The First Bad Man (12 page)

“I’m coming down on Friday—how about I take you two out for a fancy dinner?”

Everyone else in the cell phone store was transfixed; someone whispered something about the law but the man with the aggressive voice pointed out that the law’s hands were tied because no nudity was involved. He was right—the bottom of Carl’s dress shirt parted around his member and was stuck to Clee’s lips, so each time she pulled her head away this curtain came with her. Forward and back, forward and back. Carl suddenly made a warrior noise to indicate he was about to shoot. He had wanted to last longer but his paternal pride had engulfed him.

“That would be great,” I said fervently.

“I’ll pick out a nice place,” he said. And then he creamed, not into his daughter’s mouth, which really would be against the law, but up inside his own shirt. Clee’s hand was under there, discreetly milking out the last drops. A flood of nausea and sadness washed over me. I missed Phillip’s familiar member. Where was I now and where was he? The snails were everywhere. Not only underfoot and glued to the kitchen walls, but all over the rest of the house. They weren’t the slow kind. One was procreating asexually on a lampshade. I watched two disappear under the couch. Was this the bottom or would my problem get worse? It was a problem. I had a problem.

SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAD HAPPENED
to me once before. When I was nine a well-meaning uncle sent me a birthday card. It wasn’t really an appropriate card for a young girl; a group of rough-looking birds in rakish hats were playing cards with cigars in their beaks. It said something I can’t remember, but on the inside was a phrase like a virus or a self-replicating parasite waiting for a host. When I opened the card it flew out, gripping my brain with merciless talons: “Birds of a feather flock together.” It couldn’t be said just once, only repeated and repeated and repeated.
Birdsofafeatherflocktogether, birdsofafeatherflocktogether.
Ten million times a day: at school, at home, in the bath, there was no way to hide from it. It receded only as long as I was distracted; at any given moment a bird or flock of birds or a cigar or playing card or anything could bring it on.
Birdsofafeatherflocktogetherbirdsofafeatherflocktogether.
I wondered how I would live a full and normal life, how would I get married, have kids, hold a job with this handicap. I was under this spell, on and off, for a full year. Then, quite unknowingly, the same uncle sent a card for my tenth birthday. This one had a Norman Rockwell painting of a girl covering her eyes on the front. It read: “Another year older? I can’t bear to see!” And then on the inside: “Because what’s happening to you, is happening to me.” It worked like a gunshot. Each time a flock of grimy birds began to descend, I incanted
What’shappeningtoyouishappeningtome
and they immediately dispersed. The uncle is dead, but the card is still on my dresser. It hasn’t failed me once.

“Until now,” I finished gravely, leaning forward on the leather couch. “It doesn’t work on this new spell.”

Ruth-Anne nodded compassionately. We were moving past my inappropriate behavior in last week’s session.

“So we need an antidote,” she said. “A corrective, like the card, for this particular spell. But not
What’shappeningtoyouishappeningtome
, it’s too short.”

“That’s what I thought, that it might be too short.”

“You need something that will take a little time.”

We tried to think of a longish antidote.

“What songs do you know? ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’? Do you know that?”

“I really can’t sing. I can’t hold a tune,” I said.

“I don’t think that’s a problem, you just have to know the words. ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?”

I bleated out “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

“What do you think?”

“Well . . .” I didn’t want to disparage her idea. “I’m not sure I want to sing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ all day.”

“Of course you don’t. That’ll drive you crazier than the blow jobs. What’s a song you love? Is there a song you love?”

There was a song. A girl in college played it all the time; I was always hoping to hear it on the radio.

“I’m not sure I can sing it.”

“But you know the words?”

“Yes.”

“Just say them. Chant it.”

I felt hot and cold. I was shaking. I put my hand on my forehead and began.

“Will you stay in our
Lovers’ Story?”

It sounded terrible.

“It’s by David Bowie.”

Ruth-Anne nodded encouragingly.

“If you stay you won’t be sorry

“
’Cause weeeee believe in youuuu”

I kept gasping; the air wasn’t going in and out of my throat in the regular way.

