Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (7 page)

“This whole trip was a mistake,” sighed Trent, neglecting his grits and ignoring our waitress’s blatant eyelash fluttering. “I should never have come here.”

I sipped my coffee. “So what’s the problem, guy?”

“I just don’t know this person, Carlotta. This person I’m supposed to be marrying. And she doesn’t know me. I realized it yesterday while writing a love poem.”

Great. Trent flubs a rhyme or two so the wedding’s off.

“Apurva and I are strangers, Carlotta.”

“Hardly strangers, Trent.”

“Do any of us really know anyone, Carlotta? Is there such a thing as true intimacy between people?”

What on earth does intimacy have to do with marriage? I considered administering a vicious head-slap, but resigned myself to a philosophical debate. I dunked my donut and plowed ahead.

“Trent, everyone has those feelings. Of course, we’re all locked inside our own skins. People who have been married for 50 years feel that way sometimes. They look across the breakfast table and suddenly wonder who the hell is that old fart?”

“I have to feel a profound connection, Carlotta, before I can marry someone.”

“Trent, you’re a very fortunate person. You’ve won the lottery, guy. But you can’t even see it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trent, think of the odds of your ever meeting Apurva. She came from halfway around the world, to our small out-of-the-way town. From a totally different culture. Yet, somehow, you two made a connection. A deep and intense connection. You can’t deny that.”

“I suppose not.”

“And she’s a wonderful person. Intelligent and kind—she lights up every room she walks into. And she has a generous heart—full of love … unselfish love for you.”

“Yes, I think she does love me.”

“You’re so fortunate, Trent. You have a chance to do something truly noble.”

“What, Carlotta?”

“Make a difference in a person’s life. You know what will happen to Apurva if you don’t get married. She’ll be shipped back to India and get shackled to some stranger.”

“She might be happier in the long run.”

“You don’t believe that for a minute. That’s a coward’s voice talking. Apurva will always love you, Trent. She’s committed herself to you. That is her destiny. OK, you’re both young, but these feelings don’t change. You must do what you know is right.”

“And what’s that, Carlotta?”

“Make Apurva happy. Save her from the nightmare you know she faces. Do what’s honorable and right. Be a man, not a wimp.”

Trent sighed and wiped away a tear. “OK, Carlotta. You’re right. I guess I’ll marry her.”

I slammed down my coffee cup.

“That’s not good enough, Trent! Apurva will never marry you if she feels you’re at all reluctant. Love is a delicate thing, Trent. You’ve injured her deeply. Now you have to win her back.”

“I’m so mixed up, Carlotta. I’ve, I’ve been thinking of Sheeni.”

Flushed out into the open at last!

“OK. Well, Sheeni’s a special person too. We both know her very well. She’s quite exceptional.”

“She is, Carlotta.”

“But let’s face the facts here, Trent. Enduring love requires constancy. Right?”

He stared at his plate. “Very much so.”

“And do you believe Sheeni ever will commit her heart and soul to you?”

“Probably not.”

“And do you have faith in the strength and endurance of Apurva’s love for you?”

“I’ve never doubted it for a minute. Not really.”

“So why are we sitting here indulging in these boring head games?”

“You’re right, Carlotta. I’m very fortunate to have Apurva in my life.”

“Well, you don’t have her at the moment, Trent. But here’s a suggestion: I’ll stay here and order another donut. And you go back to the room and convince Apurva that you’re the luckiest guy in the world.”

“What if she doesn’t believe me?”

“Just turn on the charm, Trent. God knows you’ve got enough to spare.”

10:45 a.m. The wedding is back on. Well, sort of. The happy couple is willing, but the town is virtually paralyzed under a foot of snow. Now an icy wind is blowing the stuff into impassible drifts. No one seems to possess so much as a snow shovel. Court has been canceled, but Carlotta managed to establish phone communication with a county clerk, who is trying to locate a judge. I told her it was urgent because Grandma Preston back in Cleveland was hanging on by a thread in intensive care just waiting for news of her grandson’s wedding.

Carlotta found a deck of cards in a drawer next to the Gideon Bible. To kill time and keep Trent’s mind occupied while waiting for the clerk to phone back, we’ve been playing hearts. I love to slap the dreaded queen of spades on the bridegroom-to-be. The guy’s a terrible hearts player. It probably doesn’t help his concentration that Apurva is toying with a lock of his golden hair.

