Why Aren't You Smiling? (16 page)

Just then I heard footsteps in the hall. Panic joined the falling sensation and I quietly, if clumsily, fled out the back door into the sweltering heat of the yard. I plopped down into one of the lawn chairs facing the garden. Outwardly I remained impassive to the point of rigidity, but inside I was a shipwrecked sailor holding onto a piece of driftwood as the sea raged around him, a wolf howling at the moon, a transfer student on his first day at a new junior high. A moment later, Beth's voice addressed me from the doorway of the house. “Now you know how it feels.”

I wanted to be polite, but didn't have the energy. “What?”

She came out to the backyard and collapsed into the lawn chair next to me. Closing her eyes, she said, “You're wasting your time.” She tried to make her voice sound wise and indifferent.

“What do you mean?” Her tone irritated me.

Beth opened her eyes and gave me a cruel smile. “Don't play coy, Leonard. I see how you look at Rick. But don't think the feeling's reciprocal. Not for you
or
me. I'm not saying he doesn't care for me. He does. More than anyone else. I'm his rock, spiritually, which is all that really matters. But on the material plane, it's never going to happen. I've accepted that. And in a way, it's better. It keeps us from getting wrapped up in the physical and forgetting the spiritual.” Beth sounded so miserable that in spite of not really liking her, I felt a little sorry for her.

“I think of Rick,” I admitted.

Beth smiled tightly. “I'll bet.”

“At night. I'm not a child anymore, you know. I have feelings.”

She chuckled bitterly. “No kidding.”

I turned my face away from her. “Do Rick…” I could barely force the words out of my mouth, “you know, and Lucas…”

Beth sat up and scowled at me to deliver her answer. “What do you think?”

“Then maybe…”

Beth cut me off. “You're not his type.”

“What's his type?”

Beth jerked her head towards the house. “You just saw it. Angels. He calls them his angels.”

I wanted to protest, to say I'd seen interest in Rick's eyes. But it wasn't true. Rick had never looked at me the way he looked at Lucas. And why would he? Who'd ever heard of a short, chubby angel with acne? Every word Rick had uttered in my presence had been utterly sincere and without ulterior motives. He wanted to help me on my spiritual quest because he was a good person. I felt like screaming.

“He does
like
you, Leonard,” consoled Beth. “He said you have a highly spiritual nature. His words.”

“Shouldn't we all Love each other?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Spiritual Love can be universal,” said Beth. “Not physical. Matter is the creation of the Devil. It exists to keep our souls apart and tempt us into Sin.”

“It's hard to think of Rick sinning.”

“Not so much sinning as struggling,” sighed Beth. “I'm not a small-minded person.” She put on a hopeful voice. “I've spoken with him. He knows he has tendencies and he's agreed to let me help him.”

I started feeling a little sorry for Rick. “When I'm with him I feel really special,” I admitted.

“Me, too,” said Beth, sounding even sadder than I felt.

“When he looks at me, it's like… Holy or something” I shivered with the thought of it.

“His eyes are
smoldering,”
said Beth, enjoying her use of the word. “That's the secret of his charisma. It's like he can see into your soul.”

I felt a huge relief in being able to share my feelings. “Being around him makes it easier to Love. Not just him, but everyone, everything. The whole world is more lovable.”

“That's Rick's gift,” Beth confirmed. “He makes it easier for others to Love.” Her voiced dropped to a barely audible and rather theatrical whisper. “But he himself is not honestly capable of Love.” We sat in silence for a moment, not looking at each other. I didn't quite believe Beth, but I didn't disbelieve her either. Finally, she turned to me and glowered. “So… you'll be staying how long?”

I pondered my predicament. Though it seemed to me I'd been at Pleroma forever and my past life was but a distant memory, I'd actually only been there six days. Six long days. It hit me with a rush: I had no desire to sell pot, no chance of getting closer to Rick, no affection for any of the Forever Family, hated sleeping on the couch, and if I heard one more word about Jesus I might have to scream. “I'll be leaving tomorrow.”

