Alcyone, Chapter Thirty-Three: French Cabernet

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Thirty Three

I don’t know what to tell you. Somewhere in the foam off Hallis Beach is a person I used to be. A tree falls at shoreline, is taken by the ocean, stripped of its bark.

           

Sorry. I’m being mysterious. I may have lost her. We had a fight last week, and she refuses to make contact with me. In a normal relationship, this would be obstacle enough. In this one... But if I venture outside our usual lines, it could be seen as treason.

           

I am a weak man. Opened up, throttled out, weak. The hills of Hallis are dusted with the candystore lights of Christmas, but I cannot go home for the holidays.

           

Think of me. I’ll see you when the birds run dry.

           

Scootie

It was the final workday before the Christmas break, and Scootie couldn’t leave. He sought his usual distraction at the library piano, but could strike only three keys, over and over, for twenty minutes. If anyone else was there, they would have strangled him. He craned his neck to catch the eyes of Harlan Fetzle over the mantelpiece, looking for a signal – thumb to the nose, yank of the earlobe, hit and run, steal. Or at least play some other goddamn note.

           

He wandered outside to make contact with Juliana, something he had failed to do for two weeks. The air in the courtyard was draped in mist, leaning on rain, the security lights coated in fuzz. He stepped behind the terrace and found the light from the Kross kitchen, slicing down Blaze Hill like a moontrail.

           

One light. Eight o’clock. Would two people in one house make use of only one light? Time to break a rule. He turned the collar of his windbreaker and climbed.

           

Twenty feet away, he paused. No good way to do this, but some better than others. Sneaking up the back might trip a security alarm, scare Juliana half to death. He could see Alcyone now, poring over a copy of Rolling Stone, glass of Chablis on the counter. He sidestepped to the driveway and discovered her Volvo, all alone. He continued as casually as possible to the old Mexican door, reaching for the wrought iron knocker and letting it fall three times. A faint padding of feet, then a voice through the door.

           

“Yes? Who is it?”

           

The voice, puzzled but firm, unsettled him. He cleared his throat and replied, “Juliana. It’s Scootie.”

           

Her reaction came as expected: a hesitation, followed by the realization that she’d better let him in. The bolt slid over with a clank, and she beckoned him inside.

           

“Come in. Quickly. Please.”

           

He followed her to the living room, still in darkness. She turned, hands held together.

           

“You couldn’t just leave it, could you?”

           

“Leave what? I never got much of a briefing.”

           

“I thought my lack of response was clear enough. It’s over.” She dropped it and left, forcing him to the role of pursuit. He found her at the kitchen counter, perched on a stool, left leg dangling in a padded blue brace.

           

“Listen to you,” he said. “You’re such an actor. You’re in a film of Juliana’s life. I’m not some caricature of a jilter lover, throwing stones at your back. It’s just me. It’s just Scootie. Come back down and talk.”

           

Juliana paced herself with a sip of Chablis. “Listen, Scootie. This is the equation. In some poetic fashion, you want possession of me, but you can’t have me, not like that. I’ve been a complete fucking idiot, and I can’t afford to be an idiot any longer. Too much depends on it.”

           

Scootie walked away from her, looking out the window at Fetzle. “A theater center. A town. A marriage that doesn’t really exist.”

           

“It’s my marriage,” she hissed. “I’ll damn well do with it what I please.”

           

“And where does love fit into this?”

           

Juliana set her wineglass in the sink and ran her hands under the tap. “Love is for teenagers. I fell for you, Scootie, but I’ve recovered my reason and I’m sorry, but this is where it ends. And I don’t appreciate you busting into my house like this.”

           

Scootie slapped a hand on the counter, hard enough to make Juliana wince. “New money, old money or no money, you have no right to treat me like a piece of meat. A final visit is the least I deserve.”

           

Juliana lifted a phone from the counter. “This first button is a speed dial to the sheriff. The second one is a security service that will get here in five minutes if I so much as breathe on it.”

           

“Go ahead,” said Scootie. “I have this one advantage over you, Juliana. I’m a nobody, and a little jail time is... what? An inconvenience, a little time, a little money. You, however, have no such freedom, because you are a somebody, with that big furry creature you call a Reputation to groom and shampoo and de-louse.

