Social Blunders (14 page)

He blinked several times. “Why not?”

“Jesus.” I spoke slowly and distinctly. “Electric motors have no exhaust. No exhaust, no carbon monoxide; no carbon monoxide, no death.”

His entire body sagged as failure washed over his face. I’ve never seen anyone so disappointed at not being dead.

He said, “Now I’m back to killing you.”

I mount the Exercycle 6000, crank up the tension, and ride. Straight into the Charlie Russell print, I pump until sweat pops onto my forehead like water drops on a hot griddle. Intense energy expended for the purpose of going nowhere—my mind is too blank to dwell on the metaphor.

For that is the goal, to blank my mind. To forget those I’m hurting and those I’ve lost. To forget how many people lose loved ones every day. To beat back depression.

Fat chance. Muscles break down before the brain. Three
a.m.
found me in bed, reading
Varieties of Religious Experience
by William James.

“It is with no small amount of trepidation that I take my place behind this desk, and face this learned audience.”

Literary Valium. If James didn’t put me out I was doomed.

I was reading his dismissal of medical materialism—which treats pining for spiritual veracity as a symptom of a disordered colon—when the phone rang.

“Mr. Callahan, you’re a father.”

My mouth went metallic. “Well, yes, that’s true.”

“This is Babs.” There was a pause. “Babs Paseneaux.”

“The pregnant Babs?”

“Not anymore.” Giggles bubbled in the background.

“All right. You did it!”

“Three hours ago. The little booger hurt like the dickens.”

“I’m proud of you, Babs. You gave birth.” I was genuinely happy; felt better than I had in a year.

“Guess who’s here?” Babs asked.

“Your husband realized his mistake and came home in time for the baby.”

“Shoot no. I’ll never talk to that low-life again. It’s Lynette. She’s right here.” More giggles broke out as the girls carried on a whispered conference away from the phone.

Babs came back. “Lynette wants to talk to you.”

“I want to talk to Lynette.”

Sounds of scuffling and laughter came from their end. The only other woman I’d been around soon after she gave birth was Maurey, and I don’t recall her being in such a cheery mood. Upbeat, yes, but not cheery.

“Remember me, Mr. Callahan? Lynette.”

“I’m glad you turned around and came back, Lynette. Best friends should never break up over a man.”

“
Puh.
Rory Paseneaux is no man. He’s a rat. I broke water in the front seat of his precious Chevy and he ditched me. Took off while I was in the Texaco restroom trying to clean up.”

“Sounds like Rory is afraid of responsibility,” I said.

“Rory is afraid of stained upholstery.” Lynette lapsed into a few seconds of silence. Had Rory really abandoned her because she broke water in his car? Southern men are weird about cars, but that was a bit much.

“Babs says you’re paying her hospital bills.”

“I’ll pick up yours too.”

She squealed. “I
knew
it. I knew you were the nicest man I ever met. Sammi will grow up to be just like you, only a girl.”

“Sammi?”

“Sammi with an
i
and no
e
. She’s seven hours older than Sam.”

I had a funny feeling. “Who is Sam?”

“Babs’s baby, of course. We’re going to raise them like twins with different mothers. Sam and Sammi.”

This seemed like good news, but I wasn’t sure. For certain, it was odd. “Are you girls going to tell the kids who their real fathers are?”

“Are you kidding? Here, Babs wants to talk.”

More giggles. More confusion. At least I’d made someone happy. If I have a choice, I’d rather make people happy some way other than giving them money, but I’ll take goodwill however it comes.

“You’re not mad at us, are you, Mr. Callahan?”

“Why would I be mad? I’m honored you named your babies Sam and Sammi.”

“There’s more.”

“Tell him,” Lynette chirped in the background.

“Tell me what?”

“The birth certificate lady said we could write down anyone we wanted as the fathers, so long as he didn’t mind.”

Uh-oh. “Both of you?”

“We hope you don’t mind.”

***

When I walked into Tex and Shirley’s Pancake House an embarrassed scarecrow stood beside the
Please wait to be seated
sign, clutching a stack of menus to her breasts. Behind the cash register, King Kong made change for a postman who didn’t seem a bit nonplussed to be receiving money from the paw of a gorilla.

I’ve been disoriented often enough that I know it doesn’t pay to draw attention to the fact. Just keep your head down, pretend everything is normal, and hope that with time the chaos will sort itself out.

