Boy Minus Girl (3 page)

“You can’t tell me this douche bag is getting any,” Uncle Ray says.

I dutifully crack up, mostly to cover my humiliation.

He thumbs through the pages and reads in a lisping voice. “ ‘The first rule to making her love you is to be your kind, interesting, sensitive self. Women want a friend first and foremost.’ ” He snaps the book closed, causing me to flinch, and flings it onto my desk. “No. They. Don’t. Chicks want excitement and fun! Lots of it!”

This is why I
love
Uncle Ray: he’s the only grown-up I know who talks to me like I’m a man.

“Is that your secret to getting women, Uncle Ray?”

He smiles. “Y’know, guys’d pay top dollar for tips from a pro like me.”

“Take it off the fourteen years’ worth of birthday and Christmas gifts you owe me,” I shoot back.

He looks a little taken aback; then his lips crinkle into a smile. “I like how you do business, kid. C’mon, I need a smoke.”

We go outside and settle on the front-porch steps. He sticks a cigarette in his mouth, lights up, takes a long drag, and gives me a sidelong glance. “All right. First, you need to lose the Linus look.”

I glance down at my beige corduroys and orange-and-white-striped shirt.

“Those pants’re way too big on you,” he says, his cigarette bobbing up and down with each word. “Women like to see a man’s ass and package, least a hint of it. And that shirt says, ‘I watch
Benny Hill
and jerk off in a gym sock.’ ”

I love
Benny Hill
. How’d he know? Howard and I have seen every episode.

He sucks on his cigarette and blows smoke rings into the still air. “And what’s with the ’do?”

“What about it?” I touch the back of my head.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Carter’s out of the White House. Time to enter the eighties.”

Is this the reason girls don’t go for me—because I’m a fashion disaster? I’ve always taken pride in what I wear, but what if I am totally out of it and don’t know it? Suddenly I feel like Stanley Johnson, the greasy-headed geek in my class who wears corrective shoes and snorts when he laughs.

Uncle Ray mashes out his cigarette on the top step, flicks it into Mom’s rosebushes, and rubs his hands together. “You got good raw material, kid. Revamp that look and go get ’em.”

For the next hour, in front of the bathroom mirror, I experiment with my “’do.” Mom has always cut my hair the same way, ever since I was in the first grade. I try watering down the cowlick in back, but it keeps popping up like a nerdy weed. I try parting my hair on the right, but the way it sweeps across my forehead, I resemble a pubescent Hitler. Parting it down the middle, I look like a loaf of Home Pride bread. Do I have “problem” hair? Will it doom me to the life of a virgin? Will I still be spending my nights with Mom watching Johnny Carson when I’m thirty? Are the African tribeswomen of
National Geographic
the only naked females I’ll ever see? Is the Skin So Soft bottle the only—

“Les, darling!” I hear Mom call out from downstairs. “Time to wash up for supper!”

We all sit at the kitchen table eating Mom’s chicken chow mein, a dish we have maybe once a year when company comes over. Is she trying to impress Uncle Ray? To appear more worldly? Dad’s mood is soaring, thanks to Uncle Ray, who keeps refilling Dad’s glass with red wine from a big jug marked Carlo Rossi. Mom, a devout teetotaler, frowns on Dad’s rare instances of drinking, but Uncle Ray made a big deal about how he brought this expensive vintage Italian wine to celebrate the family reunion, and I can tell Mom feels she can’t really say anything against it. I’ve never seen my father talk so much.

“Ray, can’t tell you how good it is to have you back,” Dad says, his speech a little slurry. “You know, just the other day I was thinking about that fly-fishing trip we took with Dad to Colorado back in ’64.”

Uncle Ray laughs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

I glance at Dad and Uncle Ray sitting beside each other. With the exception of their prominent Eckhardt brows, it’s hard to believe they’re brothers. Uncle Ray has a thick head of hair while Dad is balding, with patches of gray sticking out the sides. Trim and muscular, Uncle Ray looks as if he’s spent every day of his life in the wind and sun; whereas Dad, who could rest his hands on his gut, looks as if he’s spent the last twenty years working in a tunnel. Dad’s wide-lapel brown Sears shirt makes him look all the more small-townish and out of it. Suddenly I feel a little guilty. Would Dad look more alive, more like Uncle Ray, if he didn’t have to work so hard to provide for me and Mom?

“So there we were, at the top of Pikes Peak,” Dad says with a beaming smile, “and the moment we all piled out of the car, it starts rolling backward.”