Beth's brow unfurrowed and she smiled miserably. “Smart boy.” She got up and went into the house. After a minute she came back with a couple of iced lemonades, one of which she handed to me. We had a truce.

“Rick answered the door in his underpants?” I said. It sounded more like a statement than a question.

Beth looked tired. “He sometimes forgets about the physical plane.”

“You think that was it?”

All the energy seemed to flow out of Beth's body. “I believe so.”

“The kids who come here don't care about Jesus. They're just after pot.”

Beth spoke quickly and decisively, as if she'd had her response waiting. “We know that. For nine out of ten, the preaching goes in one ear out the other, but that one in ten… those kids aren't going to get the truth about Jesus from some stuffy church with some pasty-faced old priest disapproving of everything. But maybe, just maybe, they'll be open to The Word if it's coming from someone they can relate to. The Gospel is the most relevant message in the human universe, but the churches have made it part of the respectability trip.” She softened. “Rick and I are reaching out to people who aren't likely to be reached by anyone else.”

“Seems like Rick does most of the reaching.”

Beth scowled at this. “You better go tell him you're going.”

I stood up and returned to the living room. Lucas was gone and Rick was studying a large, black Bible with tissue-like pages. I sat down next to him. “Hi.”

“Hey, little Leonard.” He put the Bible on the coffee table. “I've been doing some research.” His eyes shone with excitement as he began sermonizing. Noble thoughts clothed in beautiful words poured from his impassioned lips while his hands made imploring gestures that looked almost like caresses. Faith and Reason were equally valid ways to arrive at “the ennobling Love of God.” Heaven was not a physical place in the clouds, but existed “like a seed in the hearts of men, waiting to be cultivated with the manure of Good Works and the waters of Compassion.” The corruption, pain, and suffering of the material world were “temporary inconveniences necessary for the purification of souls.” And since God's mercy was infinite, everyone would eventually find his or her way to “the everlasting bliss of salvation.”

To all these beautiful thoughts, I was barely listening. “So how do you know this Lucas guy?”

Rick's face was a door slamming shut. “Lucas is a fellow seeker. He and I are Brothers in Christ.”

“Am I your Brother in Christ?”

Rick soothed, “You are, Leonard. You are.” He put his hand on my shoulder and did a little squeeze/rub thing like people do to dogs when they're not paying that much attention.

“I thought that maybe we…” I didn't bother to finish because Rick's eyes were clouding over. He wasn't into this conversation. At all. I closed my eyes and silently prayed: Please, dear Lord, don't make me hate someone I Love because he doesn't Love me. Don't let me becometh angry… (I suddenly remembered it was holier to use Olde English when addressing God) …or bitter or forgeteth the happiness I've known from Loving. Helpeth me to remaineth humble and grateful for thy blessings and not be greedy for Love. Amen.

“You all right?” asked Rick.

I opened my eyes and saw the concerned look on Rick's perfect, perfect face. I smiled because a miracle had transpired. I
was
OK. “I'm fine. I'm just fine and I'm going home tomorrow.”

F
rom her immaculately clean and miraculously modern kitchen, Esther Mandelbaum's artificially sweetened voice rang out, “Iiirrving!” Her son did not materialize. She bustled into the living room, which she insisted on keeping perfectly neat and clutterless, as if a reporter and camera crew from
Better Homes & Gardens
might drop by at any moment. The boy whom she addressed was sprawled on the sofa, reading a comic book. Elbows akimbo, she looked at him directly. “We're going out for lunch. You wanna come with?”

The boy glanced up at his mother… She'd justs returned from the beauty parlor and her stiff hair reminded him of a department store mannequin. “I might consider it if you'd call me by my name.”

Esther produced a long, rather theatrical sigh. “Very well,
Rick.”
Her son's new name stuck in her throat a little. “Would you care to join the rest of the family for lunch? We're going to Canter's.” She managed a frosty little smile. She was trying.