           

“Besides.” He took the phone and set it back in its cradle. “You know, in your heart of hearts, that I am incapable of doing you harm.”

           

“I wonder.”

           

They were interrupted by a flurry of knocks on the front door.

           

“Shit!” said Juliana. “That’s Virginia. She said she might come by. Follow me.”

           

Scootie did as requested, trying to remember what he really wanted from this. He wanted Juliana, goddammit – the past, the future. Winning this small fight was beside the point. She led him through a small door at the end of the kitchen, down a set of stairs to a wine cellar. She positioned him next to the sherries and stood on the first step, issuing instructions.

           

“Please, Scootie. This isn’t some cop show. I’ll talk Virginia into a trip into town for a drink. Wait here for ten minutes, then leave. There’s a door to the right of these stairs that leads to the trail. Please.”

           

She turned to go, but Scootie grabbed her hand. “What do I get in return?”

           

Juliana replied with a look of growing panic, her hand shaking in his. “What do you want?”

           

A second round of knocking. Scootie pressed her fingers. “I want you to leave your mind open, just an inch, and spend some time thinking about us, and the time we’ve spent together. After New Year’s, I want you to give me an answer. Whatever it is, I’ll respect it.”

           

“Yes,” she said, blinking nervously. She tried to take back her hand, but Scootie wouldn’t let her, not until he unfolded her fingers and laid his lips upon her palm.

           

She turned to hide her tears, then climbed to the top of the stairs, bracing herself against the doorframe. “Thank you,” she said, and closed the door.

           

Scootie listened for the progression of sounds – fading voices, the click of the door, the rumble of Virginia’s Jaguar – the counted three minutes for good measure. He slipped out the door and down Blaze Hill, dangling from his hand a twenty-year-old bottle of French cabernet.

Photo by MJV

Alcyone, Chapter Thirty Two: Hello, Mister Spalding!

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Thirty Two

They both had troubling weeks. Scootie’s visions of a December marked only by a craft festival and the obligatory Christmas Carol were obliterated by a memo from Garth. He was requesting complete budget projections for the coming year. Assuming that Garth would never do anything like this of his own volition, Scootie guessed that the idea came from the trustees and their new president-elect.

           

Juliana emerged from a meeting of the finance committee with more challenges than she had bargained for. The gala and the shooting fees for Sophomore Jinx had barely made a dent in the long-growing deficit – a number destined to double in the next five years as the mansion underwent a seismic retrofit. Juliana called for an immediate budgetary analysis, so she could get a better picture of the beast with whom she would be wrestling.

           

Then there was Juliana’s message, which read: The hammer god ascends lucidly at the squid’s cousin. The egret is eating snails off fine flatware. Ares means “Hello, Mister Spalding!”

           

At first glance, Scootie assumed that Juliana had taken up chance poetry. After two 12-hour days of juggling figures, he found the return to language rough going, and took a half hour just to get through the first sentence. The hammer god was Thor, after whom Thursday was named. The squid’s cousin would be the octopus, beginning with the Latin prefix “octo” for eight, so the meeting was clear, or lucid, for eight o’clock Thursday. Any bird these days meant Scott, and fine flatware was China. The snails either meant he was eating escargot, or he would be slow in returning. The third sentence was an utter mystery. After 15 minutes of staring, he gave up and brought it to Jackie. She took one glance and began laughing hysterically.

           

“Ares is Mars,” she explained. “The red planet?”

           

“Yes?”
           

“She’s having her period. As for ‘Hello, Mister Spalding!’ that’s the opposite of ‘Goodbye, Mister Spalding!’ which is what great baseball announcers say when someone hits a homer. So...”

           

“So?”

           

“You ain’t goin’ all the way, pal.”

           

“Oh.”

           

Jackie looked at the rest of the note, written in sloppy, left-handed script to disguise Juliana’s handwriting. “You two are quite a case.”

           

“Yes,” Scootie sighed. “I am Batman, and I’m sleeping with The Riddler.”

           

“Not this week you ain’t.”