Uncle Ray laughs and shakes his head. “The old man forgot to set the parking brake!”

“You should’ve seen the three of us running down the mountain after that Plymouth,” Dad laughs, his eyes tearing up.

Uncle Ray guffaws.

“The car shot right through the guardrail,” Dad says as he pantomimes with his hands, “dropped a good hundred feet, and lands on top of a pine tree.”

I laugh, although I’ve heard this story a hundred times. It’s one of Dad’s favorites. Mom produces a tepid smile while nibbling her chow mein. I notice she keeps looking at Uncle Ray out the corner of her eye.

“I never saw Dad so angry.” Dad lifts his wineglass and wipes the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand.

Uncle Ray places his elbows on the table (something Mom never allows Dad and me to do) and leans forward. “He was angry ’cause he had no one to blame but himself.”

Dad abruptly stops laughing.

“That’s the thing about our old man,” Uncle Ray says, suddenly serious. “He never could admit he made a mistake. Even that day. He claimed the parking brake was busted. I’m surprised he didn’t blame the mountain.”

A tense silence follows, and Mom places her fork on her plate. “Ray, we don’t hear from you for what? Almost four years? And then, out of the blue, here you are.”

Uh-oh. Here we go.

“Better late than never,” Dad says, a little too quickly and jovially. “Honey, please pass the chow mein.”

“Don’t worry, Bev,” Uncle Ray says. “I won’t be in the way.”

Mom shifts a little in her chair, as if digging in for battle, and asks, “Are you still playing guitar in that rock ’n’ roll band?”

“Nope. Y’know, we stood a real shot at landing a contract with a big label,” Uncle Ray says, “till our lead singer died.”

“How?” Dad asks.

“ODed on Freon,” Uncle Ray says, and sips his wine.

“Freon?!” Dad asks, horrified. “How does someone overdose on Freon?”

“Sniffed it from a pressurized can. Lungs froze instantly. Died right on top of a groupie.”

Mom and Dad exchange a concerned look; then Mom clears her throat and says, “Let’s see now.” She glances at the ceiling as if there’s a list written up there. “Before the band you were an actor, if I’m not mistaken, and before that you were a blackjack dealer in Las Vegas.”

“Don’t forget I sold Porsches in Arizona. . . .”

“Why, Ray, I guess you’re a jack-of-all-trades,” Mom concludes.

Uncle Ray grins and winks at Mom. “And, yes, Bev, a master of none. But if you’re gonna apply a cliché to me, I’d rather you go with ‘a rolling stone.’ No moss on me.”

It’s so cool the way Uncle Ray handles Mom’s jabs—he just won’t let her get to him. He pulls his red duffel bag onto his lap and unzips it. “Have a little something for each of you.”

“Oh now, you didn’t have to go and do that,” Dad says.

Uncle Ray removes an antique toy airplane from the bag, hands it to Dad, and says, “I realize I’m only about thirty years late on this.”

Dad breaks out in a wide grin as he marvels at the plane. “Ray, you son of a gun. Why, it’s the spitting image—where’d you find it?”

“Wasn’t easy, let me tell ya.”

Dad turns to Mom and me. “When I was a boy—around seven—my favorite toy was a model B-52, just like this one. Well, one day I did something that really irked Ray and he smashed it with a brick, just flattened the thing. . . .”

“And I haven’t heard the end of it since,” Uncle Ray says. “Till now, hopefully.”

“I couldn’t be happier, little brother. Couldn’t be happier.”

Hearing Dad and Uncle Ray talk about the old days makes me wish I had a brother or a sister I could one day share growing-up stories with.

Uncle Ray reaches back into his bag as he turns to me. “Your old man tells me you’re kind of an expert on magic.” Out comes a thick old book with
HOUDINI’S SECRETS
pressed into the tattered black binding.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound excited about receiving an old book.

“Oh, wait, there’s one other thing.” He lifts a dark-brown leather jacket, with a sheepskin fleece lining, from the bag. “It’s a genuine bomber from World War II. Hope it fits.”

“It’s awesome!” I say, tugging it on. “Thanks, Uncle Ray. Gonna go see how it looks!” I race into the bathroom and model it in front of the mirror for several minutes. I
love
the way it looks on me, with its worn, lived-in leather. Then I notice a white tag hanging from the bottom button: “$350.” I can’t believe Uncle Ray has spent so much. Is he rich? If so, why is he staying on my bottom bunk?

When I return to the table, Mom is holding a small black-satin box, and Uncle Ray nods. “Go on, open it.”

