Dorothy on the Rocks (31 page)

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrows only
As the mist resembles the rain
.

It's Longfellow's poem, “Day Is Done.” I recite it slowly in hushed tones. Bixby climbs in my lap and Mr. Ed snores on the couch.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day
.

I don't even have a picture of Jack. Not one snapshot. I'm not a picture taker. My sister-in-law carries a camera with her at all times and constantly records moments. She has hundreds of photo albums filled with snapshots of her kids eating at McDonald's, swimming in the ocean, standing at the bus stop, sleeping in a chair in front of the TV. I would give anything to have one picture of Jack. His face recorded forever. I have an umbrella he left by my front door and a pair of tube socks. And I found my virginity. Yes, and it's not the beer talking. I felt like a virgin again when I made love to Jack, I guess because he made me feel young, he made me feel the world was new and fresh, not burdened with loss.

I open another beer and light a cigarette. All the lights in the buildings are out. I, alone, sit with a flickering candle watching, waiting.

“Jack,” I say in the darkness. “I'm so sorry.” The candle sputters out. Bixby shifts gently in my lap then settles back to sleep. Day is done.

Apollo and his chariot screech through my bedroom window right at the break of day. I put a hand over my injured eye, which is still very sensitive to light, and turn on my side to find myself nose to nose with Mr. Ed. Bixby is on the other side, still traveling in dreamland. I have become a single woman with pets. Oh, God.

I get up to go to the bathroom. My head is full of mothballs and my mouth tastes like old shoe leather. Before I make it halfway across the room I remember what I wanted to forget. I remember Jack is dead. I sink down to my knees as the weight of grief settles on my shoulders. I know this feeling. It's like a shackle on the heart. Breathe, I tell myself. The phone rings. I let the machine pick up and hear the voice of Jack's friend say, “Maggie, it's Bob. I wanted to let you know.”

“I'm here,” I say grabbing the phone.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

“Okay. And you?”

“All right, I guess,” he says.

“Tell me more about what happened. Do you mind?”

“Sure. It helps to talk about it. Makes it more real. Like I said, he had sort of a seizure from the pain, it just came over him. But he was able to get off the road. Thank God. Sheryl didn't know what was happening.”

“Sheryl?” I ask.

“Oh, right. Didn't I mention that before? He was with a friend. She wasn't hurt. Just shook up, in shock. She and Jack have known each other since high school.”

“Were they a couple?”

“Off and on,” Bob says.

“I see. And were they on?” I ask.

“Yeah, I think they were back on,” he says. “Look, I'm sorry. I know that you and Jack were . . . well, he told me about you . . .”

“Really?” I say.

“He was confused. Jack was a great guy, and he certainly wouldn't have wanted you to be hurt. He got your last message.”

“How do you know? He never called me.”

“He had saved it, so I know it meant a lot to him.”

“I see. And, yet, he was back with Sheryl.”

“For the moment. What's it matter now anyway?”

“You're right. What's it matter?”

“I called to tell you about the service today. If you want to come,” Bob says. “It's at Green Lawns Funeral Home. At four p.m. The address is 188-11 Hillside Avenue.”

“Thanks. I'll see,” I say.

“I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't mean to mention Sheryl, but it's just that—she and Jack—I've known them both for so long, since junior high.”

“It's okay, Bob. Jack was a great guy, and I only knew him . . . what? A month, maybe. I'm sorry for you and I'm sorry for Sheryl.”

“Thanks. Maybe I'll see you later.”

“Maybe.”

We hang up. My scratched cornea is throbbing. I put in eye-drops. I've stopped wearing the eye patch. It itches like crazy and I got tired of people calling me Old One Eye and the like.

I'm oddly unaffected by the revelation of Sheryl. Every guy has a Sheryl, the high school sweetheart, the girl next door, first love, first sex, and first heartbreak. It all makes sense now. I was the stopover between sweetheart and wife. The older woman with no strings attached. A cliché. Joke's on me. However, it's hard to act the victim when the other player is lying in a coffin, stiff as spray starch, at the Green Lawns Funeral Home in Queens. Joke's on Jack.

