Well!
A week after New Year's, she hitched into Manhattan. With the Countess, who despised the way men behaved and women smelled, as their sarcastic witness, Sissy and Julian went to the Little Church of the Positive Thought and were married by a protégé of Dr. Norman Vincent Peale's.
Thus ended for all practical purposes what the author knows to be one of the most remarkable and least understood careers in human history.
But a career, however unusual, is not a story. And Sissy's story, dovetailing as it does with the stories of the Rubber Rose cowgirls and the clockworks Chink, and disclosing as it does the possible pancake beneath the sluggish syrup and slippery butter of life, is far from ended.
COWGIRL INTERLUDE (BING)
Under an orchard tree, drooping with cherries, cowgirls lay in the shade. They fed each other fruit. Dark juice dribbled into dimples. Cherry meat stained smiles and nostrils.
Kathy was embroidering a rainbow on the back of Heather's workshirt. Inspired, Linda rendered an all-red rainbow on Debbie's bare waist, and Kym, dipping slightly below the belt, added the pot of gold. Cherry paint.
Fruit goo began to attract flies, so the cowgirls imitated their hobbled horses and brushed them away by flinging their hair. A cloud chugged by. If it was not gone by sunset, it would be painted, too.
The forewoman, Delores del Ruby, was away from the ranch on a peyote run. Big Red was acting forewoman, and she was permitting the hands a very extended break. The goats in their charge were straying far and wide, and as for the birds, they could not be seen from the cherry tree.
Placing her New Testament back in her saddlebag, Mary asked, “Pardners, do you think this is honest, goofing off like this?”
“I don't care if it's honest if it's fun,” said Big Red.
“I don't care if it's fun if it's real,” said Kym.
“I don't even care if it's real,” said Debbie. Not everyone knew what she meant.
30.
IF YOU COULD
buckle your Bugs Bunny wristwatch to a ray of light, your watch would continue ticking but its hands wouldn't move. That's because at the speed of light there is no time. Time is relative to velocity. At high speeds, time is literally stretched. Since light is the ultimate in velocity, at light-speed time is stretched to its absolute and becomes static. Albert Einstein figured that one out. There's no need to hang around the clockworks and bug the Chink about it.
Assuming that our brains will get off their fat butts, for a change, and play cosmic ball with us, allowing us to fully comprehend
no time
, then we might try to picture (if “picture” is the right word) what Einstein meant when he defined “space” as “love.”
Einstein knew a lot about space—he determined, for example, that beyond the expanding volume of the universe space ceases to exist, and so we have
no space
to contend with as well as
no time
—and he may have had some special insights into love, as well. The first of his two marriages was a mess, however. Einstein wed a girl with a physical defect.
It was some sort of crazy limp that plagued Mileva Marić, some eccentricity of the foot. A few days after the civil ceremony in Zurich, one of young Einstein's friends confessed, “I should never have the courage to marry a woman unless she were absolutely sound.” Well, for all that fellow might have known, it could have been the daily contemplation of Mileva's wild toes that led Einstein to perceive the wondrous workings of Nature in a way that no other scientist ever had.
But never mind. We know for a fact that it took more than a sardine of courage for the watercolorist Julian Gitche to marry the “unsound” Sissy Hankshaw. The union altered his life almost as drastically as it altered hers.
Good-by to dinner parties. Sissy was clumsy with silverware and, as previously noted, had a tendency to slosh the wine. Invitations were routinely refused, never extended. Julia Child was overtaken by dust. They gnawed Colonel Sanders drumsticks and Big Mac burgers in their apartment, alone. Julian began to complain of his stomach. Grease was giving him ulcers, he said. Sitting at the kitchen table, beneath the paper imitation Tiffany lampshade, he would peer into the hot slit of a taco and wonder who was dining that night at Elaine's.
While her husband painted, Sissy would stare out the windows at traffic. Or she would leaf through the motoring magazines that she brought regularly at newsstands, although Julian, a nondriver, vowed he'd never own a car. Her thumbs ached, and in order to relieve them, she took to imaginary hitchhiking, the game she'd played as a small child. She hitchhiked curtain-bottoms creeping on windowsills. She hitchhiked the black shadow thrown by the white piano. Cockroaches scurried when the bathroom light went on—she tried to flag them down. This return to girlhood beginnings amused her, kept her calm. Julian was sensitive enough to recognize its value to their relationship, although the peculiarity of it caused nervous coughs to punch the bags of his lungs.
