A New Lu (29 page)

45

I've decided to pose “starkers” after all, as they say in Jolly Olde England.

The word to describe this act is important to me. “Nude” invokes taut, nubile flesh. “Naked” sounds like every super-sized pore and ingrown hair will be featured in 3-D Technicolor. In the case of its country cousin, “nekkid,” kegs of beer are involved. “Bare” can only truly be effective when applied to a baby's bottom. “In the buff” has a mellow groovy vibe, such that mind-altering drugs may be involved.

No, only “starkers” works, as in stark raving mad, but joyous about it.

I've told only those it immediately involves. Curran, obviously. And KaZi, for makeup, prop placement and artistic value. Curran's hired the studio and a lighting specialist because he has ideas that require exacting standards, he said. Said person is required to be female, I replied. I told Dallas to keep the sisterhood of mothers and daughters tight. She was silent. I consider that a victory.

“Thanks for everything,” I say as Cy pulls up before the photographer's studio. I asked him to drive me because the numb-leg problem that floored me at the wedding has returned with more frequency. My doctor revoked my driving privileges until after delivery.

“I'll find a place to park and be right up,” he says as he helps me out.

“Oh, you don't need to wait around here. I'll call when I'm ready.”

Cy shakes a finger at me. “I'm no Peeping Tom, but someone should be the chaperone, to keep things professional. You can't run around in the altogether alone with a young Tom like Curran. People will talk.”

“I'm not alone.”

“And you're not going to be!” Which means Cy will sit on the studio steps in the rain if I don't let him in.

“Fine. But, Cy, not one word. No matter what you see or hear or even think. Understood?”

Cy shrugs. “What do I know about nudie pictures? I'm an old man.”

“Not that old.” I feel myself blush. “You really want to do this?”

He looks positively eager. “When will I get another chance to risk being picked up in a police raid?”

“I don't have to tell you how weird this feels, having someone put makeup all over me.”

“All actors do it for nude scenes,” KaZi says matter-of-factly, as she applies opaque makeup to my torso with a chamois-like puff. “Men are more insistent about it than women. Talk about ego. I could name names of the A-list actors who won't even take their shirts off without time in the makeup chair first. Contoured pecs and all. It's a psychological trick for confidence. You know you're covered head to foot, yet everything shows.”

Not quite everything. Strategic covering will be required.
For instance, I'm holding a towel to my front, which she's finished, while she does my back.

“You're in pretty good shape for your age,” KaZi says as she stands back to get a perspective on her work. “You've got a nice strong back, not much cellulite on the thighs and really nice calves.”

I'm really touched by her generous statement. “Thank you.”

“Squat,” she commands, and begins to shellac areas I don't even put suntan lotion on. “This is super-good stuff. It's used as a surgical cosmetic. It'll cover every kind of defect: scars, burns, freckles, moles, tan lines, stretch marks, birth marks, age spots, even those big blue veins on your breasts. Pregnancy is, like, so weird!”

It occurs to me that we're not after reality here, but rather a state of mind. As with all photographic efforts, like prom photos, what the poser really wants is a record of the essence of the moment. My body, only better, as it will seem in retrospect.

When she's done, I'm dusted with anti-aging powder. “For that natural look. Now, give yourself about fifteen minutes to dry and you can put on a loose robe. But don't sit or tie the sash. That will rub off the makeup.”

“You ready?” Curran calls from the other side of the door after a few minutes.

Am I ready? The adrenaline rush is instantaneous. I begin to hyperventilate.

“Breathe slow, slower,” I hear KaZi say at my shoulder.

I take a deep breath, a really deep breath. But I only get about half inflated before Sweet Tum thumps in protest. “Okay, okay,” I say, and smooth a hand over the area.

“Watch the makeup,” KaZi warns.

I remind myself I'm doing this not for any reason but that I want to. It's not vanity. It's not an act of defiance, or provocation, certainly not sleazy titillation or even simply to be outrageous. It's a conscious decision to put me
out there, on the line, in the light. Just me. And Sweet Tum. In about twenty years she will understand. Or, just maybe, she will need to be on the upside of forty to fully grasp the audacious joy of Eve before the fig-leaf police arrived.

