Slut Lullabies (26 page)

The muscles of Jayne's face hurt with trying not to whoop for glee. “Six thirty on Friday is fine,” she manages. “I just thought you forgot.”

The flowers she gave Blaine are still alive. She is momentarily stunned—nothing she has ever planted for
herself
lived out the week. He must be taking care of them like a mother bird, dropping food and water into their eager mouths buried under dirt. The soil is moist and cold—they will not last long; the weather is turning. All the petals are red, the color of love and drama and blood and passion and warmth: everything that matters. She knew he would appreciate that, but could not have guessed he was capable of such paternal ministering. The palpitations under her skin feel like disappointment, regret. Honestly, she had assumed that when she got here, they would already be dead. Though if that were true, why did she come?

It takes only seconds to yank them out by their roots, to turn this token of beauty into something ugly. She leaves the slack stems atop the raped dirt, looks fleetingly for some garbage in the yard of his apartment complex but finds it disturbingly clean. On the porch is a weathered bag of salt—it must have been there since last winter; the bottom is corroded and leaking. She grabs a handful and smears it into the soil to kill all chances of renewal. Not only is it too late in the season to start fresh, but he'd have to go to some nursery and buy new soil, and let's face it, he would never, ever do that.

Snapshot number ten: Elizabeth in a white off-the-shoulder blouse, newly dyed red hair in Dorothy Hamill wedge. Marty in a Lands' End button-down orange-and-white striped Oxford, Bermuda shorts, boat shoes, hair still clinging to top of head.

Subtext: Sophie Jayne lurks behind the camera photographing Mom and Marty on their first date. Her grandmother on Dad's side, before she stopped speaking to Mom, always said that when Sophie got old enough to date, Mom should take a Polaroid of everyone so that if Sophie ever didn't come home, the police would know what man to look for. Sophie wants to make sure Mom comes home, so she has become an avid photographer. Grandma did not visit but sent Sophie the camera for Christmas—since, Sophie has photographed eleven men with Mom, each smiling, innocent. Mom has always come home, but none of the men ever show up again.

Script:

“So do you want to be a photographer when you grow up, young lady?”

Sophie doesn't answer. She stands with one foot on the sofa, the other on the coffee table, the camera in front of her face, bouncing up and down. In the viewfinder, Mom's head bobs like an apple.

“Sophie, Mr. Hirsch is speaking to you!”

Sophie stares, eyes dizzy. Mr. Hirsch repeats his question then adds, “Or maybe an acrobat by the looks of it!” He chuckles at his own joke.

“I'm going to be a Satanist!” proclaims Sophie.

“Sophie!” Mom sounds terrified in a way Sophie did not think she had left in her. “Why would you say something like that to Mr. Hirsch—or to anyone for that matter?”

“Heaven's just a bunch of harps and junk. Nobody cool goes there. I'm going to be a Satanist so I can go to hell and see my dad.”

Behind the camera's lens, she watches her mother's face grow larger in the frame, becoming only a nose. Mom's rings against Sophie's cheekbone make a muffled, crunchy sound. Mom has turned on her strappy sandals and raced up the stairs, already sobbing. Mr. Hirsch stands with Sophie, whose Polaroid has thudded to the shag carpet. She cannot hear Mom anymore, but knows she will be upstairs sprawled across her big bed, shoes dangling off the edge, door locked. Sophie will never get in tonight. Mr. Hirsch will have to go home; like the others, he will not be back.

“Sweetheart,” Mr. Hirsch says, gathering Sophie to the couch, pressing a warm, dry hand against her pulsing cheek. “I'm sure you didn't mean to upset your mother. She loved your dad very much, and she doesn't like to hear you talk like that about him, even as a joke. Do you understand?”

Sophie wants to lurch from his touch. On the table, two photos brighten in tandem, developing into something already out of reach. The camera needs to die now—she will smash it with a rock, throw it out a window, something. As soon as this man leaves.

“I'm sorry, Sophie.” Mr. Hirsch does look sorry, and Sophie is surprised. “Sometimes it does help to laugh at our losses. I know you're doing your best to cope. You shouldn't have to deal with such difficult, adult things at your age.”

