Adventures with Max and Louise (34 page)

Remembering Sasha’s fragile state, I quickly dial her cell, which is busy. I leave a reassuring message: I might be a tad late but not to worry; Denise or someone will bring the lemons. I tell her to reach me by cell before grabbing my dress and bag and running out the door, wishing I didn’t have to arrive at such a glamorous address by bus.

“So drive, luvey,” Max points out. “Your dad’s car is sittin’ in the drive.”

“Now you talk. Where were you when I was using Wolf as a human Kleenex?”

“Letting you think. You do it quite well,” he says. “Now, find the key, get in the car, and drive.”

Pausing by Dad’s Chevy, I mull it over. If I took his car, I could listen to my own music and not be surrounded by drones plugged into their iPods, joyriding alcoholics, and mental patients. However, there’s always a very good chance my dad’s car won’t start, which is what gives me the courage to run into the house, find the extra key in the junk drawer, and unlock the car. As I slide into the driver’s seat, I realize, with a shock, that this is the first time in ten years I’ve sat in the driver’s seat. It’s completely unnerving. I push the key into the ignition and sit there, terrified, both hands clutching the steering wheel.

I’m about to get out and run for the bus when Max says quietly. “Ladies an’ gentlemen, start yer engines.”

I put my hand on the key. I’m pretty safe. It’s Dad’s car. It won’t start. “Go ahead, sister woman,” Louise says. “It won’t hurt.”

I turn the key, and the car jumps to life with surprising vigor. The thought of actually driving it, backing down the driveway, and negotiating downtown traffic is too much. My hands begin to sweat. I might have come very far in a short period of time, but I’m not there yet. I can’t drive. I turn the car off, climb out and lock it, stuff the key in my purse, and make a mad dash for the bus.

Riding on the Metro bus under the doleful gaze of a muttering old woman with tinfoil carefully wrapped around each ear, I wonder what is wrong with me. Why can’t I drive? Given what I’ve learned today, I thought I’d be able to at least back out of the stupid driveway. Will I always live so closely under the spell of the past, carrying a load of guilt so palpable that my shoulders ache? If tinfoil earmuff lady would just stop staring at me for ten seconds maybe I’d feel less like her and more like a successful author about ready to meet my handsome lover.

By the time I arrive at Chas’s building, I feel as though I’ve licked the floor of the bus. My skin crawls and my armpits trickle with sweat. I wonder if I’ve remembered to put on deodorant this morning. My dress, in its dry cleaning bag, clings to my sweaty arm like Saran Wrap. As I enter the marble-floored lobby, a glance in the mirror confirms that my hair hangs in limp, yet somehow clumpy strands over my greasy face, which is bare of even the lightest trace of makeup. Steeling myself against the gaze of a chic couple waiting for the elevator, I dig through my bag for my makeup. Okay, I forgot it. Taking out a comb, I yank it through my hair to remove the telltale elastic indentation.

“Arrrghhhh,” I quietly groan, rubbing some of the shine off my cheeks with my shirt sleeve.

The chic couple smile at each other, stepping around me like an Ebola victim as they stroll into the elevator. The elevator shuts. I have an overwhelming urge to ditch the plan, wait for the sickening couple to safely exit before sliding to the ground and bawl my head off. This day has been too much.

“It’s all right sweetheart. Chas loves you for you, right?” Louise says with just the faintest hint of sarcasm. Or am I imagining it?

With Louise’s words ringing in my ears, I glide out of the elevator into the cool marble hallway of the 32
^nd
floor; letting the tranquility of the building, its graceful potted palms, sweeping end-of-the hall bay view, soothe me. Taking several deep breaths, I adjust the plastic covered-dress onto a dry spot on my arm. Checking my pits with a quick sniff, I ring the doorbell.

Chas swings open the door with a grandiose gesture that he drops as soon as he sees my attire. He wears a single-breasted tweed jacket, carefully pressed black jeans and a blindingly white oxford that looks as though he has just taken it out of the box. He smells of woodsy aftershave. Coldplay drifts from the hidden speakers.

“I’m so sorry. I have to get dressed here,” I apologize, taking a tentative step forward.

He opens the door wider and hands me a crystal flute of champagne. “I was hoping for the opposite.”

As I shuffle into the living room, I drain the glass. Outside the day has grown dark, ominous with thunderclouds. Tiny, well-placed tea lights flicker, highlighting the rich fabric in the decor. The travertine coffee table is spread with appetizers on deep earth-toned platters. The music soothes my shattered nerves. I feel myself relaxing into the ambience of the lovely room.