12:20 p.m. We have a two o’clock appointment in Judge Randolph Marulle’s chambers (if we can make it there—it’s started snowing again). To prepare for the crosstown hike, we slogged next door to a hardware store and bought their last three pairs of black rubber boots (size XXXL). The giant boots are big enough to shod a rhino, but we’ve lashed them to our calves with duct tape.

At least the weather has resolved the bridal raiments issue. As Apurva owns no wool saris, she has bundled up in all her warmest dresses and sweaters, attractively accessorized with two pairs of jeans and the rhino boots. Examining herself despairingly in the motel-room mirror, she declared she was “the ugliest bride in history.” Trent kissed her, told her she was beautiful, and said he did not intend to spend his honeymoon nursing a wife with pneumonia. The guy sure can be charming when he wants to be.

7:10 p.m. The deed is done. Sheeni Saunder’s childhood sweetheart is officially scratched from the dating market. I did have a bit of a scare at the beginning. Judge Randolph J. Marulle turned out to be one of those loquacious, serious-minded jurists who like to pry. The first thing he did was remark on the youthfulness of the bride and groom. Where were their parents, he wanted to know, and did “you kids” realize the seriousness of such a “momentous step” as marriage? So Carlotta took him aside, explained that the parents were at the bedside of a terminally ill grandmother, and stressed that both families wanted the baby to be born legitimate. The judge glanced at Apurva, shivering in 14 layers of clothing, and decided to get on with it.

Carlotta gave the bride away; the beaming court clerk served as the other witness. It was all over in less than five minutes. The bride and groom whispered “I do,” 14-karat gold rings were slipped successfully on nervous fingers, the judge declared them husband and wife, lips met in a binding kiss, the clerk flashed her
Polaroid camera, and Carlotta breathed an immense sigh of relief. I only hope my own wedding to Sheeni goes as smoothly.

After the ceremony Carlotta treated the newlyweds to a festive wedding supper at Shanghai Dixie Palace, the only restaurant we could find that wasn’t shuttered in the reborn blizzard. Oh well, I like Chinese food and you can’t beat the prices. Our convivial waiter even served us a bottle of Mississippi sparkling chablis without checking our IDs. A feast to remember even if it was vegetarian, and the bill (including tip) came to less than $40.

9:50 p.m. As our motel is now even more clogged with stranded travelers and partying Ole Miss students, no amount of pleading was able to free up another room. Yes, diary, it appears that we are about to experience a Wedding Night for Three.

SATURDAY, March 6 — Carlotta’s friends refused even to consider her offer to sleep in the bathroom or out in the hallway. Reflecting the altered circumstances, we negotiated a slight shuffling in the bed order. Carlotta was moved to an outside position, and Apurva slept in the middle next to her husband. Lots of breezy banter as we settled in, but one could sense their lack of privacy chafed on the newlyweds. Carlotta thoughtfully pretended to fall immediately to sleep, but I don’t think things progressed very far on the other side of the mattress beyond a mild snuggle and possible furtive grope. Oh well, it’s not like anyone had come to that crowded bed a dewy-eyed expectant virgin.

As I lay there in the dark wondering if Carlotta was the only person in the room with a spectacular T.E., I tried to distract myself by imagining what Sheeni would say if she knew I was honeymooning with her former boyfriend. I pray she never finds out. I wondered how Fuzzy back in Ukiah was getting along on his first date with Lana Baldwin. Why, I asked myself, do people go to such bizarre lengths to couple with others when that fairly peculiar physical
act is all over in a few minutes? Of course, you can blame the crazed single-mindedness of our genes. My genes, I knew, had been alerted that alluring, fecund Apurva lay just an arm’s length away. And why, they clamored to know, wasn’t I doing anything about it? If my genes were in an uproar, one can only imagine the consternation among Trent’s. His biological destiny had been sanctioned by the state, he had golden genes to die for, his goal was within reach, yet somehow someone had called a time-out on the field.

3:05 p.m. Memphis airport. Boarding for my flight to San Francisco is supposed to commence in 20 minutes (I’ve heard that before). Snowplows have cleared the runway and crews are de-icing the plane. Anxious to escape further honeymoon chaperone duties, I managed to bribe the motel manager’s son into braving a trip to the airport in his four-wheel-drive SUV.

Carlotta hopped out of bed pretty early this morning—announcing to her groggy companions that she would be back with breakfast in exactly one hour—no more, no less. While I slogged through the snow in search of an open donut shop, I hoped and presumed that marriage consummation was underway back at the motel. It is true that I detected a certain slackening of tensions upon my return. Too bad our culture doesn’t believe in throwing open the window and hanging out the bloody sheet.