“I guess we're as ready as we're ever going to be.”

The studio is the typical slant roof loft with a wall of high windows for natural lighting. Curran has set up a series of backdrops and props—like a crib, a rocker, gigantic blocks and a desk. “Desk?”

“You are a writer, after all,” Curran says as he leads me to the chair behind it. “Now, take your time, Lu. I need you to relax. See the heaters? They will be turned on the moment you disrobe. You don't want goose bumps or a case of the shivers. Just take your time. Feel your way into the moment, into the space.”

“Uh huh. You just go over there, on the other side,” I say, for suddenly my teeth are chattering like castanets.

It's not only me. Curran is speaking Standard English, and chewing his soul patch as his gaze darts from me to KaZi as if he's watching Ping-Pong. She shrugs and turns away.

Cy sits in a corner opposite me, pretending to be reading the paper. It's a cliché, but it really is upside down.

I try to think positively as I slowly push aside one corner of my robe, exposing a shoulder. How bad can it be? If the pictures stink, only we four will ever know they existed. Tai hasn't a clue!

The staccato raps on the studio door send us all to our feet in alarm.

“Police,” I hear Cy mutter. It's so improbable that even I release giddy laughter.

Curran goes to see and comes back moments later with—“Dallas?”

She comes across quickly to me while I hurriedly cover my naked shoulder. “Mom! Am I too late?”

“No. But what are you doing here?” I told her about the shoot. No more evading my truths, but I never expected her presence.

“I thought you might need a few things.” She holds out a large wicker basket. “I've brought bottles of water, grapes, your favorite Brie and crackers, a shawl and slippers. Oh, and a bottle of Black Cashmere. Its spicy scent is the kind you like.”

“That's so sweet, Dallas. But I thought you didn't approve of this.”

She gives me a “duh” look. “I don't. But I have to, do I?”

She smiles. I smile. “No. You don't.”

“So, then. I thought you should know that I do support you, even your right to be inappropriately outrageous.”

“In that case, I guess we're ready.”

Dallas looks around. “Where's the music?”

“What?”

“You can't have a shoot without music,” she says with great authority. “Everyone knows that.”

Curran looks sheepish. “I thought Lu wouldn't want it. Do you?”

I shrug. “What have you got?”

It turns out he's got a lot. He has a portable Bose and about a dozen CDs, everything from old-school Luther to Floetry to OutKast. Their cut, “I Like the Way You Move,” quickly becomes a favorite of the day.

The first poses are a bit awkward, as I try to get into the Zone while keenly aware that all that stands between my ta-tas and the two gentlemen in the room is a copy of “What to Expect When You're Expecting.” Sweet Tum bulges beneath the book until the desk cuts her off, hiding my draped lap area while the keyhole allows my bare crossed legs to show.

For a while Dallas is very restrictive about Curran's area
of operation. He's accustomed to spinning around me at all angles as if he wears skates. Today, he's kept at a latitude of about forty-five degrees. Even then she
“uh-uhs”
him whenever he bends too low or rises too high for her comfort. As a result, I don't have to worry about covering my rear, literally and figuratively. Pretty soon, I'm laughing and smiling and giving Curran what he calls the “money shots.”

As we move from desk to rocker, I discover that Dallas's oversize crocheted shawl offers me better coverage and does less damage to KaZi's artwork than the wrapper. Yet it is October so the portable heaters are never far from me.

Before I know it the music has thawed the room. Curran and KaZi are trading friendly insults, and Dallas is dancing with Cy, who, by the way, does a mean cha-cha.

I get frequent breaks, drink lots of hot tea—sorry, Dallas, no ice water. The grapes and cheese are another matter. I consume them as if I haven't eaten in a week. I guess bodaciousness burns a lot of calories.

At the end of the day, my little covey of friends has bonded. Dallas has offered KaZi advice on stock options. Cy and Curran, already like father and son, are discussing art galleries in SoHo and NoHo.