She was a ratty housekeeper. She hadn't the experience or the aptitude. So Julian, on top of his picture-making, his conferences with art dealers, collectors and advertising men, had to attend to domestic chores. When he washed dishes, Sissy, a bit embarrassed, would retire to the bedroom to chat with the birds. The birds and Sissy had real rapport. Was it an interest in “freedom of movement” that they had in commom?
One Sunday, the newlyweds went together to the Museum of the American Indian on One hundred fifty-fifth Street. It was Sissy's idea. There was nothing displayed from the Siwash, not even a bead. On the way home, they quarreled.
At least once a week, Howard and Marie dropped in (Rupert and Carla had separated) to play Botticelli and discuss the international situation, which was desperate, as usual. Occasionally, one or the other of them, Howard or Marie, would catch Sissy alone (she was inclined to wander away from the group) and try to kiss her and prowl in her clothes. It wasn't right, but it made more sense to her than politics or Botticelli.
A certain amount of morbid gossip spread about the couple: the elegant and talented Mohawk, the lovely and deformed Yoni Yum/Dew Girl (revealed at last!). Sissy was immune, but the stories made Julian squirm. When questioned about his wife's background, he would lie that the small amount of hitchhiking she had done had been part of a publicity stunt dreamed up by the Countess. Later, he would feel guilty for denying her, and she took his guilt for discontent.
Nights in bed, and mornings, too, beneath blankets no Indian loomed, the strange tensions of their relationship dissolved in tenderness and passion. They caressed one another until their hides shone. They embraced until their 206 bones squeaked like mice. Their bed was a boat in a weird sea.
If space is love, Professor, then is love space? Or is love something we use to
fill
space? If time eats the doughnut, does love eat the hole?
31.
THERE WAS SOMEONE AT THE DOOR.
The buzzer was carrying on like a maraca with a crush on a June bug. It must be the Countess.
As if the Gitches weren't subjected to pressures enough, there was the bitching of the Countess.
No one recognized more lucidly than the Countess the heroism of Sissy's attempt at normal womanhood; no one could list more completely than he the sacrifices Julian made for his marriage (The painter had gone so far as to get rid of his poodle). Still, the Countess couldn't resist digging at them, mocking their motives. Perhaps he suffered the secret shame of those men who dam rivers and break horses. The Countess, after all, had initiated the marriage that had “tamed” Sissy Hankshaw—and all he had to show for his meddling with freedom was the hollow prize of the marriage itself, and another successful advertising campaign: Julian's watercolors were at least the rage that Sissy's poses once had been.
It was the middle of September. The marriage was nine months old. The evening before, they had had such a spat that it took most of the night to patch things. On this morning they were enjoying a fragile, vulnerable happiness. They surely didn't need the Countess's cynical stick stirring things up.
The instant he crossed their threshold, however, it was apparent that the Countess hadn't called merely to indulge himself. He was waving his cigarette holder like a brakeman's lantern; his dentures were chasing his words the way Tom chased Jerry.
“Sissy, Sissy, blushing bride, you can desist from wearing paths in these oaken floors. The Countess has arrived with a job for you, and what a job . . .”
“A job for
me?
”
“Don't interrupt your elders, particularly if they're royal. A job for you, yes. I am once more about to make advertising history. And only you, the original Yoni Yum/Dew Girl, could possibly assist me. Julian, knock it off! Wipe that wounded rabbit look off your face. And if you emit so much as one wheeze, I'll chop you right out of my totem pole. This assignment will in no way interfere with our watercolor campaign. It has eighteen months to run, as you know, and if you're a good little Injun I may renew your contract. No, this project isn't for magazines at all. I'm going to film a commercial such as television has never seen.”
“But you haven't used a TV spot in years,” protested Julian. “I thought you were through with the tube.”
“A countess is entitled to change her mind. Shit O dear, I've
got
to go back to TV. I've no choice anymore. Didn't you read about it in the papers? Those bleeding-heart do-gooders in the government are out to ruin me! Listen to this.”
