“Is it safe, kissing you?” Bastian asked.
“Uh . . .” I hadn't expected us to pick up our adulterous banter right where we had left off.
“It is the kissing disease, the mononucleosis, correct?”
“Oh, right,” I said, suddenly remembering my lie. “Yes, it is. But I'm not contagious anymore.” I wondered if my face would give me away.
“That is good,” he said with his bruised eyes as much as his succulent mouth.
Bastian threw my duffel bag over his shoulder and carried it all the way through the winding subterranean tunnels until we reached the stale-aired platform for the 1/9 line. As the train pounded through the tunnel like a drum corps one thousand strong, he turned to me and said, “Bella, tell me your story.”
And from 42nd to 116th, we crowded together, side by side in corner seats of the icy, nearly empty train, shoulders and knees occasionally crashing into one another for no reason at all other than that we wanted them to. Over the furious roar of the air conditioner, I obliged his request. As Bastian listened, and afterward, he was every bit the gentleman. Which I know he knows is exactly what he needs to be if he wants to sleep with me. My story proves that when it comes to Marcus, there is no simple beginning, middle, or end.
My Story
The first time I was ever aware of Marcus Flutie was in eighth grade at my best friend Hope's house. Hope had a brother, Heath, who was four years older than we were and who hung out with a bunch of unsavory characters, including Marcus. Marcus was a year older than Hope and me but in our grade because he was held back early on for mysterious reasons, reasons I could have probably asked him about later but didn't. Just like I could have asked him to translate the Chinese character tattoo wrapped around his bicep, but never bothered to because there was always something else to talk about. Though with respect to the latter, I suspect that another reason I didn't ask was because I was afraid to hear the answer, to discover that it was the name of one of the many girls he'd had before me. Or even worse, that it was a bit of nothing branded on his arm, an in-joke that seemed like a good idea at the time, that is, under the influence of mind-bending chemicals, but made less sense in sobriety. But what I really mean to say here is that Marcus and I didn't talk about certain things because we were too busy having long, rambling, restless conversations about other things, like microbes on Mars or American Idol.
Marcus was the kid in their delinquent crew. They called him Krispy Kreme because he was always blunted, or in other words “burnt to a crisp.” And also because in our school, having sex with girls was called “getting donuts,” the donut being a crude reference to the female genitalia, of course. Even at the tender age of fifteen, Marcus had already honed his stonah lovah man persona, as my friend Bridget puts it. He's never had a problem getting girls to fall for him.
I remember seeing Marcus hanging around Heath and his drug buddies, and he made me nervous because he was in our grade and yet seemed so much more experienced, which he was in every way. He never so much as blinked at Hope and me, and yet I found out from him later that he was paying more attention than I could have ever imagined, eavesdropping on our conversations through the thin wall that separated the siblings' bedrooms.
Then Heath died of a heroin overdose and everything changed. Hope's parents decided that she needed a change of scenery, and moved a thousand miles away to her grandmother's huge farmhouse in a tiny town in Tennessee. I was bereft. She was the only person who made Pineville tolerable, and I was left to stagger through the rest of my high school years stunned and alone. That is, until Marcus made his move.
The first time he spoke to me was outside our school counselor's office, where we'd been sent for separate juvenile infractions. I used to think that Marcus approached me in his sexy, serpentine way because he was bored and needed a challenge. Like, “Hey, can I use what I know to get in the goody-goody's pants?” He confessed as much to me one New Year's Eve when I had finally decided to indeed give up my virginity to him. But we didn't sleep together that night, and it was another year and a half before we did.
As the years have gone by, I've been startled by a revelation that a younger, callow Jessica wasn't capable of making: Marcus had lost someone, too. Heath was a friend to him as much as Hope was to me, after all. And Heath was gone forever. Perhaps, unbeknownst even to himself, Marcus wanted to get close to me as a way of remembering someone he cared about. Marcus was just another wandering soul, like me, missing his friend and trying to find solace in another.