I get dressed and head to the park with Mr. Ed. I stop at the Columbus Café for a coffee to go. It's a beautiful day. The sky is crystal blue; it's seventy-five degrees with very little humidity. Perfect, a perfect summer day. Ed and I walk over to Bethesda Fountain. The Angel glistens in the sunlight and the fountain water sparkles as it cascades under her feet. I dip my hands in the water and splash it on my face.

“Forgive me, dear Angel of the Waters. And carry Jack's soul swiftly to the bright shining light of forever.” I dip my hand again and sprinkle some water on Mr. Ed. “And bless my four-legged friend with happy days and long life.”

Ed barks and bites at the air. I take him to the dog run on the other side of the park. When we get in the enclosed area I take off Ed's leash and set the little guy free. He runs in a circle and then
does a double hop and chases a poodle back and forth the length of the run. I sit down on a bench, close my eyes, and tilt my face to the sun and try to think about nothing.

“Nice day,” a voice says, and I feel someone sit down on the bench next to me. I nod in agreement and keep my eyes shut, hoping whoever it is will get the message that I want to be left alone.

“Not too much humidity,” the voice continues. Apparently the message has not been received. I open one eye and peek at the intruder. Oh God, it's Todd, Sandy's paramour. I'm trapped.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi yourself,” Todd says. Well, it certainly wasn't his witty banter that got Sandy all hot and bothered.

“I'm just getting a little R and R,” I say hoping he'll take the hint and leave.

“How's Sandy? I haven't seen her,” he asks, plunging into the meat of the matter.

“Look, I don't really know. She's moved downtown for a while.”

“Without the dog? She left her dog behind?” Todd asks.

“Well, the building, you know, rules, couldn't take him,” I say, desperate to get back to thinking about nothing.

“I think that is irresponsible,” Todd says. “You don't really know anybody, do you? I mean, you think you do, but then the seams start to fray and the insides start to show and the picture isn't so pretty, is it?” Todd reaches into a pocket and pulls out a silver flask. He unscrews the top and takes a nip and then offers it to me.

“Chivas Regal,” he says. “I only drink top shelf because otherwise it's just booze, know what I mean?”

“It's a little early, don't you think?”

“Early? What difference does it make? I haven't slept in two weeks.”

“God,” I say. “You must be exhausted.”

“I'm never exhausted,” he says, still offering the flask. “I have too much energy to be exhausted. I could launch a rocket to the moon with my energy.”

I take the flask and suck down some scotch. It is definitely top shelf.

“That's nice,” I say, handing it back to him.

“Finish it,” he says. “There's more where that came from.”

“Well,” I say. “Here's to love.” Shit I don't know what made me say that.

“Yeah, love,” Todd says. “It will kill you, but what a way to go.” Then he puts his head back and laughs the dirtiest laugh I've ever heard. This man oozes sex. I wonder if maybe he's in the porn industry. Boy, I can see how Sandy didn't have a chance; she probably got down on her knees and begged. Oh, my God. What am I thinking? I shake my head a couple of times. The scotch has really hit me. Maybe it's laced with something, what's that new designer drug? It starts with an
O
.

“So what's your story?” Todd asks.

Boy, what a lame line, I think to myself. This guy is a sleaze machine. “Well, you know . . .” I say.

“Are you in love at the moment?” he asks, looking directly at me with his ice blue eyes surrounded by long black lashes. He looks like a youngish Paul Newman, like Paul Newman in
Cool Hand Luke
. I love that movie.

“No, not really. The guy I was seeing . . . died,” I say.

“Really?” Todd says. “I'm so sorry. Was it sudden?”

“Very,” I say, looking right into the ice blue eyes.

“So sad. You must be heartbroken.”

“I am. Except I found out he was seeing his old girlfriend again.”

“Oh, that's too bad.”

“Yeah. I guess I really don't know how to feel about it.” The heat from Todd's body is palpable. “But now it seems so incidental, considering.”

