The Last Good Kiss (13 page)

the road called Chugwater, and I spent the summer up

there with him-my momma and daddy didn't live

together, you see-and my daddy was crazy, had this

notion, which he made up out of whole cloth, that he

was part Indian. Hell, he took to wearing braids and

living in a teepee and claiming he was a Kwahadi

Comanche, and since I was his only son, I was too. And

that summer I was twelve, he sent me on a vision quest.

Three days and nights sitting under the empty sky, not

moving, not eating or sleeping. And you know something? It worked."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're telling me,"

he said seriously.

"Well, it's like this," I said. "I had a vision. And I've

been having them ever since."

"So?"

"You know, when you were telling me about those

Jane Does and those rubber sheets, I had another

one," I said.

"Of what?"

"I saw your face all scrunched up in disappointment

every time you dido 't find her under that r�bber

sheet," I said, and he understood immediately. After

two years on the couch, he had begun to have visions of

his own. "I know you're a nice person and all that and

that you didn't mean to feel that way, but you did, and

if I find her, -you'Jl never hear about it from me."

"Why are you doing this to me?" he screamed, but I

shut the door in his face. I didn't have a vision for that

yet.

As I opened the outside door, I held it for a thin,

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lovely woman with fragile features and a brittle smile.

She thanked me with a voice so near to hysteria that I

nearly ran to my El Camino. No visions, no poetry for

her. Just a road beer for me. I sat for a bit, holding the

beer from the small cooler sitting in the passenger seat

like an alien pet, thinking about my mad daddy and

those days and nights sitting cross-legged on a chalk

bluff above Sybille Creek, sitting still like some dumb

beast or a rock cairn marking a nameless grave. Of

course I had visions. At first they were of starving to

death, or being so bored I died for the simple variety of

the act, then it was maybe freezing to death under the

stars or finding myself permanently crippled, locked

into my cross-legged stance like a freak on a creeper.

Later, though, the visions carne: a stone that flew, a

star that spoke like an Oxford don, Virginia Mayo at

my feet. I guess I wasn't a very good Comanche; I had

seen too many movies, and besides, my crazy daddy

had made the whole thing up. But, by god, I had

visions. And none of the drugs, or combinations

thereof, I had ingested as an adult had ever matched

those first ones. But I had never gone back up Sybille

Creek to that chalk bluff either. And never would.

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6 ••••

As I DROVE BACK TO SONOMA, I WONDERED WHAT

Gleeson and poor Albert had done to draw the

meanness out of me. I had bullied Gleeson unmercifully and picked Albert open like a scabbed sore, left them both alone talking to empty drinks. Maybe I just had a

natural-born mean streak. That's what the last woman I

loved had told me when she refused to marry me. She

said that she had two children to raise and that she

didn't want them to learn about being mean from me.

That, and other things. If it hadn't made me feel so

mean, I would have tried to feel guilty about Gleeson

and poor Albert. Maybe even the lady who wouldn't

marry me. But I had washed her out of my system with

the binge that had ended in Elko's ashtrays and toilets.

Then I went home and cleaned up my act so well that I

leaped at the chance to follow Trahearne' on his reckless

binge.

If not forgiveness, at least I had found work again. I

had even found Trahearne, though I knew I didn't have

a chance of finding Betty Sue Flowers. Not in a million

years. So I drank my beer and pushed my El Camino

down the road. That's my act. And has been for years.

Trahearne's act, however, was turning up like a bad

penny or an insistent insurance salesman. When I

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walked into my motel room, his hulk was beached on

the other double bed. A half-gallon of vodka, tonic,

and ice sat on the nightstand between the beds, and a

scrawled note sat on my pillow. Stop me before I kill

again. In the corner of the room, a motley heap of

unopened magazines and paperbacks sat in a silent pile.

I shook his shoulder and asked him what the hell he

was doing in my room, but he just smiled like an

obscene cherub between snores. I cleaned up, changed

into my good Levis, and left him sleeping there without

a comic note. My day hadn't lent itself to comic notes

at all.

Bea had been raised in Sacramento, had never heard

of Betty Sue Flowers, and didn't find out I was a fraud

until much too late in the evening to make any

difference. We did the town, such as it was, entertained

the nightlife with laughter, lies, some of her hornegrown grass, and some of my whiskey. Then we went stumbling back to the motel for the grandest lie of all.

We also carried a stack of Trahearne's books up to the

room, but the great man couldn't autograph them in his

sleep.

"We could wait until tomorrow morning," I suggested, leaning toward my bed.

"Oh, I couldn't do that," Bea giggled. "I've got to

drive to Sacramento before one tomorrow afternoon,

and besides, I couldn't do it with him sleeping right in

the next bed."

"Want me to wake him up?"