And I hope he found it for a while.
But this isn't the story I meant to tell. The one I was thinking of is this:
The first time I became aware of Marcus Flutie, he was showing off in Hope's kitchen, trying to juggle a raw egg, a bowling pin, and a squeaky toy in the shape of a T-bone steak that belonged to the family dog, Dalí. I don't know if he was high or uncoordinated or both, but after one or two successful hand-to-hand tosses, the egg was sent flying through the air and landed with a smash on the floor. I remember watching this heavy-lidded, wild-haired boy stand there with his guilty hands thrust deep in his pockets. He didn't move as Hope knelt on the linoleum with a paper towel and cleaned up his mess.
I remember glaring at Marcus Flutie and thinking, “You are trouble.”
* * *
July 31st
Dear Hope,
Wow. The photos you sent truly capture your joie de vivre. (I wish I could have turned a more interesting phrase en français, but I'm having a hard enough time thinking in English lately.) Everything about France—the art, the food, the wine, the men—sounds awesome.
So you'll forgive me (again) for another lame-ass letter. My life isn't nearly as interesting as yours is right now, and all I really wanted to do here was thank you for sharing it with me.
Appreciatively yours,
J.
* * *
* * *
July 31st
Dear Marcus,
I wrote you a letter last month that never reached you. It's better that it didn't because I wrote about a lot of things that you don't need to know about.
I got your current address from your parents, so I know this one will arrive as it should.
The thing is, now that I know you'll get this, I'm not sure what to say. I don't know how to end. This letter, or anything.
My apologies,
Jessica
* * *
the sixth
“It's you!”
We both sounded surprised, though I had better reason to be. G-Money was merely reacting to the unexpected sight of his sister-in-law on his front doorstep. I was not only reacting to the unexpected sight of G-Money at the brownstone at all, but a G-Money who was easily thirty pounds heavier than the last time I saw him, six months ago. Atkins be damned! Papa D's Donuts/Wally D's Sweet Treat Shoppe franchise must have a huge profit margin because it's obvious that G-Money's gorging himself on the goods. In a white Wally D's Sweet Treat Shoppe polo shirt straining at the seams, my formerly fit brother-in-law has become a doughy, creamy personification of the very junk foods he shills.
In fact, the only reason I knew he was my sister's husband was because he answered the door with one finger in his chin dimple—only now we'd need a search party to extract the lost digit from this fearsome cavern of excess flesh. I mean, you know you've gotten a bit hefty when you can pinch an inch (or two or twelve) on your chin. G-Money was a wheezing, waddling example of negative publicity if I ever saw one, one that could do severe damage to his efforts at taking his franchise national.
“Bethany and Marin are at the park up the street,” he said. “You can meet them there.”
Fortunately, G-Money and I don't really talk to each other so what could have been an awkward silence wasn't really all that awkward.
“Good-bye,” he said, shutting the door.
As I walked to the park, I thought about what a waste G-Money was. I mean, he was obviously smart. Smart enough to generate tons of dou
gh. (Ha. In more ways than one.) But I would actually respect him if he used his brain for something other than making money and clogging arteries. Can his chosen vocation really give him a sense of purpose in life? Or is lacking a sense of purpose a fair trade-off for a summer house in the Hamptons, a plasma TV, and a 2005 BMW SUV? Meanwhile, I'm poor and I lack purpose.
I followed G-Money's directions and easily found Bethany and Marin. Being the culture chameleon that she is, the former looked like all the other young, hip, and hipless Brooklyn moms, from her head scarf down to her flip-flops. Thankfully, the latter showed her individuality as the only child on the playground wearing flowered rubber galoshes, a Spider-Man T-shirt, a pink sparkly tutu, a foam rubber Statue of Liberty crown, and a plastic sheath for a sword, only without the weapon. It looked like something Dexy would wear if she were in a “rejuvenile” mood. I was shocked that Bethany would let her progeny out in public in such an ensemble.