“Morning, Mr. Callahan,” Judy said as she poured my coffee. Judy wore long whiskers, pointed ears, and a tail. She said, “I’m a cat.”

My chronic disorientation is triggered by a daydream mentality. Throughout the drive to Tex and Shirley’s, I’d been pretending on their sixteenth birthday Sam and Sammi apply for driver’s licenses and spot my name on their birth certificates. They bolt the license bureau and rush to the Manor House, where I embrace my newfound family and give birthday presents.

Maybe the moral thing would be to adopt them, more or less, right now. Take fatherhood seriously, even though it seemed strange to suddenly have two children by teenage girls I hardly knew. Not that I minded, but it was a major commitment to take on without forethought. I’m prone to quick commitments, probably a reaction against Lydia. She’s so afraid of commitment that back when I was young and she smoked cigarettes, she wouldn’t buy the same brand twice in a row.

I felt sweet breath on my cheek, and when I turned to track down the source, Gilia kissed me. Smack. Right on the lips. Her mouth was supple and soft, yet controlled, with a faint taste of Carmex.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was uptight last night. I have to remind myself there’s a difference between being careful and closing up shop completely.”

With her face close to mine, the situation clicked. “Today is Halloween. That’s why people are in costume,” I said.

“Right.” She slid into her chair. “So what do you say? Can you handle a relationship where you kiss but don’t fuck?”

The suddenness with which Gilia went frank always took me off guard. This wasn’t a woman who wasted time saying “Good morning.” Judy came by with the coffeepot to take our order—cheese blintzes for me and Swedish pancakes for Gilia. I like a woman who eats real food instead of dry toast and skimmed milk.

After Judy left, I said, “Are there kiss limits?”

Gilia pulled her blond hair into a doughnut-shaped bungee cord sort of thing. I forget what they’re called. “Like French?”

“More like necking. Are you talking kiss-hello, kiss-good-bye or a thirty-minute make-out session?”

“I won’t set rules. My only request is I’m not ready to make love, so if we ever do neck to the point where I say okay, you have to ignore me and stop.”

That’s definitely defining parameters. I looked at the hair on her arms and thought of lemon meringue pie. Waking up beside Gilia would be like waking up in a mountain meadow next to a bubbling brook, only without the hay fever.

“I can do that,” I said.

“Great.”

When Judy brought our food Gilia dug right in with butter and syrup, but I only pretended to eat. What I really did was watch her face. Watching Gilia’s face was like watching a time lapse movie of the sky. She registered everything. When I said
father
, her skin tone darkened.
Jack-o’-lantern
caused crinkles to dance. After looking at Gilia a few minutes, I didn’t know why I had ever thought Wanda’s face was interesting. Wanda had three basic looks—drunk, sober, and PMS. Gilia had hundreds.

I concentrated on the freckle between her nose and right eye. It was like one of those little thermometers that pop out of turkeys when they’re done. Gilia’s freckle glowed as she approached passion, such as when she raged at Ronald Reagan and the invasion of Grenada. She really cared about current events. Lydia used to be a news junkie, after she stopped drinking and before she went into feminist literature. Now, she’s a single-issue newshound. I’ve never followed the world that closely myself.

“Clark Gaines tried to kill himself in my garage last night,” I said.

Her head did the sudden cock to one side thing. “How hard did he try?”

“He made a Polish joke out of it.”

The freckle kind of spread toward the eye. That was her introspective look. “Poor kid.”

“I think I’ll call Billy this afternoon. All Clark wants is attention, but he’s liable to slip up and waste himself trying to get it.”

Gilia put both hands around a coffee cup. “I remember Clark from company picnics when I was young. He was the kid the other boys depantsed in the woods.”

“I’ve been that kid. Makes for a tough puberty.”

Judy came over to pick up our plates and tell us about the other Judy’s pinworms. We listened with interest and Gilia even asked a consistency question. Everyone needs someone who is interested in their problems, especially career waitresses, but I for one was glad I’d finished my blintz.

While I nursed a final cup—my fifth of the day—Gilia stared out the window at the damp Carolina morning. Rain had been threatening all week, and now it looked ready to dump.

“I’m free tonight,” Gilia said. “Care for a movie?
Terms of Endearment
is playing at Four Seasons Mall.”