           

Scootie went to the statue of Pan and left a patriotic message: Keep your eyes on the flag. Then he went back to his budget.

           

The final needle in the voodoo doll. came from Scootie’s failings in meteorology. The day brought a sky full of clouds, but he took them as the usual coastal overcast, and flew the golden flag. His own trip was easy and dry, but Juliana arrived a half-hour later good and soaked, her shoes coated with mud. He handed her a towel while she lined up some insults.

           

“Goddamn newspaper coulda done a better job than this, Scootie. Why didn’t you just play it safe?”

           

“I honestly thought it would stay dry. And I missed the Villa.”

           

“The Villa’s been here a hundred years, Scootie. I’m sure the ghost of Fetzle will not come back to claim it.”

           

“Who made me Nostradamus? You’ve lived here longer. Why don’t you fly the fucking flags?”

           

“And have half the town discussing Juliana Kross and her flags of mystery.”

           

“Especially now that you’re president of the board.”

           

Juliana tossed the towel on the table and glared. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

           

Scootie ran a hand over the top of his head, trying to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean. “Before you became president.”

           

“President-elect.”

           

“President-elect, we seemed to be approaching something... normal. Comfortable. Now you’re getting a little fixated on your civic identity – and a little paranoid. It took me all afternoon to dissect that message, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t even get the last part – I had to show it to Ja...”

           

Whoops.

           

Juliana’s eyes became black holes. “You... You showed the message to Jackie?”

           

Scootie looked heavenward and sighed. “Yes. But... she already knew... about us.”

           

“Why?”

           

“I had to tell her.”

           

“Why?”

           

“She wanted to sleep with me.”

           

“Oh, say no more! That explains everything.” She put a hand to her forehead and stormed off to sit in Miguel’s chair. The size of the chair produced an unintentionally comic effect, but she looked up to reveal tears of frustration.

           

“Do you realize what you’re putting at risk when you do something like that?”

           

Scootie leaned forward with his hands on the table. “You don’t understand. She was drunk, heartbroken. Her ego was shattered. I know it sounds... unusual, but I couldn’t turn her down without a good reason.”

           

Juliana answered through clenched teeth. “I’d rather you’d have slept with her. This isn’t some small... recreation, Scootie. The Fetzle Center and Hallis need me right now, and they need me to be stable. If word got out about us, the whole thing would... well, I don’t want to think about it.”

           

“Listen to yourself!” said Scootie. “Listen to what you’re defending. You’re married to a ghost, Juliana. You’re one half of a sick marriage. But now, just because you’re a more important person, that sick marriage is the lynchpin of your existence.”

           

Juliana sank behind a wall of her own making, the placid face she used in committee meetings and business lunches. She asked the next question as quietly as she could.

           

“Why are you acting like this? Why are you different?”

           

Scootie stretched his hands over the low rafters, looking away in order to gather the real answer: all their time together, the narrow margin in which their lives were allowed to meet. He tried to match the calm of her question.

           

“I have given great parts of myself to you, more than you know, more than I have told you. What I want is for you to give a part of yourself back to me. I want you to live in shame. I want to see what you and I can become, together, in this shamed world. I want us to love one another, because underneath all these trappings of society, and art, and marriage, lies the single truth that you and I belong together.”

           

In the careful arranging of her life, the multicolored boxcars of her appointment calendar, Juliana had never planned for anything like this – this ebony-eyed Ovid spouting passions at her from a lowered ceiling. The fright came over her in stages. The first brought her to the front door. She opened it, looked out at the rain, her heart beating rapidly. The second was a loud, dark wind, driving her into the woods. She picked up speed as she turned on Miguel Barran’s smooth stones and tumbled, her legs twisting beneath her. She found her bearings in the word Califa, not remembering where the word came from, then spied a black-maned creature running up to her. She felt his hands at her ankle and swatted them away.

           

“Juliana, you can’t...”

           

“I’m fine.” She stood up briskly, using her fright to drive down the pain in her left shin.

           

“Let me help you,” said Scootie. “You’re hurt. You can’t walk alone.”

           

“I have to.” She limped away, then turned. “We can’t let anyone... see us together.”

