Conceived Without Sin (6 page)

"Why not, lifting heavy stuff is not swimming, you know," Donna rejoined, beginning to enjoy the strangeness of the conversation. It reminded her of
the dinner table at her home. "And no one has ever described me as fair before. You sure are weird."

"Thank you," Buzz replied, pleased.

"It wasn't meant to be a compliment," Donna said dryly.

"But I took it as one. The world we live in is so messed up morally and culturally that being weird is the only normal way to be!"

"I told you he was a piece of work, didn't I?" Sam whispered into Donna's
ear, bending over awkwardly to get close, purposely speaking loud enough for Buzz to hear him. He straightened up. "Hey, your omelette's burning, Buzzman."

"Hey, you're right." Buzz turned back to the stove. "Help yourself to Pepsi or juice in the cooler by the window. I don't have wine or beer to offer. I'm an alcoholic. Or did Sam already tell you I'm a drunk and in AA and all that, Donna?"

"No, I didn't tell her. I knew you would tell her right off the bat," Sam responded quickly.

Donna laughed.

"What's so funny?" Buzz asked.

"I think I finally found a couple of friends in Rocky River," she said quite seriously, the laughter curiously gone.

"Good, I knew we would be best friends the minute you walked through the door, Donna. I like you. You're a real snot," Buzz told her without
turning from his giant omelette.

"Snottiness, the perfect basis for friendship?" Sam asked to no one in particular. "Can you turn that into a proof for the existence of God?"

"I'm sure I can, if you want," Buzz reassured his tall friend. "But after dinner, which is now ready. Paper plates are in the cupboard, Sam–over to your right.

"And pull out a chair for our new friend Donna. Remember, we're
perfect gentlemen tonight," he added, looking at the woman.

"I feel as if I should curtsy or something," she observed sweetly.

"Be my guest," Buzz responded.

"I already am," she rejoined quickly.

"You always get the last word in, don't you?" Buzz got in.

"Always," she got back in.

"Then I guess you win," he shot back.

"So, you get to decide who wins, eh?" she asked with an arched eyebrow.

"I just
did."

"When?" she asked.

"Just then," he explained.

Sam's head started to turn back and fourth during the repartee.

"Okay," she confirmed.

"Okay," he asserted.

"Dokey," she zipped.

"Cut it out, you guys," Sam interrupted. "We'll be here all night."

"What's wrong with that?" Donna asked.

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?" Buzz asked with fake indignation.

Sam just shook his head, but didn't answer.

"Well then," Buzz said finally, winking at Donna. "Let's monge!"

A few minutes later, Donna started laughing when Buzz told the story of how he came to be called Buzz…

6

"I was probably eight or nine years old–I don't really remember. But I do know I was in third grade. Mom was long gone–I have no memories of her. Nobody called me anything but Buzz by fourth grade. It was a Saturday, and Dad got
drunk as usual. Passed out on his Lazyboy.

"You have to understand where we lived at the time. It was the most boring place on the face of the earth: Waretown, New Jersey.

"Waretown is a stinky, sleepy little town in South Jersey, where nobody lives. Actually, a few people live there, but to give you some perspective, there are more people within five square miles of this apartment than in the
whole southern half of New Jersey. Anyway, we only lived in Waretown for a couple of years before moving north. I think Dad lost his job or something–I wasn't filled in on the details and Dad was between steady girlfriends at the time of the episode.

"It was just me and Dad, our trailer, and about a hundred thousand pine trees on this side street off a side street. I think that Dad won the property
in a poker game. He was a great poker player. And actually, Waretown is kinda nice, and people who have boats like to live there because of the inlets. There are summer cottages and such, but for me, a third grader, it was dull as doorjambs.

"Sometimes Dad wouldn't come home if he was on a trip, and a ladyfriend of his from the town would cook me dinner and look in on me. It was creepy sleeping
alone in that creaky old trailer. Most days, the bus would drop me off after school, and I'd walk half a mile to the trailer. I was bored. I didn't read well or read much, and this was way before cable, so there usually was nothing on television except for reruns of Lost in Space.