It was my turn to pay. “A movie?”

“Like a date, sort of. We’ll go Dutch so neither one of us worries about strings attached.”

I studied the check closely, making certain Judy added right. “I’d love to, but tonight I can’t. There’s this CEO in from Nebraska whose country club might buy a hundred ten Shilohs, and I’m stuck with the wining and dining. If it’s over early, I’ll call.”

Gilia cocked her head and studied me a moment. Then she said, “Sounds good. Maybe we’ll hit the movie tomorrow night.”

Okay, I lied. Crucify me. There was no CEO from Nebraska to wine and dine, and if there had been, I sure as heck wouldn’t be the winer and diner. Schmoozing was Ambrosia’s turf.

All I can figure is maybe I was falling in love, because my strictest ethical rule is never, ever lie to a woman. Let them lie to you. Maurey wrote a letter back in college in which she explained honesty, love, and sex. She wrote: “Sam, I’ve discovered how to seduce anyone I want. If you don’t love them, act like you do, and if you do love them, act like you don’t.”

So, by lying to Gilia, what I actually did was prove my love for her. I only hoped she saw it that way when I got caught.

***

The direct cause for my lie was Katrina Prescott’s birthday. Within minutes after Skip threatened me by phone Saturday, he and Sonny left for the Sport Shoe Trade Show in Atlanta. Every year they spent the first week of November in Atlanta, staying abreast of new developments in footwear—and drink and fornication, according to Katrina—and every year Katrina threw a hissy fit because Halloween was her birthday.

And Friday, in a moment of post-orgasmic pity, I’d promised Katrina she didn’t have to spend another birthday alone. The poor woman wanted a spark of out-front, formal celebration—something more traditional than bondage stunts with a stranger in a Ramada Inn motel room. She wanted to dress nice and eat in a public place with civilized lighting and table service. That’s not asking so much for a birthday.

She applied pressure and I said
yes
. I haven’t said
no
to a woman yet. No reason to think I’d start on a birthday wish.

***

Gaylene stormed across the Magic Cart Company parking lot, demanding to know who this Vernon Scharp was who’d shown up saying I promised him a job.

“He’s a process server.”

“And how does serving processes qualify him to build golf carts?”

“I felt sorry for him,” I said. “Bringing people bad news must be a sad way to make a living.”

Gaylene stared up at me and twitched. She’s fifty or so and about four ten, and the plant workers are scared to death of her. Much of my fear of fiery little women stems from Gaylene.

“You plan on hiring every sad case you feel sorry for?” she asked. “Because if you are, I’m going to work for R. J. Reynolds.”

I’d hoped to mention Babs and Lynette, but this didn’t seem the time. “I won’t do it again.”

“Write the checks, Sam. Leave running the shop to me.”

***

Mrs. Gaines told me Billy was in Atlanta at the Sport Shoe Trade Show. I’d never met the woman and didn’t know if Billy had told her my story, so I felt funny about saying, “I’m your husband’s bastard son and your legitimate son tried to kill himself in my garage last night.” There’d been enough life-shattering conversations lately; I couldn’t handle another one.

“What should I tell Billy this is in reference to?” she asked.

“His name came up as a possible judge in the Coke versus Pepsi competition.”

“Billy only drinks root beer. Caffeine makes him irritable.”

“I’ll make a note of that.”

***

Moses Cone Hospital was only too happy to accept my credit card. I talked to a woman in patient billing and I’m not sure but I thought I heard a smirk behind her voice. The whole staff was probably gossiping about the man who fathered two babies in one day.

She asked my relationship to the patients and I said, “Benefactor.”

***

Next I called the Dyn-o-Mite Novelty Company to cancel the As-God-Is-My-Witness bumper sticker. So much for my anti-monogamy pledge. From now on side sex would be fraught with guilt, which is how it should be, I suppose.

***

Wanda’s voice crackled. “Have you no gratitude?”

“Hi, honey.”

“After all I sacrificed for us as a couple, you have the unmitigated gall to break into my home and steal my property.”

“My property, actually.”

“You did me wrong, Sam, and now you
owe
me.”

“I notice you saved the autographed copy of
The Shortstop Kid
. Freud would take that as a sign you still love me.”

“The novels are trash, Sam. Only a whore writes genre fiction.”