“Suicide is a mortal sin if you're Catholic,” she explains patiently, like her fourth grade teacher discussing fractions. “Mom cries about it all the time on the phone to Father Hardigan.” Sophie leans over and hands him one of the photos. Maybe he would like a souvenir of Mom, since he will never want to come here again.

They swap: his American Spirit for her Dunhill Light. Light their cigarettes off the candle burning at her bedside. The black hair of Blaine's body stands out like ink on her cream sheets. Jayne leans back against the wall—there is no headboard, and her head hits the bottom of a framed Matisse above the bed—and inhales, tries to look casual.

“Look at you, posing,” says Blaine. “You can't wait to get dressed, can you?”

He does not permit her a moment's peace in her pretenses—she remembers that now, how uncomfortable it makes her. How it kills everything in the moment and only makes her love him more afterward. Jayne flings back the sheet and walks naked—what the hell do naked people do with their arms?—to the armoire and gets out the decanter of Jameson.

“Do you care for a drink? We can take it on the balcony.”

Half of Blaine's mouth turns up. “Like this?”

“Hell yeah.”

“It's September.”

“Oh, that's right, Southern Boy. You're a weather pussy.”

But in the midnight air, her pale skin glows conspicuously—he is at home in the darkness. She has never put any chairs out on her balcony; the cement is chilly on her ass. Soothing. No stars are visible—the lake is indistinguishable from black air. This is not even a balcony, really. There is no rail; it's just a slab of cement that you have to crawl out a window to access. The management planned to install sliding doors but then changed their minds—cheaper, no doubt, to go without. Jayne scoots closer to the edge, says, “Wanna give the neighbors a show?”

“What neighbors? I don't think anyone can see us here.”

“Them.” Jayne points a finger down.

He perks up: a little boy, curious, eager to think he can stir things up. “How?”

And then she is hanging, breasts flopping toward her chin, the edge of the cement pinching into her stomach. From above she hears Blaine's “Whoa, shit!”—she's swinging upside down, legs and hips still steady on the slab above, straining to reach the window beneath her own. The lights are on, but she doesn't see anyone inside. Knuckles barely grazing the glass pane, she knocks.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Blaine is pulling at her legs—no, knocking her off balance, the weight of her top half tipping her forward. She squeals, “Let go!” but he has yanked her back, cement scraping the tender skin of her abdomen. She lays naked beneath him like a fallen angel, twisted up to shield her wounds.

“Why did you pull me like that? You could have killed me!”

“Are you out of your mind? You could've killed yourself.”

“I've done it before without anyone here. I love heights. I'm not afraid.”

“Whatever, girl.” He is bored with it already: nobody defying death, nobody to rescue. She is not appropriately grateful. She suddenly wishes for her clothes.

“Thanks for trying to help, though.”

“Uh-huh.” His ass cheeks parting as he climbs back through the window strike her as less vulnerable than sinister; animalistic. His nudity seems cloaked by hair, while she is truly naked. Even with all his lovers, he is insecure—confided once that he hoped to have electrolysis done on his back once his paintings started to sell and he had some cash. Though he's thirty-five and has only shown his work in a couple of amateurish neighborhood galleries where people came for free wine and didn't buy anything, Jayne trusts he'll be famous someday, if only because she won't be at his side to enjoy it.

By the time she joins him, he has pulled on his underwear and trousers. He is dressing jerkily, agitated—she has never seen him anything but languid before. Desperation rises.

“
Blaaiine
. Look, I'm sorry I scared you. But I mean,
you
of all people should understand. It's just a high, that's all. It's like drugs, only I like it more because I can control it.”

“Sounds to me like you're trying to die but don't have the balls to kill yourself.”

“Jesus, don't be melodramatic. I could say the same thing about you!”

“Yeah, you could've.” Almost sadly. “I'm working on changing. That's why I haven't been coming 'round too much. Nothing personal, but I got my own demons, you know.” He tugs his belt too hard: “Ain't you heard, baby?
Thanatos
can kill you.”

Snapshot number eleven: Sophie, paper thin, yellowish-white cotton blouse of uniform from Saint Benedict's, Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, hair in Dorothy Hamill wedge. Refrigerator with a list of ingredients for
Bûche de Noël
, drawing of Santa Claus with fangs, carrying a machete.