"But this was a Saturday, during summer vacation, and the world seemed all right. I was feeling pretty good. My dad
was a lush, but he was never violent or anything. He loved me a lot. Maybe I was the thing he loved most when he wasn't falling into a bottle. His passing out was pretty normal, just a part of my world.

"I headed out the front door.

"There was this brand spanking new thing on the front porch. It was in a big potato sack. Don't ask me why Dad put his new toy in a potato sack. Probably to hide it
from me. It had a receipt on it. A big red sale tag.

"You know how good new things smell; all plastic and metal and motor oil. I could smell the gas. My dad must have made sure the salesman fired that baby up before buying it. It was almost as tall as me, it seemed, and half my weight.

"It was green and gray and calling me. 'Gwynne, pick me up.'

"Who was I to ignore it?

"I picked it up. Boy, was
it heavy! But I was a strong kid, big for my age. Strong? Heck, I was a phenom. I could out-Indian wrestle anybody in my class or two classes above me. And most of the kids older than that. Sam could tell ya. They called me the Bear on the playground.

"But mostly they called me Gwen, pronouncing
Gwynne
like the girl's name by accident. Hell,
nobody
called me Gwynne. A few guys called me Woody.
After a while, I stopped trying to correct people and let them call me Gwen. It was pathetic. Even the principal of the school called me Gwen during an assembly in second grade, when I won an award for not being absent all year long. At least that's what everybody told me. I missed that day of school. I kid you not.

"Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I think it was the smell and the challenge of the
thing that did it. I held it up in the air, the long business end of the thing shining in the sun, eye level, and I knew why God made me and why I was in the world: to level things. To cut things down, for good or for bad.

"I reached down, grabbed the rubber handle on the pull cord, and fired that chainsaw up on the first crank. It sounded great–big and loud and louder–and I just held it up in
the air, revving that baby louder and louder, amazed that the old man wasn't up and out and after me.

"After a bit–I don't know how long–Dad wasn't coming out, and I had this buzzing saw in my hands, and I was getting used to the weight. And well, there was a wooden dock up the river with a bunch of little fishing boats, the rowboat kind with tiny little outboards on them. Thank God for those
boats, because they rid me of the name Gwynne forever. I guess you figured out why they call me Buzz, but there are a few more twists. The boats are one twist.

"I cut up the landward end of the dock, and watched the boats drift away with it. It was mostly two by fours and some pilings. Lucky it was low tide, and the water was up to my ankles. It was nice practice to avoid the saw kicking back
on me. I was surprised how easy it was. I guess I was too dumb to kill myself. Our few neighbors never saw me, though I suppose a few heard me and figured it was somebody cutting down trees. I guess if the saw had kicked back and cut off my right arm, they would've called me Lefty.

"Then I carved a name in the patch of trees. I didn't carve the words into the bark. Pine tree bark doesn't work
that way anyway. No, I had to carve the name by cutting down trees in a pattern. Maybe it was the Gilligan's Island influence in my life. I don't know. Either way, if you were in a helicopter, you could've read the word Mary in tree stumps behind our trailer. Probably still can.

"Why Mary? Well, I did have a crush on a blond girl in my class named Mary Papchak. But I remember thinking I'd do something
for Jesus to say thank you for letting me have such a great time, for the miracle of my dad staying passed out. It was like I figured that Jesus was up in heaven and could read His mother's name in my backyard. It was the least I could do. I didn't pray much back then, and Dad only went to Mass every month or so, but I liked Jesus, and I liked Mary.
Love
is too strong a word.
Like
is about right.
I was happy when the nun at Sunday School told us Jesus was my brother. That made Mary my mother. I needed one. Still do need her, more than ever.

"So after about twenty minutes, and halfway through the letter
r
in Mary, I ran out of gas; so I filled the saw up using the metal gas can under the porch. Started right up on the first pull. Professional athletes call it being in the zone. I was in
the zone. It was all so
adult.
It was so, well, interesting, after such a boring summer.

