Emma Who Saved My Life (18 page)

“Don't look so strange. That's my nightgown.”

Circa 1896, Grandma's flannels from the mountain cabin.

“I'll have you know in certain southern portions of Indiana that would be considered lonjureee. I might get cold.”

How could anyone be cold in a bed with ME?

(Too bad I can't put in a little picture of her expression in response to that remark.) “Freeman, I am celibate as the Risen Christ.
Noli me tangere
—got that?” And then she went out the bedroom door, only to lean back in to coo, “Unless, you big stud, you get me drunk,” followed by her best dumb-cheerleader giggle as she walked away.

Drinks are on me, Emma.

I went out to the porch and looked out at the sea on this beautiful day. Emma noiselessly joined me sitting on the steps that led down to the beach and we both stared out into the void; the others ran down to the beach to throw the Frisbee back and forth or stick a foot in the water.

“The day is nice,” said Emma.

Yes. The sky is very blue.

“What is this, Hemingway dialogue?”

Ernest and I are both from Oak Park, Emma.

“I've tried not to hold it against you.” She moved to the step below me so she could have more room. “Good stuff, huh? The Atlantic Ocean. You know, you get used to craning your neck in New York, everything, elevators, walk-ups, skyscrapers, is vertical, and then suddenly—WOW: horizontality to the max. Makes you feel like a speck, completely nonexistent.” Then Emma turned up to look at me. “I'd like to expand this thought into a full-fledged neurotic comment, but it's too much work at the beach.” She turned back and we both stared catatonically ahead, looking at the waves.

Thinking profound thoughts, Emma?

“Yes. I was thinking about dinner.”

Susan padded up to the house and yelled up to us on the porch to get down on the beach and have Fun like everyone else. Susan was wearing this vast lemon-yellow one-piece bathing suit that made her look like a parade float. One giant arm held a cigarette, the other a daiquiri, and you had to fix your eyes to these neutral objects while talking to Susan lest you stare at the mottled flesh, the unshaven legs that were her pride, the anatomy unashamedly there.

“She looks like a buoy,” said Emma, after Susan padded back to the beach. “I wish I was that unself-conscious. I'm the ugliest thing here.”

Susan might edge you out, Em.

“No one counts Susan when you talk about human beings. Mandy and Janet have hard athletic bodies—the good thing about being a dyke, I guess: softball. Janet is magazine perfect—look at her catch that Frisbee there … geez. Lisa, of course, is the winner of the Miss America Swimsuit Competition.”

Lisa was engaged in a clumsy game of catch with Tom. Tom was tan and muscular and all-American and had one of those perfectly chiseled bodies you could eat off of, and he was one of those guys who lived for an excuse to take off his shirt. He was throwing the ball gently to Lisa, who would drop it on any account, and he kept trying to throw it to her softer and gentler and it would still end up in the grass, her flitting after it, giggling. Tom would occasionally run and tickle Lisa and kiss her and make her squeal which balanced out the condescending looks and rolling eyes when she dropped his simple, easy “girl's” throws.

“I hate Tom,” Emma said, watching the same spectacle.

Patience, tolerance, I urged.

“No it's no use. And what happened to our Lisa, huh? Where is that adorably neurotic screwed-up Midwestern mess from Milwaukee we've come to know and love? What is this frolic-on-the-beach-with-the-jock-boyfriend shit?”

Exasperated, Emma got up and retreated to the bedroom to change. We had at last surrendered to the notion that we had to make an appearance on the beach. I changed first in the small bathroom next door to our bedroom: khaki shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt that was too big, and flip-flops. I heard much banging around of suitcases and grumblings and cursings from Emma in the bedroom.

What's the problem, Emma? (I ask through the closed door.)

“I'm tall for a girl, right? My breasts are gross. They aren't so big but I will give them this: they are in proportion to my frame.”

Yeah, so?

The suitcase slammed shut again. “So what is it with these thighs—I'm renting myself out to Cellulite as a Before picture. My legs are Ionic columns…” Pause. “I meant Doric.”

Would you come out? You look great.

“You haven't seen my thighs. They're going to let Apollo astronauts use my fat thighs for simulated moon surface.” Some more noise within. “That's it, forget it—I'm not wearing this.”

