The Woman Who Married a Cloud: The Collected Short Stories (34 page)

The police saw nothing strange about it, particularly my friend Detective Dominick Scanlon who I call whenever I need a favour from the Los Angeles Police Department.

“For Christ’s sake, Ingram, what do you expect with that show of yours? You got more fuckin’ cranks on there than we got in jail! You’re
surprised
one of them took up finger painting on your walls? Remember the talk-show guy they murdered up in Seattle? I’ve told you for years to watch your step. But no, you got to bring on the Charles Manson Fan Club! That show is like a living
National Enquirer
headline—MARILYN MONROE’S ALIVE AND LIVING IN A UFO AND CAME DOWN TO FUCK MY HAMSTER! Jesus, Ingram, are you really astonished? Only thing that surprises me is why it’s taken so long for stuff this sick to happen to you.”

“Come on, Dominick, don’t pull my chain. What can I do about this?”

“Move. Get another unlisted phone number. But hey, as long as you do that show, my friend, you are one radioactive dude. See, you only know those wackos when they’re on your show and mostly on their best behaviour. But I see them when their reactors melt down and we got China Syndromes on our hands. Like when these guys blow their brains out, or whoever’s nearest. I like you a lot, man, but you can’t expect to get away scot-free when you’re handling all that radiation.”

“Cops are supposed to be reassuring, Dominick. But listening to you is like drying myself with a wet towel!”

“Hey,
you
say it every night at the beginning of your show—‘The Aliens Have Landed’. This time they picked your house.”

Outside, heavy drizzle floated like smoke. Michael and I watched it through his kitchen window while we drank tea and ate his good homemade brownies. He held one up and shook it at me.

“What do you think the name of the god of Lovely Little Things is? The god of brownies and Earl Grey tea? Wouldn’t you like to meet him? The god of good movies, your plane leaving on time, puppies, women walking by wearing great perfume ... I’d like to know him.

“It was Clinton who did your house, Ingram. Your tyres too, probably. I didn’t tell you what happened to Anthony Fanelli.”

“Michael, please—”

Anthony Fanelli hated Michael from the first day they met. Why is it that the gifted are disturbed by the duds? Why do the failures often get such a rise out of those who have the world on a string? Michael Billa was a fat little boy who, by his own account, had a complexion like a road map from the time he was ten. He once heard an uncle say to his mother that the boy would have to be a genius to survive his looks.

“I had bad skin and a thin mouth. I was a series of doomed hormones. So you know what I did? Tried to make myself
really
amusing: I wanted to be such fun. That’s not a bad idea. The world always has room for a really good clown. And for me, it worked most of the time. If I was the first to make fun of my fat or my skin and did it funnier than anyone else, then I had them all beat.

“But not Anthony. He had beautiful jet-black hair. It was always as immaculate as a geisha’s. Know what else I remember about him? He kept wonderful things in his pockets. He was the first person I ever knew who had a Swiss Army knife. A gold cigarette lighter. I’m sure it wasn’t gold, but
we
were impressed. I think I wanted him to like me most, but he thought I was the worst. I had as much chance getting him to like me as a dog has chasing a butterfly. That’s the right analogy—I was a slobbery, miserable dog, while Anthony was a big beautiful Monarch butterfly. The only difference being, he was a butterfly with a knife.”

Fanelli was good-looking, tough, charismatic. Even girls like Eddie Devon were secretly fascinated by him and he knew it. Many of us grew up knowing an Anthony Fanelli and in retrospect they’re often vaguely amusing, vaguely nostalgic souvenirs on the shelves of our memory. But back then they were real and formidable and held a kind of human magic that gave them an enchantment we yearned for.

“I could do nothing right in his eyes. Sometimes I had the feeling just the fact I was alive and existed in his vicinity made him furious. Once my mother made a cake for my birthday. Being the sap I was, I brought it to school to share with my ‘friends’. At the time, the show
Mission: Impossible
was on TV and we all watched it religiously. So when I brought the cake into the cafeteria, I said, ‘Everybody has to eat this fast, or else it’ll self-defrost in fifteen seconds!’ Anthony got a look in his eye like he wanted some, but wasn’t about to take a piece of anything that was mine. He got up from the table and said ‘Self-defrost!’ like it was the dirtiest, stupidest thing anyone ever said. And you know what? None of the cool people wanted any after he left. They all got up from the table and walked away. Only Beth Ann Gunsberg stayed and that was because she was as fat as me. There I was with this big beautiful chocolate cake in front of me and too many forks.