"So I finished off my first major piece of artwork for Our Lady, and started cutting anything in sight. I was truly amazed that Dad didn't wake up when I carved up the wooden porch.

"I tried to cut the trunklid of Dad's Impala, but it didn't cut, and the buzzsaw kicked like a mule. It made really cool sparks,
though. My arms were getting tired. I knew I was going to get in trouble, but in a strangely adult way, I was willing to accept the consequences of my actions.

"That's a liberating thing. Accepting the responsibility.

"I woke Dad up when I started on the corner of the trailer near my bedroom. I was gonna cut myself a doorway. I guess I wanted him to wake up.

"I gotta hand it to him. He was kind
of groggy, but what I had done was better than coffee. He was bald, and thin, and handsome in his own way. He almost fell when he went through the door without the porch, but kept his balance. He blew his nose on the bottom edge of his T-shirt. He didn't even yell at me. He just shook his head and chuckled.

"'You're just like your mother, Gwynny, dammit,' was all he said. Then he chuckled again.
He even seemed touched when I told him that I spelled out Mary in the woods.

"He told me that what I had done was so astounding that he couldn't think of a proper punishment for it. It was like stumping God with a Jeopardy question–" Buzz began speaking in a game show host voice, "–Category! Bad Kids! Answer: A deed so awful that a hung-over dad can't think of a punishment for it.' Bing! 'What
is cutting down a bunch of stuff with a chainsaw, Alex!'

"Anyway, he settled on public humiliation, and called the police after supper. He hadn't uttered a word to me all during the meal. The cops came by, and he must have told them to scare the hell out of me, because they did. They were all serious, and took out little notebooks and took notes and stuff. He must have convinced them to treat
me as if I was a real criminal. They even threatened to take me to the station and fingerprint me, but my dad stopped them short of putting me in the squad car. I even saw one of them wink.

"Dad paid for all the damages, of course, and I didn't get an allowance ever again. He never held it over my head, though. I guess if you're a screw-up, you don't mind it as much in others, especially the ones
you love.

"There was an article in the Asbury Park Press the next day. School started a couple of weeks later, and all the kids in school knew about it. The whole town must have been talking about it. The article had a lot of stuff about the dock and the boats. No mention was made of the Mary in the woods.

"Anyway, I was a hero. The other kids thought it was cool. Even the disapproving looks from
the teachers had a kind of jealous 'I wish I could cut a bunch of things down' quality to them. Maybe I imagined that. I wasn't proud of myself, but I enjoyed the attention. You can guess the rest. Butch Hobbs called me Buzz that first day back to school and it stuck. Even Dad called me Buzz.

"So that's why they call me Buzz. I earned it. I cut things down. What do you think, Donna?"

"What do
I think? I'm sorry," Donna replied. "I missed the part after you said you lived in Waretown. Could you start over?"

Sam laughed. Buzz laughed even harder. The omelettes were long gone. It was coffee time. Buzz got up to get it.

Donna spoke up. "Why don't we all tell a story about when we were kids? I remember hearing on the radio once that your first memories can tell you a lot about your personality."

Sam was quite uncomfortable with the suggestion.

Buzz brought the coffee to the table, and noticed Sam's discomfort. He decided to cut down that discomfort by putting him on the spot.

"Why don't you start, Sam?" Buzz suggested…

Chapter Three

1

Something about Buzz's kitchen felt old-fashioned. There was no microwave oven or electric can opener. Not one pot hanging on the metal hooks above the stove had a teflon coating. The building was old, and the kitchen had a vague smell, barely detectable, from decades of fried eggs and bacon.

It was a place for coffee and conversation, not a place for eating fast and rushing off.

