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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781550962215 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Exile Editions |
| Publication date: | 08/24/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 152 |
| File size: | 604 KB |
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CHAPTER 1
MARY STEENBURGEN
It was almost midnight, and none of them had really had a proper dinner yet. So, right after her husband came in the cleaning woman's eye, Denise wrapped herself in a bathrobe, double-knotted the belt, and went into the kitchen. She cut up some dill pickles. Then she made a mound of sandwiches from the previous night's roast beef.
Weak and mildly tachycardic after his orgasm, Cliff felt his way along the kitchen wall, leaning. He'd lost 90 pounds since the heart attack. The leftover skin – his buttocks hung like ancient drapes.
"Cover up, for God's sake," Denise said in the kitchen.
Cliff sighed a fake sigh. "Wasn't that great," he said.
"Yeah. Really great."
Denise tried to stack the sandwiches in an artful way. She thought of her tentative tongue-kissing with Clara, this woman. Clara's vast areolas. She'd never seen Cliff so excited. About anything. Ever.
Denise put the tray of sandwiches on the living room coffee table. Cliff put on a CD. The best of Styx. Denise cleared her throat. She winced at the thought of tomorrow's workday. She made a mental note to remember to leave her workspace spotless, empty her own garbage. Lighten the load for Clara, the new cleaning woman at the office. It was the least she could do.
Cliff had actually suggested paying her, Clara, for the three-way, when Denise was still planning things. But Denise knew that Clara would never accept money. And she lived with her mother, so her living expenses were minimal anyway. Of course, she could have as many sandwiches as she wanted, and one of them would drive her to the subway, no problem.
Clara came into the living room, fully dressed. She said something but the Styx was cranked, drowning her out. Denise screamed at Cliff to turn the music down.
"Hi," Clara said. "Thank you for having me over."
Denise smiled, looking at the gold-framed painting of her dead dog on the wall above the stereo.
"Of course," Denise said. "Thank you for coming over. Have a sandwich."
Cliff wrapped his arms around Clara from behind.
"I've got another kind of sandwich in mind," Cliff said.
"Cliff," Denise said. "The moment has passed."
"I love sandwiches," Clara said, taking a sandwich. "I'm in love with sandwiches!"
Denise went to the bathroom. Cliff tried to chat with Clara. Clara mumbled things, her mouth full of sandwich.
When Cliff was near death, he made Denise promise him a few things. If he died, she should try to keep the house going and not buy a condo. She could remarry, but only if the guy was shorter than Cliff and made less money than Cliff did.
Denise loved Cliff. The thought of his death bore a jagged bolt down the middle of her.
If he survived, he wanted to put a tanning bed in the basement. He wanted to be more sexually adventurous, have three-ways, go to swingers' parties, try it up the ass with Denise.
"Yes, yes, sure, yes," Denise said at the time, petting his puffy palm.
As her February fake bake and anal fissure could attest, Denise held to her word. And now they'd had the three-way. Cliff enjoyed it; Denise had not. It was forced, slightly sad, poorly lit, Denise recalled, as she rose from the bed after Cliff came, thinking that the whole tableau resembled a crime scene photograph.
Maybe if they'd picked a stranger. Or a really pretty prostitute. One who looked like Mary Steenburgen. Denise had always found her attractive.
She sat on the toilet, going over her reluctant, gummy seduction of the slightly stupid cleaning lady. The Tim Hortons tea biscuits. The vague promise of a desk job. Bingo, even. Bingo, where Clara screamed "I've got fuckin' Bingo!" so maniacally that Denise instinctively ducked under the table.
Poor Clara. Denise felt like she should give money to a relevant charity now that her husband had come in Clara's eye. But she couldn't think of a relevant charity.
* * *
"It's always soo nice to make new friends," Clara said, swaying to Styx's "Babe."
"Absolutely," Cliff said. "Hey, Clara ... have you ... have you ever done cocaine?
Denise hurled the Canadian Living she was skimming across the living room.
"Good Christ, Cliff! Enough is enough. It's after midnight! God. God. This isn't us. I missed Jay Leno. Please let's just ... I'm sorry, Clara."
Clara laughed.
