Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (14 page)

“Work out?”

“Exercise. Lift weights. Push-ups maybe?”

Lijy shook her head no. She tried to remove her wedding ring and after some turning and pulling finally got it over the knuckle. Then, she thought better of what she was doing and put it back on. It didn't matter anyway. This would be a one-time thing and that would be that and she and Buddy would have a talk about it. She'd come clean, and then,
and then . . .

“Anyway, my name is Ellis McMillion. That's the truth. I'm a mutt of a man. I'm Italian, Dutch, German, and British. A little Spanish, too. A speck of American Indian, Cherokee, on my father's side. My mother was 100 percent New Yorker, though. My
family tree is a knotty pine, and frankly, I'm a little embarrassed about it. I'm sorry I lied.”

Lijy wanted to tell him that Buddy collected coins and talked to himself and was on the road all the time and when he left her alone, she felt like a tiny part of herself, this very tiny little piece of herself, a piece that was invisible and only she knew about it, began to curl up and shrivel, and she didn't want that to happen anymore. She couldn't let it happen anymore. And that's why she'd asked him, Lamar or Tom or Ellis or whatever his name was, over for tea. She didn't care that what he was saying about California was not like the California she knew. He didn't know her California, the California she'd wanted out of, needed out of, had to get out of, but she didn't tell him any of this. She couldn't bring herself to say anything, except to ask a single question: “Would you like a little rum in your tea?”

“Oh, no! I never drink alcohol. It dehydrates the soul.”

Lijy got up from the table and went over to the counter, where she uncapped a bottle of Buddy's rum and poured a big shot into her mug. What she was about to do was a scream to remind Buddy that she was still here. That's what it was, a scream, a
Hello I 'm your wife; do you remember me?
She held up her mug. “Thanks for talking to me today,” she said, then downed her spiked tea in one gulp. “Let's go to the living room.”

Ellis pushed his glasses up on his nose. “My real name is Ellis McMillion. I'm not lying anymore.”

“I know,” she said. “Have you ever heard of Ayurveda massage?” When Lijy was twelve, her father had drawn the one hundred and seven Ayurveda marmas on a dress mannequin and instructed her to learn them. For nearly a year, she practiced on the dress mannequin while her father watched, correcting her, putting her hands in the proper places. He told her that knowing how to rub a person's back was like having a map to their soul. If she did it right, she could learn things about the person; she could feel his struggles, finger their fears, poke their pain;
she could help them. Lijy had felt Chic's sadness, and when she rubbed Buddy's back, her whole body quivered as his emotions pulsed through her until he shrugged off her hands and told her he didn't want to be touched.

“Heard of it? I've read a book about it.” Ellis proceeded to cite from the book, saying the body was like a protein mass of intertwined muscles and if one muscle, one fiber, was blocked, the whole body's cosmic attachment to the world's core was interrupted. “It's a beautiful metaphor for a beautiful massage.”

Lijy drew on the rum and told Ellis to lie facedown on the living room floor. She didn't really want to do what she was about to do, but she felt gripped by some invisible force; a hand, someone's hand was pushing her toward what she was going toward. She wavered a little bit, and Ellis suggested they center themselves with some meditation. They sat down on the floor and faced each other. He took her hands. He told her everyone did this in California.

“Why don't you take off your shirt?” she asked.

“That's probably better than meditation.”

Ellis unbuttoned his shirt, and Lijy told him to take off his trousers too and lie on his stomach. She kneeled next to him and found his ansa; her father had taught her always to go for the ansa first. Her tongue felt swollen like a kitchen sponge. The rum pulsed through her. Her mind skipped to Buddy out on the road, probably checking into a motel or leaning over a table of coins. She wanted him to come in through the front door and find her kneeling next to this stranger, his shirt and pants off. She moved down to the vrihati and used the heels of her hands. She was being sloppy. She wasn't gentle with his bindus; she didn't care.

Ellis rolled over and smiled at her. “Disease does not go near the properly massaged body, just as the snake does not go near the eagle. I read that in a book.”

Peeking out of the elastic waistband of his underwear was the head of his erect penis. It looked like a snake wearing a purple
helmet. He saw where her eyes were looking. “This is very exciting for me.”

“I want to own a massage parlor someday,” she said. “A health food store and massage parlor.” She'd mentioned this to Buddy one time before he left on one of his trips. For the next few days, she kept waiting for him to call from the road and tell her what a great idea it was. He never called, and then she hoped he would say something when he got home—maybe he was waiting to tell her in person. But when he got home, he didn't say anything. That was almost a year ago.

“Fantastic idea. I can see it now. Massage by Lijy, or something like that. That's just off the top of my head.”

“Do you really think it's a good idea?”

“It's the best idea I've ever heard. I love everything about it. It's beautiful. Now, please,” he said, rolling back over on his stomach. “Continue.”

 

“But I don't know anything about hockey,” Lomax complained.

“You can learn about it. You like learning. You're learning German. I bet Germans play hockey. Do Germans play hockey?”

“Dad . . . ”

“I bet they do.”

“Lomax, honey.” Diane was at the sink peeling a carrot. “Aunt Lijy sent the tickets. I think you should go to the game with your father.”

“But I have class tonight.” Every Wednesday, either Chic or Diane drove Lomax forty-five minutes to Bradley University in Peoria, where he took a one-on-one German language class with Dr. Fritz Dexheimer, the chair of Bradley's foreign language department. With Dr. Dexheimer's assistance, Lomax was translating his great-great-grandfather Bascom's letters. So far, Lomax had learned that Bascom came from Munich to New Orleans by way of Paris in the mid-1800s. In New Orleans, he'd felt like the only German within a thousand miles (a sentiment that Lomax could relate to). He wrote letters back home explaining his attempts to connect with others like him. He described approaching “German-looking” people (“men with high foreheads and walnut eyes” and “women with bosoms as soft as pillows”) in the French Quarter, but these people just offered him puzzled looks when he spoke to them in German.

