. “He’s such a
kidder.”
“Then you two are together,” I said, not asking, but
announcing.
Perry flashed his hand. A commitment ring. Bobby
reluctantly flashed his, and then winked again. I noticed that
Bobby was either very drunk or unsteady.
“Get me a Cosmo,” he said to Perry.
“I don’t think so. You weren’t supposed to have the
first.”
First?
He must have meant
Tenth
, but
Bobby just shrugged and drifted back to the couch. I noticed that
he had a birthmark on his neck, just beneath his right ear. Matt
saw it also, because he was suddenly distressed as if that blemish
spoiled the perfect Adonis notion that was Bobby Anselm.
I had to sit, so I elected to keep Bobby company,
but he wasn’t much company. In fact, he had no interest in me at
all. He just winked at the old gargoyles and occasionally moistened
his lips in Matt’s direction. Matt and Perry babbled in code. They
were building the next generation of information technology right
there in the heart of the night trade. They were oblivious to it. I
just drank and drank, and soon, I was oblivious to them all. I do
remember glancing down at Bobby, who had fallen asleep. I got a
good look at that birthmark. God had some sense of humor created
such a perfect creature only to despoil him at the last moment —
the mark of Cain. I was really drunk. I heard Perry Chaplin say
I had better get him home
, and then Matt echo the sentiment
—
mine too
.
Fortunately, we didn’t need to walk. Well, I
couldn’t walk if the place was on fire. Perry offered to drop us
off at the B&B. I vaguely remember the trip, except that Bobby
must have found in me a comfy cushion, because he snored away on my
shoulder. We arrived and I
do
remember trying to negotiate
the fence instead of the gate, and yelling
I’ve got to piss.
I wandered through the garden uncaring of where I aimed. I just had
to go. I heard the upstairs window open and Leslie cry out.
Is
that you, Martin?
I heard the echo
What are they doing?
from Ginger.
He’s pissing on the cats.
And sure enough, they
were scurrying to the four corners. Matt howled, and then tugged me
toward the porch.
“You like him,” I said or I think I said.
“Who? Perry? He’s a colleague.”
“Collie? No, not him. I mean . . . Bob . . .
Bobby.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Really. Me? I’m nuts. I saw the way he looked at
you, and I saw you starin’ back. I mean, his cotton candy, that
one. He’s got eyes.”
Bobby’s eyes drew the world to his soul. No one
could resist them. They winked and flirted with everyone he saw. He
underscored this with a smile that blossomed.
“Bullshit,” I said, holding onto to Matt for dear
life. “He’s not so pretty, you know. He’s got a wine splotch, you
know. It’s hidden unless you know where . . . well, I saw it.”
“I feel sorrow for him, Pumpkin, that’s all.”
“Sorry. Bullshit.”
Matt straightened me up. I remember that just before
I passed out.
“He’s sick, Martin. He’s very sick.”
I don’t remember much after than, except that Ginger
caught me as I passed out, and she probably marshaled me up to bed,
because I heard a whisper on the wind, between the yelping of wet
cats.
“And we didn’t invite you here to be good. We want
you to be bad — so very bad.”
When I pried my eyes open the next morning, I was
alone in bed. The light assaulted me with a new definition of
torture and I saw everything in rainbow colors, although not in the
correct order — all of them simultaneously. My stomach rumbled, but
not for food. I thought I was giving birth to the Alien. I sat up,
but could get no further. I guessed that this day would not be as
much fun as yesterday.
The door cracked open and a cowboy-hatted head
peered in.
“What time is it?” I belched.
“Half past one,” Matt said.
He crept in. Respect was always a hallmark of this
gentleman and he evidently appreciated my condition. But
half
past one?
“I’ve slept too long, and the day is shot now.”
Matt sat beside me on the bed. He scrunched my
shoulder and kissed my forehead. Good thing, because my mouth
tasted like Rommel’s army had been through it, tanks and all, a
taste I didn’t want to share with anyone.
“You were hammered last night.”