"No problemo. Hey. Really. No problemo at all. My last old man and me, we used to party all the time. I still like to party. Love it. Someone asks me what I want to be in my wildest dreams, I say I want to be all fucked up on killer shit! That would be so wild. I'd be super happy. My mum wouldn't like it. She says I'm going to hell because I like colourful panties. So. Hey! I got a little piece in my purse, a little rock. You guys wanna party a little?"
"We don't go in for that," Denise said. "Thank you, though."
"Well," Cliff said. "I might as well try a pinch."
"A pinch!" Denise sneered. "It's not oregano, you know. Cliff. Cliff. You have a 9:15 appointment with Dr. Brennan in the morning. In nine hours, to be exact."
"Denise, clam up for awhile, 'kay?"
"Nice," Clara said. "Nice! This is so wild."
Denise looked at her husband. She slept at the foot of his hospital bed, night after night. Got to know all the nurses. One of them offered to pray with her. She prayed, hand in hand, with a very old Catholic nurse over Cliff, in his coma, in the hospital.
Now she watched as Clara drew a glass pipe from her purse and Cliff clapped his hands like a toddler on his birthday.
If Cliff dropped dead doing drugs with Clara, Denise would not be held accountable. She would not be held accountable, and she would not care. She would let Clara call 911.
How was she going to get hard-drug stench out of the upholstery? With book club at her house that Wednesday? Maybe Clara the Cracked-Out Cleaning Lady would have a few tips.
Cliff told Clara that she could stay the night. Behind her, Denise gestured wildly, wanting Cliff to immediately rescind the offer. Too late. Clara accepted. Denise stormed off to the guest bedroom, leaving Cliff and Clara to their druggy ruminations.
She lay in the dark on the hard single guest bedroom bed. What had happened to the man who proposed to her on a burry glen in Scotland? The man who said he understood and admired the fact that literature and curling were more important to her than children? Had she grown stodgy? Would the sensualist she proclaimed herself to be have stayed up and smoked crack with Clara?
Death. Cliff had come close to death, and he continued to live like a dying man. Denise wanted to live alongside Cliff, freewheeling, but she couldn't pretend she was dying. She was a tall, tidy woman; her nail beds were vermillion, her face ruddy, she took stairs two, even three at a time. She wanted to have fun, but she couldn't pretend decadence. Her slow, small, perfect pulse refuted it.
Her mind whirred. She considered taking half an Ativan. Instead she got up, re-tied her housecoat, went back into the living room.
"Woo!" Clara hooted. "She's back in business! Come and sit."
"Yeah, no. It really is time that we wrap things up, Clara. Again, thank you so much."
"But Denise," Cliff said, shivering. "I've just smoked crack."
"That's so great. I'll be right back."
Denise went to the kitchen for her purse. She pulled out all the bills in her wallet: three tens and a twenty. She called Clara into the kitchen.
"Hey," said Clara in the kitchen. "It's the right time of the night! 'It's the Right Time of the Night' – who sang that song? I love that song."
"Jennifer Warnes, if I'm not mistaken. Now, here's some money for a taxi. I'm calling Co-Op Cabs. One should be along in five minutes."
"I don't want to go home. I just started to party."
Phone in hand, Denise fixed Clara with a look she used to use on her dog when he was being obstinate. Clara clammed up and followed Denise into the foyer. They waited there, not speaking, until the cab arrived.
Cliff was dancing robotically to "Mr. Roboto" when Denise returned to the living room. Denise gave him the "bad dog" glare and he, too, stopped what he was doing.
She turned off the stereo. She gestured at the couch; he sat.
"We need to talk," she said.
"I'm sorry I smoked crack," he said. "It seemed like the thing to do. I didn't want to be elitist. But I'll never do it again. I feel awful. Terrible tachycardia."
"If you ever smoke crack again, our marriage is over. But that's not what I want to talk about. Three-ways ..."
Cliff put up his hand, certain of what Denise was about to say.
"That's it for three-ways, too. I've had my fun, really."
Denise shushed Cliff.
