The Jewel Box (20 page)

“Ha ha.” He sat rigidly beside me. “The Chicken Ranch is a legend in this state.”

“Yeah. A house of ill repute frequented by UT Longhorns and you Texas Aggies.”

“Reportedly,” he shot back with the precise amount of venom to kill our conversation.

As obscenities were being bleeped on TV, we looked over just as the tenacious news reporter got a fist in the face from La Grange’s Sheriff Jim. Wowza. Finally some fun news.

In late summer of ’73, Marvin Zindler succeeded in closing the infamous whorehouse, and every time ZZ Top’s hit song,
La Grange
played, I turned the radio full blast to irritate Phil. He busied himself distributing “I’m a Friend of Sheriff Jim” bumper stickers as “a joke.” Yeah, right. He was a frugal Aggie, the Chicken Ranch’s eight dollar Monday night special was gone. You be the judge.

Phil was a narcissist with a penchant for arguing, but oddly enough he rarely debated my comments about being hopelessly in love with Gabriel. And even odder, when Hope and Gloria told me Gabriel was dating some bank secretary, I surrendered to Phil’s libidinous mating call. But only to a point. Kissing on the lips was just too personal. I always turned my head so all kisses went off sides. No intimacy, just one-two-three we’re done. Minor arguments ensued, but Gabriel’s lips were the only ones I wanted pressed against mine.

Delilah married the fry-brain bass player, gave birth to a darling baby girl, got knocked up a second time (her words), and absolutely despised Phil. When I told her about Gabriel’s fling, she drove to his apartment one evening, interrupted their dinner, checked out the secretary, took a pungent poop in his toilet, didn’t bother flushing, and left. Now that’s what friends are for.

Nikki stuck like glue to Cousin Jimmy and I got marginally closer to my sister and her hubby. Ellen and I even discussed our differing relationships with Mother. She felt our priggish mother was simply sheltering us from our often inebriated dad. Logical conclusion, but my easy-going, high-spirited dad remained my favorite parent.

I spoke to Gabriel occasionally. Pleasant, but strained talks. He was still surviving the recession by working far from Houston, and I was still trying to get over him.

Threw me for a loop when Phil started dropping matrimony hints. The man was faster than a rabbit in more ways than just sex. “I think it’s time we discuss marriage.” He scratched his bushy, dark moustache.

“It’s a social union or binding contract between people in love.”

“I know the general definition.” Phil raked fingers through his course hair, continuing his irritating addiction to personal grooming. “And it’s time for us to make this legal.”

“Legal?” I reached over in primate gesture, pretending to pick a flea from his neck. “Like I keep telling you, I’m in love with someone else.”

“Well, my love for you can overcome anything. And marrying me is a sure-fire way to stop your foolish sentimentality for Gabriel.”

I almost laughed out loud. Even if his plan included attaching a slow drip methaqualone IV to my wedding ring finger, marriage to him could
never
make me forget my true love. Phil was brilliantly book smart, but stupendously street stupid.

“Hey Blondie, got any Cokes at your place?”

“How about Tab?” I asked casually, my heart beating wildly.

“I need the real thing. Handed to me by the most beautiful woman alive.”

“Phony flattery might sway floozies at truck stops, but I’m not letting you come over.”

“It’s not phony flattery. And I really need to see you.”

“And I really need to say
au revoir
.”

“Yeaaah? Well you can speak French in person, I’m coming over.”

“You can’t do that! I’m involved with someone.”

“So am I, but I’d love to see you again. For old times’ sake.”

“Old times’ sake my ass, Gabriel.”

“See ya in a few.”

Nikki got hustled through her bath and put to bed in record time.

I opened the door and Gabriel stood back, slowly shaking his head. “Maybe my standards are low, but I like what I see.”

“No kidding you have low standards, but I’m living nicely without your insolent mouth,” I flat-out lied. I wanted his mouth and all other marvelous body parts he possessed.

“My insolent mouth,” he drawled. “You should talk.”

“Rumor has it I talk too much.” I touched the hairy growth on his cheek. “What are you doing hiding your sweet face with a beard?”

“Grew it for winter. . . but talk about sweet faces.” He grabbed the front of my blouse, bringing us nose to nose.

“Whoa.” I got a whiff of barley and hops. “You’ve been drinking. How ‘bout some coffee?”

“Coke is fine.” He moved over to my sofa and lit a smoke. “I only had two Budweisers.”

Goosebumps raced up and down my legs as I walked to the fridge to retrieve a Coke I’d kept just for him. Pathetic, I know. Exhaustion laced his voice as he told me about his travels, happenings with his family, and other innocuous subjects. Somehow I got the nerve to ask about the woman in his life. He awkwardly offered vague details about Victoria. Just hearing him say her name made me feel like thumb tacks were trickling down my left ventricle. I interrupted in wobbly voice, volunteering details about Phil as though Gabriel wanted to know. Somewhere mid-sentence, he reached over to shut me up with a kiss. That was all she wrote. For about three hours. I’d forgotten how fabulous five star love making felt. But after his usual smoke and a few kisses, he rolled out of bed and put on his faded jeans.

“You cannot possibly be leaving.” I was taken aback.

