Story Girl (28 page)

He was standing in the doorway, moving his arms like he was signaling a mayday, and maybe in his own way, he was. It seemed we both shared a knack for the theatrical. And in the sweetest region of my crazy head, I knew that whatever happened, my father would forever be known as the mighty gentle cucumber king.

chapter
40

T
HERE WAS NO
such thing as a perfect marriage.

I rode my bike back to the safety of the donut shop thinking that maybe fruits and vegetables could pull it off, but humans most likely couldn’t. Like my grandmother said, perfect is dead. I tried to watch the road but James was blocking my view, taking up my entire mind’s eye.

I ordered a coconut tart and a large coffee. The visit with my father had been a disgrace. I was as needy as Jenny. My father didn’t have to return, ever.

An elderly couple was cuddling in a booth across from me. They were a curious pair, actively listening to each other instead of incessantly barking their own point of view. They had an array of fattening treats in front of them. I wondered if they were celebrating an anniversary – perhaps their fiftieth. Exactly how I’d want to celebrate my own fiftieth anniversary – something as romantic and unfussy as holding hands in a donut shop. Maybe they could explain a straightforward blueprint for living that I could actually follow.

I took my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed his number, smiling at the couple whenever they smiled at each other.

“Hello?”

“Hi James, it’s me.”

“You don’t sound well.”

“My father moved into a motel.”

“What?”

“He’s gonna fish off the balcony.”

“What have you been drinking?”

“Donuts.”

“Huh?”

“My mother basically told him that he’s a complete loser. But he’s not a loser at all. It’s more like he’s on the brink of some kind of fulfillment. And that reminds me, I really need to start eating more vegetables and I need to find a good olive oil and a complimentary vinegar and I must learn how to prepare something other than – ”

“Tracy!”

“What?”

“You’re rambling. I’m sorry. It’s just that I have to tell you something.”

“What else is there to tell?”

“I’m not sure how to say it.”

Oh God. I suddenly wished I’d hit him harder on the freeway – a full-blown crash at top speed, “You had a second date with Sheila?”

“Of course not.”

“What then?”

“I finished your script.”

“Oh. So what do you think?”

He was dead quiet; I felt my tummy curdle.

“Was it really that hideous, James?”

“It wasn’t hideous at all, but that’s not the point.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I finished
writing
it – forty pages. I figured it out.”

And just like that, my head was empty – I’d become the most vacuous person in history.

“It’s about seeing yourself from a different vantage point – a wider perspective. Like the way the characters see Earth from the
space station. Things become new with such a sweeping panorama. And the boy – well – he blew me away.”

“You finished writing my script?”

“Just one version of it, Tracy.”

“You couldn’t write something of your own? You know, like, come up with your own ideas?”

“I just sat down with it, and my only intention was to read it – but then I couldn’t let it go.”

“You couldn’t find anything else to do?”

“I didn’t want to do anything else.”

“Job search?”

“It hasn’t been going well. I’ll ride the bus, but I’m not gonna
bus
tables for six bucks an hour.”

“First of all, James, lots of people have to bus tables for six bucks an hour – that’s just how it is. Secondly, it’s a collaboration without my consent. I never gave you permission to finish off my idea. I never even gave you permission to read it. Those are
my
people – I gave birth to them.”

“I know you did.”

“So I get to decide how they develop.”

“I know.”

“How the hell did you finish it so fast?”

“It kept me close to you. It was only forty pages and they just flew by. That’s all I wanted to do. Minute after minute, hour after hour.”

“And what else are you going to steal from me?”

“I don’t want to steal anything from you.”

“Right.”

“I was thinking about you and me and about everything you’re going through out there. It all just came to me somehow. I don’t know. Sometimes we can’t see it all. Sometimes the mystery is so big that the simplicity part eludes us.”

“Simplicity, huh?”

“Yes.”

I thought about my father and his raspberry bush.

“I had to write it down, Tracy. You can throw it out – burn it if you want to. But just read it first.”

“I need to think.”

“I won’t be mad if you throw it away.”

“Yes – you will.”

“I really won’t.”

“Did you at least move the protagonist along his journey – visually?”

“It’s more about symbols and signs and metaphysics.”

“Great. I think we’re both fated to the restaurant industry.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s a movie, James – not a book.”

“It’s not like we’ll have a budget.”

“Somebody might buy it.”

“Studios never buy from a nobody.”

“Who said anything about a studio?” I asked. “And I don’t appreciate being called a nobody.”

