She'll Take It (31 page)
Authors: Mary Carter
“Your mother!” the deli man shouts. “How old are you?”
He advances again, this time he's two inches from my face. I can see the stubble on his face.
“Thirty,” I whisper. “In two days.” I put my hand in my pocket and pull out the packs of gum. I turn my purse upside down. The other pack of gum tumbles out along with tampons, dental floss, matches, and a can of Friskies. I see the man's hand go up, and for a split second I think he's going to hit me. And what's even strangerâpart of me wishes he would. I want him to hit me. I want to be punished. If this were Singapore they'd take the butcher knife from the back and chop off my hands. I could take a hit. But instead of hitting me, his hands clutch at his heart.
“Robbie, no!” his wife screams, running up from behind. She barely gets her arms around him as he crumples to the ground.
Chapter 34
“C
PR,” I say, dropping to my knees and taking his wife by the shoulders. “Do you know CPR?”
PR,” I say, dropping to my knees and taking his wife by the shoulders. “Do you know CPR?”
She shakes her head. Her eyes are large, brimming with tears; she's spraying fear like a wild animal. “His heart,” she whispers. “Doctor says too much stress.”
“Call 911,” I say, pushing her toward the phone. He's already on his back. I tilt his head, pinch his nose, and put my cheek down to his mouth. He's not breathing. I try and find a pulse. No pulse. Three breaths, fifteen compressions. It's been well over two years since I breathed into Annie the CPR mannequin, and I pray the rules haven't changed too much. This time I drop the Saints and go right to the source. “Please, God,” I say as my hands pump down on his heart. “Help me.”
On the third round, I have a pulse. And then air. He's sucking in glorious air. His wife is leaning over us crying.
“Robbie,” she says. “Robbie.”
He opens his eyes. I'm leaning toward him, listening for the breath. He spits in my eye. But I don't care. He's alive and the paramedics have arrived. I roll away from him and put my head in my hands. The paramedics approach me. His wife and I both yell that it's Robbie who is in trouble.
“You did CPR?” one shouts at me.
I nod. “Did Iâdid I do something wrong?” I squeak.
“You saved his life,” he says.
I remain on the floor as they take him out in the stretcher.
She wants to go with him in the ambulance, but she has to close the store first.
“I'll help you,” I say.
She hesitates only for a second and then nods. While she's locking up the register, I usher everyone out of the store. The police arrive.
“He's in the ambulance,” the wife says to the officers at the door.
“We got a call about a theft,” the officer says. “Were you robbed?”
The woman looks at the cop and shakes her head. “No,” she says. “My husband was confused. And then he had a heart attack. But it's okay. Everything is okay.”
“I'm sorry,” I whisper when they're out of sight.
She grabs my hands. “I'm not,” she says. “You saved his life. And maybeâjust maybe you learn lesson?”
I start to cry. “But it's my fault,” I tell her. “I made him mad. If I hadn'tâ”
She interrupts me by putting her hands on either side of my face. “He's been mad for twenty years,” she says softly. “But it's over now. And no matter what else, you are a good girl. And you are wrong. Your mother would be proud.”
I give her my phone number, and she promises to call and let me know how he's doing.
I run out of the deli clutching the envelope in my pocket. The studio is only ten blocks away and I run as if my life depended on it.
“Taping has already begun,” the guard says as I enter the building and try to get past him.
“Please,” I beg holding up my guest pass. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I know I have to do this before I lose my nerve. “You have to let me in.”
Just then I see Deborah Green round the corner. “Deborah!” I yell. “Deborah.”
She disappears into an elevator. It's too late. I turn around and head to the exit.
“Yes?” I hear from behind me.
I turn around to find Deborah waiting impatiently.
“Deborah,” I say. “Thank God. You have to let me up.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “And why do I have to do that?” she says.
When I tell her, her snippy attitude evaporates and you can see her adding up the ratings in her head. Seconds later, she hustles me into the elevator.
I'm waiting behind the wings. I can see wonderful, beautiful Greg sitting at the commentator's desk. Deborah Green swivels her chair to face the camera. “We have a special guest today,” she tells America. “In fact, Gregâshe came all the way here just to see you.” An assistant gives me a little nudge and I walk out onto the stage and into the bright lights. “Have a seat, Melanie,” Deborah says kindly.