And me? I'm just so giddy-girl pleased I kept faith with my ambition to risk it all. Just because I could.

46

“Oprah?”

“Her people.” Tai says this in a tone that makes clear the distinction.

“They've been keeping up with your column. They want to know if you're going to continue it because they're thinking of doing a show on late-life motherhood after the first of the year. With you as the journalistic authority.
Five-O
's very own Lu on
Oprah!
Wouldn't that be fabulous?”

“That would be fabulous.” The winning lottery ticket would be fabulous, too. Maybe it's just my size, but I feel very anchored to reality these days.

I shift the phone from one ear to the other. “After the first of the year, you say? I couldn't possibly agree to come back to work until my maternity leave ends in February. That includes traveling to Chicago.”

“I told them. They are completely okay with it. They need time to book celebrity late-life moms. They mentioned Geena Davis and Julianne Moore. And they want
the baby to come with you. Which is fabulous! I hear Oprah treats all her guests so well.”

“Chicago in February. Isn't that a lot like Anchorage in February?”

“We'll get a
Five-O
advertiser to loan a fur coat. Two furs, mother/child furs.”

Sooner or later, I just knew Tai would get around to putting me in fur.

“Speaking of which, how is our little cash cow? No offense, Lu.”

“None taken.” I've seen my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “She's fine.”

“Here's one other little tidbit for you to tuck away. As you must know,
Five-O
's parent company owns, among other things, both new-mother and pregnancy mags. I've gotten requests to loan you out as a guest columnist.”

“And you said?”

“I told them they'll have to pay.
Always
make them pay.” And that's why she's the boss. “I've put the higher-ups on notice, too. We've improved market share, widened our demographics—and that's just the beginning. You should be getting a bonus check this week that will make you smile. I had no idea the size of the market for schmaltz among the over-forty set….” She goes on in this vein for a short while.

She finally winds down. “Thanks to that ‘Little-Smoky' Marc,
Five-O
and I were mentioned recently on
Leno,
something really snide and dismissive about my age. But, Lu,
Leno
! I faxed them a clever comeback, and they've asked me to be a plant in the audience next week!”

“Marc must be making wee-wee in his shorts because he can't take credit.”

“Exactly! You were so right. So, if there's anything you need, anything at all…”

“I'll think about it. The columns.
Oprah.
After.”

“Lu, I think you're fabulous! Absolutely brilliant!”

After I hang up I take a deep breath. What I really am is down for the count. On maternity leave for two weeks already, I've got about two weeks to go to my due date.

“You're not a youngster,” my doctor said the other day. “You need complete relaxation. No trials or strain, no stress. You've come this far without trouble. Let's keep it that way.”

It's Halloween. It's clear but cold, with a sharp north wind and the smell of unseasonably early snow in the air. It's the kind of weather that used to make Dallas and Davin very nervous, because coats and hats and mittens might be involved after dark, ruining the fear factor of really great costuming.

These days, the weather doesn't affect me. I'm more or less under house arrest. Against my wishes, but to be perfectly safe, Andrea has moved in with me until further notice. Mother wanted to, but we'd drive each other nuts. Aunt Marvelle offered, but the relief in her voice when I declined confirmed my right thinking. Cy, bless him, is my chauffeur. Well, actually, his chauffeur is my chauffeur. I place a call, he comes to get me. Cy does the grocery shopping. I go to the doctor. I'm living large, in more ways than one.

So most days, I sit and read, watch movies Curran brings by, along with bags of Kettle Korn and steaming cups of decaf mocha java. Occasionally I jot down a brilliant statement.

I'm writing a book. Sort of. Most days I feel too dumb to do more than breathe. Eventually it's going to be a kind of reference guide for “late bloomers,” women over fifty who now have the time to search for the meaning of their lives.

Today I'm pondering a lecture I once heard by Joseph Campbell. If I remember correctly, he said that the quest for individual freedom once belonged to the aged. In other words, for millennia, the search for self-fulfillment
by a “me” generation was conducted by the arthritic and gray. And then marketing got involved.