"No, silly," she said. "That's what I'm afraid of. "

"Don't worry about that, love," I whispered into a

suddenly accessible ear. "The old boy sleeps like a

stone. And there's one other thing . . .

"

"What?"

"Well, I don't know if I should tell you."

"Do."

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"Well, the old man can't get it up anymore," I said

seriously. "Whiskey and war wounds, you understand.

But he really likes to sleep right next to it while it's

happening."

"You're kidding."

"Not a bit," I said. "He claims that the force of the

sexual emanations gives him absolutely wonderful

dreams. He says that's just about the only pleasure left

for him in life."

"No," she said, shaking her head but still leaning

into me.

"Yes," I said into the soft little ear. "You never

know, he might have a great dream tonight and write a

poem about it tomorrow. I'll make him dedicate it to

you. " Then I had to fake a coughing fit to cover

Trahearne's badly stifled giggles.

"You think he might do that?" she asked shyly.

"I think I can arrange it."

She stepped back and smiled. "Do you do this sort of

chore for him very often?"

"Not nearly often enough."

"Okay," she murmured, then stepped into my arms

again; "but you have to turn out the lights."

"I won't be able to see your freckles," I said.

"You can taste them, silly."

The next morning as the three of us breakfasted in

our beds-hot-house strawberries and real cream,

turkey crepes, and three bottles of California

champagne-Trahearne sighed deeply and finished

signing the last of Bea's books, then said to her, "My

dear, I'm certain that my faithful Indian companion

there was terribly indiscreet last night, that he spoke to

you of matters most private, matters too private to

discuss in the light of day, matters I would consider it a

personal favor if you mentioned to no living soul. If

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word got around, it might be embarrassing, you

understand. "

"Oh I'd die before I'd say a word, Mr. Trahearne,"

Bea cooed, then popped a berry into her wonderful

mouth.

"Please call me Abraham," Trahearne said formally.

"I consider myself in your debt."

"Call me Isaac," I muttered around a mouthful of

turkey.

"And what shall we call me?" Bea asked prettily.

"The Rose of Sharon, the lily of the valley, not black

but nonetheless comely," Trahearne said gravely.

"How about the whore of Babylon?" I suggested.

"Don't be mean," Bea said sweetly, then set a sharp

elbow loose against my ribs as she glanced at her watch.

"Whoever I am," she said, "if I'm not at my mother's

house in Sacramento by one o'clock, my name will be

mud." Then, as if it were the most natural gesture in

the world, she slipped from beneath the covers,

buck-naked, gathered up her neatly folded clothes, and

strolled slowly and unself-consciously into the bathroom, the morning sunlight glimmering off her untanned breasts as they bobbed, off her switching hips.

"Absolutely beautiful," Trahearne muttered as she

closed the door. "And that routine of yours, Sughrue. I

thought I'd heard them all-but sexual emanations and

erotic dreams for the poor impotent old man! Where

did you come up with that?"

"Drugs," I said. "You don't think she bought that

crap, do you?"

"Women love that sort of lie," he said, "they love the

role of helpmate. That's where they get their power

over us, my boy, their victory in defeat, their ascendancy in submission."

"Should I write that down?"

"You never stop playing the jaded detective, do

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you?" he said. "How do you like my sadly wise old man

act?"

"If a pig's ass is pork, old man, how come they call it

ham?"

"Envy, my young friend, is such a mean, small

emotion," he said. "Did you hear me envy your lady

friend's inspired thrashing last night?"

"I heard you breathing hard," I said, "Does that

count?"

Trahearne laughed and I poured the champagne.

When Bea stepped out of the bathroom, Traheame

said, "Let me thank you, my dear, for that beautiful

display. It warmed, as they say, the cockles of my

heart-"

"Is that anything like warming over your cliche?" I

interrupted.

"-and restored my faith in human nature. You're

simply too kind to an old, sick man."

"You're more than welcome, Mr. Trahearne," she

answered, then leaned over to kiss his plump cheek.

His great hand slipped up her thigh to fondly stroke her

rump. "Also, you're a terrible old fraud," she added,

and her firm nurse's hand shot under the covers and

give his unit a ferocious honk. "Gotcha," she giggled.

Trahearne actually blushed, then sputtered around

trying to regain his dignity. She came over to my bed

and presented me with a kiss that was supposed to

make me long for home and hearth, to give up my

wandering ways-for a few days at least-then she said,

"And you, C.W. , you're the most terrible liar in the

whole world-sexual emanations, my ass-but you're

sweet, too. Give me a call anytime." Then she swept

out of the room, her books under her arm, scattering

bright laughter like coins, leaving a faint trace of

woman scent lush in the air.

"By god, that's an exceptional young lady," Trahearne harrumped.

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"You old guys are too easily impressed."

"Ah hal Do I hear the strains of true love hidden

behind the bite of tired cynicism?"

"True love, my ass," I mocked. "It's the sexual