Last Call (26 page)

Meanwhile, the ever-suspicious Diana glances around the room as if she’s looking for clues to a robbery. Her gaze settles on the portable radio in the corner that has been steadily wailing away and is now playing the Phil Collins hit song from the eighties “Against All Odds.” Diana marches over and flicks off the radio. “I’ll tell you exactly what’s wrong. You’re in love and you’re sitting here by yourself inhaling toxic chemicals and listening to syrupy ballads on Lite FM.”

“Lite FM?” Rosamond is apparently confused by the diagnosis.

Joey appears with the cherry-flavored water. His mother sends him back to the kitchen with orders to start unpacking the groceries. Then Diana heaves a great sigh, as if she just can’t be responsible for catching up another woman on twenty years of romance. “Rosamond, there are only two situations when a woman should be listening to love songs on Lite FM, and one of them is when you’re in a
reciprocated
romantic relationship, not pining.”

“And what’s the other?” asks Rosamond. Perhaps there was a category for distracted ex-nuns.

“The other,” Diana pauses as if it’s her ill-fated lot in life to have to be the bearer of bad news, “is after your boyfriend dumps you, or worse, sleeps with your best friend
without
first dumping you. And so you stock up on Mallomars and Rocky Road ice cream, pull the shades, get incredibly drunk, and play a continuous medley of Air Supply’s ‘All Out of Love,’ Foreigner’s ‘I Want to Know What Love Is,’ and right before you vomit or pass out start ‘The Rose,’ by Bette Midler.”

Now that the radio is off Rosamond collects herself and takes a sip of the pink water. “I suppose you’re right, ballads do seem to have an unusual effect on a person’s soul, especially those bits about ‘I can’t live, I can’t live without you baby.’ No wonder the convent only sanctions madrigals from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. And even that was without harmony or accompaniment.”

But what about love? Rosamond wonders what’s been holding her back since admitting to herself that she’s in love with Hayden. Perhaps being in love is the pursuit of pleasure for one’s own gratification, and therefore the same as self-love, and thus exactly what she’s been trained to guard against ever since taking her vows.

“You know, I could talk to Dad,” offers Diana. “The two of you are acting like teenagers a month before the prom—you agonizing over whether or not he’ll ask, and him worrying that you’ll say no. In fact, Dad’s so distracted that yesterday he was checking under the hood and almost poured oil where the antifreeze goes. Fortunately Joey stopped him.”

“He’s just fretting about The Cancer, that’s all.”

“Rosamond, I’ll tell you a little secret. You know that song Dad is always humming?”

“He’s always singing one song or another.”

Diana softly sings,
“Kiss me each morning
. . .
if it don’t work out, then you can tell me good-bye.”

Rosamond nods to indicate that she indeed recognizes the melody, though she’s never before heard the words.

“I haven’t heard Dad sing that since before Mom died. He used to do this imitation of a famous sixties crooner Mom adored named Eddie Arnold. Dad could copy his smooth American accent perfectly and it made her laugh like crazy.” Diana smiles as she thinks back to her mother’s reassuring presence, and briefly notes that she should try to relax and stop worrying all the time, or else she, too, is going to have heart trouble. The first thing her mother had taught her about art was that you couldn’t always control every element—light, mood, space, hue—and thus after a certain point had to let go so the work could chart its own course. And when Diana was frantic with despair while in the throes of her first crush, at age six, her mother had said the same thing about love.

“Anyhow,” Diana continues. “How about I tell him that I spoke with you and—”

“Oh no.” Rosamond’s delicate hands flutter up to her face. “I mean, I’d be mortified. I wouldn’t know what to do. I’ll just pray.” She suddenly feels startled and overly warm, similar to when she awakes from the nightmares in which the men in red jumpsuits are attacking her.

“Suit yourself, as my mother used to say.” Then Diana realizes this probably isn’t the best time to keep raising the subject of Hayden’s departed wife. And sure enough, Rosamond visibly blanches. Diana immediately drops the subject. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen and I’ll show you how to make poached salmon with chive mayonnaise sauce and a nice plum pudding?”

