Shrimp (6 page)

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drinks like Cosmopolitans or Sex on the Beach.

My mom was sitting alone at a table, reading one of her fashion magazines with the pictures of all the emaciated movie stars in the couture clothes. She seemed oblivious that all the males in the coffee shop were staring at her like they wished she'd drop something so they could rush over to pick it up for her. "Well?" she said when I sat down opposite her at the table.

I don't know what kind of progress report she was expecting. She's been to a gynecologist before; she knows what happens. I shrugged.

Nancy said, "What did she talk to you about?" I took the pamphlets from my handbag and spread them out on the table, which seemed to take care of all the guys checking out my mother--maybe it was the picture of genital warts on the cover of one pamphlet, or the big letters h.i.v. on the cover of another. "Good," Nancy said.

She looked sad and like she really wanted more information from me, so I decided to help her out. I said, "The doctor gave me a prescription for birth control, and a long talk about the need to use condoms also. And she said I am okay after my... um... issues and in great health, though she said I shouldn't eat so much junk food." Which reminded me. I reached into my handbag again to pull out a king-size Nestle Crunch bar that would be excellent dipped in the espresso shots. I didn't tell Nancy the part about how I've been on the pill since the clinic last year, and it was just a new prescription the doctor had given me. Our household operates more peacefully when these types of issues are filtered to Nancy in the form of making her think it was her idea.

Nancy had been the one prying for information, so why

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were there tears in her eyes? I said, "What's the matter, Mom? I thought this is what you wanted for me."

"I don't
want
this for you, Cyd Charisse. But I understand the necessity." She paused, sniffed a little, and dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex. "You know, when you were a baby, just a few months old, you had a fit of colic for about two weeks. You screamed and screamed nonstop. I was so young myself, all alone, and I remember feeling helpless and hopeless--honestly I was about to lose my mind from the crying. Nothing could comfort you. And I remember one night just toward the end, when neither of us had slept in days and I was at wits' end, ready to give up, I remember thinking:
If we can just make it through this, we'll be okay.
If we can just make it through
this.
Now, looking back, that seems like yesterday, yet here we are, a very different
this.
Hang in there with me; your mother's just not ready. I thought I was, but it's harder than I expected."

I totally don't understand what she's not ready for. She's the one who elected to send me off to boarding school three thousand miles from home when I was barely fourteen years old. I'd think she'd have let go a long time ago.

But her tear-stained face was so pretty and pathetic at the same time I had to try to cheer her up. "I'll cook dinner tonight," I offered. Nancy is distraught now that Leila is gone and Sid is downsizing the household staff because the kids are older, so now we just have a cleaning person and a landscaper and a part-time baby-sitter, and of course a Fernando, but no live-in cook or nanny. Leila hooked up with some bald dude at her high school reunion in Quebec over the summer and moved back to Montreal to marry him. It's all very Alice and Sam the Butcher and I am extremely

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jealous of Leila and her true love and all the nookie she must be getting now. But I won't miss Leila yelling at me with her Celine Dion accent about how I am spoiled and never helped with the dishes, even though I did but it was like why bother because every time I loaded the dishwasher, Leila would take everything back out and rearrange it like the dishes would somehow get cleaner if they were all aligned in rows of uniform sizes. Psycho. Unfortunately our psycho was also the anointed preparer of family meals, and Nancy can't cook and has no desire to learn, which is fine for Nancy, because she doesn't eat, anyway, but the rest of us do and we can only eat take-out or beg Fernando to cook
arroz con polio
so many nights.

My offer to cook got a grateful smile from my mother.

There is this killer shrimp Creole recipe I am aching to try.

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*** Chapter 7

I have a
dirty little secret. My fundamental music of choice is punk, but I won't turn down a good symphony. I don't know a concerto from an opus to a C major or whatever, but one thing I know is I love me some thrashin' violins and cellos getting all funky together, with some bangin' drums thrown in and a maestro standing on the podium getting all sweaty flailing his arms around.

