Halfway Home (9 page)

"You always fall for the ones who remind you of the one you never got. I fell for Judas hard. I would've done anything for him. His little sister got thrown by a camel, and I raised her from the dead, but we kept that very quiet. I stole his dirty underwear. I watched him sleep all night. I knew they paid him money, and still I couldn't keep my hands off him. I think that's why he betrayed me, frankly, because I was one of those girls who love too much. It was really messy."

I knock my head a few times against the cross, to show what a flake I am. "So now that I've got a
second
chance, my first commandment is: God shouldn't date. Only anonymous sex in dark alleys." I nod and give them a wink. "See you there. I'll be the one with the Shroud of Turin on my face. Peace and love."

And I trudge off stage right, dragging the sins of the world behind me. They clap, all right, and there's even a whistle, but not much more than they gave to Lady Geek before me. Still, Mona is beaming as I come off, practically jumping up and down with excitement. She throws her arms about my neck and kisses my cheek with the lesion. "Welcome home, darlin'," she murmurs in my ear, and now the little audience raises the volume, applauding more vigorously. If nothing else, they approve the schlock reunion of Mona and me. I'm swept up in it too, I admit it. Mona disengages, and I turn to the crowd and throw a fist in the air like Rocky. They're almost cheering, for all the wrong reasons, but what the hell.

Then I duck around the bleachers, and Mona goes back on to announce the next one. Immediately I set to work to dismantle the cross, undoing the toggle bolts. There's something deeply satisfying about storing your props just where they came from, ready for the next performance. As I work the crossbar loose, suddenly Gray is beside me, holding the stakepole. We don't speak yet because we're locked in the mechanics of the chore. He holds the two pieces as I crawl in under, then passes them to me one by one. Then the toolbox.

Huddled beneath the bleachers I feel a rush of mawkish tenderness for my chosen profession, the bits of wood and hardware that turn a bare stage into ancient Judea. I peer out through the gap between the rows, right between somebody's legs, and see the next thing start. A young man in a dark suit is actually standing there with a dog, a bastard mix with an amiable air who sits nonplussed while the guy barks at him. This is not somehow a promising gestalt.

I turn and crab my way out, knocking my crown askew on an unseen strut. Gray has a hand out to help me, and when I grip it and rise to full height beside him, he unexpectedly hugs me. Manfully of course, clapping his hands on my shoulder blades, not really squeezing at all. But it's still the first embrace that's ever passed between us, and I'm just as unexpectedly moved. It's over before I can properly hug him back, but he lets an arm rest on my shoulder as we head through the dark to the office. Behind us I can hear a veritable symphony of barking. Impossible to distinguish what's man, what's dog.

As we enter the office Mona's crouched behind the desk, rummaging in the tiny Pullman refrigerator. "We don't exactly have champagne," she grumbles half to herself, as she pulls out old containers of cottage cheese and yogurt bubbling with mold inside. Then out comes a bottle of Miller Lite, and she stands triumphant. Gray points me into the swivel chair, then turns to close the door. Mona has scrounged three plastic champagne flutes from yet another groaning file drawer. She blows the dust out of each, sets them side by side on the desk, and starts pouring the beer.

"Mona," I say, "sweetheart—a
dog
act?"

She shrugs, unfazed. "It's supposedly an AIDS piece," she replies dryly. "I don't prescreen 'em. Maybe the dog's got AIDS." She hands me a flute of beer, mostly foam, then one to Gray. She lifts hers and gives me a look brimming with camaraderie. "To the Second Coming."

We grin all around, reach and click our flutes together like musketeers, then take a swallow. "For a second there," I say, "I thought Mr. Onward Christian Soldier was gonna deck me."

Mona clucks. "I felt sorry for the girl. She was supposed to perform."

"They probably thought they were coming to 'Star Search.'"

"Please. That whole group"—she tosses her head at the theater—"is just what the cat dragged in. Next time we'll get you a clever audience, and maybe a little press even." Her eyes widen behind her glasses, dazzled with possibilities.

"Oh no," I protest for the second time today, "there won't be any next time."