“Then Clinton arrived. He just appeared one day in the back of English class. When our teacher, Mrs Sellars, asked him a question, he shrugged and hunkered down in his seat. Anthony was sitting two seats away and, in typical Fanelli fashion, laughed at him. That did it. Clinton, who was about the same size, only looked at him, but you could see the stakes driving themselves into the ground and the tent going up. Right then, that moment.”

“What do you mean?”

“Their relationship. Anthony chose the site by laughing at him, Clinton got out the hammer and put in the stakes. Our tent goes here? Okay, I’ll set it up.

“Mrs Sellars asked Anthony the same question. He answered it with a smile and a long look at Clinton. Deix sat in the corner looking back.

“When class was over, he walked up to Anthony and said, ‘You just fucked the wrong cunt, Blackie.’

“Anthony had the gang around him and said, ‘Cunt? You say you’re a cunt? How interesting!’ But he didn’t do anything. Even then, I think he sensed how dangerous this new guy was.

“Clinton walked up to him and said, nose to nose, ‘I’m going to drink you, Blackie. I’m going to squeeze the blood out of you and drink it like a cocktail. Think about that, Pretty Boy.’

“Then came the egg salad in the ear and we knew Anthony had made a seriously big mistake pissing
this
guy off.

“What was almost worse for him was seeing how well Clinton and I got along! The two kids Fanelli hated most were suddenly friends, which naturally meant he couldn’t kick my ass any more because Clinton would find out.

“An interesting thing is, I still remember the expression on Anthony’s face when he’d see me with Clinton. Know what it was? The look you see on the faces of women who are married to bad men, or drunkards; guys who beat them up sometimes. Helpless, bitter and sad.

“I was bad news, but the most pathetic kid in the school was Grace Elixhausen. That girl looked like God had taken a fly swatter to her. Everything about Grace was a disaster, but she was also a damned nice person, if you ever crossed the line of horror and embarrassment to talk to her.

“Anyway, Anthony got some girl to sneak a camera into the girls’ locker-room. The story I heard later was, at Fanelli’s request, this ‘girlfriend’ of his shot a whole roll of film of Grace. That poor thing. Her life wasn’t bad enough, she had to have
this
happen to her. The pictures were just awful—Grace stark naked in the shower, her bushy black hair flat down on her head, a sad, lost look on her face. Jesus, those pictures showed everything. Grace from the front, the back, bending over ... Nothing was left to the imagination.

“One Monday I came into school and opened my locker to get my books. Glued on every possible inch of the thing were these pictures. I was so stunned both by what was there and, of course, the pictures themselves that I just stood there looking with my mouth open. Finally I heard someone say ‘... Peeping Tom!’ When I turned around, there was Anthony standing behind Grace. She had this indescribable look on her face. She knew it wasn’t only me who’d done this. I’m sure she knew Anthony was involved. But she probably had a secret crush on him too, which only made the whole thing worse. She handled herself beautifully, Ingram. I’ve rarely seen anyone as composed at a moment like that. She said ‘Take them down. Michael. Please get rid of them.’ And then just turned around and walked away. Never asked me again about them. What dignity!

“I didn’t tell the story to Clinton, but someone did because he called that night and asked if it was true. I tried to avoid answering, but his voice got cold and mean. He said he wasn’t going to ask again. So I told him exactly what’d happened for fear someone would have embellished it one way or the other. At least, I wanted him to have it straight.”

“What’d he say?”

Michael reached for another brownie and looked out the window. The rain was still coming down in a blue-grey mist. Clinton, Anthony, Grace, Michael ... What did these teenagers have to do with shit on my walls and the sludge of worry building in my stomach?

“Clinton said: ‘That’s not nice. Grace didn’t need that.’ ”

“That’s all?”

Michael took a sip of tea, swallowed, shook his head. “No, that’s not all.

“Besides being chubby and having bad skin, I wasn’t good in school. But the one thing I
was
good at was English. Looked forward to those classes every day. The teacher was nice and I loved to read. When midterm examinations came around, the one I didn’t have to study for was English.