It's a shame I am tone deaf, because I wouldn't mind being some anomaly female conductor. When Shrimp and I used to play Job for a Day, maestro was my number one job choice. Shrimp said he would be the guy standing at the back of the symphony, pounding the giant gong when I pointed my conductor's stick at him at just the right millisecond--timing that means the difference between a world-class maestro and just a good one, according to Sid-dad. Conductor
moi
and gonger Shrimp would be having a secret affair that nobody in the string or wind sections would know about, but all the percussion players would have long copped to us. They're just not as gossipy.

We almost didn't make it to the symphony at all because Nancy threw a hissy fit, whining that my short black skirt with an Irish World Cup team football jersey, black leather motorcycle jacket, and combat boots was not appropriate attire for the symphony. Sid-dad took my side, reminding Nancy would she rather I be dressed like a debutante, or

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would she rather I be exposed to the music? Nancy gave up but she was still sore when we got to Symphony Hall. She was appeased by our balcony box seats above the orchestra, excellent seats for Nancy to inspect the other box seats to see who she knew that might have gotten seats just a little better than ours, and ideal listening perches for Sid-dad and I to shut our eyes and let the music seep through. The Mozart symphony, all lulling and then fierce, inspired a major neon laser show in my shut eyes for a good fifteen minutes. Then the giant gong banged and my eyes sprung wide open. I could feel a set of eyes staring at me from across the hall, and my eyes went from looking at the orchestra below our seats to the box seats directly opposite us.

SHRIMP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I wanted to jump out of my seat and into the lobby for some slo-mo movielike reunion, but Nancy would have lost her mind if I had gotten up before intermission, and anyway, Shrimp didn't stand up like he was going to run out to meet me. He didn't even wave, but a sly smile spread across his face. Instead of shooting up, his formerly spiked hair was longer and falling down from his head, and the formerly platinum blond spikes at his forehead had grown out to their naturally dirty blond color. His face looked fuller, tanner, and redder, like he'd been baking in the sun since his temporary exile from SF fog shroud. I almost fell out of my chair and over the balcony with wanting to throw my arms out for him to run into.

Normally I hate intermissions because they seem like a major waste of time and I just want to gag watching Nancy socialize with all her biddy friends about charity galas and
Yes, let's
do
lunch next week,
but the minutes before

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intermission came for this symphony felt like an eternity. The lights weren't up and the applause barely started the moment the music ended when I bolted from my chair. Nancy was all, "Cyd Charisse! Where are you go--," but I was gone--forget about slo-mo reunion; I was sprinting. I slowed down right as I approached the turn to the lobby bar area. I didn't want to appear too enthusiastic, but Shrimp had beaten me. He was standing at the bar already, not out of breath.

OMG, how much do I love him? He was wearing a canary yellow polyester leisure suit with a white shirt tucked into the pants and a huge collar tucked over the yellow jacket. He looked like some mack daddy disco pimp, bless his hotness. He was taller and heavier than I remembered, by at least two inches and a month's worth of Shrimp's beloved peanut butter milk shakes with ground-up Oreos and brownies, and that's not just because I wasn't wearing platform boots. He came up to my nose instead of my chin as I stood before him.

Strange that two people who've been as intimate as two people could possibly be couldn't even manage a simple touch at their first meeting after the breakup--no rub on the shoulder, no clasp of hands, no hug, and certainly no kiss. It's like there was this invisible beam between us like in the prison cells on
Star Trek
that would go
bzzz
and repel us if Shrimp or I dared to reach over the awkward invisible energy to touch each other.

"Hey," Shrimp said.

"Hey," I said. "You look taller."

"Yeah, Java's now calling me Jumbo Shrimp."

"So, Jumbo, when did you get back? When are you coming to school again?"

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"Got back a few days ago, back to school this Monday. Hit the waves today. Ocean Beach seems tame after riding the waves in the South Pacific. Still better than making up three weeks of schoolwork, though."

In my head I was picturing Nancy having a knee-slappin' hysterical laughing fit at my so much as suggesting that I could miss the first three weeks of school to hang out in Papua New Guinea and surf and build stuff and whatnot. I asked Shrimp, "Was Papua New Guinea awesome?"

