One More Stop (9 page)

‘Why don’t you?’

‘The year after next, God willing, Molly will be gone. Maybe then.’ Maggie begins to cry. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I’ll get along without her. She’s been my rock … what with the divorce.’ She hiccups. ‘Excuse me.’

I hand her my napkin. ‘I had a wonderful time at the Q and A. Thank you so much for setting it up.’

‘They were thrilled. You’re a big hit in Beatrice. I simply can not get over that your mother’s name was Beatrice. You must feel like she’s here.’

‘… She would love this town, even though the accent is on the wrong syllable.’

Enzo arrives with masses of food. I am unable to eat. Next to Weight Watchers or the Zone, the next best system for weight loss is limerence. Let me explain the phenomenon. During the early, pulsating stages of love falling, the self feels queasy, light-headed. This feeling impacts on the upper and lower GI tracts in the following manner. You could swear that an overly anxious flight squadron has entered your body, frantically diving into the small and large intestines. Eating becomes an impossibility. We, who are afraid to love, lose pounds during the incipient stages of love falling. For some, love brings about a sense of wholeness. For others … starvation. I could not eat a morsel on that Tuesday night at Enzo’s.

Maggie, on the other hand, ate a gargantuan portion of veal parmigiana, one flying-saucer plateful of linguini with white clam sauce, an arugula salad with gorgonzola cheese, a loaf of bread, and a profiterole for dessert. ‘Don’t you like your dinner?’

‘It’s great.’ Eat something. A piece of garlic bread. Shove it in your mouth … Wait! There is the possibility that you might kiss Maggie Malone before the evening’s end. Do not eat the garlic bread!

Maggie smiles. ‘The students have given you a nickname.’

‘Don’t tell me. I’m afraid.’

‘I swore that I wouldn’t … but …’ She giggles. ‘Stoner.’ I have no idea what she means. ‘They thought you were high … standing on top of a desk!’

Haven’t smoked for three weeks. Wonder what’s wrong? ‘When you see Molly tonight, at home, tell her it’s nerves. To get over my nerves, I give a performance. If it works, the kids enjoy themselves.’

‘No!?’

‘At Euripides Follies, I was seconds away from throwing up. It settled down after a few minutes. I took three deep breaths and prayed.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Performance anxiety is common amongst performers. Teaching is like performing. The students are my audience. I need their attention.’ I see you Maggie Malone. Do you see me?

After dinner Maggie invites me to take a ride out into her father’s favorite cornfield. She parks the car atop a frozen hilltop. We gaze at the zillions of stars in the open, early-spring, night sky. The moon is near full. I hear the moon say, ‘All is well with the night. My stars know your secret.’

I wish that I could bottle the beauty of the night sky; drink it for breakfast every morning, with Maggie’s head on the pillow next to mine.

Maggie reaches over. Turns on the radio. Frank Sinatra sings:

‘Fly me to the moon

And let me play among the stars

Let me know what spring is like

On Jupiter and Mars.’

We laugh. A shooting star falls. She gets so excited, like a little girl, giddy … silly. ‘I just love shooting stars,’ she says. ‘Love the night sky. My father taught me all about the planets. Mostly, he taught me about the moon in relation to farming and planting.’ She turns off the radio. ‘Did you know that you should plant annuals, which bear above-ground crops, in the first or second quarter. Third quarter’s the best time for pruning. Fourth quarter’s the best phase for cultivation and
harvesting.’ She can’t stop. ‘Fourth quarter’s the best phase for tilling and destroying weeds. Seems weird that the same quarter is the best for destroying and harvesting. But, when you harvest you’re destroying what you grow, so you can eat it … so you can grow.’ She makes her point by grabbing my hand and squeezing it. ‘That makes sense. Doesn’t it?’ I listen as if I have never heard anyone talk before. She speaks a language that I want to learn. She talks about the rotation of the crops, the difficult life her father had, his disappointment when Molly’s husband, Mike, refused to take over the farm. ‘Mike just wasn’t interested. He knew there was no money in farming. I think he would have been much happier if he had followed in Daddy’s footsteps. But, it’s too late to worry about that now.’

She is more beautiful than any woman has a right to be. ‘It’s never too late.’

Maggie informs me that she is a democrat. Her mother was the head of the Democratic Women’s Committee of Beatrice. I am relieved. She talks about Molly, Bill, the Beatrice Arts Council, everyone but herself. Her world is in relation to those that need her most. Maggie Malone is selfless. Unfortunately, she does not have a clue about how much I need her.

It is at this moment that I resign myself to the recognition that Maggie Malone and I will never touch, never make love. No, I will not feel her tender lips on mine, never touch or be touched, never know her in that greatest of all biblical ways … through the flesh. Her elliptical love will escape my unrequited grip.