Finally the door opens. It is Emma, serene, unflustered. She is in a billowy black blouse, black capri slacks (Liz Taylor, circa 1963), sandals, only her ankles and hands exposed. She put on a big pair of dark sunglasses, and said as she led the way outside, “You didn't really think I was going to expose my wretched body, did you? Let's get real here…”

It occurred to me as I walked down to the beach, and for some reason not before, that I was the Whitest Person in America. I've never been “in shape” in my life. My chest hasn't changed since I was fourteen and it would have been nice to have some hair on it or some sun on it or something to recommend it, but I was determined to set an example for Emma, so off went the Hawaiian shirt—

“Oooh blinded by the light, baby!”

“Gimme those sunglasses—I can't see, I'm blind…” Janet and Mandy fumbled around like St. Paul after his vision, falling to the sand, rolling about.

“It's so white, so bright, so clean and fresh!”

“The George Wallace Poster Child, don'tcha know?”

All right, I
won't
take off my shirt. I put it back on and then everyone said they'd stop kidding me and then I took it back off and they didn't stop kidding me, so I turned over on my back and tried to have the patience to lie there and get a tan. Attention moved to Emma:

“Emma,” Janet asked, “why are you all dressed in black on this hot beach, girl?”

“I'm in mourning for my life.”

Janet and Mandy looked at each other blankly.

“Chekhov,” Emma added. “You didn't seriously think the Emma Body was to be revealed in public, did you? I'm sitting over here next to Gil who is also the Whitest Person in America.”

“Don'tcha want a tan?” asked Mandy.

Emma winced, showing a polite disdain. “Give me one good reason to turn yourself a different color.”

Janet and Mandy shrugged and ran back to their Frisbee, then altered course for the surf. They ran headlong into a wave, shrieking shrilly as the water washed between their legs and splashed up their fronts.

“Look at them,” said Emma, all emotion drained from her voice as she reclined back, listless, against an ice chest. “That's a sewer they're swimming in. Tons of New York garbage, toxic waste, chemicals, the backwash of the Great Metropolis. And feces: human feces, fish feces,
Susan's
feces. Living things are out there too, you know—eels, sea worms, man-of-wars and slime and all kinds of living GOO, and when they're not shitting they're looking for something to slime up against—uccccck. Sharks, barracudas, swordfishes—”

There are not swordfishes, I said, looking up at her.

“Yes there are, I've seen them on sale at Peterson's fish market, so I'm sure they're out there, waiting … waiting. Biding their time: waiting for Emma. Manta rays too, hammerhead sharks and things with tentacles and sucker-pods and mouths that go like this—” Emma demonstrated a grouper's expression from behind her sunglasses, which made me laugh. “Are you seriously gonna lie out here?”

Yes, I was one with the shore.

“It's too hot,” she said, getting to her feet lazily, wiping the sand away. “There are mosquitoes and you're gonna turn pink you're so white.”

White for life, I resigned and got up.

“Come inside with Doctor Emma, Doctor of Blenderology—I'm going to show these people how to make a blender drink and I'm going to get everyone drunk and things will get out of hand and squalid and disgusting and Lisa and Tom will discover they're not right for each other, Tom will walk into the sea
Star is Born
-like and leave a will bequesting this beachhouse to the three of us.” At this moment, a hundred yards away, they were sitting together under an umbrella, leaning against each other affectionately. “To the blender, troops!” ordered Emma, pulling me behind her.

Emma's Secret of Blenderology was remarkably simple: put a little pretty-colored liqueur/fruit juice in a blender, add half a bottle of vodka or gin or tequila—something clear—and put in some ice, then blend to Slushee consistency.

A big cumulus cloud wandered in front of the sun, so the gang moved indoors and sat around waiting on new blender creations.

“Let's play a game or something,” said Susan.

Yeah, said everyone.

“I know,” she said, brightening, “how about Truth or Dare?”

No, said everyone.

“What's wrong with Truth or Dare?” asked Chris.

“Uh, how about Who Am I?” proposed Mandy. That was where one player thought of a famous person, living or dead, and everyone took turns guessing by asking yes-or-no questions.

“I've got someone, I've got someone!” said Susan, settling into a big beanbag chair, which she nearly obscured. “A great person!”

All right.

“Is this person a man?” asked Tom.

“God no,” said Susan.