She does, and I watch her mouth fall open as she removes a bronze pin set with a red jewel.

“It’s English,” Uncle Ray says. “From the 1880s.”

Mom shakes her head, quickly returns the brooch to the box, and hands it back. “I—no, Ray, I cannot accept this.”

“Well, why not?” Uncle Ray laughs, as if it’s the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard.

“It’s far too . . . too extravagant,” Mom says. “You shouldn’t have done this.”

“Don’t be silly,” Dad chimes in. “You deserve it, Bev.”

“I won’t take it back,” Uncle Ray adds.

“Well, then, it’ll just have to remain on this table.” Mom gets to her feet and starts collecting the dishes. “Les, please help me clear the table.”

“Ray, you’ve got to see my new radio transceiver,” Dad says quickly. “Tallest antenna in town. Why, last night I talked with a fellow in South Africa—”

“Uh, Dad,” I interrupt, “the Chinese vanishing box . . . ?”

“Not tonight, son.” He turns back to Uncle Ray. “Anyway, that South African man sounded like he was right next door, the reception was that clear.”

An hour later I’m lying on my bunk watching Uncle Ray—in pressed black jeans and dark-blue silk shirt—blow-dry, mousse, and sculpt his hair into cool-guy perfection.

I study him carefully, making mental notes.

“Uncle Ray, out of all the places you’ve been,” I ask, “which has the hottest women?”

“Australia. No question about it. They’re all tanned knockouts down there. And here’s the best part: they go topless on the beaches.”

“Get outta here!” My voice totally breaks.

“Swear to God. Imagine the most gorgeous chicks in the world just walking in G-strings with their breasts hanging out. I’m telling you, it’s heaven on earth. You gotta see it for yourself. Maybe I’ll take you Down Under someday.”

“You mean it?”

“Sure, kid, why not?” He snatches his pack of Pall Malls and his alligator-skin wallet from the dresser, stuffing them into his pocket.

“Where you going?”

“Gonna see if the hometown remembers ol’ Ray.” He turns and winks at me. “ ’Night, kid.”

I wait until I hear his Corvette thunder to life and squeal off before I shut the door and lock it. I know what I’m about to do isn’t right. I check his dresser drawers first, but they contain nothing but his boxer shorts, socks, and a carton of Pall Malls. At the closet I pull out his overstuffed suitcase, set it on the floor, and try to open it, but it’s padlocked. Then I notice his duffel bag. I unzip it and see, in the bottom, a color photograph of a naked dark-skinned lady reclining on a sofa and smiling at the camera. I blink. Wowza! She is beyond hot: her long black, curly hair cascades around her naked boobies! And she’s smiling a perfect toothpaste-ad smile. A small silver ring protrudes from her belly button. One leg is draped over the side of the sofa—I can see her pubic hair! It’s a thin, manicured little strip of fur. Women shave
down there
?

There are dozens of pictures of her in various positions—all naked, all fantastic.

And right here in Mom’s house! In my very room! It’s like I found a secret passage to the Playboy Mansion. And to think that for the past two years I’ve been getting off on bra ads from nursing-supply catalogs.

Is this Uncle Ray’s girlfriend? Can he introduce me?

Dear Jesus . . . I know I said I wasn’t going to jerk off for an entire week, but You know I wasn’t expecting to find those pictures. I’ll try to control myself better next time and not look at those pictures ever again. I hope You can forgive me. In Your Name. Amen.

As I return the pictures to the duffel bag, I see, at the bottom, a shining metallic curve sticking out of a small black towel. Carefully I unwrap it.

The chrome-plated revolver fits perfectly in my palm, and there is a dusting of black—gunpowder?—on the nicked barrel. Glancing back into the bag, I see several stubby cartridges. Could this be the gun that killed that nightclub owner? A chill shimmies up my spine.

Then, from the floor vent, I hear my mother’s voice: “Roger! Just what do you think you’re doing?”

I move closer to the vent and hear my father’s slurred reply: “Thought maybe you’d like to, y’know . . .”

“You are drunk, sir,” she says.

“Oh, c’mon, honey, it’s been so long since we’ve done it.”

“For heaven’s sake, Roger, don’t be silly. Now just go to sleep.”

I step back. I’ve never heard my parents make love, or even talk about sex in any way whatsoever. Strange and conflicted emotions bubble up inside me. Part of me is totally grossed out. And part of me is sort of happy for them—they’re normal, they have urges like I do, or at least Dad does. But he sounds so lonely and deprived, and Mom was so cold.

“Les!” Mom calls from the bottom of the stairs.