And with that the exhaustion finally hits me. My muscles go weak and rubbery. In the middle distance I see white spots, like there's not enough oxygen going to the brain. The weariness is so profound that the gig I just did seems like a fantasy. I'm a dying man again, who's been losing ground by inches for eighteen months. That can't have been me out there.

Gray, who hasn't spoken but never stops watching, crouches beside the swivel chair and lightly taps my knee. "Time to get you home," he says, infinitely solicitous.

I'm so relieved to have someone take charge. I nod, handing over my glass of beer. Careful not to prick myself, I take the crown from my head and pass it to Mona, who swaths it with tissue again. When I stand, all I have to do is lift my arms, and Gray pulls the caftan over my head, first swiping off the wig. I feel like a little kid being undressed, and the feeling is unutterably delicious. My dad never took my clothes off except to whip my butt, and my sainted mother could barely stand to touch us once we were out of the crib, I think because we were boys and constituted for her an obscure occasion of sin. I prop a foot on the chair, and Gray swiftly undoes my sandal.

"You know you were fabulous," says Mona.

"Too slow, no focus," I retort automatically. "No energy at the end." I lift my other foot to be unshod and announce to Gray, "I think you're supposed to wash my feet with your hair."

"No, the brother stuff was great," Mona insists, lighting a Merit. "It's the first time I ever thought of Miss J as somebody with a past. Before it's always been like this outrageous Bible cartoon. The
greatest
cartoon," she hastens to add, skirting all left-handed compliments, "but you know what I mean? You could do a whole incest thing."

"Yeah, really," I say, stepping into my jeans as Gray holds them out, the perfect dresser. "Maybe Brian'll come do a guest spot sometime, and we can have it out once and for all. He could hammer the nails in." I shrug on my sweat shirt again, take a step to Mona's side, and bend and kiss her nose. "Sorry, girl, I've scratched this itch. Ask me again in a year and a half, or leave a rose on my grave, whichever is more appropriate. We're outa here."

No protest. She smooths my brow with the flat of her hand, and it feels so cool I think I must have a fever. Gray opens the door, and we slip out all three into the dark. We scuttle silently across to the main entrance, and I only look back once toward the stage, in truth with a kind of thrill at what I've brought off.

The man with the dog has put on a pair of black glasses, and he grips a sight-dog harness attached to the animal. He's declaiming something very profound, you can tell by the rich stentorian tone in his voice, like high school Shakespeare. I block out the words. Mona creaks open the door, and Gray and I duck out, Mona giving my ass a pat as we go.

Under the awning Gray and I are bathed in rosy neon, and though I'm half collapsing I want to dance. There's nothing like leaving a theater after doing a show you love. It doesn't even require a crowd of fans at the stage door. You feel like you own the night, the moon and stars into the bargain. Better even than walking home after a night of love. I trot ahead of Gray into the parking square, stopping under the stand of palms and turning in a kind of pirouette. I fling up my arms and strike a heroic pose, like Isadora in the Parthenon.

"Felt pretty good, huh?" Gray asks with a grin, slouching with folded arms against the back of his pickup.

"What can I say, I'm such a star." I stroll over to where he stands and shadowbox him. He watches me bemusedly. Then I let my arms go limp and loll my tongue out, dumb with fatigue.

"Get in," he orders me brusquely, knowing when I've played enough, then heads around to the driver's side. I shuffle over to the passenger's door, and I'm just about to get in when a figure steps out of the shadows by the loading dock. Instinctively I throw up an arm, as if I'm about to be attacked.

It's a woman. Stocky, mid-forties, jeans and a T-shirt. For a second I think she's homeless and wants a handout. Then she speaks: "Mr. Shaheen?" I nod. "I just wanted to tell you—I'm an ex-nun—"

Painfully shy. Oh God. Believe it or not I never want to hurt anybody's feelings. I know there're people out there like Mother Teresa, singing lullabyes to dying babies. They've got better things to do than be grossed out by me. I stand there as she hems and haws, bracing myself for a guilt trip.

