Sex and Death in the American Novel (4 page)

Jasper was on his knees before Eric in my mind; Eric, in his tank top, muscles standing out, his biceps, his torso where Jasper's long fingers bunched the shirt up allowing him access to Eric's cock, which he held in his hand, and with eyes wide from fear then pinched shut, he took Eric in his mouth. Eric would let his head fall back and groan. Something was wrong here though. Jasper wore glasses as he sucked on Eric and the effect was comic, silly. My mother would probably backhand me if I started laughing.

I opened my eyes really wide, taking in all the colors and shapes of the place, wiping the previous vision from my mind, replacing it with bland speaker, wooden podium, pathetic brother, evil mother.

I watched Jasper's mouth again; he licked his lips after every few words, and at one point he picked up his glass of water and took a long sip, then went back to his talk. I imagined a scene where Eric still wanted him, but I got him. Eric, as in all my fantasies, started in a tight tank top, like one of those Abercrombie models; no matter which way he turned there was another delicious landscape of muscles for my eyes to linger on. The hunger in his eyes, the darkness and longing no longer focused on me, but instead Jasper. Up at the podium he stood like he was afraid a sniper would get him. What if he needed protection and Eric and I were the ones assigned to protect him?

“Someone is after the Author,” Eric says to me from several feet away in my fantasy. He speaks into a hidden microphone at his shoulder. We are on a protection detail like the cops on TV.

“Copy that,” I say speaking into a microphone at my wrist. I stand close to Jasper in my dream: stern, watchful.

Jasper flipped another page, ran one extended finger over the top portion of the page, gave the audience an apologetic smile and went on reading. Poor thing lost his place. What if at that minute a shot were to ring out, and right then with sure catlike movements I tackle him and roll to a crouch with my gun hand sweeping the air. Once Jasper hits the ground I drag him to safety while Eric exchanges fire with the sniper, ultimately killing him. Eric stands, looking down, chest heaving, deciding between going to Jasper's side and checking the sniper to make sure he is no longer a threat.

“Go. Go. I'll stay with him,” I say.

Jasper is in my lap, I run my hand along the side of his face, brushing his inner ear, and he closes his eyes in gratitude and takes my hand. In this fantasy my own shoulder and biceps are rock hard, stronger than his puny ones. I am superior and in charge and he knows it.

The soft texture of the area around his eyes gives me a protective pang in my stomach, longing, or something else, a stirring deep inside my womb; I want to take him into me and hold him safely there. Where the fuck did that come from? Sometimes my fantasies strayed into the most bizarre territory, but since no one was looking, I let it go. If this were on paper I would be crossing it out, and cranking my music louder.

In the rich, velvet-lined theater of my mind, I study the face of the man in my arms; so much younger and more vulnerable without his glasses, though the stubble itching the heel of my hand reminds me he is indeed a man. I might linger over this, enjoying the sound the short hairs make when I run my palm over them. There is a gratifying feeling of power and superiority to hold him like this. Jasper's gaze will suggest gratitude, and after a short space of time I lean in and graze his lips with mine—taking that full lower lip between my own, exerting a light pressure, and he melts into me, like a woman would, with a sigh.

No one will be watching us anymore, they are all focused on the sniper, and, “Why would someone be shooting at an author?” they would ask each other, “Yeah, this shit is so boring,” one says.

“Where are my glasses?” Jasper asks me, and I notice then that indeed his glasses are gone.

Mounting him there in front of all these people wouldn't be a good idea, so I help him to the door to the safety of the back hallway where he regains his strength, and in a fit of boldness uncharacteristic for him brought on by his recent brush with death, he pushes me against the wall and then pulls back. “I'm so sorry,” he says.

I laugh and take his face in my hands, kissing him full on the mouth, letting my fingers explore the thick lengths of his hair. When I tire of this I move my hand lower, to feel if he was endowed as I imagined all tall men are, and of course I am delighted to find he is. A thick tube at least a foot long juts from under his slacks. In perfect hero worship posture, I sink to my knees, impatient to open his slacks and take all of him in my mouth, even if that means working him down my throat.