Maggie does not see the single salty tear fall from my right eye, on to my cheek, finally to land on my polar fleece jacket collar. I want her to know the truth about me. ‘I’m gay.’ She listens. I tell her about mother, father, sister, and finally Simone.
I cry like I haven’t for years; retelling Maggie the story of the day I left my mother, when she needed me most; reminding myself of Simone’s prominent place in my life since my
mother’s
death. Maggie hugs me. ‘Do you love Simone?’

‘She is the sexiest, most fascinating person I have ever known, but we’re never together. It’s like we’re avoiding
something
, but we can’t give each other up. She’s my … shadow obsession.’

‘What do you mean?’

Afraid of my feelings, I pull away. Avoid her eyes. Look out my window. Imagine her tits in my mouth. ‘An uncontrollable addiction … a sexual fixation … a collusive partner in crime … crime being pathological incompleteness without each other.’

‘We all have that person.’ I assume she is referring to her husband. ‘Thank you for telling me the truth.’

‘I have ulterior motives.’ Maggie does not respond. I wait. Not a word. I wait. My longing paints a blush on my cheeks. Our eyes connect. A glimmer of possibility is in the air. A shooting star falls from the sky. I gasp. Make a wish, Loli.

I hear my mother say, ‘
There is a remedy or there is none
.’

‘We’d better go. If I don’t live up to my outrageous reputation tomorrow, I’ll be run out of school.’

‘Beautiful sky.’ Maggie starts the engine.

‘Beautiful. Thank you for showing me your town.’

Maggie opens up her purse, pulls out a winto-green
Lifesaver
, pops it in her mouth, and sucks. ‘I love this town. It’s my … shadow obsession.’ She hugs me again. We drive down the hill, through the streets of Beatrice, without a word. We have said quite a bit tonight. She drops me off at the Holiday Inn. I do not turn around.

I open the door to my room. The message light flashes on
my phone. I’ll deal with that later. For now, I’ll deal with … what I can.

Let’s talk about Simone. Twenty years is a long time to be uncommitted to the same person.

My unquenchable thirst for learning life’s hidden
meanings
led me hither, dither and beyond. I read volumes on the ascended masters, the philosophy of yoga, theosophy, the Tarot, breath work, death work, Hinduism, Buddhism, women saints, reincarnation, macrobiotic cookery, Zen meditation, astrology, herbology, psychology, Sanskrit, Edgar Cayce’s
writings
, shamanic studies, Mayan mysteries, this book on the dead, that book on the living, other books on dying (skimmed those), the I Ching, angels (lovely departure from demons) and wounded women.

My eyes were weary from the fine print of being. Then, one day, on Melrose Avenue, while perusing the shelves at the
Bodhi Tree, I came across the title to supersede all titles
Sexual
Energy And Yoga.

At Dina’s suggestion, I had already begun practicing yoga; Up Dog, Down Dog, Sun Salutation, Paschi, Pachi, Pashi … Oh hell, seated forward fold, back bends, head stands, hand stands, but Sexual Energy!

I went to class and socialized. Met married men, single girls, jocks, babes, gays, straights. Sure, I did some deep breathing. But, mostly I was engaged in my desire mind. The LA Yoga Center became my singles bar.

Guttman, who had returned from Ol’ Cape Cod, was
concerned
. I didn’t care. After all, he had abandoned me during my August breakdown. Fuck him.

‘I don’t like our five-days-a-week routine. I meditate in the morning, practice yoga, read the
Times
, try to finish my writing assignments, and then there’s you. It’s impossible. Get here, go home … Who’s got time to work? I have to work! It’s important. Sure, she left me some money, but not very much … That’s not the point. I need to work and …’

He interrupts. ‘Yes …’

I interrupt. ‘The girl on the yoga mat in front of me lost her mother when she was eleven. Suicide. I might as well have lost mine when I was …’

He interrupts. ‘Eleven is …’

I interrupt. ‘Maybe I stopped maturing during that summer at Camp Clydesdale? Certainly was the beginning of the end of life with Mrs Cleaver. You ever watch
Leave It to Beaver
?’ … I wanted to seduce. Wanted someone screaming for more, panting, legs up in the air, wanted to conquer and abandon. Wasn’t interested in any long-term, for that matter, any shortterm relationship. I just wanted to have sex. Lust was keeping
my mind occupied. When I wasn’t practicing yoga, the Kama Sutra, or meditating on my sexual chakra, I was too busy seducing everyone I met to let my mother’s voice interfere with my sex life.

‘Georgy Porgy pudding and pie,

Kissed the girls and made them cry.’

Snippets … There were snippets. But, if I didn’t give them energy, they would disappear.

One morning during yoga class, I looked three mats to my left and beheld a lovely, young, feminine body. She moved with rare grace and raw power, had perfect perky tits, long legs and a thrilling ass. After a few yoga classes, I introduced myself.

‘Loli Greene.’

Think thick French accent … ‘Simone Duvet.’

I asked, ‘Doesn’t that mean cover?’

She replied, ‘So, you know French?’ So it began.