Rick didn't much like spending time with his family, but he did have a terrific case of the munchies. “Well, OK.” He sat up, tossed his comic on the coffee table and began putting on his moccasins.

As his mother straightened the comic so that it, like
Life, Look,
and
Time,
was perpendicular with the edge of the table, she caught sight of the cover, which depicted a grotesque, anthropomorphic beast dressed in a brightly colored leotard and cape. “Wonder Wart-hog,” she read out loud, in a voice dripping with querulous disdain. She gave Rick a disappointed look. “You're still reading superhero comics?”

“It's sort of like a parody.”

“It would seem to me,” opined Esther, “that by the age of 18 one could simply accept that superheroes are ego-gratifying fantasy projections for insecure children, and move on with one's reading material.”

“Mom, I've asked you not to psychoanalyze me. You're not even licensed yet.”

“I'm not psychoanalyzing you, I'm psychoanalyzing the typical comic book reader. You, Rick, are surely more intelligent and emotionally mature than the typical comic book reader.”

He shrugged and scratched his chin. “If you say so.”

“And since we're going out, you'll maybe want to change your clothes, or at least put something decent on over that old shirt…” This came out in a tone midway between question and command.

Rick's voice became shrill with grievance. “Do I get to tell you what to wear, or is this a one way deal?” He loved his Jefferson Airplane tee-shirt, holes and all.

Esther threw up her hands, not just metaphorically as other mothers might, but physically, like someone on a TV sitcom. “I know, I know, too much to ask. Monster Mommy strikes again. Forget I said anything. Wear what you like.”

Sol Mandelbaum strolled into the room jangling the car keys in the pocket of his blazer. “What ho, what ho! Are we off?” he asked in the jaunty, fake British accent he found endlessly hilarious.

Rick tried to say, “I guess,” but accidentally swallowed the first word so that it came out, “Guess.”

“I'm to guess, am I? How droll.” Sol rubbed his hands together, impersonating an aristocratic paterfamilias playing whimsical games with his genteel family, a fantasy he'd nurtured since growing up on the mean streets of Brooklyn.

Esther glared at her husband. “Enough, Solly. He's coming.”

Rose, Rick's nine-year-old sister, bounced into the room. “Aunt Sylvia called. She's going to meet us there.”

“Rick… Sweetie?” Esther's voice turned solicitous and whiny, “You wouldn't consider wearing that lovely sweater she gave you last Hanukkah? It means so much to Sylvia to see you kids enjoying her presents. It can be your good deed for the day.”

Rick groaned as if asked to perform one of the seven labors of Hercules, but went to his room. A moment later he returned, clad in a yellow crew-neck sweater that clashed hideously and absurdly with his frayed bellbottoms and wild mane of long, curly hair.

“Ooh, lookin' sharp,” cackled Rose.

“He
does
look sharp,” said Esther, wearing a hopeful smile.

“I have a veddy, veddy attractive and stylish family,” said Sol, still trying to sound upper-crusty. “Now, shall we be off? The carriage awaits.”

Inside the Mandelbaum's cream-colored Lincoln Continental, all was cool, quiet, and calm. Sol drove (jauntily) while Esther, who never let a moment go to waste since returning to school, studied her
Introduction to Abnormal Psychology
text. In back, Rose fidgeted while Rick watched the dull dreamscape of suburban prosperity whiz by outside the window. Everything struck him as grotesquely oversized. Big houses. Big cars. Big lawns. Big people walking big dogs. He felt too small for such a gargantuan world. And yet, his dreams were been big… if somewhat incoherent. He wanted to be left alone and part of it all; treated as an equal and looked up to; a playboy and a do-gooder; a man of the people and a superstar. These contradictions made no difference, ultimately, because nothing was possible for him. Nothing at all. Or maybe everything was, just not quite yet.