“I’d love to stay the night.” He pulled his Polo shirt over his head while leaving my bedroom. “But I have to leave early tomorrow morning for West Texas.”

He had always stayed overnight with me. “I don’t believe this.” My face flushed with anger. “All gracious Southern ladies know that if a man doesn’t spend the night cuddling and caressing you after he’s fucked you, he’s not a true gentleman.”

“Ah, such language from a Southern lady.”

“I’m hardly a debutante school graduate, and picked up most of my language from a particular blond asshole carpenter.”

“Either way, your mother would be real proud.” He slid a Marlboro into his mouth.

“Oh, I think a few snapshots from 1969 would be enough to fill my mother with pride.”

Giving me an “enough said” look, Gabriel slowly moved toward my front door. My fury subsided and I turned sentimental. “God, I miss your sawdust scent.”

“Yeaaah? I’m sure you’re accustomed to men wearing expensive suits and exotic after shave.”

“Oh, pleeease.” I straightened his shirt collar. “You still don’t know me like I know you.”

“That’s probably a fact and not a fiction. You know me better than anyone does, but you’re still an elusive butterfly.”

I wanted to pull him tightly against me and never let him leave my side. I
did
know him. But I wouldn’t let him see my weak side. “You should marry that girl.” I brushed his blond hair from his forehead with my fingertips. “Since she’s willing to deal with your arrogant attitude and your traipsing about the country.”

“Well, you should marry that guy. Grab onto anyone willing to put up with you walking around on tiptoes and living in dreamland.” He quickly kissed my forehead.

“So.” I stepped back. “This really was our ‘one last time’ for old times’ sake.”

“What do you think, Blondie?”

“That’s between me and my shrink.”

He distorted his face, like “shrink” a worse term than any of his four letter words. Then he broke into song. “
Yester-me. .
.”

“
Yester-you
,” I said in whiney voice.

“
Yesterday
,” he concluded, inching closer.

“Still using lyrics to say what you can’t.” I took a significant breath.

He pulled me tightly to him. His lips were warm and his kiss was slow, as though he were memorizing it for the long trip ahead. Then he walked out my door seemingly moving in slow motion, walking backwards down the stairs, and blowing kisses until he was out of sight. Honking his horn twice, he knew and I knew. No matter how much time or space came between us, it wouldn’t alter our feelings for each other. The time for us
wasn’t now and it seemed marriage to righteous others might wipe out all guilt, absolve all former sins.

“You win some, you lose some.” Beau called to say
The Grapevine
was failing.

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll open another club once things improve on the home-front.”

“Yikes. What’s wrong?”

“No real problem. Celeste just needs me,” he said with a laugh. “She can’t keep a maid, and I’m a decent floor sweep and expert dishwasher with time on my hands.”

“As long as you’re doing okay, I’m happy. Now, I’ve gotta dash. This new guy is determined we go see the movie,
The Way We Were.
”

“I know you’re not crazy about Phil, but going out’ll keep your mind off Gabriel.”

“The movie’s premise sounds as enticing as a bone marrow transplant, but Mr. Burt Reynolds lookalike bribed me with the promise of Milk Duds.”

“Then savor those chocolates. And come see me at
The Grapevine
soon, baby.”

Phil glanced at his reflection in the theatre window as he escorted me inside, where he bought me a huge box of Milk Duds, then foolishly selected back row seats as though romance was in his near future. My only emotions were tears due to Redford’s resemblance to Gabriel and the movie’s depressing ending.

“You gotta get over that carpenter guy.” Phil attempted to comfort me (or maybe cop a lubricious feel) as we left the theatre. “So it’s about time we get married.”

He went into overdrive for what seemed hours, trying to convince me marriage to him would eradicate memories of Gabriel. Oh, how I wanted to believe him, but this was like telling me blow jobs were the solution to
global hunger. A revelation that could make major changes in the world as we know it—if only it were plausible.

“No sense in dragging things out. I’m ready to make you my wife, immediately.”

I felt lightheaded. And not in a giddy way. “Immediately?”

“Three, maybe four months. No longer. I’ve got you and don’t intend to lose you.”

He didn’t have me, but was damn sure wearing me down as he yammered on. I’m not sure if it was my emotional instability, my need to get Gabriel out of my bloodstream, filibustering by Phil that would have made our state legislatures envious, or the bulge in his wallet, but at that chaotic moment, I agreed to marry him. “Okay, fine.”

Phil hugged me. “This calls for a drink.”

I clinched my jaw tightly to keep from recanting my eloquent, “Okay, fine.” acceptance speech. Being drug free doesn’t always assure prudent decision making. Here I was sober as hell and agreeing to marry a man who found mathematical equations erotic.

For weeks
The Grapevine
phone rang without answer. Eventually I drove by to see Beau. The workmen inside said they were remodeling for Mr. Tabor and knew nothing of a man named Beau Duvalé. I cussed myself for procrastinating. He was under Celeste’s thumb now.

Feeling more lost every day without Beau to talk to, in a few weeks during a discombobulated state of mind I frantically coordinated arrangements to marry Phil at his family’s Piney Point hacienda. Another non-mensa moment. My quickly planned event yielded four hundred guests who showed up to celebrate and witness me getting beyond swirling drunk. Luckily intoxication got me a two day pass on consummating our vows.