“Is it okay if I stand?” I ask. I don't trust my legs, which are shaking something fierce. Greg meets my eyes and then closes his for a second. When he opens them he has his television personality on.
“What can I do for you?” he asks professionally.
Lies are perched at the tip of my tongue, but the truth beats its wings against my chest and tumbles out like boxes stacked precariously in an old attic. “I need you,” I choke. “Help me.”
“Go on,” Greg says quietly, intensely.
“I'm a kleptomaniac,” I say. “I steal everything I can get my hands on.”
“Well this is quite a confession,” Deborah cuts in cheerfully, but Greg puts his hand out and stops her.
“Let her talk,” he says and nods at me.
I take a deep breath and let it all out. “Socks. Lipstick. Jewelry. Scarves. Tampons. Gravy boats, sandals, cordless phones, books, cutlery. Teddy bears, silk panties, cashmere sweaters, pens, boas, diamonds!”
As I speak everything disappears including the cameras and Deborah's gaping mouth and the beautiful image of Greg burned in my brain. “Soaps, candles, candies, pillows, place mats, paintings!” I close my eyes and continue babbling until I feel someone's arms around me. Greg holds me while I shake and cry. No matter what happens, he's here now, touching me.
“Shh,” he says as a litany of stolen items roll out of my mouth. “Just stop.”
“I can't,” I moan. “I can't stop.”
Greg takes my head in my hands and pulls back enough so that I can look in his eyes. “You've just taken the most important step,” he says. “You've confessed your shameful secret, and you've admitted you need help. How do you feel?”
“Like shit,” I say.
“You're the most beautiful piece of shit I've ever seen,” Greg says. It's the most disgusting and most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. And then he kisses me in front of a live studio audience.
Later that night we sit on his Pottery Barn leather sofa and I cry into his lap for a full hour.
“Feel better?” he asks, playing with my hair.
“No,” I mumble.
“Would you like to steal from me?” he says.
I sit up. “What?”
He gestures around. “Take anything you'd like. I have way too many things.”
I start crying again.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he said. “It's a joke.”
I make a mental note to return the penguin. “I need another tissue,” I say and excuse myself.
In the bathroom I take a good look at myself in the mirror. I'm still shaky and I could use a little makeup, but otherwise, it's me looking back. I've confessed my shameful secret to the world and it didn't come to an end. Next to stealing, it's the best feeling ever. I splash water on my face and reach for the hand towel hanging over his sink. I hold it on my face, inhaling its clean, comforting scent. When I go to put it back, I notice the object it had concealed while hanging.
“That's what you want to take?” Greg says when I carry the mother of pearl soap dish into the living room.
“Where did you get it?” I ask.
“Steve Landon. He gave one to everybody in the firm last year for Christmas. Somehow I ended up with two, so you're welcome to it. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
I turn it over. Made in Taiwan. $19.99.
“Do you want to play with that soap dish or do you want to have last-person sex?” Greg teases me.
I toss the soap dish behind me like a bridal bouquet.
We kiss madly on the couch and then roll onto the floor. Greg gets on top of me and begins unbuttoning my blouse. He plants a kiss on me after undoing each button. Then he works his way back up. My neck, my cheeks, my lips, and when he opens my blouse and takes off my bra, my nipples are so erect I either have to enlist them as soldiers or make love to him. It isn't anything like it was with Ray. Physically I enjoyed sex with Rayâbut there was always a part of me playing an act or twisting just the right way so my thighs wouldn't look chubby and sucking in my stomachâthere was an entire Olympic judge panel in my head every move I made. (The East German judge always gave me a 3.5, the bastard.) But with Greg, he already knew the worst of me and he still liked me. I was even venturing to think maybe he was in love with me. But enough talking. Greg is about to enlist a soldier of his own, and we wouldn't want to miss that, would we?
But let me be the first to tell you that he's going down on me. South Town is no longer a ghost town and I didn't even have to draw him a map. Oh God, oh God,
Oh. God.
But as incredible as this feels, I want him inside me. I pull him up and he doesn't hesitate (by the way he has a lovely penisâI'm gobsmacked), and seconds later we're doing it. We're having unbelievable last-person sex that I pray won't be anywhere near the last. He must have been thinking the same thing, for we've done it a total of three times and now we're in his shower giggling and kissing and soaping each other in places we'd never met up until todayâand then if two orgasms aren't enough (the third time I faked itâwhat can I sayâtwo is my limit) now he's shampooing me.