What am I doing trying to act as a matchmaker between my dying father and a dying nun anyway, Diana asks herself. Hayden isn’t going to try those treatments, not for anyone. And furthermore, since when have any of my romantic couplings ever met with success?

chapter forty-three

A
t the same time that Rosamond and Diana are talking together inside the town house, Hayden and Hank are locked in a heated argument at the end of Bobbie Anne’s driveway. Both men gesticulate wildly but are careful to keep their voices barely audible so that to anyone passing by it appears as if they’re engaged in an intense pantomime that at any moment will call for one to strike the other with an oversized plastic bat.

“I’ve fixed everything,” Hayden reassures his new friend. “She understands you need a tune-up so that you can get back into the courtship game on the level of a seasoned professional.”

Hank has a miserable expression on his face. “I don’t need any love doctor, and certainly not a . . . a . . .”

“
Do’an’
say it. She’s a friend of mine. Just go in and meet her,” he urges, his brogue swelling. “You do’an’ have to stay if she isn’t to your likin’. Maybe you just do’an’ fancy women,” Hayden goads Hank. “It’s nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

“Oh shut up! I do so fancy women. I’ll talk to her but I’m not going to
do
anything with her.” He’s vowed not to be another victim of all Hayden’s pent-up salesmanship that is currently without an outlet. How the business-savvy Mormons had failed to engage Hayden as a missionary would forever remain a mystery.

Hayden pushes a reluctant Hank toward the front walk.

“Isn’t there another way?” asks Hank.

“Sure. You can go off and date women for ten years and come back, but Diana will be long off the market by then. I had the electrician in for fifteen minutes last week and he sent her roses and calls practically every night after dinner.”

“If only she didn’t know that I’d been training to become a priest. If only I’d moved here from somewhere else as a regular guy . . .”

“Well, not even Jesus was a success in his hometown, but a few years later he was their big claim to fame. So just stick with the program here.”

Hank approaches the front door as if headed for his own crucifixion.

Bobbie Anne is waiting just inside and greets him sweetly. “Hey y’all. Come on in. Hayden has told me so much about you.”

Hank isn’t sure if that’s good or bad. “Let me be honest with you and say that I think this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of.” He glances back through the screen door and spies a satisfied-looking Hayden standing at the end of the driveway with his arms folded victoriously over his chest. “And as soon as
he
leaves,
I’m
leaving.” With a swat of his hand Hank motions for Hayden to get going. But Hayden gives a friendly wave back as if he’s saying hello from the deck of a cruise ship.

“I see,” says Bobbie Anne diplomatically. “Then why don’t you at least have a glass of iced tea.” She turns and goes into the dining room without turning to find out if he’s following.

Hank does follow. He’s mesmerized by the sound of her voice, which has a peculiarly engaging quality. It’s deep and a little husky and he can hear the breath vibrating behind it as if every word seems to come right out of her heart.

Bobbie Anne pulls out a chair for him at the dining room table. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t I give you a quick little quiz and if you pass then we’ll just inform Hayden you’re an expert on women and there isn’t another thing that I could possibly tell you.”

But Hank’s soft brown eyes widen as visions of what a “love test” might include dance in his imagination. “That’ll probably be faster than waiting for him to leave.”

“We’ll start with the oral part,” she continues.

His look of alarm at the word
oral
registers with Bobbie Anne.

“I mean that I’ll ask you a few questions,” she clarifies.

“Oh, sure.” Hank attempts to convey a confidence he’s far from feeling. “Fire away.”

She pours them both a glass of iced tea and sits down next to him at the table.

“How old are you, then? Mid twenties?”

“Thirty-one, actually,” he replies tersely. It aggravates Hank to no end that he still can’t buy beer without being asked for ID.

“Question one. A woman can get pregnant the day after her period, the day before, or for a few days somewhere in-between?”

“The day before.”

“Wrong. In-between.”

He gives her a dismissive look that says, “Yeah, whatever.”

“Okay,” Bobbie Anne continues, “let’s say you want to talk to a woman about seeing her exclusively and having sex without condoms. What medical information should you bring with you?”

“I don’t know,” he answers irritably. “A breathing strip so I won’t snore?”

“Results from an AIDS test,” says Bobbie Anne.

“I don’t need an AIDS test! I’ve been celibate for the last five years.”