"Yeah, except for the dysentery the first week. How was New York?"

There was only so much, too much, to say about that!

Concertgoers had filed out from their seats and were milling around the lobby. The chatter level had picked up considerably, so it was surprising we could distinguish the female voice that screeched, "Shrimp! Why did you run off so fast?" The voice was just that loud.

Shrimp's eyes closed for a minute and I think he let out a small shudder.

A heavyset--not fat, just big-boned--late-middle-aged woman with long hair that was equal parts gray and brown and down to her waist came to Shrimp's side. She was Shrimp's height, wearing jeans and an embroidered Central American blouse, and Teva sandals on bare feet that were in emergency need of a pedicure. She was the type of granola lady that Nancy and her committees would like to see sworn in blood to a dress code before being allowed to enter Symphony Hall.

Shrimp looked like he was about to introduce me when the lady scanned me with her brown eyes and then said, "It's Cyd Charisse, of course!" She wrapped her arms

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around me in a hug so tight she could have squeezed body parts out of me. "I've seen the artwork!"

Shrimp mumbled, "Mom, Cyd. Cyd, Mom."

A short guy, shorter even than pre-Jumbo Shrimp, stood behind Shrimp's mom. He looked like an exact copy of Shrimp, just smaller, quieter, maybe sadder.

He extended his hand to mine and introduced himself as Shrimp's dad. His mumbling was more indistinguishable than Shrimp's.

Shrimp--
with parents]
This had to be the kinkiest thing ever! Shrimp and Java were like lone cowboy brothers who answered to no one but each other.

I started to say, "Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. but his mom bellowed, "Please! We're Iris and Billy."

Shrimp could be a retired Supreme Court judge and he'd still better call Sid and Nancy "Mr." and "Mrs."

Iris jumped in to give me another hug, she was almost bouncing me up and down. When she let go, I told her, "Congratulations on Wallace's engagement. I know he and Delia will be very happy." Jesus H. Christ, I'm starting to sound like Nancy. I need to go smoke some weed or shoplift some Hershey
bars, fast.

Iris said, "Can you believe that? It just makes me so sad. It's bad enough they feel the need to become part of the system like that, but a fancy hotel on Nob Hill? A caterer? Wedding registries? I told them, 'Goddamn, if you need to do this so bad, Billy and I know a spiritual guru who performs ceremonies. Let him do it. We'll have a potluck in the backyard, Billy can play guitar, and we'll throw some Motown on the stereo when folks are ready to dance. Don't waste money like that!' Do you realize how many Third

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World families could be fed for a year at the same cost of their wedding?"

Uh, no, Iris, I didn't realize that. I just thought Java and Delia were kinda boring for choosing the cotillion wedding with ten groomsmen and bridesmaids. But
Motown!
Gimme the expensive swing band any day.

Shrimp was like, "Mom...," but she interrupted again. "Billy and I didn't feel the need to marry! We
know
our commitment to one another."

"MOM!" Shrimp said. I've never heard him yell before. His low voice usually sounds like a deep, sexy whisper. I didn't know a mellow dude like Shrimp was capable of yelling, much less that he was capable of being irritable, like a normal person, the kind of person who lives in my family. "Enough already."

The lights flickered, signaling the end of intermission. Iris said, "Cyd Charisse, I've heard so much about you. I need you to come over, soon, this week, absolutely, we'll throw a party. I can see your aura even through all that black you're wearing. Billy, this girl's aura, can you see it? The yellow! Yellower than Shrimp's leisure suit! Promise you'll come over this week, Cyd Charisse? Our friend from Humboldt County just came down to visit and left a nice little deposit, so you know what
that
means. We'll have a great time, really get to know one another."

I couldn't accept the invitation without Shrimp also extending it so I just smiled a little, polite. Shrimp mumbled, "I'll see you at school."

That didn't seem very encouraging.

Iris and Billy said their good-byes and headed back to their seats with their disco king mack daddy son in tow, me