“Feelings are never incidental,” he says, looking me up and down. “Why don't we take a walk?” He takes my arm and gently pulls me off the bench. “The dogs are fine in here. I want to show you something.”

“Okay,” I mumble. I'm sure that scotch had some of that O drug; otherwise he would never be able to get me to go with him because I know exactly what he is doing. He wants to get me in that underbrush. Well, let's see how far he gets. I hate men who are so smug they think they can get whatever they want. We leave the dog run and, sure enough, he starts walking toward some trees that are surrounded by thick shrubs.

“There is this wonderful little copse over here and underneath it is the most magical spot in the whole park.”

Copse, I think who the hell uses a word like
copse
?

“It's like something out of
Alice in Wonderland,
” he says, pulling apart some branches. “Right in here.”

Sure, big guy, let's see who gets what in the magical copse. I bend down and duck walk into the brush and sure enough there is a little open space. The sun filters through the leaves and shadows dance on the ground. There are even a few wildflowers, delicate pink blooms. I think they're called coralbells. And then I feel a hand on my backside as I crawl toward the center. The hand
moves down my leg. He's got to be crazy if he thinks I'm as easy as Sandy. Then both of his hands are on my upturned butt, petting and caressing. His breathing is getting heavy.

“You have an amazing ass,” he says. I sway to his touch in spite of myself. His hands move to my underside and cup my breasts. Then he fondles them slowly. I moan. He finds my nipples and pinches them gently. A chill runs down my spine. Todd pulls me up toward him. Our bodies move in rhythm, his underside against my backside. He kisses the back of my neck while he explores my body, running his hands across my breasts, lingering, then moving south. He inches his way down to my soft spot, my happy house, my mound of pleasure. And when he reaches it he begins his work. I'm putty in his hands. I turn my head to the side and find his mouth. The heat from his lips is like fire. I'm lost in it. He rips my shirt open down the front. I turn and am on my back facing him. He is a god. He pulls his shirt over his head to reveal a torso that is ripped and rippled. He pulls down my jeans. I open his belt. He groans with pleasure. I unzip his fly. His cock springs out fully erect. It's magnificent. Todd is about to guide his bigness into my love canal when a loud voice interjects itself into the scene.

“What the hell is going on in there?” it says. “NYPD. Come out of there at once.”

Oh, my God. My mind clears. Todd rolls off me and scrambles to get his pants on. My clothes are strewn over the ground. I reach for my shirt and start to put it on.

Goodie buzzes onto a low hanging branch. “Really Maggie,” he says, shaking his head and tsking. “This is not pretty, not pretty at all. Get your clothes on and get out of here.”

“Save the lecture, Goodie,” I hiss at him. I struggle to get in my pants. Todd has already gone out to face the music. I manage to
get dressed and then crawl out of the “magic place.” Amazingly, I hear laughter and look up to see Todd and the policeman buddying up. Todd offers the cop a cigarette and the cop lights up. I get to my feet and have the instinct to start running. But I don't, mainly because I can find only one of my sandals.

“Look, I don't want to cause you any grief,” the cop says and winks at Todd, “but we can't let this go on in broad daylight. Get it? Broad?”

“Yeah, broad . . . daylight,” Todd says. “That is funny.” And the two of them collapse again in guffaws. I have the awful sensation of being the butt (and more literally than I'd like) of a fraternity house prank.

“So what's the story, guys?” I say with as much chutzpah as I can muster. Todd turns to me as if I'm just a grace note in the duet that he and the officer of the law are now performing.

“What's that?” he says. I notice for the first time that his hair is dyed, yes, dyed. Well tinted at least—maybe Grecian Formula or Just-for-Shoes? And he is wearing, oh my God, pancake makeup and a thick gold chain around his neck. Why didn't I notice that before? That must have been why he looked momentarily like a god to me. The sun reflecting off the cheap gold chain and then refracting off the Grecian formula “summer blond” dye on his thinning hair. I wish I could disappear. I can't believe that not three minutes ago this bozo (is he actually wearing madras clam diggers?) had me in the hot throes of unbridled ecstasy.