           

Scootie stood at the gate marker, rainwater streaming down his face, the thought of what more he might have to give up focused on Juliana’s fading shoulders. He would not realize the depth of her fright until four days later, when she entered a meeting with a cast on her left leg. A hairline fracture, said Jackie. Fell while she was jogging. That’s what Aggie tells me.

Photo by MJV

Alcyone, Chapter Thirty-One: Sperm Meet Egg

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Thirty One

“Now let me see if I got this. When you’n the unmentionable missus want to ron-dess-vooz, y’all do this I Spy thing at the Shorefront, or else you hike out to this cabin in the woods ain’t nobody heard of named after a Amazon queen. Zat about it?”

           

“Villa Califa.”

           

“Okay.” Jackie took a sip from her intermission coffee. “Scootie, honey. Are you sure you’re not makin’ this up?”

           

“It’s been a very different existence.”

           

Jackie saw the need for a little distraction. “D’I tell you about this theater? Used to be an art gallery. The main attraction was a life-size wax-figure reproduction of The Last Supper. After they closed, they were usin’ the one with his finger pointing in the air to show everyone where the restrooms were. I think they stored the rest of them in the...”

           

She had lost him. She followed his gaze to a couple in their forties, dressed in their finest, holding hands and exchanging private jokes next to a dormant rose bush. The woman took the strap from the man’s overcoat and wrapped it around his neck, pulling him closer for a kiss. Jackie couldn’t help putting words to Scootie’s thought.

           

“Right out in public.”

           

“It looks nice,” he said. “Really nice.”

“You know what surprises me the most. Scott couldn’t be happier about this.”

           

“It’s that scrap you had over the gala. I’ve always said you should give your husband more shit. They don’t train themselves, you know.”

           

“Mother, I think I know my husband well enough to tell the difference between subterfuge and genuine excitement. Scootie, on the other hand, has been kind of... surly.”

           

“Well, do the paperwork, Jewel. Scott’s got more personal success than he knows what to do with. If anything, your increased busy-ness will take him off the hook a little. He can overwork to his heart’s content. Scootie, meanwhile, has been squeezed into this little game of espionage, so naturally he’s feeling threatened. If he harbors any notions of a more permanent life with you, they are, indeed, imperiled by your continued rise, since your career at Fetzle is permanently attached to your marriage with Scott.”

           

Juliana stood to lift her mother’s lumpy Persian, Phileas, from the piano bench. “Damn, Mother. You’re too good.”

           

“Yes, I am. And if you possess the kind of conscience I think you do, you may have to let that young man go before you cause some real damage.”

“So tell me about number five.”

           

“Not much of a story.”

           

“Did you love her?”

           

“Sure. Just not much of a story. Fella like me, likes a little drama in his marriages.”

           

“You’ve had plenty, old man.”

           

Rip laughed. “So refreshing to hear that expression ‘old man.’ I’ve earned it, you know. Okay, so her name was Wendy Johnson. Met her at a birthday party, friend of mine in Monterey. I was seventy-six, she was sixty. Robbin’ the cradle till the end, that’s me. She was very sweet, I was sweet in return. We lived very peacably together until she died five years ago of what we used to call ‘old age’ but now they have some fancy-shmancy name so you can juice the medical insurance.”

           

“Advanced Chronology Syndrome.”

           

“Yaknow, you’re damn witty for someone barely past ‘sperm, meet egg; egg, meet sperm.’”

           

“Yes. But I am disappointed.”

           

“In my story? Hell, I didn’t sell it to you on a twenty-foot billboard, son, I toldja it was gonna be dull, and by damn, I delivered! Tell you what, though. Only two of my wives lasted more’n ten years, and Wendy was the only one who mighta put up with me for twenty. She also had the good taste to descend from a monied clan, which has allowed me the luxury of of a dignified old age. Well, as dignified as someone like me can manage.”

           

“And then you’ve got your young lady.”

           

“Young lady?”

           

“The one who visits you. The one you never tell me anything about.”

           

“I fear the association would reflect poorly upon her. And it’s not like you tell me squat about your love life.”

           

“Well, I...”