“No shit, Jose”
“Do you remember pissing on the cats?”
I shook my head.
That
I remembered. I also
remembered a flirtatious little kid trying to attract my
cowboy.
“Where’ve you been?” I asked. Tart. Unabashedly
accusative.
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Shopping.”
“I bet.”
Matt sighed. It was a bit too mortifying for me. I
shuffled back under the counterpane. I guess I pouted, prissy
little bitch that I can be at times.
“Now, Pumpkin, if you think I had any interest in
anyone in that place but you . . .”
“And computers.”
“And computers.”
I could deal with computers. Computers and Luis, but
that was the limit. He hugged me. Then his hand drifted by my
bloodshot eyes. He held a ring between his fingers. A commitment
ring. I sat up . . . quickly.
“I thought . . .” he said.
“I love your thinking.”
I put my hand out. He slipped the ring on me, a
beautiful gold band that hurt to look at. Still, it could have been
drilled into my nose and I would have been just as happy. Then he
handed me another ring.
“Do me now.”
I grabbed the ring and thrust it on his finger. I
slammed him into a hug hold, and kissed him long and hard — Rommel
be damned.
“I’ll do you,” I said. “I’ll do you and do you until
the cows come home.”
“Or ‘til the cats dry off.”
He laughed and we spent the rest of the day in
bed.
Summer drifted into fall. The birds began taking
wing and the leaves turned in glorious pageantry. I loved the fall,
because it heralded the Yule season. I wasn’t much for Thanksgiving
as Viv never cooked and, if we celebrated it because her current
squeeze was a traditionalist, it would be in a restaurant. Perhaps
that was for the best. Turkey has been known to be lethal if not
prepared well and Viv could have lapsed into a festive accident if
given a roasting pan and a baster. However, this year was
different. I looked forward to Thanksgiving, because it was at the
Kielers.
“Just wait ‘til you taste that dressing,” Matt said.
“Mom’s touch is in every morsel. There’s nothing like it here or
even on Mount Olympus.”
Sounded great. I was a little home keeper, but I was
better at thawed frozen foods than from-scratch banquets. While I
was happy that Matt was tasting his mother’s dressing already, I
had some anxiety. Viv was invited. I didn’t think she’d come, but
she was between beaus and surprised me by enthusiastically
accepting. Now Viv was fine company for the likes of me. I was her
little shithead, after all. However, to traipse her out before the
Kielers — that was a source of heartburn.
“She’ll be fine,” Matt assured me.
He had managed a great relationship with Viv. She
nicknamed him
Harpooner
, because he had managed to fish me
out of the sea. I also suspected that she gave him that nickname
for other reasons best left in the shadows. They got along
famously. However, Louise Kieler was . . . a lady — a regular
plantation belle without the southern prejudice — gracious and
hospitable. To toss Viv into the works just might change the
Kieler’s perception of me, which was warm and sociable.
“She’ll be fine,” Matt reassured. “My mother has
lived a bit also. She’s no prude. Besides, Viv might surprise us
all.”
“You mean she might use
fuck
only every fifth
word instead of every other one. Remind me to have a talk with
her.”
“Why spoil things,” Matt said. He chuckled.
“You
want
her to embarrass your family,” I
said.
“You’d be the only one turning red, Pumpkin. My
family has an open door to the world,”
That was true enough. It would be wonderful to have
a
whole
family in one place on one day a year. However, I
still thought it advisable to give Viv a heads-up.
“These people are very stylish, Viv. They never
curse. They live a well ordered life.”
“Fuck, are they alive?” she asked. “And how did
their little darling queer son get to know the ropes if they didn’t
use curse words. Shit, shithead, I’m not used to being turned off
in this way.”
“Please.”
She rolled her eyes and tossed her stringy hair
about in a sweep, but she agreed. In fact, she showed up ahead of
us, dressed with less fringe and mascara. She waved to me when we
came in (not giving me the usual
shithead
greeting, although
she did call Matt
Harpooner).