“Soon you’ll grow so take a chance

“With a couple of Kooks

“Hung up on romaaaancing”

“That’s all I know.”

“How do you feel?”

“Well, I know the tune wasn’t right, but I think maybe I captured some of the energy of the song.”

“I mean about Clee.”

“Oh.”

“You got a little break.”

“I guess I did.”

The next morning I rose early, awaiting my first chance to test the song. I took a shower, gingerly. The spell kept its distance. I dressed and waved to Rick—he was looking at the snails with distress.

“Good morning!” I stepped outside with a hearty mug of tea.

“This situation is out of control.”

“Yes, I know. I ordered too many.”

“I will deal with four of them. That is the number of snails I am prepared to supervise. I don’t have the training to care for a herd.”

“Perhaps you can call them? Round them up?”

“Call them? How?”

“A snail whistle?”

The words were hardly out of my mouth when Clee began sucking on the tiny snail whistle between Rick’s legs. He was shocked and so forth, etc.

“Rick, I’m going to sing a song now.”

“I don’t think that will work. They have no ears.”

“
Will you stay in our Lovers’ Story
 . . .” Rick politely lowered his eyes. He’d seen crazier things living on the streets. “
If you stay you won’t be sorry, ’cause weee belieeeve in you.
”

It sort of worked. It wasn’t like saying
abracadabra
to make a rabbit disappear, poof. It was like saying
abracadabra
billions of times, saying it for years, until the rabbit died of old age, and then continuing to say it until the rabbit had completely decomposed and been absorbed into the earth, poof. It took dedication, which I had when I first woke up—but my resolve decayed with the day. Faced with the option of singing or rubbing her warm puss through her jeans, I always decided tomorrow was the day to begin.

CARL WAS WEARING DRESSY LOAFERS
that clicked on the sidewalk like tap shoes. There was some confusion about who should sit in the front seat—me, because I was older, or Clee, because she was the daughter. I sat in the back. We drove in silence.

The wine tasted off to Carl; he asked for another bottle.

“That’s why they let you try it,” he said. “They want you to be happy.”

Clee seemed bored but I knew her well enough to know this was just a look. Like me, she was wondering why we were here. What didn’t look bored were her nipples; they sat upright, attentive in a stretchy green tube dress. It was very hard to hum the song and make polite conversation at the same time.

Carl showed me his new cell phone and I felt a little sick. What if he was here because I had summoned him, given him an overwhelming and inappropriate desire to see his daughter? But he wasn’t looking at her. He took a long sip of wine, watching me over the rim of the glass.

“How many years have we known you, Cheryl?”

“Twenty-three.”

“That’s a lot of years. A lot of commitment, a lot of trust.”

When he said
trust
he gestured to Clee; she was wide-eyed and chewing on a hangnail. He knew. Kristof had told him about the old videos I had borrowed. He had figured out the rest. Bruises. The missing pummel suit.

“I think you know what I’m about to say.”

His face was stern. My chest heaved.

“Suzanne wanted to be here too, by the way. So this comes from both of us.” He raised his spoon in the air. “Cheryl, would you do us the great honor of joining the board?”

Clee shut her eyes for a moment, recovering. Carl watched a redness sweep over my face; luckily the rash wasn’t subtitled or waving any explanatory signs. I bowed my head.

“Carl and Suzanne and Nakako and Jim and Phillip can be on the board alone,” I began, “they are the best at being on the board, I am joining them even though I’m not much help, because I’m not good at being on the board.”

Carl dinged each of my shoulders with a spoon, not something we did in the office and probably not done in Japan either. Then he raised his glass.

“To Cheryl.”

Clee raised her glass, and maybe it was just our shared relief but I suddenly felt almost tender toward her. I hadn’t really considered her recently, apart from trying to mentally push tubers and polyps into her vagina or mouth. How was she doing these days? The wine was quite strong; its vapors expanded behind my forehead. Carl refilled my glass.

“Phil Bettelheim is stepping down. So we had an opening to fill.”

My face didn’t change, I made sure of that.