“Here, read this about the Rivermen's goalie,” Chic said. “Igor Lupen-something or another. He's the best goalie in the history of the team, according to this article.” Lijy had included the article
from the
Peoria Journal Star
with the tickets. Chic slid the newspaper cutout across the table to his son.

“I already read it.”

What Chic couldn't figure out and what had been bothering him was why Lijy had sent the hockey tickets in the first place. Maybe she had a thing for this Lupen whatever his name was. Chic knew that women sometimes got crushes on athletes. That was the problem, actually. Players like Lupen-whatever his name was were alpha males, big guys, with feet the size of loaves of bread. With these guys being heroes and such and roaming the streets and rubbing shoulders with the normal, average guy, how were men like Chic supposed to compete? They couldn't, so it was no wonder that Lijy had rejected him that night in the kitchen. She wanted him to go to the hockey game to come face to face with what he wasn't. But he'd show her. After all, he was sure he could have been a hockey-alpha-male-like type of guy if he had wanted to. Although he didn't really know how to ice-skate—but, how hard could it be? With a little practice, he could do it. With a little practice, he could have been just as good as that Lupen-whatever his name was.

“Dad, do you like hockey?”

“We're going to the goddamn game and we're going to enjoy ourselves.”

“Chic!” Diane snapped.

“I'm sorry. That came out wrong. Lomax, I like hockey. I could have been a hockey player, you know.”

“Really?” Diane said.

“I could have!”

“You played hockey, Dad?”

“Listen, Lomax, I'd like for you to go with me to the game. You can bring your whatever you're doing there, your German homework.”

The seats weren't good—top row. Lomax brought his wheelie briefcase, and Chic brought binoculars. While Lomax kneeled
down in front of the open briefcase and began sorting through the papers and a German-to-English dictionary, Chic scanned the arena for Lijy. It wasn't very crowded, about five hundred fans decked out in red sweatshirts (the Rivermen's colors). The Rivermen and the opposing team, the Lumberjacks, were warming up on the ice below. Chic found Lijy behind the Rivermen's bench. She had binoculars, too, and she and Chic spotted each other at the same time. She quickly lowered her binoculars, and Chic noticed that she looked different. For one, she wasn't wearing a sari. She seemed older somehow, and had lost that exotic edge. She looked Middlevillian.

The fans began shaking cowbells and stomping their feet as the two teams set up at center ice. A loud horn sounded—Lomax put his hands over his ears—a baritone blast that sounded like a ship navigating the sea on a foggy night. Chic offered Lomax the binoculars so that he could see the action, but Lomax shook his head and went back to translating Bascom's letters. Chic looked through the binoculars—Lijy's seat behind the Rivermen's bench was empty. He scanned the stadium and found her climbing the stairs.

Chic spent the first period waiting for her to return to her seat, but she never did. At the end of the period, neither team had scored. Chic suggested they get some popcorn. The lobby area was crowded with men in suits smoking cigarettes and kids waving Rivermen pennants. Lomax was pulling his wheelie briefcase. Chic asked him if he wanted a pennant. He did not. He asked him if he wanted a hockey stick. He didn't want that, either. He asked if he wanted a Rivermen team photo. Nope. He just wanted popcorn, so they got in the concession line. Chic surveyed the crowd—she had to be around here somewhere. Lomax opened his briefcase and took out a magnifying glass. Then, Chic spotted her coming out of the women's bathroom. A long piece of toilet paper was stuck to her left shoe. She knocked into a guy, who shot her an annoyed look; she collided with another guy, then
another. It was like she was walking for the first time in high heels, though she wasn't wearing high heels. She finally noticed Chic watching her and nearly lost her balance, grabbing a guy's shoulder; the guy caught her under the elbow and steadied her, and she continued through the crowd, knocking into another guy and sloshing his beer. Then she was standing in front of him.

“I . . . you . . . Chic . . . ” she hiccupped. “Hi Lowell.”

“Lomax,” Chic said.

“I know.” She put a sweaty hand on Chic's shoulder. “I have something for you.”

Lomax dug a Mason jar and tweezers out of his briefcase.

“I . . . ah . . . made . . . ever since . . . anyway. I'm . . . ” She motioned toward the arena. “I'm . . . forget it . . . just . . . ” She hiccupped again. “Excuse me.” Lijy looked down at Lomax. He was studying the piece of toilet paper stuck to her shoe with a magnifying glass. “Lowell, please. I need to give something to your daddy.” She opened her purse and started digging through it. “This will explain everything, if only I can.” Lijy noticed that Lomax was trying to remove the toilet paper from her foot with a pair of tweezers. She shook her foot.

“Quit shaking your foot,” Chic said.

She did, and Lomax was able to tweeze the toilet paper off her shoe.

Lijy looked up at the rafters where giant Peoria Rivermen pennants hung. She grasped Chic's shoulder. “Oh Jesus, listen. Do you hear that? It's the . . . It's the end of the world. The clock of time is stopping.” Lomax put his fingers in his ears. It was the horn letting everyone know that the second period was about to begin.

“You're drunk,” Chic said.

“No I'm . . . okay maybe a little bit, just a little bit, but do you blame me? You'd be drunk too if you knew what I know. The question is—why aren't you drunk? We should all be drunk. This godforsaken life would much goddamn better if we were all a little more drunk.”