My chronic disorientation is triggered by a daydream mentality. Throughout the drive to Tex and Shirley’s, I’d been pretending on their sixteenth birthday Sam and Sammi apply for driver’s licenses and spot my name on their birth certificates. They bolt the license bureau and rush to the Manor House, where I embrace my newfound family and give birthday presents.
Maybe the moral thing would be to adopt them, more or less, right now. Take fatherhood seriously, even though it seemed strange to suddenly have two children by teenage girls I hardly knew. Not that I minded, but it was a major commitment to take on without forethought. I’m prone to quick commitments, probably a reaction against Lydia. She’s so afraid of commitment that back when I was young and she smoked cigarettes, she wouldn’t buy the same brand twice in a row.
I felt sweet breath on my cheek, and when I turned to track down the source, Gilia kissed me. Smack. Right on the lips. Her mouth was supple and soft, yet controlled, with a faint taste of Carmex.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was uptight last night. I have to remind myself there’s a difference between being careful and closing up shop completely.”
With her face close to mine, the situation clicked. “Today is Halloween. That’s why people are in costume,” I said.
“Right.” She slid into her chair. “So what do you say? Can you handle a relationship where you kiss but don’t fuck?”
The suddenness with which Gilia went frank always took me off guard. This wasn’t a woman who wasted time saying “Good morning.” Judy came by with the coffeepot to take our order—cheese blintzes for me and Swedish pancakes for Gilia. I like a woman who eats real food instead of dry toast and skimmed milk.
After Judy left, I said, “Are there kiss limits?”
Gilia pulled her blond hair into a doughnut-shaped bungee cord sort of thing. I forget what they’re called. “Like French?”
“More like necking. Are you talking kiss-hello, kiss-good-bye or a thirty-minute make-out session?”
“I won’t set rules. My only request is I’m not ready to make love, so if we ever do neck to the point where I say okay, you have to ignore me and stop.”
That’s definitely defining parameters. I looked at the hair on her arms and thought of lemon meringue pie. Waking up beside Gilia would be like waking up in a mountain meadow next to a bubbling brook, only without the hay fever.
“I can do that,” I said.
“Great.”
When Judy brought our food Gilia dug right in with butter and syrup, but I only pretended to eat. What I really did was watch her face. Watching Gilia’s face was like watching a time lapse movie of the sky. She registered everything. When I said father, her skin tone darkened. Jack-o’-lantern caused crinkles to dance. After looking at Gilia a few minutes, I didn’t know why I had ever thought Wanda’s face was interesting. Wanda had three basic looks—drunk, sober, and PMS. Gilia had hundreds.
I concentrated on the freckle between her nose and right eye. It was like one of those little thermometers that pop out of turkeys when they’re done. Gilia’s freckle glowed as she approached passion, such as when she raged at Ronald Reagan and the invasion of Grenada. She really cared about current events. Lydia used to be a news junkie, after she stopped drinking and before she went into feminist literature. Now, she’s a single-issue newshound. I’ve never followed the world that closely myself.
“Clark Gaines tried to kill himself in my garage last night,” I said.
Her head did the sudden cock to one side thing. “How hard did he try?”
“He made a Polish joke out of it.”
The freckle kind of spread toward the eye. That was her introspective look. “Poor kid.”
“I think I’ll call Billy this afternoon. All Clark wants is attention, but he’s liable to slip up and waste himself trying to get it.”
Gilia put both hands around a coffee cup. “I remember Clark from company picnics when I was young. He was the kid the other boys depantsed in the woods.”
“I’ve been that kid. Makes for a tough puberty.”
Judy came over to pick up our plates and tell us about the other Judy’s pinworms. We listened with interest and Gilia even asked a consistency question. Everyone needs someone who is interested in their problems, especially career waitresses, but I for one was glad I’d finished my blintz.
While I nursed a final cup—my fifth of the day—Gilia stared out the window at the damp Carolina morning. Rain had been threatening all week, and now it looked ready to dump.
“I’m free tonight,” Gilia said. “Care for a movie? Terms of Endearment is playing at Four Seasons Mall.”
It was my turn to pay. “A movie?”
“Like a date, sort of. We’ll go Dutch so neither one of us worries about strings attached.”
I studied the check closely, making certain Judy added right. “I’d love to, but tonight I can’t. There’s this CEO in from Nebraska whose country club might buy a hundred ten Shilohs, and I’m stuck with the wining and dining. If it’s over early, I’ll call.”
Gilia cocked her head and studied me a moment. Then she said, “Sounds good. Maybe we’ll hit the movie tomorrow night.”
22
Okay, I lied. Crucify me. There was no CEO from Nebraska to wine and dine, and if there had been, I sure as heck wouldn’t be the winer and diner. Schmoozing was Ambrosia’s turf.
All I can figure is maybe I was falling in love, because my strictest ethical rule is never, ever lie to a woman. Let them lie to you. Maurey wrote a letter back in college in which she explained honesty, love, and sex. She wrote: “Sam, I’ve discovered how to seduce anyone I want. If you don’t love them, act like you do, and if you do love them, act like you don’t.”
So, by lying to Gilia, what I actually did was prove my love for her. I only hoped she saw it that way when I got caught.
The direct cause for my lie was Katrina Prescott’s birthday. Within minutes after Skip threatened me by phone Saturday, he and Sonny left for the Sport Shoe Trade Show in Atlanta. Every year they spent the first week of November in Atlanta, staying abreast of new developments in footwear—and drink and fornication, according to Katrina—and every year Katrina threw a hissy fit because Halloween was her birthday.
And Friday, in a moment of post-orgasmic pity, I’d promised Katrina she didn’t have to spend another birthday alone. The poor woman wanted a spark of out-front, formal celebration—something more traditional than bondage stunts with a stranger in a Ramada Inn motel room. She wanted to dress nice and eat in a public place with civilized lighting and table service. That’s not asking so much for a birthday.
She applied pressure and I said yes. I haven’t said no to a woman yet. No reason to think I’d start on a birthday wish.
Gaylene stormed across the Magic Cart Company parking lot, demanding to know who this Vernon Scharp was who’d shown up saying I promised him a job.
“He’s a process server.”
“And how does serving processes qualify him to build golf carts?”
“I felt sorry for him,” I said. “Bringing people bad news must be a sad way to make a living.”
Gaylene stared up at me and twitched. She’s fifty or so and about four ten, and the plant workers are scared to death of her. Much of my fear of fiery little women stems from Gaylene.
“You plan on hiring every sad case you feel sorry for?” she asked. “Because if you are, I’m going to work for R. J. Reynolds.”