They sat around an old formica table with a stainless steel trim edge. After some prodding, Sam began his story. Buzz lit a cigarette and was surprised when Donna asked to bum one. Buzz put cream in Sam's coffee. Sam took a sip and a deep breath. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, then the Red Memory came to him…

"…three years old or so. I was in the backyard with a friend. I was standing
on the picnic table. We had a large yard in a development. I don't remember many details. My friend from next door, Timmy Goldblum, was making something with loose bricks next to the picnic table. I don't know where they came from. I remember that the grass was really green. It must have been sod and my parents had just had the house built. It was after dinner, but the sun was still out because it
was summer.

"Timmy noticed me and told me not to jump off the picnic table. I remember that I wasn't planning on jumping off the table until he told me not to. Then, I just
had
to jump.

"So I jumped, and I was proud of jumping over Tim and the bricks until I landed, head first, into a brick which I hadn't seen beyond Tim's pile. I cut my forehead up pretty bad, and started to bleed. I've heard
that head wounds bleed a lot. It took twelve stitches, and you can still see a scar if you look closely.

"'What a schmuck!' Timmy cried out, disgusted, and even now, I can remember he was excited. Don't ask me to translate what
schmuck
means in Yiddish.

"I climbed to my feet, and looked up at the house. It was red. The grass was purple. The Thunderbird in the driveway wasn't beige anymore. It
was a bright red!

"Timmy was trying to hold my hand, but I wouldn't let him. I was crying for my mom, running faster and faster toward the house. I knew I was in trouble, but I was afraid that I was dying. I was confused, too. And happy about the red. Of course, I was too young to realize that the blood coming off my forehead had gotten into my eyes and tinted everything.

"My memory blots out
there for a while. I don't remember finding my mother. The next thing I remember is a memory that I think of often when I drive my car.

"My mom got our other neighbor, Mrs. Epstein, and Mrs. Epstein drove us in the Thunderbird to the hospital, though I don't remember getting to the hospital. I was in my mother's lap, the pain was gone. She was whispering nice things to me, calming me. The red
tint was gone. It was a warm summer night, and the convertible top was open, and I looked past my mother to the sky. It must have been early evening, because a full moon was rising above the trees. It wasn't quite dark out yet.

"I remember how the moon was following us. You know the optical illusion I'm describing. This was the first time I ever noticed it. It delighted me. I was warm, in my mother's
arms, and curious about the moon. 'Mommy, how come the moon is following us?'

"'Because it loves you,' she told me. "That's where the memory ends.

"Mom must have died within a few months. It was a car accident, Donna. That's my last memory of her. I'm thankful that it's very happy and vivid." Sam finished.

"Thankful to whom?" Buzz asked.

"Beg your pardon?" Sam asked.

"You said you were thankful
that your memory was warm and vivid. To whom are you thankful?"

Donna watched Sam's eyes drop to the table, and his hands, normally calm, nervously fumbled with a napkin.

"I know where you're going with that question, Buzz, and it won't work. It's just a figure of speech. A remnant of western civilization. I'm not thankful to God."

"That must really stink," Donna observed sympathetically.

"Not
having a mom?" Sam asked.

"No. I'm sorry your mom died. Not having a mom is really awful, but what I meant was not having anyone to thank when something good happens to you."

"I can thank real people for things. I thank my father for things."

"So can I," Buzz offered kindly. "But I also thank God for things. I mean, who do we thank for getting better after we're sick?"

"Simple: nobody," Sam said.

"Nobody, huh?" Donna replied skeptically. "That still stinks. It's…it's so dry. I just met you, Sam, and I don't want to be critical of your beliefs, or should I say lack of belief, but they're so foreign to me."

"What Sam thinks is always interesting, Donna, because he
doesn't
believe. He's honest about it. That's what I like about you, Sam. You're honest, and about as thoughtful and kind a person
as I've ever known. You never get defensive. You just reject any kind of proof of God and move on. You don't refute belief. You ignore it. Isn't that a fair assessment, Sam?"

"Pretty much. Christianity or Buddhism or Taoism simply don't interest me. Business interests me. Sports interest me, art interests me–"

"You like art?" Donna interrupted. "Who's your favorite artist?"

"El Greco, hands down."

"I like El Greco, too. But my favorite is van Gogh."