“I saw your little video setup.”

Wanda’s controlled breathing oozed over the line. “My Art Erotica is none of your business.”

“Haul me into court and we’ll let the judge decide who’s creating art and who’s a whore.” I couldn’t help but wonder how charging Sam’s and Sammi’s births on my credit card would go over at a divorce hearing. Didn’t take a writer’s imagination to foresee messiness.

“I know you too well, Sam. You don’t have the balls to fight me.”

“Want to bet?”

She hung up.

***

Shirley poked her head through my office door.

“A man’s roaming the halls, looking for you.”

“I’m not here. Send him to whoever I would send him to if I was here.”

She scowled as if I’d insulted her intelligence. “I already did. He says he has to meet with you, personally. He looks like a politician.”

“Oh, God, it’s Cameron Saunders.”

“Should I tell him to go away?”

“Hell.” My mind raced through the boundless implications. Unlike Skip Prescott, who ran on heat and steam, Cameron wasn’t the type you could dodge until he lost interest. “Send him in.”

Tall, bald Cameron glided in on Cole Haan shoes. I own a pair, but I’m not pretentious so I don’t wear them. Cameron wore a three-piece suit that fit him perfectly and a tie so tasteful I could spit.

He said, “Mr. Callahan.”

I said, “Mr. Saunders.”

He stepped forward and spread a deck of Polaroid prints across my desk. I picked up the one on my far left, carefully, by the borders, so as not to smudge the picture of Katrina and me entering room 247 of the Ramada Inn. They all followed the same vein—Katrina and me coming out of room 247 with her hand on my butt, Katrina in her red-and-white cheerleader outfit, walking into the Manor House, a through-the-window shot of Katrina dancing while I hang naked on the wall with a pom-pom on my crotch. In each photo, she was smiling and I wasn’t.

“You hired another detective,” I said.

Cameron flashed his ice blue smile, smug as a snake on a rat. “Frankly, my man was following Katrina. You came as something of a bonus.”

I stood up and moved to the window. From behind a row of pines, a Piedmont Airlines plane lifted off, headed west, where I should have been.

Cameron spoke to my back. “My ambition is to run for Congress, for a start.”

“I knew you were a politician.”

“And I cannot afford a business partner whose wife causes scandals.”

“What does Skip think of you spying on his wife?”

“Skip doesn’t think.”

“He doesn’t know.” I watched the weather and waited for whatever was coming next. The problem, as I saw it, was I’d let myself fall into the hands of an unethical man who hated me while I loved his daughter. I smiled at my reflection in the window; that was nice, I loved his daughter.

Cameron leaned forward with three fingers forming a tripod on my desk. “Bottom line, buster. You are to leave Greensboro. You are never to speak of the incident in question to anyone. No newspapers. No TV. You better not even tell a priest, because I will find out and I will destroy you.”

One last look at the plane disappearing west, then I turned to face him. “Did you think to ask politely? I never intended going on TV.”

“This matter cannot be left to a bastard’s discretion. Politics is expensive, the party cannot risk you turning wise-ass the week before an election.”

“That’ll be the Republican Party?”

He said, “I needn’t spell out the consequences.”

“Spell them out anyway.”

“Skip Prescott.” Cameron’s upper lip glistened with a light film of sweat. I’d seen the same film on Gilia and thought it lovely.

“To tell the truth, Mr. Saunders, I’m not afraid of Skip. What exactly could he do?”

“His money can hire you a gob of grief.”

“My money can sue his shorts off.”

Cameron strummed his fingers as he studied the photos. His eyes came up to meet mine. “Gilia.”

Got me cold. “Why would Gilia care what I do?”

His laugh was bitter. “Nothing in my political career is being left to chance.”

“You’re spying on your own daughter?” No way could a man this sleazy be my father.

“For some inexplicable reason, she has developed a trust in you. Consider how these photographs will affect that trust.”

Since the bald buzzard wasn’t Dad, that cleared up the incest problem, at least as far as sister went. She could still be a cousin. None of it would mean squat when Cameron showed her the pictures.

“That’s a lousy way to use your daughter.”

He shrugged. “I am protecting her.”

“If I had proof my daughter’s boyfriend was a pervert, I wouldn’t blackmail him. I’d tell her.”

He smiled again. “That would do away with my leverage, wouldn’t it?”