Something didn't sit right about this fantasy though. I was the hero in this one, so I rewound until I got back to the kissing and then reached up to put my hands on his shoulders, pushing him to the floor. I would be adored. With my hands guiding him, by soft gestures and helping him to push my suit pants down, he will pleasure me with one long-fingered hand curving around the thigh I have slung over his shoulder. To add to the mood, I started up the unsettling sound effects and drums that launch “Beautiful People” by Marilyn Manson. This song will both thrill and terrify him, and add to my sense of power and dominance as I introduce him to this new world of pleasuring women. He will be clumsy, but I forgive him. His eager eyes gaze up from beneath the fuzzy dark moustache of my mound. He appears comic, but I stroke his chin, encouraging him, he tries so hard, surprised at his own enjoyment of the act. I close my eyes and hear the intake of breath as he takes in my smell, a scent he has never in his life been able to indulge in, his own priggishness would not allow it. He is delighted to find he enjoys himself.

I slid my tongue over my bottom lip while my thoughts ran on, then I noticed he was speaking directly to me, making eye contact with green eyes now dark and so focused, I wondered if I had spoken out loud. Matching his stare for only a moment, the skin of my face burned to my scalp and down to my chest. His eyes met mine with an endearing curiosity and a force of will that reminded me he was the one everyone was here to listen to.

I lowered my eyes to study my hands, and when I raised them again there was amusement in his expression and I blinked hard, bringing myself
back to the present, remembering I'd worn a bright pink flower in my hair. “In protest,” I'd told my mother, thinking I was exceptionally clever, “of the lack of cosmetics and accessories worn in this establishment.”

Tristan's breath hit my ear, hot and damp as he hissed, “You're freaking him out, stop staring like that.”

Jasper stuttered his next few words, then recovered with a crooked smile, this time his eyes scanned the other side of the room.

Tristan took notes in a hasty scrawl, circling names like:
Warren
,
Nabokov
,
Powers
. He wrote 1960s and 1970s as well, drawing a box around these. The word
silence
he wrote in capital letters, circled, and then crossed out. Nothing could make him give up his music.

When Jasper was finally done talking—or, more accurately,
reading
—Tristan sat back and watched the line form behind the gangly speaker.

“Don't you want to get over there?” I asked.

“Can't look too anxious,” he said with his arms crossed.

My mother and I exchanged looks. After a few moments my mother said, “I'm heading up to my room. Coming dear?” Her eyes burned; the last thing I wanted was time alone with her. Maybe Tristan would let me stay in his room.

I stood and grabbed Tristan's hand. “We're getting in line,” I said. She shrugged a forced gesture that betrayed her resignation—this gave me a bit of hope and I softened my tone. “After all the buildup, I have to see how this turns out.”

We got to the back of the line and Tristan pulled out both books he'd brought to have Jasper sign:
Forests
and
Filial
. As we inched forward I connected with those eyes again, dark now that I was closer, and rimmed with black lashes. Jasper's eyes moved from me to the person in front of me, maybe gauging how many were left before he could scoot out of there. I watched Tristan make notes on top of his notes, and rearrange his books, as if he were trying to figure out what to ask of the great man first, an autograph or to have questions answered.

When we got closer, Tristan's posture changed. The smile left his face and his brow furrowed. Jasper was gathering his briefcase and had his jacket slung over his forearm. He spoke to a young woman in a tight blue dress. Her blonde hair was piled up on her head, and she wore chunky red bracelets and earrings to match. Her laugh at everything he said hung in the air, her perfume was nauseating, like the scent of honey, gardenia, and garbage disposal sludge. I made a face and bore my eyes into the back of her head, hoping to psychically move her along. Tristan was the last person in line, Jasper had to see that.

Before I knew it, Jasper moved forward, gave us both a quick nod, looking away when I met his eyes, and when he looked up again, the blonde
reached out and stroked his arm. He fixed his eyes on the pile in my brother's hands and with a half-hearted wave he said, “Do you mind too much if I take a rain check? It has been a really long night. How about you find me at breakfast?”

Before my brother could answer, or I could say anything, Jasper turned and held an arm in front of the woman, and they both set off together.