“Wow, quite a feast.” I kiss him, hoping the wine will mask my un-brushed teeth.

He refills my glass. “The first rule of entertaining: the hostess never eats. So, I’m feeding you before Food Fest.” He looks so proud it hurts.

Flopping down on the couch, I fight the urge to drain the glass again, realizing I am desperately thirsty, hungry, and very, very tired. I stuff approximately four pounds of nuts into my mouth before realizing they are spiced with dynamite. Hot tears sting my eyes.

Chas sits down beside me, brushing my hair back before he kisses me on the neck. “This is a big night for you,” he says softly. His kisses grow more insistent. My mouth is on fire! Where the hell did he get those things, an arsenal?

Draining my champagne glass again, I jam some kind of cheese-filled puff in my mouth, hoping to quell the fire.

“Where did you get those nuts?” I demand, fanning my mouth. Freckles of sweat bead my nose, cheeks and forehead as my body fights to cool itself.

He leans back, his arms folded behind his head. “I made them. Aren’t they great? I use a whole teaspoon of cayenne pepper. The guys at the frat used to love them. Of course, you need a lot of beer to drown out the fire.”

“Yeah.” I am stunned he thinks I am complimenting him. Like frat boys have such refined palates.

“Oh, sheesh, now I realize how nervous I was cooking for you. I made all this stuff,” he says, babbling like an excited kid. “Of course, I had to call my mom about fifty times. But I did it all by myself.”

“That’s so sweet.”

He holds the nuts of fire under my nose. I take three more and hold them with a grin plastered on my face. I’m waiting for the fire in my mouth to die down. Determined to move past the culinary pyrotechnics, I take a long slug of champagne, wolf down three more cheese thingies, and wash them down with yet more champagne.

Chas watches me, repulsed. “Kind of gross but okay. Glad you like ’em so much.” He’s really a good sport.

Mouth gently smoldering, I grin woozily, plant my arms on his shoulders, and kiss him deeply and passionately.

“Wow!” He pushes the hair out of my eyes and pulls me in for more.

“You can’t blame a girl for eating,” I say in a low, throaty growl. The champagne hits me like a sledge hammer. My head floats in a detached bubble a few inches above my body.

“No, you can’t,” he practically sings as he stands up and leads me to the bedroom. “Is it too early for the main course?”

“Well . . .” I hesitate on the threshold of his vast bedroom, worrying about the slick of bus sweat covering my body. This isn’t how I imagined it would be. Chas smiles curiously, dropping my hand. “We have all the time in the world,” he says gently.

“Actually, we don’t. I have to be at work.” My fantasy of looking and smelling lovely the first time I make love crumbles under the pressure of reality.

As I fall onto the bed, a ferry outside the window trails its delicate foam green wake behind it in the gray water. Chas has his hands on my leg, running from my knee to my lower back, pressing in as he kisses me. I arch my back into him, pushing my groin against his, practically levitating off the bed.

“You have the most amazing body,” he growls. His other hand is up my shirt and down my pants and about a thousand other places. “God, you make me hot!”

“Octopus hands,” Angeli calls it. Finally I know what she means. And every bit of it feels good. Instead of the weight of my virginity making me anxious, I feel utter release. My body is alive to his touch, responding and eager for more. This is the way it is supposed to be, I realize. I am doing the right thing, falling into the mindless physical world with ease, allowing myself to unlock, forgetting the guilt, my mother, everything except the warm hands running over my body, the firm, dry lips kissing mine. I learn to follow my hands, feeling the tendons in his arms, his legs, his neck. I shouldn’t notice decor at a moment like this, but his room is beautiful: steel gray sheets, white bubble lamps, and the tender sweetness of lilies coming from the bedside table.

If I close my eyes, it is easy to fool myself that time has never passed, that I am still the same girl who developed a crush on Chas in high school, writing in curlicues on the inside of PeeChee folders Mrs. Charles Bowerman in my rounded script.

So much has happened and yet I am still that same girl, longing for someone to tell me that everything is going to be all right. I am so close to letting go of my inhibitions, yet my brain refuses to budge beyond a certain point.

I am teetering on the brink, overanalyzing, waiting for Max and Louise to reassure me, tell me that I should shut off my brain and fall headfirst into this lovely moment. I am Cinderella at the ball, waiting for my two pumpkins to sprout feet, dash into the party, and reassure me that Prince Charming is bona fide royalty. How pathetic.
Let it go, for crying out loud.
This isn’t some mixed up fairy tale; I don’t need permission to make love to this handsome man. My mom treated life as a delicious feast. Why can’t I?