"I mean, that was really something." She looks at me with a kind of awe, then suddenly bursts out laughing. "I bet the Pope woke up in a cold sweat when you were on that cross."

I feel giddy, as if I've gotten away with something very, very naughty. "Thanks."

And now she's pumping my hand, hearty as a salesman. The shyness is gone. "You take care of yourself now. And you ever need any reinforcements, you call me." I realize she's slipped a card in my hand, even as she stands away and motions me into the truck. I climb in, smiling and waving. Gray rolls us into reverse, and my nun waves us away, calling out exuberantly: "Angels are all gay too!"

I stare at the card as we pass beneath a streetlight.
K
ATHLEEN
T
WOMEY.
S
ALVA
H
OUSE
W
OMEN'S
C
ENTER
. With a street address in Venice. I smile across at Gray. "I believe I have just lit one candle."

He's somewhere else. "You take your medication?"

"Mm—I guess I'm a little late. Won't kill me."

He leans a little harder on the gas as we retrace our way through Santa Monica. I swear, he's more alert to my schedule of meds than I am. I tilt my head back against the rear window, which rises right behind the seat. The truck's too old to have headrests, or even seat belts, one of a hundred violations Gray would be slapped with if he ever got stopped by the CHP. But I like the rattletrap feel of the truck, the musty smell of its cracked seat, the dash where nothing works except the two-watt panel light that makes the interior glow like a film noir set.

"What would Brian say if he saw that?" Gray shakes his head in wondering delight, expecting no answer. "What would my
father
say, for that matter?" He gives out with a hooting two-note laugh, shivering with pleasure at the prospect of the old man turning over in his grave. There's a real streak of anarchy there. And I love being the goad.

"Too bad I couldn't get AIDS in," I say, my eyes beginning to droop. I mean it: for all its goose of the bourgeoisie, Miss Jesus seems a little quaint to me now, not quite in the heart of the fire. Maybe I should've flashed my lesions after all.

"You could," he retorts, but leaves it at that, not wanting like Mona to pressure me to do it again. We're back on the coast highway, heading out of Santa Monica. My head's wobbly. Gray taps the seat beside him. "Why don't you stretch out here."

An excellent idea. I scrunch down and curl onto the seat, tucking my feet up under me. As I lay down my head I find it pillows just right on Gray's thigh. I try to pull back, not wanting to get in the way of his driving, but he says "That's fine," so I leave it there. As it is I can fall asleep on a dime these days, but here I don't quite go out like a light. Instead I'm in this half slumber, feeling the muscle play beneath my head as his foot rides lightly on the accelerator.

I'm totally safe. At one point, just as I think I might get cold, he takes a hand from the wheel and lays his arm across my chest, and the chill is gone. We are bearing home with the beach on our left, the mountains on our right. Everything is in place. And I am still alive.

T
HAT WHOLE NEXT WEEK WE WERE HIT WITH A WAVE OF
storms out of the Gulf of Alaska, bitter driving rain and boiling seas hammering the bluffs. A mudslide down by Big Rock narrowed the coast road to one lane for three days straight, sending commuters into apoplexy. Two stilted houses at the foot of Tuna Canyon collapsed into the swirling tide, one of them owned by a starlet who gave sobbing refugee interviews to all the local affiliates. It would pour for five or six hours steady, sheets of it slapping the house in a mad rage. Then stop like a faucet turned off, and the black clouds would flex their muscles for the next onslaught, till the sky was like a vast mushroom cloud pregnant with nuclear doom. And then the rain again.

It was fabulous. I was content to build great roaring fires every day, from the cords of cedar and eucalyptus stacked in the cloister outside the dining room. Then I'd bundle up in the afghan and read from the leatherbound sets of authors, dozing every ten pages or so. At this rate I wouldn't finish
Emma
till 1993, but hey, who was waiting for a book report from me? That first day, the Monday after Miss Jesus, Gray came tramping in in fireman's boots and a yellow slicker that swept to his ankles. He stood on the fieldstone hearth, dripping and rubbing the chill from his hands—no heater in the pickup either—and said with an imp's grin, "This is all your fault, you know." Then pointed up. "You pissed Her off."