“What the fuck?” I said loud enough to be heard, though neither Jasper nor the book groupie turned. Tristan stood there with a blank look on his face, watching his hero stroll away.

He looked down to his notes. “Doesn't matter. I got good notes.”

“Probably won't get it up,” I said, hoping to say something to make this better for him. I wanted him to be mad at this guy for being so rude.

Tristan shrugged. “You know he never scored like that before he got famous. Did you see the rack on that wench?”

We walked toward the elevators and I said to his back, “Just a big weenie as far as I can tell. Who wears their hair like that?” I wanted to tear the guy up, if only for my brother's benefit.

“Imagine that now, all of a sudden, something that had been kept from you your whole life was now right there, in a tight dress, in that body, eager and ready. It would be impossible to turn down,” he said.

“Tristan, fuck, man. Grow a set. Really?” I said, my voice rising. I was glad there was no one else on the elevator with us. “This is just like how you used to act around Dad, all humble and…not yourself…taking shit you shouldn't just to make them like you…”

“What am I supposed to do? Chase after him?”

He was talking about Jasper, I thought, but the same could have been said about our father when he was alive.

“You know, I was never going to tell you this, but I wrote Dad a long letter after he missed your graduation. I told him how totally lame that was, what a horrible excuse for a father he was.”

His shoulders slumped. “Why did you do that?”

“I made time to see you walk, collect your degree, so did Mom. She had to rearrange lots of stuff in her schedule, and she was glad to do it. Dad gave the lame fucking excuse that he had to work. Work, something he could have done any time.” I was yelling by the end—like an insane person— frustrated, hoping for a reaction from Tristan, who only met me with silence and began pulling the tie off his neck.

I kicked the door of the elevator. The metal made a hollow sound like it was imploding. “That's why you're so depressed all the time. You never tell people what you really think, and it hurts you.” As I stepped off the elevator I said, “And it hurts me to see it. At least Dad knew what I thought of him.”

Tristan just stood there, watching me go, and even though we had rooms right next to each other, he didn't step out, only let the door close as a way to end the conversation.

Chapter 2

A few months later, I drove over Deception Pass out to Whidbey Island to spend Christmas with the family. I arrived in the early afternoon and stashed my things in the guest room. I yelled down to Tristan. After ten minutes when he still hadn't come up, I stood in the living room wondering what I should do. Memories of barging in on him when he was sleeping off a hangover, or with a girl in his bed—or both—came back to me. I stared at the spot over the enormous rock fireplace, and above the mantle hung Tristan's shotgun. Displayed because it went with the motif and atmosphere of my mother's chic Western décor, not because Tristan left it there to torment me. It was small but proud; dark gunmetal, a wooden handle, shiny and dull in the right places.

“Just go get him Vivi,” my mother said on her way to her office with a coffee cup and a muffin in her hand.

I descended the stairs and knocked on the door. He had two rooms in the basement. One was a bedroom, the other he used for an office. I knocked on his office door. When there was no answer, I opened it. Along every wall were bookcases made from cinder block and plywood. They held hundreds of books, lined up neatly, and when he ran out of room, more books were shoved in the open space between the top of each row and the shelf above. On the floor were stacks of books, some with papers and Post-It Notes sticking out the sides. Notebooks lay open in odd areas, with his spiky scrawl in the margins and all the way to the top of the page. The empty office chair sat in the middle of the room. The room smelled of body funk and cigarettes. I crossed the room and opened the window. I had to bang on it a couple of times, grunting as I pushed it upward, hoping the glass wouldn't break and slice my wrists open.

“Hey, Slug.” I heard his voice from the next room.

I pushed the door open and found Tristan was still in bed, his bare shoulder visible under the checkered blue and gray bedspread. I leaned over the bed and opened the curtains. His room was just as much of a mess as the office, only the BO smell was much worse, like onions, cheese and sweat. Piles of clothes lay in each corner, and a TV was flickering with the sound off.

I pushed a damp towel off a chair and sat across from him.

He groaned and pulled the blankets over his head. I slapped at the lumps of his legs under the blankets and said, “Time to get up. We have to go do something, okay?”