“For bail or lawyers?”
“The Politics of Pudenda is the most important treatise written in this country since Female Eunuch. It will change the very foundation of society.”
“I’m more interested in whether you murdered the President’s dog.”
She made the exhaled sound of impatience. “Hank did one of his chants and buried an antelope liver next to the warm springs. FedEx lost the package.”
“Is this cause and effect?”
“Sam. Listen when I talk. We’re in a bidding war with Simon and Schuster, I must have five thousand dollars today. This afternoon.”
“Oothoon Press is in a bidding war with Simon and Schuster?”
“Are you so pussy-whipped by the harlot you can no longer fathom the English language?”
“Are radical feminists allowed to say pussy-whipped?”
“In Politics of Pudenda Muriel Blackwell has a plan to end all wars and injustice. She calls for an international ban on the male gender owning private property. Once the greed motive is removed from men, women can stabilize society.”
“Her theory sounds fascinating, Lydia, but I can’t send any cash right now.”
“Sam.” Her voice was loud, on the edge of frantic. “Oothoon can’t change society without that money.”
Oothoon Press got its name from a poem by William Blake. Blake’s Oothoon is raped—“Bromion rent her with his thunders”—then her husband accuses her of asking for it; says she enjoyed being raped. So he seals her in a cave. Lydia calls this the Every-Woman story.
“Don’t most publishers make a profit on books and use that to buy more books?”
“Spoken like a true anal-aggressive. Where would the world be if Virginia Woolf’s publisher thought about profits?”
“My life wouldn’t be any different.”
There was a moment of silence. “Wire the money, Sam.”
“Wanda slapped a temporary restraining order on my assets.”
“So?”
“So if I give you five thousand dollars they might put me in jail.”
“I am not giving up Politics of Pudenda for that cow. You can just go to jail for your mama; my work is more important than yours anyway.”
Interesting leap of logic. I decided to change the subject. “How’s Maurey?”
“Here’s an idea. Transfer all the family funds into my name. That way Wanda can’t rob you blind and I’ll send out whatever you need to get by, just like you do for me.”
I didn’t say anything. The only way to handle a conversation with Lydia is to shut up and frustrate her. Hank Elkrunner learned that long ago, but I never quite caught on.
Lydia said, “Pete drug in this week. Hank says there’s something wrong with him.”
“There’s always been something wrong with Pete.”
“I can’t believe I raised a homophobe.”
“What’s wrong with Pete has nothing to do with him being gay. He was a weird kid years before he turned to men for comfort.”
“Pete brought his lover home with him. Chet is a polite boy who supports my campaign to re-educate America.”
“Shannon moved a man into her room.”
“Good for Shannon.”
“They pant and grunt all night and he sits in Caspar’s rocker.”
“You should have burned that chair when the old goat died.”
“Things aren’t going well here, Lydia. I could use some motherly compassion.”
“For five grand I’ll ship you all the compassion I’ve got to spare.”
I looked pudenda up in my Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary. It’s the plural of pudendum—the external sexual organs of a woman, which is roughly what I had figured. Pudenda is Latin for something to be ashamed of. Chew on that fact awhile.
18
I wrapped a towel around my waist and stepped from the bathroom of room 247 at the Ramada Inn to find Katrina Prescott sitting on the edge of the bed in her bra and panties, crying.
“What’s the matter?”
“You don’t love me.”
I blinked twice. “Am I supposed to?”
“My husband doesn’t love me.” Her voice was fragile. “My son doesn’t love me. You’d think at the very least, my lover would love me.”
I didn’t know what to say. Maybe it’s because of the early years with Lydia and Maurey, but I’ve always saved love for family and friends. Lovers were something different.
Katrina’s hands twitched in her lap as she whispered. “Nobody loves me.”
I wanted to deny that, but when it came time to say what she needed to hear, I failed.
“Katrina, you threatened me with repercussions if I refused you sex. It’s hard to love someone who holds you with threats.”
“I love Skip.”
I sat down. “Jesus.”
She said, “Christ.”
Wanda telephoned.
“You have a beautiful voice, Wanda.”
“Where’s the money I was promised?”
“Have you thought long and hard about coming home? I want you to consider saving our marriage as an option.”
“You’ve broken every promise you ever made me. I don’t know why I dreamed this time would be any different.”
“I haven’t broken every promise.”
“Name one.”
“I was nice to your mother.”
“Mom thinks you’re a sleazy bastard.”
“I was monogamous, like the vows said we both should be.”
“Go ahead, rub my face in it.”
“Most women like a man who’s monogamous.”
“Sam, you are lousy in bed.”
“Let’s shoot for a second opinion.”
“No wonder you’re obsessed with your tongue. It’s bigger than your dick.”
“No one’s ever complained.”
“Your daughter is a slut.”
I was silent awhile, thinking. “Wanda, I changed my mind. I don’t want you to come back after all.”
“Sensitive, aren’t we?”
“Have a nice day.”
I hung up.
When the phone rang, I was standing crucified halfway up the climbing wall. I’d positioned a two-inch lip to stand on and Katrina had strapped each outstretched arm to pitons wedged into plaster artificial cracks. Back to the wall, literally and metaphorically, my major fear was falling off the lip and ripping out both shoulder sockets.
What happened was I had made the mistake of using the old “I’ll bet you have fantasies you’ve never told anyone” line. Katrina’s fantasies are considerably more complicated than your average woman’s fantasies—nothing as tame as lick-the-anchovy on a merry-go-round.
According to Katrina, all her life—from puberty anyway, which to hear her tell it came at six—she had dreamed of decking herself out in a cheerleader uniform and dancing for Jesus on the Cross. Don’t ask me; I think it had something to do with being raised Catholic. All those years of kneeling before a nearly nude longhair twisted her sense of desire. She said each night after she said her prayers and before she went to sleep, she would reach up and touch the man hanging over her and wish he were real.
Saturday afternoon after my household had left for the day, Katrina showed up in the Page High red sweater and white pleated skirt and her hair in pigtails. She did warm-up cheers while I hung naked on the wall.