“Auntie J! Auntie J!” Marin gushed when she saw me. I think she's finally forgiven me for the nonbreakup breakup. I scooped her up and sniffed her hair. It smelled like muddy strawberries.
“What's shakin', bacon?”
“Marin,” she said, all huffy. “Not bacon.”
“Okeydokey, artichokey,” I said.
“Auntie J!” she cried with exasperation. “Marin! Not ach-i-okie!”
She knows I know this. It's all part of our game. Marin has a good sense of humor, one that I hope G-Money and Bethany don't bore right out of her.
“I play now!” she said. “Ta ta!” She blew me a kiss before galloping off to the sandbox.
I joined my smiling sister on the shady park bench.
“She's a real character,” I said.
“She chose the outfit,” Bethany sighed. “‘Let them dress themselves to express themselves' the books say. Of course, my child is the only one who looks like a crazy bag lady.”
“I'll be looking like that soon enough,” I said.
“What's your crisis now?”
“You know they bought this new house, right?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “Mom told me.”
“Did she tell you the part about where I'll have to drop out of college and become one of those homeless people who shakes a can and carries a cardboard sign that says NEED MONEY FOR BOOZE, DRUGS, AND HOOKERS?”
“I'm not sure that would be the most effective way to penetrate the market,” Bethany said, obviously having learned the lingo from her husband. “And what would you need hookers for anyway?”
Believe me when I say that these comments were made without a trace of irony.
“I'm being hyperbolic,” I said.
“Hyper—what?”
“Forget it,” I said, watching Marin shake her little fist at a red-haired boy a head taller than she was.
Bethany jumped up. “Marin! Listen to Mommy! Stop that! Play nice!” Bethany turned to me. “She thinks she's the queen of the playground and can boss the other kids around.” She sat back down. “You're overreacting.”
“Easy for you to say. You already graduated from college.”
That my parents paid for my sister's Stockton State College “education” (the best five and a half years of her life!) yet won't fund my Ivy League degree is a cruel, cruel joke. Okay. Maybe I'm not being fair. Stockton cost about $8,000 annually—roughly one quarter the price of a year at Columbia. And her degree really has done her good. After all, you can't hang out at the park with your kid and shop for coordinating head scarves and flip-flops (or whatever else Bethany does to fill the endless expanse of nonworking days) without a college education.
Oh, that's right. You totally can.
“You should be happy for them,” Bethany said. “They've got this amazing new home. Mom's new business is thriving . . .”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, Darling Designs for Leaving is booked through the end of the year. You didn't know?”
I shook my head.
“How could you stay with them for a whole month and not know?”
“We don't talk much.”
“Maybe you should talk to them more,” she said. “Maybe you'd get along with them better if you did.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Every time I talk to them they have something shitty to tell me.”
“Marin! Listen to Mommy!” Bethany yelled, jumping up. “We don't hit with shovels!”
Marin froze in midswing, then dropped her weapon.
“Mom's a savvy businesswoman?” I asked. “That's so weird.”
“Why is it weird?”
“Well, the real estate thing always seemed more of, like, a hobby than a career. I know she was good at it and all, but it was hard to take her seriously because I've always thought of her as you know, just a mom . . .”
Bethany's oceanic eyes turned dark and stormy. “Just a mom?!”
“You know what I mean . . .”
A never-before-seen vein popped out of my sister's forehead.
“Just a mom. That's your problem, Jessie. You don't have a clue just how many sacrifices Mom made for us. She stayed home to raise us. And as someone who is making the same decision, I can tell you that playing with a baby all day gets pretty boring.”
She furtively looked around to make sure no one had heard her. Then she pulled a pair of oversized aviator sunglasses out of her Prada diaper bag, as if to disguise herself for the rest of her diatribe.