From one of the many folds in his crumpled linen suit, the Countess removed a newspaper clipping and commenced to read:
WASHINGTON
(UPI)—The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) said Wednesday female deodorant sprays are medically and hygienically worthless, and may cause such harmful reactions as blisters, burns and rashes.
It proposed a warning label on each can of spray to tell the consumer: "Caution: For external use only. Spray at least eight inches from skin. Use sparingly and not more than once daily to avoid irritation. Do not use this product with a sanitary napkin. Do not apply to broken, irritated or itching skin. Persistent or unusual odor may indicate the presence of a condition for which a physician should be consulted. If a rash, irritation, unusual vaginal discharge or discomfort develops, discontinue use immediately and consult a physician."
In addition to the warning label, the products would not be allowed to make claims on the label for medical or hygienic value.
The agency said it acted because it has been receiving complaints from consumers, some of whom suffered more serious problems after the initial irritation or rash.
"Although FDA judges that the reported reactions are not sufficient to justify removal of these products from the market, they are considered sufficient to warrant the proposed mandatory label warnings," it added.
“Shit O dear, that's enough to make
me
asthmatic. The nerve of those twits. What do they know about female odor? None of those politicos sleeps with his wife. They all go to whores and whores know how to take care of themselves. They're my best customers. I'll bet Ralph Nader is behind this. Why he's probably got his kiddie corps of Ivy League law students out inspecting vaginas from coast to coast, looking for fresh blisters and unusual discharges. It's an affront to a Christian nation. I'm the one who's trying to clean things up, rid the human race of its most pagan stench. But do you think those dupes understand that? And after my sizable contribution to the President's campaign fund! I'm going to bend ears in the White House about this. I'll get action, too; you wait and see. They accepted my donation, so they're aware they'd better serve my interests or I'll buy some leadership that will. These swine are not the pearls I've dreamed of.
“But it'll take time, precious time, to head off this FDA plot. The government moves slower than a candied turd. So, meanwhile, to offset their monkey business, I plan to hit TV with a commercial that'll spin eyeballs and win hearts by the millions. Don't interrupt!
“Here's my concept. You know about my ranch out West? It's a beauty ranch. Oh, it's got a few head of cattle for atmosphere and tax purposes. But it's a beauty ranch, a place where unhappy women—divorcées and widows, mainly—can go to lose weight, remove wrinkles, change their hair styles and pretty themselves up for the next disappointment. You've heard of such places, surely. Only my ranch is different. It does some real good. My staff teaches its clients how to take care of their more intimate beauty problems, the problems swish salons don't dare tackle, the problems other health spas ignore. You know the ones I mean. Why, my ranch is named the Rubber Rose, after the Rubber Rose douche bag, my own invention, and bless its little red bladder, the most popular douche bag in the world.
“So get this. There's a worthless marshy lake at one end of the ranch. It's on the migratory flight path of the whooping cranes. The last flock of wild whooping cranes left in existence. Well, these cranes stop off at my little pond—Siwash Lake, it's called—twice a year, autumn and spring, and spend a few days each time, resting up, eating, doing whatever whooping cranes do. I've never seen them, understand, but I hear they're magnificent. Very big specimens—I mean,
huge
mothers—and white as snow, to coin a phrase, except for black tips on their wings and tail feathers, and bright red heads. Now, whooping cranes, in case you didn't know it, are noted for their mating dance. It's just the wildest show in nature. It's probably the reason why birdwatching used to be so popular with old maids and deacons. Picture these rare, beautiful, gigantic birds in full dance—leaping six feet off the mud, arching their backs, flapping their wings, strutting low to the ground. Dears, it's overwhelming. And now picture those birds doing their sex dance on TV. Right there on the home screen, creation's most elaborate sex ritual—yet clean and pure enough to suit the Pope. With lovely Sissy Hankshaw—pardon me, Sissy Gitche—in the foreground. In a white gown, red hood attached, and big feathery sleeves trimmed in black. In a very subdued imitation of the female whooping crane, she dance/walks over to a large nest in which there sits a can of Yoni Yum. And a can of Dew. Off-camera, a string quartet is playing Debussy. A sensuous voice is reading a few poetic lines about courtship and love. Are you starting to get it? Doesn't it make the hair on your neck stand up and applaud? My very goodness gracious!”