Subtext: The drawing is hanging for everyone to see because Mom is afraid of “judging” Sophie, which their family therapist warned her not to do. Though not visible in the photo, the caption beneath the drawing reads:
The legand of Santa is wrong because it tells kids that Christmas is about greed and getting espensive stuff instead of about the birth of our Lord. Santa Claus is vialente against Jesus's message. Instead of a uzi or a very sharp knife, I would just like some Tropical Fruit Life Savers and Peace On Earth. Merry Christmas to all from Sophie Claus
. Mom had thrust the picture at their therapist, exclaiming, “She thinks her last name is Claus now—she must think her father turned into Santa Claus after he died! I think she's in denial.” The therapist explained that Sophie was actually trying to take a positive step in improving Santa's integration into the Christmas Story by recasting him in her own image: a peace-loving girl with simple, nonmaterial desires. The therapist likes to make a lot out of things, imagine complicated meanings, otherwise she would go nuts talking to so many people about their boring problems. After Mom left, the therapist asked Sophie to draw a picture of her father and write him a letter. Sophie's picture was of a horse grazing in some flowers.

Script:

“Do you see your father anywhere in that field?”

“Mom's boyfriend, Marty, took me for a riding lesson, and I was drawing it for Dad,” Sophie explains. “Dad used to draw horses when he was a kid. He should have gone to art school, Mom says, but he didn't have any money. He never rode a horse—he just knew what they were from TV. He'd be glad I could have riding lessons 'cause he must've always wanted them and parents like their kids to have the stuff they wanted. They're
happy
to sacrifice themselves for it, like Jesus sacrificed himself for our sins.”

Jayne waits until Mom has finished one glass of Sauvignon Blanc before she quips, breezily, “So I have a boyfriend.”

Mom's face brightens in that vacant way. “I thought you already had one, hon.”

“No, I mean, well . . . yes, I was seeing someone, but now it's serious.”

“Oh?” Same brightening—if Mom gets any brighter she will burn herself out. “Is it that starving artist? Bain?”

“Blaine!” Giggles erupt; Jayne decides to believe Mom has made a joke. “He told me the other night, after the Saint Xavier fundraiser, that he's trying to change—he's had kind of a wild life—and now he wants to settle down.”

“That's wonderful!” Mom is leaning across the table of RL, flagging the waiter down and ordering another round of wine. “Though men never really change—you know that, don't you? It's cute when they offer to try, as long as the things they're referring to are only nuisances, not anything really bad, capital B.”

Jayne is certain Mom would not categorize snorting H or practicing B&D—some of Blaine's favorite capital letter pastimes—as nuisances. She smiles demurely.

“We should have gotten a bottle,” Mom shrills, giddy. “After all, we're both in love . . . honey, didn't you think Larry just seemed like the warmest, kindest person? Doesn't he just radiate that?”

“Huh?” Jayne says. “Are you talking about that J. Peterman guy who says everything on cue, or about Marty?”

“Marty!” her mother scoffs. “Marty never says anything!”

“Maybe you're just not listening.”

“Oh, Sophie Wee.” Mom rests her hands on the tabletop, Christlike. “Please. He really enjoyed you. He thought you were so bright . . . which, of course, you are.” She studies the menu diligently, although she will have the soft shell crab salad, obviously. Afterward she will drag Jayne next door to Ralph Lauren and offer to buy her an outfit, and Jayne will accept because she wants to blend in at work, and after that Jayne will feel as if Mom paid her off not to say anything to Marty and will feel guilty because the only reason she is holding her tongue is for fear that Marty will leave.

She stares around the dark-wood room. It is meant to feel like a men's club in here, but all the patrons are women. In fact there are only . . . three men, she counts, in the entire place: all over sixty. Her mother likes this kind of vibe—likes to sit among ladies who lunch, although she herself works, works hard, harder than Marty wanted her to, harder than he works himself. But Mom knows—she was tricked once before: never grow too dependent on a man. She will not give herself up this time. Maybe she does not know how to give up anything anymore. Maybe that is the problem.