The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (8 page)

I mean,

what will happen

when Samantha isn't here

to shame us into behaving like grown-ups?

Who will keep us

from tearing each other limb from limb?

Maybe we could get a court reporter

to move in with us…

She'd record every single word

Michael and I said to each other—

her silver hair pulled up into a neat brioche

on top of her head,

rocking ever so slightly, her eyes closed

in Ray-Charlesian concentration,

her quick fingers clicking quietly away

on the keys of her stenotype machine

while the ticker tape transcript,

that oozing ribbon of absolute truth,

gathered in white-looped paper mountains

around her primly crossed ankles.

Her presence in our home

would doubtless cut in half

the length of time Michael and I

spend arguing.

Whenever our fights escalated

to the you-know-I-can't-stand-it-

when-you-say-that stage, Michael would

protest (as usual), “I didn't say that!”

But there she'd be,

our intrepid court reporter,

to check back through her tape

and set him straight.

“Actually,” she'd say,

glancing at him coolly over the top

of her tortoise shell spectacles,

“your exact words were…”

The couple doesn't notice me,

as I pause to watch

their embrace

in the beach parking lot.

He's younger, shirtless,

with broad cinnamon shoulders,

his slim waist circled

by jeans the color of the sea.

She's older, in a tailored white blouse,

her French twist blonded by an expert,

her slim waist circled

by jeans the color of the sand.

They're melting into each other

like figures in a sculpture by Rodin…

It's seven in the morning,

so I figure this is a good-bye hug.

But now the man

takes the woman's hand and leads her

toward a plain stucco bungalow

that borders the parking lot.

He pulls her inside,

locks the rusted screen door

behind them,

then yanks down the blinds.

But it's as though I can still see them—

see them tearing off each other's jeans.

I fling myself onto a nearby bench

and fever their story into my notebook…

Maybe this is a tryst

they've been planning for weeks.

He wasn't sure she'd show up.

But here she is…

Or maybe

she comes to him like this

every
morning,

before she goes to work…

Maybe

he's her tennis coach,

her mailman, her masseur…

Maybe he wakes up hard thinking of her…

Maybe he smoothes

the sand out of his bed,

whispering her name

like a prayer…

She's deathly married,

but these visits to her lover's

dank bunker by the water,

these visits are what keep her breathing.

As long as he wants her,

everything will be okay.

He can have her as long as he wants her,

for as long as he wants,

as long as he wants

to rip off her blouse,

pull down her panties,

and do it standing up in the kitchen…

Because
oh God

when he looks at her like that

he brings her back

to life…

His scent, his skin, his lips…

She needs them…

now…

now…

like the thundering wave

needs the beach,

like the throbbing vein

needs blood…

Or lack

thereof.

When I look back

on my periods

I can remember

having the distinct sensation

that my belly was full

of good rich soil.

Earth, nutrients, fragrant blood,

all of it swirled within me,

all of it thirsting

for a sprinkling of fresh seed.

She wasn't quite eight years old

when she came to me one afternoon

clutching Monkey in one hand

and some tampons in the other.

She'd found them

in our medicine cabinet

and she wanted to know

what the little white tubes were for.

Ignoring the flock of butterflies

flittering in my stomach,

I swallowed hard, then spun the same

yarn my mother had spun for me—

all about

how lucky she was to be a girl

because only
girls

can make babies!

And that as soon as she became a teenager

her body would know exactly what to do:

once a month, her belly would weave a nest,

just in case a baby came—

a nest that would be

a nice cozy place

for the seedling child

to grow.

But if no baby arrived,

then the nest her body had woven

would get flushed out through her vagina.

And she would need to use a tampon to catch it.

“What will the nest look like?” she asked.

“It will look…red,”

I said. “Like blood?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Like blood.”

And when

she folded herself into my arms

and asked if it would hurt,

I told her that it wouldn't.

And hoped

that my answer

would turn out

to be true.

So call me curmudgeonly,

but I do
not
like it

when my morning run

is brought to a

halt

by the mud-caked paws

of Brandy's latest rescued canine

who pounces uninvited onto my shins

while Brandy giggles

and says, “Sorry. Long leash.”

Like isn't it cute how intrusive

her slobbering dog is?

There are some days

when it seems to me

that the whole world

is on too long a leash.