Apurva wanted to call her parents, but Carlotta advised them both to wait until they return on Wednesday (Trent has a vital swim meet with Willits on Friday).

“You only get one honeymoon,” I pointed out. “Don’t spoil it by involving a bunch of hysterical parents.”

Leave-taking with the newlyweds was quite wrenching, as you’d expect. Not a dry eye in the house, but sharing someone’s wedding night can be such an emotionally bonding experience—especially if you’re paying for the entire affair.

•    •    •

SUNDAY, March 7 — It was sometime in the middle of the night when Carlotta finally dragged her weary carcass through my front door. She dropped her bags and shuffled into the bedroom. There, lounging impatiently under Granny DeFalco’s quilt, was My Love—naked as a clam and primed for conversation.

“Nickie! Where have you been?” she demanded, switching on the lamp.

“Oh, hi, darling. Boy, am I exhausted. Do you mind if I skip the flossing tonight?”

“Nickie, you’ve been gone for three days! You left darling Albert unattended!”

“Well I left a note for Mrs. Ferguson,” I replied, collapsing fully clothed on the bed. “Maybe I’ll skip brushing too.”

“Nickie, don’t lie to me. I know you were with Trent and Apurva. I heard all about it from Vijay. Where are they?”

I fished through Carlotta’s purse and handed My Love a Polaroid photograph. She stared at it in disbelief.

“What the fuck is this?”

“They’re married, Sheeni. I tried to talk them out of it, but they wouldn’t listen.”

All the color drained from my darling’s face. “But they’re too young to get married!”

“Not in Mississippi.”

“Mississippi! How did they get to Mississippi?”

“Same way I did. By airplane.”

“You paid for their tickets!”

“No way, honey. They were already there when they called me. They were destitute. So I went there to see if I could talk them into coming home.”

“Why didn’t you call me!?”

“They made me promise not to tell anyone.”

Sheeni stared in horror at the photo. “What’s she wearing? She couldn’t possibly have gotten married looking like that! My God, what’s that on her feet?”

“It was cold there, honey. They were having the Blizzard of the Century.”

“But, why!” she cried. “Why did they get married?”

“Beats me. Don’t tell anyone, but I think Apurva may be, you know, in a family way.”

Sheeni pulled away as I tried to embrace her. She tossed the photo back at me and curled up in a ball, facing the wall.

“When did they do it?” she asked, burying herself in the quilt.

“Friday.”

“Mississippi, huh? Then it’s not a real marriage. It doesn’t count in California. It’s not valid in civilized regions.”

“They are legally married, Sheeni. And I am very, very tired.”

No answer. I stood up and started removing my clothes. I could hear muffled sobbing from under the quilt.

I switched out the light and got into bed. I stared up at the ceiling and listened to My Love cry bitter tears for another man. I no longer felt like sleeping. Eventually, she rolled over and faced me.

“I’ve been in love with Trent since I was five years old. Do you know why I broke up with him?”

“I assume because I came along.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s because you can’t spend your whole life with someone you met when you were in kindergarten. It’s just not done.”

“Oh.”

First time I heard that rule.

“Is that all you can say?”

“Sheeni, I love you. I will always love you. And I don’t give a damn that we met in junior high school.”

She slid her arms around me and pressed her soft warm body against mine.

“Oh, Nickie, I want you to make love to me … now … without a condom.”

Thrilled, François kissed her. “Isn’t that rather reckless, darling?” I asked.

“It’s reckless and it’s necessary.”

And so, diary, I joined at last with My Love as nature intended—secretions undammed, flesh against flesh, being to being. After a gloriously unfettered sensory implosion, we fell asleep in each other’s arms—as entwined as two people could ever be.

Hours later I awoke with an arm pinned painfully under 112 pounds of exquisite girl. Extracting the mangled limb, I lay awake in the dark and thought about what Sheeni had said. Some of it was pretty awful, but at least she finally confessed to loving someone. Too bad it had to be Trent. Still, her heart clearly does embrace the concept of love. That means she is theoretically capable of loving other people (me, for example). And she did have unprotected sex with me. Pretty shocking, but I’m not exactly sure what it all means, except that my genes are thrilled. Here’s another question: Does some of it stay in there or does it all dribble out on the sheet?