"He cut his ear off," Buzz said with a strange smile.

"Yeah, he did," Sam said.

"Do you ever wonder why when people bring up Vincent van Gogh they always tell you he cut his ear off?" Buzz asked. "I mean, they bring it up even though you already know it."

"No, Buzz," Sam replied. "I don't wonder about that."

"Well, I do. There's a whole grouping
of information like that. For example, when you're getting ready to play any kind of sport, your coach always says, 'You should stretch out, Sam Fisk. Stretching out prevents injuries.' As if we hadn't heard that a million times before."

"Where are you going with this, Buzz?" Sam asked, slightly frustrated.

"The usual place, Sam–nowhere," Buzz responded. "I have more on my list."

"I just thought
of a couple," Donna piped in.

Sam shook his head.

"Well?" Buzz asked Donna.

"Well, people always tell you that the original ingredient in Coca-Cola was cocaine," she began. "Then, they
always
say, for emphasis, 'That's where they got the name from.' As if they just let you in on some kind of secret." Donna's tone was almost miffed.

"That's it!" Buzz practically yelled. "You've got it, Donna! Coke.
Excellent example. My favorite is the star one."

"All right, Buzz, I'll bite. What's the 'star one?'" Sam asked, finally hooked, and trying to think of his own example.

"Okay," Buzz started. "You're on a date. Summertime. Romantic. You're walking along the beach with your significant other, hand-in-hand. The sand is like gritty pillows under your toes. The engagement ring sits in a velveteen box
in your pocket, waiting. The wind softly whispers off Lake Erie–"

"We get the picture." Sam rolled his eyes.

"Let him tell his story his own way," Donna corrected. "No matter how long-winded and dull it is."

"Ha ha, Donna," Buzz said, false hurt in his voice. He took a sip of coffee and a drag off his cigarette.

"Anyway, it's a romantic situation, you look up at the stars, and say, 'Look, my love,
the stars in the sky are so beautiful,' and just as you're about to quote Shakespeare and pull the ring out, she says back, in a kind of know-it-all voice, 'We're not really seeing the stars–'"

Donna cut in to finish for Buzz, "We're seeing the light they're reflecting a million years later because they're light years away!"

They both laughed heartily, then looked at Sam, who wasn't laughing.
He was lost in thought. Then his face brightened.

"I've got one!" Sam said excitedly.

"Go for it!" Donna encouraged.

"Okay," Sam began. "When you bring up the topic of computers, somebody always points out that they're getting faster and faster."

Sam's observation was met with unenthusiastic silence for a moment.

"Well, I guess that's true," was all Donna could say. She smiled warmly at Sam.

"Right," Buzz added.

"Okay, so it's not the funniest example," Sam protested. "But I've heard it a hundred times."

"Yeah, as if there's some computer company out there trying to make computers
slower
or something," Donna commented.

"I can just see the meeting in the boardroom," Buzz said. Then, in a lower, faux-businessman's voice, "'If we could just get the boys in R & D to put in that older,
outdated chip, we can slow those babies down to a snail's pace!'

"Okay, not bad, Sam. Not bad. You can't help it if you're not very funny. I love you anyway, man. In fact, your example was touching. Can we hug?"

Sam just rolled his eyes.

"My turn for a story," Donna said.

2

"…don't know how old I was. Three, maybe. It's not a long memory, and doesn't have any chainsaws or blood, but it's the first
memory I have.

"I was in church. It must have been a daily Mass because there were only a few old women there, wearing black dresses and veils, 'cause that's the law in Little Italy. We had some Dominican sisters teaching in our parish–at least they were still there when I went to school a few years later.

"Anyway, six or seven nuns were in the second pew, and Mass had begun. Then, a young nun
came in and practically ran down the side aisle to join the other sisters.

"I was fascinated by her habit. And her beauty. She was about the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I still remember her face. She was light-skinned and blond. She looked a little like Princess Di, but more like that old-time actress who also became a princess. Uh, Grace Kelly.