“We can make it ourselves.”

“A movie about
space
by ourselves? Hello – a green screen?”

“Blue screen.”

“Green – blue – gentle mahogany. Whatever! Do you have any idea how much the effects alone would cost?”

He didn’t answer.

“Oh, I get it now. With your parents’ money, right?”

“You weren’t even gonna finish it.”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

“Well maybe you would have, but you would have taken your time getting around to it.”

“Fuck off,” I said, completely lacking conviction.

“And there’s something else.”

“There couldn’t possibly be something else.”

I brought the tart to my mouth.

“I want to make love to you.”

Coconut shavings fell from my lips.

“I want to share a meal with you – I’ll cook – and then I want to read you the script, and then I want to make love to you.”

“In that exact order?”

“No.”

“I can only make love to bakery treats.”

“We could make love in a wheat field or something.”

“I’m packing on a lot of weight. My hamstrings need shoes of their own.”

“I don’t care.”

“You will.”

“I want to make love to your soul.”

“Do we really need to discuss it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure I can accept what you’re offering.”

“The reading or the loving?” he asked.

“Isn’t it all the same, James?”

“It is. I’ll take my time with it – deep and slow.”

I choked on my coffee. Suddenly something was lodged in my throat.

“Tracy? Are you alright?”

“I need air.”

The elderly couple was leaving now, headed back to their happy home. I had missed my chance to make contact.

I could hear him asking if I was okay – so many people had been asking me that lately.

“Can you just try to live in this moment, Tracy? With me? And without trying to make sense of it completely?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just try.”

“I really need to go.”

“Why?”

“I’m in the middle of a gluten overdose.”

“Think about what I said.”

“Goodnight, James.”

I hung up the phone and nestled my face in my hands. The man I was in love with finished writing my script and wanted to make love to me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kill him or ask for his hand in matrimony.

What would it be like to let James cook me dinner, let him read me a completed version of my work – touch me in vulnerable places? Would it do odd things to my brain – impair me with silly delusions? Would I end up moving into a motel thirty-five years later?

I tried to remember the little boy version of James in the park – there for me in my distress – the one who didn’t seem like a threat.

But I was still a threat to myself.

I looked out the window to the waiting night – so uninviting compared to the fluorescent warmth of the bakery. But I could no longer loiter here and pack my ass with more sugar – especially after such a mind-altering phone call.

Perhaps my mother had recovered from her meltdown. I got back on the bike and tried to rub some life back into my legs. My shins felt like soft fruit embedded with spikes. But the minute I gathered some significant speed, I allowed myself to feel the excitement of his words – instead of the fear. And all too quickly, the pain was gone.

The park was too dark to sit alone in the jungle gym. So I sat on a swing and thought some more about James. The idea that he existed in this world – with such wonderful thoughts of me – made me want to run through the streets singing arias. I almost considered it until I heard something that sounded like a werewolf bellowing nearby. And even after everything – I’d rather take my chances with the she-wolves in my own family.

I left Lindsay Wagner leaning up against the jungle gym – an uneventful goodbye. Some kid who was a lot smaller than me could put her to better use. I patted the banana seat and whispered thanks.

It was true what they said. All good things do come to an end.

But then again, they also have to start somewhere.

Part
3

The Cucumber King,

A Lonely Space Boy,

and a Totally Rad
Hollywood Ending

chapter
41

P
ETRIE
L
ANE SCARED
the living crap out of me.

My heart-rate quickened the second I walked onto my old street. The house loomed like an intimidating fortress in the moonlight. It was my mother’s fortress, just as it had always been. As I stood shivering and watching for signs of movement, I figured it might be best to sneak into the basement and sleep in my father’s bedroom closet. But I was too tired and cold for any further physical discomfort.

The door handle was my last warning; I wondered if the entrance was booby-trapped with glass bottles strung together with ribbon. Or maybe I would open the door to a spritz of Windex in the eye. Kyle could be waiting to strangle me with an oven cord, and then he’d gleefully plaster my bedroom in Toby Keith posters while my mother baked him an apple pie.

And I deserved it all.

I’d ripped Herb from her clutches and nearly turned Jenny against her. But worst of all, I’d ripped away the polished surface of her life to expose the underbelly of dissatisfaction.

Just who in the hell did I think I was?

I could only hope that my mother would be brave enough to deliver all that I had coming – that she wouldn’t once flinch as I begged for mercy.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

The words were clear, coming from the black kitchen.