Viv was subdued, but I could
see she was seething to ask the Kielers a thousand questions. She
actually would have pulled it off if Louise had been more prudent
when we sat around the dining room table.
Before the feast was brought forth, we all joined
hands for the Thanksgiving prayer, which I’m sure the head of the
household would have deliver. However, when all heads bowed, Mrs.
Kieler relinquished her rights.
“Vivian,” she said,
“Viv.”
“Viv, as our honored guest, would you lead us in
prayer?”
“Shit,” Viv said. “You’re gonna make me work for
this grub?”
There was a flutter around the table and my heart
sank to my knees.
“Well, I guess that’s the price for a good meal. So,
are you ready? Everyone shut your eyes and think happy thoughts.
God, it’s me, Viv Powers, and I say so because it’s been a long
time — a real long time, and You just might not remember me. But
thanks for everything — the food, these friends, stuff, and my
little shithead, here. All of it. Amen.”
Mr. Kieler cleared his throat and the feast began. I
nearly had a stroke, but Matt and Mary giggled — and not quietly, I
might add, which loosened Viv up more.
“What?” Viv asked. “Like you don’t have things to be
thankful for, Harpooner.”
He blushed, but things were less tense after that,
now that Viv had cut the cheese, so to speak.
I love Louise’s cooking. I remembered once that Viv
opened a can of condensed soup for a visiting truck driver, but
that was as far as she had ever gotten into a kitchen. But the
Kieler Thanksgiving was a meal that tightened my pants; and we’re
not talking just good cooking. Presentation reigned here. The bird
was crisp and decorated with cranberries. Sam carved it like a
ritual akin to a Roman decanting. He recalled every past
Thanksgiving.
Remember when Granmer Kieler put the pineapple in
the turkey and it exploded when she cut into it.
And
Mother,
this is better than last year’s, and I know it, because the Pope’s
Nose is browner.
The side dishes were not just side dishes. Each was
garnished with parsley and walnuts and paprika and drizzled honey.
The yams were not merely cooked, but
presented
. There was a
sauce for everything, from the asparagus to the mince pie. Yes, I
had a tightened waistline and opened up a button, as rude as that
might sound. Still Louise pushed plate after plate of goodness at
me until I finally pushed back from the table and retreated to the
living room. However, as I headed toward Matt and Mary, I heard Viv
rattling the dishes.
“Let me kelp ya with the clean-up, Louise.”
I shuddered. I pictured the leftovers sliding into
the trash pail and the heritage glasses dropping and shattering. I
reversed course and grabbed my mater’s arm.
“Come sit with Matt and me,” I yammered.
“Yes, relax,” Louise said. “It’s under control.”
Sam was ushered into the kitchen, and Mary was
summoned. Everything seemed settled on that score. Viv plopped
beside Matt and gave him a little tickle.
“Some digs your folks have here, Harpooner,” she
said.
“Don’t break a nail, now,” Matt said.
She immediately recouped and examined her priceless
sculptured daggers. Matt settled into a stare out the window, while
I tried to decide whether to sit on his lap or drag Viv out of her
seat. I decided to do the lap thing just as Mary returned with Sam
in tow. They appeared unsettled.
“What’s up, Sis?” Matt asked before I could sit.
“Nothing, Newt. She won’t let us help.”
“Leave her be,” Sam said. “Sometimes the
preparations settle her into a sanctuary of suds and soapy
water.”
I glanced from Sam to Mary to Matt, and then decided
that of the company, I was the only one with experience with suds
and soapy water. So I eased my way through the dining room and
crept quietly into the kitchen.
Louise was standing in front of the sink. It was
sudsy and soapy, but she wasn’t doing more than glancing over the
surface as if she was trying to see the future or perhaps the past.
I hated to disturb her.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She turned. She’d been crying, her eyes red. Perhaps
the preparation of this feast had taken its toll. I expected her to
wave me off and I would have retreated, but she didn’t.
“Martin,” she said, a sigh rattling her chest. She
smiled dimly. “I’m okay. Thanksgivings take their toll on me.”