No sooner had they hit the freeway than Rose threw herself over to the front of the car and turned on the radio. Static-y music blasted from the speakers. Esther turned down the volume while Rose fell back into her seat and started spastically swinging her arms up and down (her concept of dancing) while screeching along with the song, “Sugar! Uh uh uh uh Uh uh! Awww, honey, honey! Uh uh uh uh Uh uh! You are my candy giiiiirl, and ya got me wantin' yooouuu!” Rick wished he'd followed through with his fantasy of dosing his sister's breakfast cereal with downers.

A small eternity later, the family walked into Canter's, a big, unpretentious East Coast-style deli restaurant. The place was a favorite of showbiz luminaries, and everyone (except Rick, who was above such things) began craning their necks, hoping to see a Somebody. On previous occasions the family had spotted Shelley Winters, Buddy Hackett, Sonny Bono, and someone who might have been the guy who played Larry Tate on
Bewitched.

“I'm getting cheesecake,” announced Rose.

“Isn't that Artie Johnson?” stage-whispered Esther, discreetly pointing at a blond man with an impish grin.

Her husband shook his head. “Nuh-uh. Too tall. Artie Johnson is this big.” He held his hand up to his waist.

“It is,” said Esther. She turned to Rick. “Isn't that Artie Johnson?”

“I wouldn't know,” Rick replied coldly. “I don't watch television.”

“Then how did you know Artie Johnson was a TV actor?” asked Sol, with a smug smile that made Rick want to punch his face a little.

“It
is
Artie Johnson,” declared Rose. “From
Laugh-In!
She started running in hyperactive little circles, chanting
“Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me…!”

Esther stopped her dead with a glare. “Rose,
please!”

A pretty young waitress came up to seat the family. “We'd like a booth up front, my dear,” said Sol.

“My dear,” echoed Esther in cruel imitation.

The waitress led the family to a table and everyone sat except Rick. Directly across the aisle in a semi-circular booth were the members of Azazel, his favorite band. Despite their psychedelic wardrobe (the usual mish-mosh of beads, paisley, and fringe), it was hard to imagine these people producing the morbid, dirge-like acid rock for which they were notorious. They were all giggling and clowning around with their food like unsupervised children.

Though starstruck, Rick felt emboldened by the general air of levity to speak with his heroes. “Hey, I saw you guys open for the Electric Prunes, and
Serpents of the Air
is, like, my favorite album. You guys are the greatest.”

Jonas Valac, the tall, husky lead singer, put down the pickle he'd been toying with and looked up at Rick. “Hey, thanks, man. Always glad to meet a fan.” The subdued, mechanical way in which he said this implied the meeting was at an end, but Rick – fueled by existential desperation -tried to keep the conversation going. “I wish I had the album here for you to sign.” He instantly regretted his remark as teenybopperish. “Sometimes I play along with my flute, you know, improvising freestyle…” A pair of arms grabbed Rick from behind. “What the…?”

Aunt Sylvia spun Rick around to face her. “Irving, dawling! How's my handsome nephew? You look wonderful. So slender! I wish I had your metabolism. Me, I just look at food and it adheres.”

“Oh, hey, Aunt Sylvia. I'm just talking to, uh, my friends here. I'll be right with you.”

“I see,” huffed Aunt Sylvia, offended (though when
wasn't
Aunt Sylvia offended?). She stiffly sat down next to Rose and picked up a menu.

Rick turned back to the table, but Jonas was now intently dissecting a potato pancake and wouldn't catch his eye. Face flushed hot with shame, Rick pulled off the sweater (ugly, ugly, ugly!) and wedged himself into the booth with his family.

“Who are your
friends?”
asked Rose nastily. Rick, busy plotting his escape, didn't even hear her.