While waiting in line at the grocery store,

I glance at the cover
of Glamour
and see:

“Happy and Sexy at 20, 30, and 40!”

Wait just a hotter-than-thou minute!

I think to myself.

What about all us happy, sexy fifty-year-olds?

I gnash my teeth

and flip the magazine over on the rack

so that the cover's facing in.

A second later,

when it's my turn to pay,

the buff young guy working the register

does something as unexpected

as a flying pig:

he winks at me.

Did you see
that, Glamour?

He
winked
at me!

Who's happy and sexy now, huh?
Huh?

I press my money into the hunky cashier's hand,

with a seductive smile

and a flirty flutter of my lashes.

He gives me the once over,

then flashes me a sly grin and offers me something

that no man's ever offered me before:

the

senior

discount.

Is it a bad sign

if you get offered

your first senior discount

twelve years

before you're actually

old enough to receive it?

Or does it simply mean

that the jerk working the register

has shit for brains?

It's so sad

to think

that just moments

from now

you

will be gone

and I'll

be a cow.

Granted,

I've been sitting here at my computer

for well over two hours now

and I've only just begun to write this poem.

But that's not because I'm addicted to email.

That's because I had to read my newsletter

from The Overwhelmed Daughters of Mothers

with Polymyositis (which totally bummed me out).

So then I had to read the one about how

to beat the blues by shopping the CVS sale.

And I know I promised myself I'd only spend

fifteen minutes checking my email, but

someone I vaguely knew in college Googled me

and it was no small task to fill her in

on the last thirty years of my life.

Plus, how was I to know,

when Alice emailed me to ask me my opinion

of the guys who've been winking at her

on Match.com, that it would take me so long

to read all their profiles?

Then, I finally settled down to work.

And I was on a roll—the poetry pouring from

me like lava from an active volcano—

when my computer made that little sound,

that little rusty-mailbox-squeaking-open sound.

And I wasn't going to open it.

Really. I wasn't.

But I guess my hand must have slipped

because suddenly my email in-box

was sitting right there on my screen.

So I figured

I might as well

take a quick peek at it—

you know, just in case

it was something really urgent.

And it turned out to be from Roxie.

Asking me, in what I thought

was an unnecessarily snippy tone,

why I still haven't sent her

my manuscript.

Samantha was not exactly thrilled

when Michael volunteered to be a chaperone

for her choral group's May Day concert trip. But
I
was.

My mouth was practically watering

while the two of them

were packing up today

to head to Sacramento.

I could almost taste the delicious silence

I'd be dining on all weekend;

the delectable freedom I'd have

to write from morning till night.

I licked my lips at the thought

of disconnecting the Internet,

unplugging the telephone,

and totally focusing on my work.

With the house next door still

mercifully vacant, there'd even be enough quiet

for me to sit outside under our pepper tree

and write, if I chose to…

But a few minutes

after Michael and Sam drove off,

Alice called to tell me that United was having

a last-minute sale on flights to Cleveland.

Which is why

I am sitting here on the red-eye,

dining on a stale Wetzel's Pretzel

and a bag of Cheetos,

on my way to surprise my mother.

I check into a Holiday Inn,

grab a taxi to the hospital,

dash to the gift shop to buy some roses,

then head upstairs to see my mother.

When I peek into her room,

I'm relieved to see that she looks

a little better than I thought she would—

thinner, and sort of ragged, but okay.

Though when I walk in, she doesn't even

seem particularly surprised to see me.

Nor does she seem

particularly
happy
to see me.

She says, “Tell the nurse I need her desperately.”

“What do you need her for, Mom?”

“I need her to hold my hand.”

“I'll
hold your hand.”

I reach for her fingers, but she pulls away.

“No,” she says, “I need the
nurse
to do it.”

“But why, Mom?”

“Because she'll do it
differently.”

I'm trying not to feel hurt, and trying

to decide if I should actually call her nurse,

when my mother's physical therapist shows up

to work with her on her walking.

Even with the therapist firmly gripping her elbow,

and a nurse's aide following along

right behind her with a wheelchair,

my mother is terrified.

She keeps crying out,

shaking her fist,

insisting that the therapist

bring her back to her bed.

“If I fall down and break my hip,” she says,

“I'll die of pneumonia, and then I'll sue you!”

Which might even be funny,

if it wasn't so terrible.