           

“I thought so. Y’see, we all have our blind spots. You don’t look at mine, I won’t look at yours”

           

“Point taken,” said Scootie. “You up for checkers?”

           

Rip flashed his perfect dentures. “I believe we’re ready for next step up: chess.”

Photo by MJV

Alcyone, Chapter Thirty: Mrs. Robinson

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Thirty

Indian summer was over, and the rains weren’t going to leave till they damn well felt like it. The weather had no effect on Villa Califa – Scootie had long since patched up the leak over the bed – but they began to weary of the wet, slippery trail.

           

They developed a system. On wet days, it was back to the Shorefront Motel. On dry, the Villa. One days in between, the decision fell to Scootie. If he chose the Villa, he hung the gold banner outside his window; if the Shorefront, a blue windsock he bought on a trip to Stinson Beach.

           

The weather was not all that had changed. Thanks to Carney Lankmann, a vacation designed to relax Juliana’s tension had served to increase it. She was taking extra peeks through the blinds, and an extra hour to loosen up to Scootie’s touch and remember that this was not a chore. If she could only forget Wyoming.

           

A day in mid-November, decidedly wet. The goose-husband had flown to Beijing, a billion new customers upon whom to fling cash. And another Saturday night of espionage.

           

Scootie and Geoffrey had re-initiated their cigar-swap, and this time out were competing for the cheesiest American model. Scootie submitted a 29-cent Swisher Sweet, not much more than a cigarette with a plastic tip and cherry flavoring. Geoffrey handed up a Tennessee Mountain Hickory Twist that looked all the world like a shredded Slim Jim, strands of tobacco bursting from its flared tip. As usual, Scootie had been outdone. He thanked Geoffrey with profuse irony and entered the closet to Room 14.

           

Joyous at the return of his lovebirds, Geoffrey had rigged up the place like San Simeon North. The bad was bracketed by antique lava lamps, placed on pedestals from the recently closed Hallis Art Gallery. The dresser hosted a 50-gallon salt-water aquarium, ribboned with exotic fishies. The entertainment center now included two dozen novels, a 12-disc CD player, and a 43-inch TV with DVD player and two dozen classic films on disk. Scootie was beginning to wonder if Geoffrey was living a little bit too vicariously.

           

That day, however, he needed the distractions, because Juliana was late. He got 50 pages into Hemingway’s short stories before tiring of the style-style-style, flipped the CD to La Traviata, then tried out a DVD of The Graduate. A frightfully nervous Dustin Hoffman sneaks up on Mrs. Robinson in the hotel room for a kiss, and as he holds his lips to hers, her eyes grow increasingly large. When he finally releases her, she blows out the lungful of cigarette smoke that she’s been holding in. The timing of it was thrilling, and Scootie rewound it eleven times before pressing the mute button and letting them continue their affair in silence. He considered one of the more adult selections, but didn’t want to get too worked up before his own Mrs. Robinson appeared.

           

He snuck back through the bathroom, knocking politely lest he interrupt Geoffrey and Flora in some similar engagement. Geoffrey shouted “Come on in!” from the kitchen. Scootie found him over the sink, doing the dishes in a frilly floral apron.

           

“Nice outfit, babe.”

           

Geoffrey flashed a smile. “Not too garish? I was considering something more subtle for the winter season.”

           

Scootie crooked a thumb under his chin. “Stripes. I’m thinking stripes. Black and white. Kind of... retro.”

           

Geoffrey called an end to the gag by saying, “Donde esta su novia, compadre?”

           

“No se,” answered Scootie. “I’ve been consoling myself with Geoffrey’s Film-O-Rama.”

           

“All this time?”

           

“Two hours now.”

           

“Heavens to Betsy!” said Geoffrey, in a way that only a man in a frilly apron could say it. “There’s only one answer to female desertion, and that’s Scrabble. I’ll get the board.” He headed for the closet shelf, but quickly reappeared. “Someone knocking for you, Master Jones.”

           

Scootie knew that Juliana refused to set foot in Geoffrey’s apartment – whether from embarrassment or propriety – and intended to use this knowledge to full advantage. He entered the closet and squatted next to the still-closed panel.

           

“Yes?”

           

“Scootie, it’s Juliana.”