Rick felt the tiny, foil-wrapped ball of hashish in his front pocket push into his thigh with every step. He looked down and saw that it produced a noticeable bulge in his skin-tight jeans. His supplier always suggested hiding the goods in your underwear or socks, but Rick wasn't wearing either. He decided the bulge wasn't really suspicious. It could be anything… a lighter, lucky rabbit's foot, keys. He glanced up and down The Strip. The miserably hot day had given way to a cool, clear, breezy evening, and there were people everywhere taking the air. Mostly there were loitering teenagers decked out so exotically they resembled tropical birds. No worries there. The adults, though, all looked suspiciously narclike. The bald man eating an ice cream cone, the sunburned dad-type in Bermuda shorts, maybe even the fairy walking his icky little lap dog – any of them could have been undercover. It was always someone you'd never expect in a million years, or so they said. He had to be careful. He'd get tried as an adult now if he were arrested.

A nondescript man wearing a paisley shirt that was years too young for him (he was pushing forty and balding) stepped out of nowhere and handed Rick a pamphlet. The man's face was plastered with an animated smile, a smile that kept moving instead of staying fixed like smiles were supposed to. “Something to read?”

Rick took the pamphlet. It was too dark to make out the text, but the crudely drawn picture of an emaciated man with a crown of thorns nailed to a wooden cross said it all. Rick tried to hand the pamphlet back. “Not interested.”

The man didn't take it back and kept smiling. “Yours to keep, friend.”

“I'm Jewish,” Rick stated firmly waving the pamphlet in the man's face with a righteous fervor meant to suggest he'd been horribly insensitive and that people of his ilk were responsible for restricted country clubs, pogroms, and the Holocaust.

“So? Jesus was a Jew!” said the man, now smiling a little too hard. “God's not interested in where you're coming from, he's interested in where you're going to.”

Rick glared and deliberately, ostentatiously, let go of the pamphlet, which fluttered to the ground. The man's eyes followed it down with dismay but his mouth kept smiling, though in a sad way now. “I'm trying to do you a favor.” He looked up and stared right in Rick's eyes, which had severely dilated pupils thanks to the half-dozen of his mother's prescription diet pills he'd popped that morning. “Anyone can see your soul is in turmoil.” Rick felt a twinge of paranoia. What could this man see? “I'm not telling you what to do with your life,” the man went on. “Just filling you in on some basic facts. I'm on
your
side.”

“You sound like a salesman,” Rick sneered, comfortable with his contempt. “You should be selling used cars or aluminum siding.”

The man chortled. “Guilty as charged. I
am
a salesman, a salesman for Christ.” He stopped and thought for a second. “Except that's not quite right because God's Love is free. Won't cost you a penny.”

“Get whatcha pay for,” Rick snapped.

The man wheezed out a little laugh, more sincere this time. “OK, smart fella. I get it. What I'm doing is obnoxious. I'm saying I've got the Truth, and that means you don't. It's a put down, of sorts. I get it. But ask yourself, why is this old codger going through all this trouble? Why is he standing on a street corner passing out religious tracts that 99 percent of everyone throws away? You think I wouldn't rather be home in my easy chair, rather be with my wife? I know I'm a pest, that people laugh at me. But you know what? I don't care. I do what I do out of Love. That's right, Love. You hippies didn't invent the word…. ”

The man was enjoying himself now. His eyes smiled along with his mouth as he delivered his well-rehearsed spiel. “Jesus preached Peace two thousand years before the first anti-war march. He preached Brotherhood two thousand years before anyone heard of integration. And he preached Love two thousand years before the first mixed-up kid tried to figure it all out by dropping LSD. So maybe I seem like an old-fashioned square 'cause I don't get high on pot, but I do get high. Oh, yes, I do! My name is James Foster Ferguson and I'm here to tell you I get high on God. Yes, I get high on God and I am stoned on Jesus!”

Rick couldn't help but laugh. Ferguson was absurd and a lunatic, but he'd found a way to enjoy it and you had to respect that. Still, the mention of drugs reminded him that he was on a mission and needed to keep moving. “Thanks for the groovy sermon, man, but I gotta split.” Rick started to walk away, but Ferguson put his hand on his arm. “What's your name, son?”

Rick hesitated, but what could it hurt? “Rick.”