Just as I am drowning in the sensuality of Chas’s skin, hair, lips, smell, I feel Max and Louise grow strong. I feel a push from within, a distancing from Chas. What lousy, annoying, messed up timing! They aren’t magical pumpkins, they aren’t even vegetables. They’re parasites.
I’ve waited a decade for this,
so
shut up, you two!

Chas takes an exaggerated breath and leans back. “Whew.” He winks at me and wipes his brow in an exaggerated manner. “You have amazing breasts. Is it okay to say that?”

“Sure,” I laugh, which makes him happy.

“I must have been blind in high school.”

Lifting his hip, he takes out his wallet, extracting a thin square that I know will be a condom before he pulls it out. This is what men do in movies; I think idly, they plan for sex. I like a man who thinks ahead, I think extra hard, willing the parasites to shut up.

He drops the condom on the glossy black bedside table. His hair flops over in such a thick heap it makes my fingers itch to smooth it back onto his high forehead. It is a face that inspires confidence; the face of a good man who can laugh at himself and enjoy life. I’m committed to moving forward, or at least horizontal, with him.

In a flash I understand what Max and Louise want me to do, what needs to be done. What fell off that mountain, I realize, is the old me. The emerging, almost guilt-free (for a Catholic) Molly needs not to confess but share. Wolf knows my deepest secrets, and wow, we kissed, didn’t we? I’ve kissed two men in one day. It should have been Chas on the mountain today, not Wolf. Not Mr. Shaggin’ Wagon’ I-kiss-whomever-I-want, whenever-I-feel-like-it. I’m going to rectify things right now . . . as soon as I stop kissing him . . . I will stop kissing him. Eventually.

“Hang on.” I grab Chas’s arm as he puts his wallet beside the condom. “I need to tell you something.”

The reality of it wakes me from my hormone-and-champagne induced stupor. I am momentarily clearheaded in the midst of this crazy day. After this, we’ll be the slightly middlebrow on my side but very-close-to-perfect couple. Heck, even his snobby mother likes me now that I’m published.

“Can it wait?” he says in a playfully urgent tone, “ ’Cause I had something else in mind.”

“Oh, ho, boy,” Max snickers. “I’m sure you do.”

“Shut up, boy,” Louise snaps. “You keep goin’, Molly.”

I hold my ground. “I think it’s important.”

“Let it go, luv; tell the lad later, afterwards. You should be enjoyin’ this,” says Max solemnly.

I’m sorely tempted by Max’s logic until Louise whispers, “Now.”

Chas flops back onto a velvet pillow and turns his blue eyes toward me. “All right,” he says. “I’m all ears.” He glances down at his crotch. “Um, well, technically that’s not true.” I try to avoid looking down. “Molly, I don’t mean to be unkind here, but the first time things got hot and heavy, you nearly decked me. The second time, at the cabin, you passed out, which, believe me, I can relate to, and now you have the sudden need to share. I may be dumb, but I’m sensing a pattern here.”

I’m not sure what to do about my exposed breasts. I grab a pillow, clasp it to my chest, and meet his gaze. “No, no pattern. There’s no pattern. It’s just that this is important, and even though this is bad timing, to say the least, I wanted to share something I learned today.” I squeeze the pillow for support. “About myself.”

Max yelps as though being suffocated. I release my grip on the pillow slightly.

Chas leans back. “Uh-huh.”

“I was talking to a . . . friend. It’s about when my mom died. The night she died, I was the one driving the car. We were on the way to the Junior Tolo.” I’m nervous, talking too fast.

“I remember that night. Caroline Augusten asked me. And you were right before; we did end up in the cemetery.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry; this isn’t about me, is it? Your mom died. What a schmuck. Go ahead.”

I try to get back the momentum but I’m sagging. “So I was driving. . . .” I tell him the rest of the details, trying not to get sucked into my emotions. Trying to get it out there in front of him and let him react. I tell him I don’t feel guilty any more, which is a lie. I’m trying not to feel guilty. I change the sequence of events to make it sound like I had this big epiphany on my own because I’m feeling confused about kissing Wolf to the point where I’m afraid I’m going to blurt it out with everything else I’m bringing up. I manage to tell him how I’ve been hiding all these years and how today I could finally see what’s been causing it, guilt over the accident, driving the car, surviving. When I’m done, I’m exhausted. I apologize for ruining another chance to make love.