           

“I’ve told you Girl Scouts to leave me the hell alone. I’ve already eaten enough thin mints to choke and elephant.”

           

“Scootie, come on. Get over here.”

           

“I’m not kidding! My cholesterol has jumped thirty points. Now go away!”

           

“Scootie, this is not funny.”

           

Scootie cracked open the panel. “No, what wasn’t funny was making me wait two hours.”

           

“Scootie, I have news.”

           

“So tell me.”

           

“I am not going to tell you while I’m squatting next to a toilet!”

           

“Fine, fine. Let me at least say goodbye to Geoffrey.” He turned and yelled “Goodbye Geoffrey!” then crawled into the bathroom and walked past Juliana.

           

“Don’t I get a kiss?”

           

“I’m not feeling particularly amorous,” he said, pulling a volume of French photographs from the bookcase.

           

Juliana took a breath to calm her irritation, then proceeded to her defense. “They had a special meeting of the board. I couldn’t get out of it, I couldn’t get a hold of you, and the meeting ran late. And then I had to go out for... well...”

           

Scootie slapped the book shut. “What?”

           

“For drinks. To celebrate. I wanted to tell you in a better way than this, when you were in a better mood.”

           

“Well, I’m sorry. Moods are not easily trained. And why couldn’t you call me? This grassy-knoll CIA paranoia is getting old. I wish you would...”

           

“All right! All right already. Just be quiet a minute and I’ll tell you.” She put a hand on his arm, requiring at least this minor contact. “Rolf Vanderbecken was supposed to be the next president of the board, but he’s been diagnosed with prostate cancer and decided to step down. And so... they elected me!”

           

“You’re... president?”

           

“President of the Board of Trustees for the Fetzle Theater Center,” she said, and beamed. She was hoping he would come along for the ride. Bless his heart, the boy had perspective. His grimace turned slowly to a smile.

           

“That’s... that’s wonderful, Juli. And at your age...”

           

“The youngest in Fetzle history.”

           

“Wow! Juliana Kross, executive.”

           

“And I have an executive order.”

           

“Yes?”

           

“Kiss me, dammit!”

           

Scootie gave her much more, and it fell to his credit that he could consider Juliana’s victory the equivalent of his own. It was only later, deep in Juliana’s slumber, that the forces of self-interest would reassert themselves. Scootie sat before the aquarium, studying the S-shaped wriggle of a tiger shark, and wondered when Mrs. Robinson would come up for air, spit out the smoke and dismiss the young boy from her hotel room.

Photo by MJV

Alcyone, Chapter Twenty-Nine: Telling Jackie

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Twenty Nine

Coming in over downtown San Jose at sunset, Scootie could see the racetrack oval of Chavez Park, the rectangular eye of the Fairmont’s rooftop swimming pool. Looking north, he saw the line of planes descending into SFO, including, just possibly, Juliana’s. He got in ten minutes early, but was still surprised when no one at the baggage claim. He tried standing on the curb in front of his airline. Nothing. He called Jackie’s house, but got her answering machine.

           

It got to be an hour, and Scootie shifted from annoyance to worry. This was not like Jackie at all, and given her recent troubles, there was no scenario too morbid. He returned to the curb, counted his cash and hailed a cab. The driver, a young Vietnamese man named Tranh, responded to Scootie’s request with a look of surprise and hardly suppressed delight.

           

Scootie was thankful that Tranh spoke little English; it gave him some time to sort out his thoughts. They joined the line of red corpuscles climbing Highway 92, and it was a great relief to see the dark field of the ocean. He guided Tranh to Jackie’s house, a large Victorian near the high school that had been chopped up into apartments. He signed over his last twenty-dollar traveler’s cheque for a tip, waved off a smiling Tranh, then entered a steel gate and followed a trail of concrete squares to Jackie’s door.

           

He found Sable on the front porch, mewing pitiably, her head ducked in a posture of anxiety. Scootie squatted down and carefully lifted her. He found bits of leaves and dirt in her fur, as if she had been outside for a while.

           

His knock brought no response. He tried again, and a third time, the sound growing louder with each attempt. After the fourth, he felt a vibration in the floorboards, then heard a thud on the door, as if someone had fallen against it.