“Yes, you heard me. I love Marin, but there are only so many tea parties I can sit through before I want to scream. I'm sure Mom felt the same way, but she did it for the same reason I'm doing it: She didn't want anyone else taking care of her daughters. She only went into real estate part-time when you were too busy with after-school activities to be considered a latchkey kid. Did you ever think that maybe she wanted a career all those years she was home with us? That after thirty years, she's tired of being just a mom? That they're not paying for Columbia—a school they were against because it's so expensive and you didn't get a scholarship—because they're finally giving you the freedom you've begged for since you were three years old? That maybe, just maybe, she bought the house of her dreams because she's tired of putting her dreams aside for a daughter who never seems to appreciate it?”
Stunned. I was positively stunned by my sister's speech. And not just because (a) the only time I'd seen her this worked up was when MAC discontinued her favorite lipstick color and (b) she sounded exactly like my mother. No, I was mostly shocked because I was certain that she was 100 percent right. Even now, this realization doesn't make me any happier about my poverty, but at least I can sort of understand it. Sort of, but not quite.
“And while you've got me on a roll, I'll tell you this: I think you're upset about something else.”
“Oh really?” I asked, scraping paint off the park bench with my fingernail as a distraction because this was getting too intense.
“You're upset that Marcus is at gay cowboy camp.”
Bethany can say this with a straight face because she has no sense of humor.
“Marcus is not at gay cowboy camp! It's . . .” I tried coming up with a better way of explaining Pure Springs, but words failed me. I changed tacks. “Wait, how did you know about this?”
“From your friend.”
“What friend?”
“Wally D's daughter. The tan skinny one.”
“Sara?”
She nodded. “We saw her at the Papa D's/Wally D's opening on the Point Pleasant boardwalk,” she said. “She flunked out of school . . .”
“Sara flunked out of school?!”
“Marin! Listen! We do not dump buckets of sand on people!” Bethany yelled to a very triumphant-looking Marin. She turned back to me. “Yes, she's out of school, so her dad gave her a store.”
Of course he did. Papa D to the rescue. Normally I would've made fun of this. But truth be told, I was kind of jealous that my parents weren't so carefree with thei
r cash.
“Funny how Sara neglected to mention this while slandering my boyfriend at Tiki Tiki Tonga.”
For the first time throughout this whole conversation, Bethany turned and gave me her full attention. “Your boyfriend?”
“My ex-boyfriend,” I said, as I tried to dig out the paint that had gotten under my first fingernail with a second fingernail on the opposite hand. This worked in removing the blue shmutz from the first fingernail, but only at the expense of transplanting it to the second fingernail. I couldn't see how this pattern could correct itself. It was hopeless.
“Listen!” Bethany snapped. I was looking down, so I was expecting her to chastise Marin for more unlawful sandbox behavior. “LISTEN!” she repeated, even more sternly. I was surprised when I looked up and saw her blue eyes targeted right at me, glasses off. “I think he's what's really bothering you. You're not over him yet. And you're never going to be happy until you are. Are there any prospects?”
In quick succession, Mini Dub, Scotty, and Bastian popped into my head—the last three men (well, two boys, one man) to show any interest in me. I lingered on Bastian's image before providing Bethany with a simple answer. “No.”
“Well, you have to go out and make that ‘No' into a—” Bethany sprung up again. “NO! NO! NO!” She ran toward Marin, who had lifted her Spider-Man T-shirt to flash the ankle-biting crowd. Girls Gone Wild: The Sandbox Edition. I know from my class about Children at Risk that this is perfectly normal behavior. Marin won't necessarily end up modeling a Cool Whip bikini eighteen years from now.
Anyway, on the long subway ride back to campus, I thought about Bethany's inadvertent advice and how easy it would be for me to take. I don't think there's anyone better than I am at turning a simple no into a NO! NO! NO!
the tenth
Tonight I let Dexy convince me to attend a Democratic fund-raiser downtown.