Oh. God.
But as incredible as this feels, I want him inside me. I pull him up and he doesn't hesitate (by the way he has a lovely penisâI'm gobsmacked), and seconds later we're doing it. We're having unbelievable last-person sex that I pray won't be anywhere near the last. He must have been thinking the same thing, for we've done it a total of three times and now we're in his shower giggling and kissing and soaping each other in places we'd never met up until todayâand then if two orgasms aren't enough (the third time I faked itâwhat can I sayâtwo is my limit) now he's shampooing me.
But after all the sex and the shampooing, I get a lecture. We're sitting at his dining room table and he's made a pot of coffee. He has a list of psychiatrists for me to call in the morning. He says they'll encourage me to join a support group. AA for shoplifters. He tells me there is even a Web siteâ
kleptomaniacs.com
. And if that's not strange enough, they now treat kleptos with Naltrexoneâa drug used to reduce the cravings in heroin addicts. So I guess it is an addiction. And that meansâthere's help.
kleptomaniacs.com
. And if that's not strange enough, they now treat kleptos with Naltrexoneâa drug used to reduce the cravings in heroin addicts. So I guess it is an addiction. And that meansâthere's help.
“And I'm sure they'll tell youâyou're not to go into stores alone for a whileâand when you do you should have someone with you who knows aboutâyour proclivity to take things,” Greg says, taking my hands across the table. “I'll follow you everywhere,” he adds. And although I was already three-quarters of the way there, I fall the rest of the way in love with him right then and there. Nothing could ruin this moment.
“Do you think your family saw the show?” Greg asks suddenly. A look of horror crosses my face like a line of geese waddling across a crowded freeway. “Sorry,” Greg says, squeezing my hand. “One day at a time, right?” I nod. The thought of telling my mother makes me wish I smoked. Sex, lies, and admissions. It's a wonder we're all not dead. At least now everything is out in the open. “And maybe after you've taken some time to confront your addictions and face your lies,” Greg says, looking into my eyes, “you can really concentrate on your clocks.”
CONTRACT WITH SELF
I, Melanie Zeitgar,
Oh, fuck it.
Josh Hannigan is much friendlier now that Trina has dumped him. He actually listens to my request with an open mind. “I can't give you your own opening,” he says “but I will let you rent the studio for a few hours. Will that do?”
I grin. “Cuckoo,” I say, and I'm off to make beautiful art. I buy twelve clocks at a Target in New Jersey and then take a cab to my storage unit. Time flies as I lovingly glue every one of my stolen items onto my clocks. The first clock has a scarf, sunglasses, and a hat. The next one gets six bars of soap-teeth and candle-hair. The third one I call Juan's, and I glue on every cactus salt and pepper shaker I ever stole from the Three Musketeers. It's Christmas, it's Mardis Gras, it's good-bye. Everything gets glued on except for the Omega Seamaster watch that I apologetically took back from Greg. That I place in its replacement box and mail it back to the store with an anonymous typewritten note.
Sorry,
it says.
Returned to you by: The Saint of Kleptomaniacs
. There's no need to give bird woman any more to go on than that.
Sorry,
it says.
Returned to you by: The Saint of Kleptomaniacs
. There's no need to give bird woman any more to go on than that.
My favorite is the grandfather clock. I've made it look like a woman with rhinestone-earring eyes, a wide cherry red lipstick mouth, and a floppy hat. But the best thing about it is the mother of pearl soap dish covering her vagina. I call it, “Ode To Trina.”
This is how I live. I attend a support group for shoplifters three times a week. My mother, who has finally recovered from the shock that her daughter is a kleptomaniac, now brags about me to her friends. “Melanie gives speeches at high schools throughout New York and New Jersey on the addiction of shoplifting. She's going to be featured in Oprah's
O
magazine next month. Isn't that wonderful?” I think it helps that I'm also dating Greg Parksâher hero. I've begged him to do something to make my mom hate him, but he refuses to give up his image as most charming boyfriend ever, so I will have to deal.
O
magazine next month. Isn't that wonderful?” I think it helps that I'm also dating Greg Parksâher hero. I've begged him to do something to make my mom hate him, but he refuses to give up his image as most charming boyfriend ever, so I will have to deal.
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