           

“Jackie? Is that you?”

           

He heard a faint “Yes” from the other side.

           

“It’s Scootie. Let me in, please.”

           

“No,” said Jackie. “Don’t want to.”

           

“Jackie. I’ve got Sable. I think you left her outside.”

           

Jackie cracked the door open. “Please let her in. Then go home. Please.”

Scootie’s anxiety was working back to annoyance. He decided to hold Sable hostage.

           

“Jackie, I just blew a sizable wad of cash on a cab, because you were supposed to pick me up. Now, why won’t you let me in?”

           

From the dark interior came a feeble response. “I’m... drunk.”

           

“Oh.” Sable grew restless in Scootie’s grasp, so he set her down. The door opened, and he could see the silhouette of cat and mistress fading into the kitchen.

           

“Come on in,” she said. “If you want. Want some wine?”

           

“Um, sure.” He felt his way to Jackie’s couch. There was a ceramic piece on the coffee table, three Slavic women joined in a dance. The one on the left was missing a leg.

           

Jackie returned with two glasses. “Shame, huh? Lost it in the earthquake. Here.” Scootie took a swallow and broke into a fit of coughing. Jackie laughed.

           

“Whoops. Sorry. I ran out of cabernet. This is port, from Lisbon. Good shit. That is, if you’re expectin’ it. The asshole from Montana bought it for me.” Jackie lifted her glass and calmly took down half of it.

           

Scootie settled into the couch. “Jesus, Jackie. You never forget things, but you forgot me. You never get drunk, but... here you are. Are we losing you?”

           

Jackie leaned forward, staring ahead with a glazed expression. “Sort of a flushing process. First ya cry for a week, then ya spend a week chewing your fingernails, playing the ‘Oh, what did I do wrong?’ game, and then... then ya get drunk every night and ya turn into Bette Davis in All About Eve. I got it down to such a system, they don’t even notice at work. Littel fatigue, bloodshot eyes, I just tell ‘em it’s allergies.”

           

“Hmm. So how long does this stage last?”

           

“Get used to it, pal. Rex was worse than most.”

           

“Oh, speaking of...” Scootie reached into his shirt pocket and handed her a pair of coyote teeth. “I brought you his fangs.”

           

“The Trickster,” said Jackie. “I hope you pulled ‘em out personally.” She put her feet up on the coffee table and rested her head on Scootie’s shoulder. “Sorry for leavin’ you at the altar, Scoots. Didja have a nice ride?”

           

“Frankly, no. I was too worried about you.”

           

“That’s very sweet,” she said, and smiled. She ran a finger along the back of Scootie’s neck. “Ya know, you got great hair, Scoots. Wish I had hair like that.”

           

“Thank you.”

           

Her finger continued to wander, tracing the rim of his ear. “These big ol’ earlobes of yours. Simply adorable. Y’oughtta get an earring, big ol’ pirate hoop.”

           

“And what phase is this?” asked Scootie.

           

Jackie kissed the top of his ear and whispered, “This would be the horny phase. Little revenge on the conniving ex-boyfriend. Whattya say, Scoots? Y’wanna mess around?”

           

“I can’t.” He needed something to do, so he fetched his port from the coffee table.

           

“Aw, why not? And don’t give me that horseshit about the sanctity of friendship – ‘cause if you were really my friend, we’d be on the floor right now.”

           

“I’m involved with someone.”

           

“Oh, yeah, right. Don’t kid an old girl, hon. If you had a chick, I’d be the first to know about it. Now come on, be straight with me. Am I really so friggin’ undesirable?”

           

Jackie’s eyes were backing him into a corner, but Scootie could feel a draft coming in under the wall, a doorknob, an exit he had been meaning to take for months.

           

“I’m in love with Juliana Kross. We’ve been sleeping together for four months and keeping it hidden from everyone, even our closest friends. I just spent the week with her in Wyoming.”

           

Sobriety crept over Jackie like a sunrise. She exhaled in the shape of an “ooh” and sank back into the couch.

           

“Oh, Scootie. You are in some deep shit.”

 


Photo by MJV