“The day of the test, we were all sitting outside the exam room waiting to go in. At my school, tests were given in the cafeteria. I remember that place so well—those endlessly long tables, clanking in the kitchen, the steam from things cooking, dishwashers, the workers talking quietly. God, I can even smell the school ravioli they used to serve! Remember the smells? Canned tomato sauce. Just washed plastic trays or formica ... School lunches. But for exams, the room became all business and we went in there scared and not hungry.

“The day of the English examination, we’re all sitting outside the cafeteria at eight in the morning waiting to go in. I’m talking to Perry Cochran about the test and minding my own business. Suddenly from behind, something touches me on the left cheek. I see this look freeze on Perry’s face—half smile, half uh-oh. Reaching up to touch it, I felt something hard and curved. I tried to brush it off, but it zipped away and scratched my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a coat-hanger! Can you imagine? I didn’t even have to look to know who did it.

“I said, ‘Cut it out, Anthony!’

“ ‘Cut
what
out, Lard Ass?’

“ ‘Just cut it out. That’s not funny!’

“ ‘I think it is, Chunkie!’ ”

It was uncanny how Michael was able to put the perfect tone into both of the voices—the jumpy fear of a boy telling a bully to go away; then the wise-guy smirk, I’m-about-to-make-your-life-miserable threats of an Anthony Fanelli. It made me remember my own skin-crawlings at that age in the same situations.

“ ‘Get away from me, willya, Anthony? I never bothered you.’

“ ‘
I never bothered you!
You
alive
bothers me, Billa. The day you die I’ll stop being bothered.’

“Quick as a snake, he hit me across the face with the hanger. Whip! It felt cold and sharp. I don’t know why he did it. I guess he just couldn’t stand it any more, like a shark that smells blood and goes crazy. Even when he knew Clinton would hear.”

“Jesus Christ, Michael, I hope you hit the son of a bitch back.”

He smiled triumphantly and nodded. “As hard as I could, right on the chin! It
almost
cold-cocked him. I think if there’d been just the slightest bit more behind the punch it would’ve knocked him out. As it was, he staggered and his hands dropped. The hanger fell and made a crazy clatter on the floor. I remember
that
sound!

“I couldn’t believe what I’d done. Then some girl screeched ‘Don’t let him do that, Anthony!’ And he came at me like a cruise missile. Boom!”

“Did you fight back?” I saw the whole scene and felt so sorry for the fat kid who didn’t stand a chance: who’d just done the only brave act of his young life and was about to get crunched for it. I wanted him to hit back so hard; to show the Anthony Fanelli’s of all our worlds he wasn’t going to win just because the other was scared, or because it had always been so.

“Yeah, I fought back! As he came at me, I swung again and hit him right below the chin.”

“Great!
Good
!” I couldn’t sit still in my chair. I wanted to see Fanelli go down and lose. To be shocked the world wasn’t always his and was about to go away from him for the rest of his life.

Michael sighed. “But I didn’t hit him as hard this time ’cause I was so scared. He hit me two shots on either side of my face and I went down. He slipped and fell a little, trying to hit me again.

“But then this amazing thing happened, Ingram. I grabbed him and got him in a headlock! I’ve always had incredibly strong arms and suddenly there was Anthony Fanelli under my arm, totally helpless. But
now
what? What was I going to do? If I let him go, he’d get up and pound me. Maybe if I held tight enough he’d give up, or pass out. You know, like they always do in professional wrestling? So I just held on. It was crazy—the exam room was five feet away, any moment a teacher could have come out; but this fight had some kind of karma in it and we had to do it, no matter what.”

“What happened?”

“He punched me in the balls! So hard you can’t imagine. People fought dirty then, but
that
move was taboo. You never did it. But I guess Fanelli was desperate and couldn’t think of anything else.

“I’ve never experienced such pain in my life. I might’ve even passed out for a few seconds because when I came to, he was on top of me, holding my arms down with his knees. The first thing I do remember was him up there and his fist coming down on me in blurred slow motion. I don’t even think I felt it hit my mouth. But I do remember my blood bursting up and splashing all over his white shirt.

“ ‘You fuck! You fat fuck!’ he kept saying over and over again as he hit me. Bap! Bap! Bap!