I'm pondering the modern juxtaposition of “quest now pay later” when the phone rings. Usually I check to see who's calling, but Campbell has a way of taking you away, rather like Calgon, only better.

“Hello, Lu.”

“William.” William! “How are you? Is everything okay with Jolie and Will?”

“All okay. I called to ask about you.”

“Oh, absolutely divine. Eating bonbons, drinking champagne, lying on the deck sunning myself. Expecting a few close personal friends in for dinner. Jack, Julia, Denzel. The usual.”

It's good to hear his laughter. We talked, finally, the day after the infamous photo shoot. I told him I needed space, and he needed to get out there, date someone else. Get a perspective. Then in about six months, if he wanted, we'd talk again. I've tried not to think about what I'd do if that call didn't happen.

“You sound the same, Lu. But how are you really?”

“I'm fine. Really.” I pause to suck in a breath as a false labor contraction reaches its peak. I've been having them on and off for a week. “Doctor has me on rest, basically. I'm due in two, but it might be sooner, as I'm bigger than a humvee.”

“You sound a little weird now.”

“Just a muscle spasm.” Ouch! That sucker hurts! “I get them a lot lately. Eating bananas for potassium.”

“In that case, I've called to report in.”

“Let me guess. You've been dating.” Why I think this is amusing I don't know. Lately, my emotions are random. I cry while watching comedies and laugh hysterically at tragedy.

“Yes. I've been dating. A lot. Speed-dating, uber-dating. Three, four a weekend.”

Why am I chuckling? “Good for you.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought.” He sounds annoyed. “I hate it.”

I get such a kick from that statement that I have to take a breath to calm my voice before I say, “Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.”

“I'm glad you're sorry. It's your fault. I see this really great woman, beautiful, rich—”

“Younger?”

“Always younger. Sometimes decades younger—”

Okay, I deserved that, after the way I treated him.

“And all I can think about while staring into her baby blues, or almond browns, is that she isn't you.”

“That must make the sex really boring.” I hold my breath to smother the giggling. I'm gonna need a shrink before this is over.

“No, the sex is good.”

“Oh.” There was sex! For some reason my laughter still pours forth in frothy teenage ripples. I put him out there. I kicked him to the curb. I can't rant and rave just because one woman's trash is another woman's treasure. Except I knew he was wonderful, funny, sexy, smart and an all-mine treasure.

“You certainly are taking this well.” He sounds really ticked now, the person having all the sex.

“Sorry. I'm sure you'll find the right woman soon.” And I will hate her with everything in me for the rest of my life.

“I already have. A really great woman. She was a friend to Linda. Not best friend, but the same-type friend.” And familiarity is so very seductive to a man who wants to be a twosome. “She's invited me to go with a few friends to Fiji in February.”

“Oh, now that sounds like fun.” If only I weren't gagging on my words. The giggles are gone.

“I don't know. Will is still so young. I'd miss a lot if I were gone a month.”

A month! The heifer! She wants to close the deal while they're gone. She plans to come back engaged-to-be Mrs. Templeton. “Sounds like a long time to lie on the beach.”

“Oh, we won't get there for weeks. We're sailing.”

Not she's sailing, or they're sailing, but “we're” sailing. I feel nauseous. “Be sure to take Dramamine along. Even experienced sailors get seasick from time to time.”

“Okay, well, maybe this call wasn't a good idea—”

“No, I'm really glad to hear from you. Glad—”

“Because I was going to suggest dropping by.”

“You're in New Jersey?”

“At a medical seminar. And I thought, if you weren't busy, I'd drop by afterward. I've got pictures of Will I thought you'd like to see.”

“I'd love to see the pictures.” And—
I love you.
Can't say that. So I better get off in a hurry. “What time?”

For about two minutes I run around in all directions. But the clutter is more than I can manage. I waddle to the phone, punch in the number for what I call emergency housekeeping. Two minutes later I've agreed to pay double the usual amount to have service complete before 5:00 p.m.