“Is this person a lesbian separatist feminist writer published in the last five years?” asked Emma.

“Well, uh, yes,” said Susan, irritated at the speed of play.

“Lotta challenge to this game,” said Mandy.

Having gotten that far though, having guessed ten or more feminist writers, even Janet and Mandy gave up.

“It's Kristin Howell Kroppett,” said Susan, laughing, throwing her hands up. “C'mon you guys—she wrote
Rape of My Thoughts: Daily Coping in a World With Men.
She's very famous—”

“Her own mother hasn't heard of her,” mumbled Janet.

“Let's try another game,” said Lisa.

“Truth or Dare is always fun,” said Susan. “I remember—”

Everyone again: NO TRUTH OR DARE.

Somehow it was decided that we all had to write personal ads, like the ones in the back pages of the
Village Voice.

“Looking for well-hung Chicano twins for hot oil and whipped cream S & M parties—,” began Mandy, when Susan cut her off, having mysteriously become in charge of the game.

“
No,
honey,” she insisted, “we must do it for real. We'll learn a lot about each other this way. So few people can articulate their needs these days.”

“I need another drink,” said Emma, articulating. As Lisa went to bring the pitcher of some brown-looking cocktail in, everyone scribbled, balled up false takes, grumbled. Doing it seriously is difficult, so no one did.

“Swinging hot-looking single white sex-machine coming off eons of celibacy looking for middle-aged dwarves into bondage and discipline for women's prison scenario—”

“Emma, please!” Susan cried, with an exasperated gesture. “You have to take this seriously now…”

More scribbling. Tom read his:

SWM, 27, attractive, interested in most everything, stuck on Wall St., seeks culture, variety and good times through SW, 21–25, intelligent, artistic, committed, well-read, tall and attractive would be nice too.

“You could probably cut some words out of that and save money,” Tom pointed out, clearing his throat.

(That's odd, I thought, Lisa isn't tall.)

“Here I am, Tom,” said Lisa, pursing her lips, Marilyn Monroe-like, “I'll put my response in the mail today. I'll learn to stand on tiptoes.”

Susan read Lisa's aloud:

SWF, 24, pretty good looks, some smarts, starving artist in the Village, looking for Mr. Perfect, a smart, successful, hunk, initials T.D. if possible, must have Jersey Shore beachhouse—

“All right, all right,” Susan said putting it down, “we get the point, Brandford.” I noticed Emma, out of Lisa's line of sight, filling her cheeks with pretend vomit.

Susan read Janet's clever lesbian ad reverently, Mandy gave up and said she couldn't do it, Chris's was sappy (“Some day he'll come along? The Man I Love? If you love Gershwin, showtunes, opera…” etc.), and then Susan solemnly read mine.

SWM, 22, lonely in the big city, struggling actor in career and in life. Waiting for someone I don't have to act with, someone caring and understanding—

“Gil, this is wonderful,” said Susan, interrupting herself. She read on:

—someone not after the shallow '70s self-involved cheap thrills relationship, a seeker of something permanent and deep, soul-baring, giving. I have much to give to such a woman; all I ask is she be open and kind, liberal and willing to be vulnerable and honest at all levels for a true union of hearts and intellect. Big tits a must.

“WON'T ANYONE take this seriously?” Susan stormed, as the rest of us laughed. Too late, though. The cloud had passed and Mandy and Janet headed back for the surf, Tom took his shirt off again and Lisa bounced off the sofa to give him a hug.

“Back to the blender, soldier,” Emma said, nudging me.

That afternoon, like those of the days following, took forever to complete, operating in the Beach Time Warp where one walks to town, gets a popsicle, walks back, ducking into the airconditioned supermarket to look at magazines you don't buy, comes back to the house, talks with someone, goes out to the beach, walks up the shore then turns around and walks down the shore past the house and down to the infinitely far pier, wades, climbs a dune, finds a shell, throws away the shell, sits on the porch and then asks someone what time it is to discover an hour has gone by and it's
just
three-something and the day, like the sea, stretches before one, time given to you to waste … one falls into an automatic plod from point to point, conscious life ceases, only thoughts that don't require energy are sustained and those not for long. More booze, a soft dehumidified potato chip, a cookie out of a bag someone else brought, someone's low-tar-and-nicotine cigarette—sneak one for later—the body's needs are few.