"When next we have a three-way, I don't want to have to do all the legwork. I'm not going to get all panicky trying to please you, picking the first person I see. We'll find someone online, vet them thoroughly, together, and then arrange a nice, elegant encounter. Also, if the third person is female –"
"If the third person is female?"
"If you can try crack, you can try dick. Anyway, if the third person is female, I have a very specific type of woman I'm attracted to. I'm not going to eat out any old, blank-eyed drug casualty like I did tonight."
With Cliff hopped up on crack, Denise realized that she could now proceed to describe, in minute detail, the kind of woman she wanted, and Cliff would be unable to cite fatigue and beg off.
So Denise went on and on about what kind of woman she liked, surprising herself at her particularity: small hands, real nails, unfussy brows, B-cup breasts, ample buttocks, dark, curly hair like Mary Steenburgen's, a crinkly smile like Mary Steenburgen's ...
Denise found herself getting excited as the sexy archetype took shape. She looked over at Cliff; he was taking his pulse, alternately at the wrist and throat.
She hoped that he would be okay. She hoped that he would survive, at least until the next three-way.
CHAPTER 2WHAT TO WEAR
I can't – I cannot – wear what I'm wearing to meet my sister.
I pivot in the mirror. I try different poses. Laconically slouched. Balletically balanced, chest out and shoulders back. It doesn't matter. I still look like hell.
From the neck up is okay. My hair is buzzed down to bristle. My face is angular, hollow-cheeked. So that's all fine and good. From the neck up, I look like an elite athlete. But from the neck down, well. That's another thing altogether.
This T-shirt exposes my thin, vascular arms. It clings to my round, hard gut that juts out at impossible angles. Looks like I'm smuggling an oven. I'm trying to think – do I own a poncho? Do I dare wear a poncho? Jutting gut or poncho? Jutting gut or poncho? It's such a "Sophie's Choice."
The last time my sister saw me, eight years ago, I had a perfect body, a waterfront condo, a daily column in the city's best and biggest newspaper, two nervous Weimaraners, and a beautiful Spanish boyfriend who was prone to rectal prolapse. I'm sure Sheila didn't know that last bit about the prolapse, unless Javier told her. They really hit it off, and Javier only knew a handful of English words and phrases. That is interesting. I am fine. Herpes. How dare you! And, of course, rectal prolapse. So I guess it might have slipped out in conversation. In any case, Sheila worshipped me, and was envious of all that I had.
Back then, Sheila was trying to be an actress. She had played the Diane Keaton part in Crimes of the Heart, her last year of theatre school. A talent agent saw her performance and took her on as a client. The agent sent her out on countless auditions, but Sheila never got work. Supposedly her agent said that the casting people invariably said that Sheila looked "too intellectual," even though she isn't intellectual. At all.
Floundering, Sheila asked me if she could borrow some money. I immediately agreed. I've always helped her out. Our mother died young and our father is an iceberg, so I've always felt responsible for her.
I asked why she needed money. She said she had to get a nose job. She said her life would be worthless if she didn't get a nose job.
We were standing around the marble island in my old kitchen. "A nose job," I said aloud. Javier nodded understandingly, understanding nothing. I looked heavenward, pondering.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't facilitate self-mutilation."
"But it's not self-mutilation," Sheila said. "A doctor will be doing it, not me."
"I'm sorry. Way too many gay men have been responsible for making women look ridiculous. I have to buck the trend."
"It's not a trend. It's my life. It's my livelihood."
"I'm sorry, Sheila. I don't agree with cosmetic surgery. Period."
"Fine. You can be a rich fag with everything, and I'll just fucking die. In the gutter."
She stormed out. I called and called, for several months. She never picked up, never called back. What more could I do? I was saddened, I missed her – perhaps her total independence was for the best.
I got shingles, all down the right side of my chest, so bad it made my doctor wince. He tested me for HIV; it came back positive. And I only had 205 T cells. He put me on the cocktail. It made me sick for months. I had no health insurance. I burned through all my savings. Javier literally went out for milk and never came back. I sold the condo.
An AIDS Committee volunteer, this nice older woman, ran errands for me and walked Ike and Tina, my dogs. I had never really bonded with them. They were always so yappy and frenetic, and now that I was sick I just wanted to drown them. So I asked the woman if she wanted them. They seemed to like her better anyway. She took them and renamed Ike Marty. Marty and Tina. They sound like Palm Springs swingers. But supposedly Marty comes when she calls.