I bath, dress and call the chauffeur to take me to get my hair done. I've been meaning to do this, anyway. Didn't want to go to the delivery room looking like a bag lady. I even get my legs waxed while I'm there. It's a holdover from the spa experience. I've come to believe that a certain amount of pampering is just what every woman needs. Add to that the fact that I can't see my toes, let alone trim and paint them, pedicures just fit into my lifestyle.

By five o'clock I look like a very well groomed, delicious-smelling pregnant elephant. I forgot to eat but I'm not feeling especially hungry. I'm kind of queasy and sort of achy. The practice contractions have slowed and no longer hurt, but getting up and down and in and out takes concentration and effort. I'm exhausted.

Doorbell. Curran.

“Happy Halloween, Lu.” Curran's dressed as a Rastafarian.

“Trick or treat yourself. I'm fresh out of Snickers.”

He holds up a large manila envelope. “I brought the treat. Thought you'd like to see the results of your work and my weeks of artistic efforts.”

“You brought the nude photos!”

I have to admit, I'd completely forgotten about them. Lately, any topic more than twenty-four hours old is subject to predelivery dementia.

“You're going to love them,” he assures me as I follow him into the dining room, where he pulls them out and spreads them on the table.

I don't know what I expected. But this is totally different. Some are in black and white, others in color. The overall tone of the collage before me is a cross between Georgia O'Keeffe and Anne Geddes. They are in soft tone, some actually blurred. The sharp images pop, oversize and astonishing. My body has become curves and valleys, wind-swept mounds and deep, dark caverns. Very few are of all of me. Instead, shapes and images, forms and color and texture supersede the exact image or personality of the subject. Yet there is one.

It's a full frontal of Sweet Tum exposed, my thighs strategically wrapped in a shawl beneath, that tells the truth about me.

“I don't remember this one,” I say, mesmerized by the fearless thrust of pregnancy and the ripe melon weight of the breasts—“My breasts!”

I whip my head toward him. “I didn't expose my breasts to you.”

Curran shrugs. “You didn't officially. But about that last hour, you really loosened up, stopped worrying about things. You became an artist's subject, not a friend.”

Hmm.

“Look at it, Lu. It's perfection. And I didn't include your head.”

“No, only the rest of me is very much on display.” I'm feeling queasy again. And the false labor is crimping.

“It's a great shot. The best of the bunch.” Curran smoothes the edges of the image lovingly. “The rest of these could sell baby diapers. But this one.” He picks it up. “And this one.” He pulls another shot from the pile, one of me from the side, cradling my breasts. “These are art.”

He's right. And I just have to get over being intimidated by the fact that that's my pear-shaped butt in the other. “They are good, Curran. No, they are great!”

“
Olla,
all! Look who I found on the doorstep.” Andrea always makes an entrance. This time she's led William through the front door.

She, who has no scruples, marches right over and picks up a photo. “What's this? You do these, Curran?”

He nods, but he's suddenly as tight as a clam.

“They're good.” Andrea fans a few more of them out while I make eye contact with William. “Hi.”

“Hi.” But I can't hold his gaze. He's spied the photos, too, and it's too late to back down. I watch his expression change from happy to horrified.

“You posed nude for this guy?”

“It's okay, his eyes were closed.”

“Jesus, Joseph and Maria!”
Andrea cries. “This is you!” Imagine that. It is possible to shock Andrea.

“You posed nude for this guy!” William's voice is loud, big bad loud.

“Nobody forced her,” Curran says hurriedly, as if he's been accused of harassment, or worse.

“No, no one forced me. In fact, it was my idea. I need to sit now. Can we carry this conversation to the living room?”

Not waiting for agreement, I waddle over to the nearest seat.

William follows, holding a picture he picked up. “I can't believe this. I knew you were a little out there. I like that about you. But that you'd actually do this.” He's waving around the photo of my breasts.

“It doesn't have my head in view.”

“I don't need your head to know it's you. Andrea didn't. How many other people will put two and two together and know it's you?”