“But there’s no hard feelings. He made a major donation when he left.”

I smiled at my napkin. Of course the point of being on the board was to be near him, but taking his place was interesting too. Almost better. For the first time I understood cigars and the urge to light one up and lean back.

Clee and I had both ordered the Mandarin beef; mine was placed in front of me at an ordinary speed but Clee’s was lowered in slow motion. I looked up at the waiter’s long, red gullet as he swallowed drily. It had been a little while since I’d seen this kind of thing happen in reality and suddenly it didn’t seem like such a fantastic idea for her to hold this man’s stiff member for one to two minutes. Especially since Phillip’s was right there, swelling under the table. I shot the waiter a look to let him know she was spoken for; he hurried off.

Three minutes later he was back to ask how everything was. He used the question to lick Clee’s jugs with his doglike eyes.

“That waiter was way out of line,” I said after he left. This accidentally came out in a low, brusque voice, Phillip’s voice. It was a subtle thing; Carl didn’t notice. But Clee cocked her head, blinking. She shot her hand into the air, signaling the waiter.

“I think there’s something wrong with my chair.”

“Oh no,” he said, stricken.

“Yeah, I think it’s snagged my dress.” She stood up and the waiter examined the chair.

“I don’t see anything, but let me get a new chair.”

“Are you sure? Is there a snag on my dress?”

The waiter paused and then cautiously leaned down and studied Clee’s derriere.

She turned and smirked at him and his sly goatee came to the fore; their energies interlocked like a handshake, an agreement to have intercourse very soon.

“I’m Keith,” he said.

“Hi, Keith.”

I put my glass down with a bang and Keith and Clee exchanged looks of pretend fear. He thought I was her mother. He didn’t have enough experience to guess I might be stiff and shaking with violence. How shocked he would be when I bent her over the dinner table, pushed up her dress, and jimmied my member into her tight pucker. I’d thrust with both hands high in the air, showing everyone in the restaurant, including the chefs and sous-chefs and busboys and waiters, showing all of them I was not her mother.

With each course they grew more comfortable with each other’s bodies. He recited the dessert selections while giving her a shoulder massage.

“Do you know him?” Carl asked, confused.

“His name’s Keith,” she said.

But when Keith followed Clee out the door and asked for her number she said, “Why don’t you give me yours?”

She was silent on the ride home.

And the moment I shut the front door, she grabbed my hair and jerked my head back. A silly gasping noise escaped me. No scenario; she was fighting the old way. It took a moment to reorganize—to switch places with her and become Phillip. He shoved her against the wall. Yes. It had been a while since we’d given it any gusto; this was just the release I needed. She deserved it for her loose behavior. She slapped my breasts around, something she had never done before and not part of any simulation I had watched. It took a lot of concentration to experience what hitting hers would feel like. Maybe because of this I had an aggressive or manly facial expression, I don’t know. I don’t know what she saw.

“What are you doing?” she said, stepping back.

“Nothing.”

She took a few heavy breaths. “You’re thinking shit stuff.”

“No I’m not,” I said quickly.

“Yes you were. You were shitting on me. Shitting on my face or something.”

While I totally wasn’t, in general terms I guessed I was. I guessed I had been shitting on her unceasingly for the last month. She was waiting for me to say something—to explain, to defend myself.

“It wasn’t”—I was loath to say the word—“shit.”

“Shit, piss, cum, whatever. It was all over my—” She gestured to her face, hair, bosom. “Right? Am I right?”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She looked utterly betrayed, as betrayed as the most betrayed person in Shakespeare.

“I thought
you
, of all people, would”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“know how to be nice.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Do you know how many times this has happened to me?” She pointed to her face as if she was actually covered in something.

I thought of different numbers—seventy-three, forty-nine, fifty.

“Always,” she said. “This always happens.”

She turned away, and because she had no room of her own she went into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

The map of the world detached from the wall and slid noisily to the floor. I hung it back up slowly. Her feelings. I had hurt them. She had feelings and I had hurt them. I stared at the bathroom door, one hand against the wall to steady myself.