At that time, Simone commuted between Montreal and Los Angeles. She took care of her mother’s recently widowed sister in Montreal and worked part time at a photography studio in Los Angeles. Simone was a photographer whose specialty was black and white. She felt that color photography left nothing to the imagination. Black and white demanded more from the eye. As far as Simone was concerned, the eye wasn’t the only area that needed training …

‘Darlin’, the tongue … mmm … oui … zere … feels sooooo goooood.’ On top, on ze bottom, on ze left side, on ze right side, on ze floor, in ze shower, in ze public bathroom, under ze table … My desire to learn about sexual energy had led me to my very own French connection.

Because Simone was absent much of the time, I had my world. She had hers. Six days out of each and every month we
had our sexcapades, together in every nook and cranny of the greater and lesser Los Angeles area. Simone tuckered me out. She turned herself inside out, upside down, held her breath for what seemed like a decade, screamed ‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh’… and then she would say,
‘Une autre fois
.’

‘Again?’ I asked in disbelief. I was exhausted from training camp with Simone. It took one week to recover, one week to discover what I had learned, and one more week to prepare for her six-day residency in my bed. I was concerned that I might be indulging in some unhealthy sexual patterned behavior. I discussed my dilemma with Dr Guttman. ‘It’s all about sex. Maybe not … all. What if she’s sleeping with someone else?’

He replied, ‘Why don’t you ask her?’

I didn’t want to know the answer. I was afraid of the truth. I had fallen in love. Aside from being utterly charming, Simone was well-read, well-bred, breathtakingly beautiful, totally
committed
to her work, a practical aesthete transforming the
ordinary
into the divine. Just by her placement of flowers, she was able to make any space look and feel like a sanctuary. Simone taught me how to see. She was my eyes. On top of all that, she loved my sense of humor, even if she didn’t get it. One week after my realization that I was in love, Simone informed me that she was moving to New York. She had been invited to apprentice with the world-renowned photographer Michel Varny. It was a golden opportunity. I would later find out that Simone was having a torrid affair with Michel Varny.
Quelle surprise!?
…

7:30 … Another evening chat with Dina.

‘Hi … Simone is moving to New York.

‘Oh … Pop’s getting married. Ralph and I just came back from Beechwood.’

… And Mom recites an obtuse rhyme.

‘Look to thyself,

Take care of thyself,

For nobody cares for thee.’

‘What do you mean he’s getting married?’

‘He’s getting married.’

‘To whom?’

‘Mrs B. They seem very happy. She was at the house when we arrived. She’s so lovely. It was sweet to see them together.’

‘Sweet! Excuse me. She is our mother’s best friend.’

‘She was our mother’s best friend. Our mother is dead. He needs a companion. Having her around makes him feel good. And, they have her in common.’

‘We have Ralph in common. I’m not marrying him.’

‘I’m not dead yet.’

‘So, that’s what was happening when she was cooking those voluminous vats of oatmeal, while Mom was having her tour of duty in the nut house.’

‘They’re friends. People marry for different reasons at
different
times in their lives. You can’t blame them for wanting some companionship.’

‘I can see it now. The happy couple playing bridge, Scrabble, mahjong, fucking in her bed. How wonderful.’

‘Mrs B. is keeping her house. She’s giving it to her son Burt. Remember him? He moved to Iowa?’

‘No, I do not remember Burt. Wasn’t he in your class? … Aren’t you six years older than yours truly? … Way before my time.’

‘He’s in the middle of a messy divorce.’

‘I don’t give a shit … Our father is deranged.’

‘He’s lonely. He’s in mourning.’

‘This isn’t mourning behavior. Mourning is mourning.’

‘You should call him? How’s Gigi?’

‘Simone! I just told you. She’s moving to New York. Maybe Pop and Mrs B. would like to have a
ménage à trois
with her. Or even better, he could disinter Mom and have a four way. I gottta go.’ I slam the phone down. Not Mrs B? I loved Mrs B.

‘Rock-a-bye baby.’

‘Stop it! Stop it! This is all your fault. Please go. Make your own life … Please.’

Their marriage lasted six months. Mrs B. committed the
original
sin. She spent too much of Pop’s money. He felt used. From what I heard, she never adjusted to my mother’s clothes hanging in the closet. He couldn’t throw those clothes away. That pink dress was jitterbugging on the wooden hangers in the master bedroom closet. She was dancing in each and every corner of the house.

When Pop and Mrs B. were in bed, she was there. When they went to the bathroom, she was brushing her teeth. When they sat down to eat breakfast, she was reading the morning paper, which she never read when she was alive. She
performed
her tricks inside the seams of their psyches. Finally, Mrs B. moved into my bedroom. After three months there, she moved next door with Burt, who had come back to live with his mother.

They tried to remain friends. Things were strained. People talked. My father kept his distance. No surprise there. That was his specialty.

By the time I thought it the appropriate moment to
congratulate the newlyweds, they were separated. Timing is everything. Right?

‘You are the best baby!’

‘Right.’