“Of course you need an AIDS test. And besides, it shows that you care. Next question. A woman’s breasts are least sensitive during her menstrual cycle because all the blood flows away from that area. True or false?”

“True.”

“False.” Her red-gold ponytail swings behind her neck like a whip of fire as if to reinforce his blunder.

“That’s a trick question!”

Bobbie Anne ignores him. “Last question. If you’re kissing a woman and things are heading toward making love and she informs you that she’s bleeding, the correct answer is: (A) let me know when you’re finished and I’ll come back; (B) can you temporarily stop it? or (C) why don’t we just get a towel?”

Hank has a look of horror on his face. “Come back later?” he guesses.

“Hank, the female cycle is the life force. I would think that having studied for the priesthood you would have a greater appreciation for that particular miracle.”

“These are all trick questions,” mutters the aggravated young man. How did he ever let himself get involved in all of this insanity? He should stay in the Church. When you don’t have an answer you say that everything happens for a reason and then you pray with the person.

Bobbie Anne is getting ready to admit the situation is hopeless. “Hank, how many openings does a women have down there?”

“Two.”

“Three.”

He pushes his chair back and abruptly rises. “I don’t see why I need to know all this women’s stuff.”

“Hank, if you have a shiny new truck but you don’t know where to put the gas and oil or where the ignition is, how are you going take care of it? Or even drive it for that matter? And furthermore, how do you think
you
got here?” asks Bobbie Anne, now starting to sound somewhat annoyed herself. “The woman’s body is the fount of reproduction, don’t you see? We’re talking about the pope-sanctioned act of procreation. Women often feel extremely sexy when they’re ovulating or right before or during their periods.”

Every time she utters the word
ovulation
or
period
he flinches as if swallowing battery acid.

“Okay, you’re free to go!” She abruptly rises and pushes the two hundred dollars back across the table, picks up their empty glasses, and strolls toward the kitchen.

“No, wait a second. Come back.”

She turns in the doorway. “Why? I can’t teach you anything.”

“Sure, you can. I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I want to know how the engine works, honest I do. It’s just that I had sex with a lot of girls in college and it went okay.”

“That’s because it was sex. And you were a boy and they were girls. Hank, we’re talking about
making love
. . . to a
woman
. And if you have Diana in your sights, she’s a thirty-five-year-old woman with a capital
W
—”

“Yeah, that’s what I need—lessons in . . . women . . . Diana . . .” he trails off pensively.

“I can’t help you unless you have some innate ability. So I’ll have to evaluate your performance.”

He looks uncertain. Does she mean what he thinks she means?

She approaches him and in her sumptuous alto voice says, “Kiss me, Hank.”

They kiss for a moment and then Bobbie Anne steps back, pauses, and appears to be carefully critiquing a soufflé that she’s just tasted.

“Too much interior lip,” she says. “Don’t start with the tongue so fast. And when you do, move it slowly and gently, not like a harpoon. You’re not fifteen anymore. Now try again. Think of Diana as a fine wine.”

“And what am I?” Hank asks playfully, his earlier anger and embarrassment having slightly subsided. “Root beer?”

Bobbie Anne also relaxes now that Hank has let down his guard. “More like a slushie.”

Hank laughs and pulls her to him in an appreciative hug. They kiss a while longer and this time when they part Bobbie Anne smiles at him. “Mmm, very nice.” Meanwhile Hank takes a deep breath as if trying to shrug off any arousal he felt from the kiss.

“Now this time, after we’ve been kissing for a few minutes, I want you to begin caressing me.”

He takes a shaky breath and says, “Right, caressing,” trying to sound matter-of-fact, as if he’s reading a manual.

After they kiss and embrace for a few more minutes Bobbie Anne can feel his hard cock pushing through his jeans against her waist and decides it’s a good time to break for an appraisal. “That’s fine, Hank. But you need to have a plan when you’re caressing.”

“What kind of a plan?”

“Did you ever play Battleship or Stratego when you were a kid?”

“Sure, all the time, with my brothers.”

“Well, the winner usually had a system of covering the board, right? Those who guessed haphazardly usually lost unless they got lucky. Same thing with making love. Start in one place, like the hips, and then slowly work your way to the breasts and neck.”