***

The numbness started in my solar plexus and spread in and up until all the major organs were desensitized. This sort of thing happens when you live by your own private version of right and wrong and say to hell with everyone else’s values. I’d justified Katrina on the grounds that I was not yet promised to Gilia, but when it came time for Gilia to know the score, my justification stank.

I made it into the executive bathroom, fully intending to vomit, but as I knelt over the toilet bowl I remembered my novel
Bucky on Half Dome
in the tank. Even though a few pages had curled about the flush mechanism to the point where they disintegrated on touch, most of the manuscript surfaced more or less whole. I cradled the sopping mess in my arms and carefully carried it to my desk, where I cleared a space by tossing Wanda’s picture in the trash.

Shirley poked her head back through the door. “What did the politician want?”

“Blackmail.”

“I should have thought of that years ago.” When I didn’t laugh, Shirley went away.

The typewriter ink hadn’t smeared, but my handwritten notes in the margins had. I read the page where Bucky assures Samantha’s mother that their trip holds no danger. Tension between Samantha and her mother runs through all the Bucky books.

Peeling the sheets apart required concentration—not my strong suit, at the moment. Fifteen minutes’ work brought back six legible pages, then I gave it up as a waste of time. Even nauseous, I knew I was only pulling the past out of the toilet because Cameron had mangled the future. And the past itself was shot; the book had gone underwater in the first place after Wanda spoiled my memories. Which left nothing but the present, and right now the present wasn’t so all-fired wonderful either.

***

What I needed was advice from someone simple. Complex people get so distracted by looking four moves ahead that they’re frozen when it comes to what to do next. Slow thinkers make faster decisions.

So I headed for the hospital. Not that Babs and Lynette were slow, as in stupid; they just knew the worth of intellect, which doesn’t rate too high compared to other functions.

First stop was the viewing window by the nurses’ station. Sam and Sammi lay next to each other in clear, Plexiglas bassinets with crib safety instructions on the side. They both wore white knit hats and had rose-petal eyelids. I could tell which was which by the rubber bulb thing the nurses use to clear gunk from babies’ noses. Sam’s was blue, Sammi’s pink. I pretended they were forty-three and called me Dad. I would be seventy-six.

Two doors down the hall, Babs and Lynette sat propped up in bed, wearing billowy purple nightgowns, sucking Coca-Cola through hospital straws and watching
The Bold and the Beautiful
on the wall-mounted TV. When they saw me they both squealed and broke into labor and birth stories.

“Dr. Hayse told me I was the bravest girl he’d ever seen,” Lynette said.

Babs flounced on her pillow. “He said the very same thing to me too. I bet he says that to ever’one.”

“Be just like a man.”

I talked. I hadn’t meant to when I walked into the room, and I’m not certain how I got started, all I know is the whole story poured out—from Christmas 1949 to Cameron calling his daughter “Leverage.” The first few minutes Lynette split her attention between me and the soap, but by the end I had both girls rapt. It was the longest uninterrupted speech I’ve ever made to a woman.

When I was done, I sighed once and waited for their verdict.

Hearing it aloud made me realize how tawdry I was. The girls could condemn or shun me; they still had time to change Sam’s and Sammi’s names. Whatever they did, I deserved it.

Lynette sucked air off the bottom of her Coke can. “Shoot,” she said. “That happens all the time on TV.”

“All the time?” I hate it when my problems aren’t unique.

“Not all the time,” Babs said. “Not exactly like you told it. But nobody knows who their folks are and someone’s all the time threatening to expose someone else.”

“So what do people on TV do?”

Babs giggled. “The dumbest thing they can think up.”

Lynette nodded. “People on TV are stupid.”

“Any geek knows what you should do,” Babs said.

I didn’t get it. If any geek knew the answer, why didn’t I? Novelists are supposed to understand the human plight.

Lynette said, “Dump the woman you don’t like and beg forgiveness from the one you do.”

Babs added, “Only you better confess before her daddy spills the beans. If he tells, you’re in deep doo-doo.”

I considered the advice. It had to be good; no one who says
doo-doo
has hidden motives. Besides, nothing I’d tried had worked.

“If you were Gilia and I confessed and begged your forgiveness, would you forgive me?”

Lynette looked at Babs, who thought a moment, then said, “Fat chance.”