So here I am, getting by on disability, living in a coop that houses poor people with HIV. And I stand, before my mirror, assessing my body in fluorescent light. The meds caused lipodystrophy, sucking the fat from my face and arms and legs and plopping it on my midsection. I feel like a monster. I mean, I am glad that I survived. I just don't want to look so blatantly like a survivor.
* * *
I am a member of an internet dating site for men with HIV.
After months of silently lurking, a few weeks ago, I started chatting online with a guy in my area. Twenty-six, a chef, good grammar and spelling. He sent me a pic – cute as a button. I sent him a pic that I took of myself last year, black-and-white, head and shoulders. He wrote back right away, said I was handsome. We agreed to meet. At Woody's. I'll be the one in the black-and-white striped sweater, I wrote.
I was early. I had two pints before I saw him. He looked at me. Kept on walking. Seemed to circle the bar. I was sure he'd leave. But he came back to my table and said hello. He was wearing a pendant made from a hearing aid.
"Are you Ron?" he said.
"Hi," I said. "Kieran?"
"How's it going?"
"Good. Can I get you a drink?"
"Oh. No. That's okay. Thanks." He took a stool and sat. Smiled at me. Stopped smiling, abruptly.
"So," I said. "I like your necklace. Where did you get it?"
"A friend made it."
"Oh. Anyone I might have heard of?"
He did his smiling/stop smiling thing again. "Listen," he said. "I'm a very candid person."
"Good," I said. "That's a good way to be."
"Yeah. So. I have to say. I'm looking for someone who's kind of ... how do I say it?"
"Candidly?" I said.
"I'm looking for someone who's kind of at the same stage of the journey. You know?"
"Oh. You said in your ad that you were looking for someone older."
"Yeah. No. I am. I guess I should say that I'm looking for someone at the same stage of the HIV journey."
"Oh. What stage are you at?"
His eyes scanned the ceiling. "You know. I'm totally healthy. And happy. And, you know, unhindered. In any way. By HIV."
"Me, too."
"Right. But you've, I think, had it longer than me."
"Yeah. Probably."
"And you had to take some of the earlier drugs."
"I don't know. Yeah."
"Right. So I haven't had to deal with that. With the earlier drugs and the – you know. Deformity or whatever."
He said deformity. I tried to be radiant and smile sagely, inured to insult. But I wanted to kick his head in. I had perceived myself as weathered. Grizzled, maybe. But deformed?
Am I deformed?
Say I'm deformed. Am I unequivocally, empirically deformed? Or is deformity a mutable thing, its official definition changing over time? Is deformity sexy, sometimes?
This is the dreck that keeps me up at night. I was handsome. Now I wear a girdle and eye shadow. Somebody told me that eye shadow makes all your other features incidental. I wear lots and lots of eye shadow.
Kieran put his hand over mine and wished me luck. Then he left. I got very drunk and went home with an older guy. We did it in his garage so as not to wake his mother.
* * *
So last week, over the phone, I told my father that I had HIV. Not because I thought he should know, or for his support. It was just something to say. Something that might make him pause before he went on again about his riding lawnmower.
"I've got HIV, eh?" I said.
"Huh. What's that?"
"The virus that causes AIDS."
"Oh. Yeah. Huh. How'd you get in that jackpot?"
"I don't know. The usual way."
"Well. Isn't that something."
"Yeah."
"You still got those skinny dogs?"
"No."
I thought that was the end of it. But my news must have made an impression on him, because he called Sheila and told her that I had AIDS. She called me yesterday. "Ron. Ron? Ron! How are you, my love?"
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Pretty"
by .
Copyright © 2011 Greg Kearney.
Excerpted by permission of Exile Editions Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Mary Steenburgen,
what to wear,
do you want to burn to death and look like steak with hair?,
she was a little teapot,
scoodly! doo! wop! wow!,
ellipses,
Jeannette, the heretical homemaker,
Cloris for one day,
tycoon,
the tinker,
the tinker in love,
acknowledgements,