"This was Little Italy. Even the nuns
were Italian, with dark skin and dark hair. This beautiful woman looked like she came from another planet.

"She stopped short when she got to my pew, even though I was on the other side of the church. I'm not sure now, but as the memory goes, I was the only one looking at this nun at all. She stopped and looked at me, and smiled. Time kind of stopped. I remember waving back and saying 'Hi.' My
mom turned and shushed me.

"The nun turned and went to her pew, more slowly now. She sat in the row behind the other nuns, alone. I stared at her for the rest of the Mass. I even remember that her habit was a different color from the nuns in front of her. They all had white habits. My nun had a blue habit.

"I never saw her again, and don't remember what happened after Mass–if she looked at me
or not.

"Maybe she was a postulant, or just a visitor from out of the neighborhood. I guess I'll never know."

Donna was leaning back in her chair, almost slouching. She tapped her index finger on the table, waiting for the reaction. Sam looked down.

"Maybe she was Our Lady," Buzz said.

"Oh, get out of here!" Donna pursed her lips and waved Buzz away. Sam chuckled.

"But this is my apartment," Buzz
rejoined.

"So what?" Donna asked.

"Hey," Sam said, looking at the clock over the stove. "It's almost ten. We still have to carry the fridge up seven flights of stairs."

"Carry it up?" Buzz asked, confused.

"Yeah, you said we had to carry it up. It was a real dog getting it on my pick-up."

Donna sat up and stretched out her arms.

"I never said we had to
carry
it up. There's a service elevator in
this building. I just worded it so you would think it had to be carried up, so you would be relieved when you got here. You see, I'm very manipulative. But up front about it. Alcoholism. Codependency. Dysfunctional. All that happy stuff. I just need a hug, and I'll be okay."

"I don't think you'll ever be okay,
Gwynne,"
Sam observed.

Buzz frowned. Donna laughed lightly.

"Thank you. More good news:
I got the landlord to lend me one of those heavy-duty handtrucks."

"Good news, indeed! Let's get it done," Sam said.

"I need to call my folks. They must be worried," Donna interrupted. "Can I use your phone, Buzz?"

"Be my guest."

"I already am your guest."

"Ha, ha," Sam said.

Donna called her folks. She was twenty-two, free, and a good girl about calling home.

Twenty minutes later, the fridge
was in place in Buzz's kitchen.

"Time for a video!" Buzz exclaimed.

"Video?" Sam asked. "You've got to be kidding. I've got to go to work tomorrow."

"But it's Friday night, tomorrow's Saturday," Donna said, confused.

"Our friend Sam is a self-made man," Buzz explained. "A responsible captain of industry. A hard-driving entrepreneur creating much-needed high-tech jobs in a global economy, keeping
America on the cutting edge. And he's a workaholic. Saturdays? Sam works on
Sundays.
Obsessive-compulsive. I've seen it before at my AA meetings, Donna. It's not pretty."

"It's late, Buzz. I'm going home," Sam said seriously.

"For your own good, Sam, I think you need to see this movie. It's an important film. It's cinema. A work of art. You need to see it to deal with your dysfunctional codependency
workaholism. In fact, I rented this movie with you in mind. As therapy. Think of me as your support group."

Sam couldn't help but smile.

"Okay, Buzz, what movie is it? Is it one of those French flicks with subtitles and incomprehensible plots?"

"Even better. The Terminator–"

"I loved The Terminator!" Donna interrupted.

"Now you can love it all over again, this time on the small screen," Buzz told
her.

"I've never seen The Terminator," Sam said. "I've heard it's good–and very gory."

"Actually, it's a love story," Donna said, quite seriously. "But it is violent, and Buzz will have to fast-forward through one racy scene for me. I'm in."

Buzz nodded.

"Okay, Buzz. I'm in. The Terminator," Sam said.

Sam found himself surprised he wanted to stay–because he knew it was more to spend time with
Donna and Buzz than to see the movie.
I'll just drag myself out of bed early,
he told himself.