The Jewel Box (35 page)

Nikki began hanging out in West U with law student Tad. The duo mostly hung out at preppy dive, Kay’s Lounge, but frequented Houston clubs like Volcano, Numbers, Therapy, and Club No Minor, to name a few. Some were wild places, but my sequined pasties background didn’t exactly sustain objections I voiced.

Gabriel called occasionally and somehow our conversations inevitably rolled into comparing Fran and my phony lover’s remarkable resemblances. Both were proficient in hyperbole and decent enough when sober, but after throwing back booze they slipped from any moral high ground into a gutter, and blamed alcohol for their actions.

“Fran seemed domineering, but pleasant enough when I met you with divorce papers.”

“That was one of her better days,” he said dryly. “Hell, she fell off the wagon right after that night. And not only is she a drunken mess, she’s gained about forty pounds since then.”

“Really?” I gloated inwardly, envisioning her ass looking like a keg of cottage cheese. “Well, Scott’s gained weight himself. Still, he’s brilliant and amusing with a redeeming quality of dazzling everyone with phenomenal vocabulary. He loves being the center of attention and can turn a simple occurrence into a mini drama or hilarious sitcom.” No need to mention my
faux boyfriend’s propensity to prevaricate. Or Scott’s drunk ass crashing at my house every time he left a bar in my neighborhood that he’d been supporting ever since he stumbled into it one day.

“You’re lucky.” Gabriel drew in smoke. “Fran thinks she’s dazzling and taking center stage, but her drunken behavior is hardly a crowd pleaser.”

“We could cite a litany of wrongs committed by our counterparts, but maybe we should consider our own shortcomings.” Like me starting to lie almost as skillfully as Scott.

“Hell, that’d take all night, Blondie.”

“That’s a fact and not a fiction,” I agreed, thinking of my years of analysis. “Even though my dad and I grew a little closer after he stopped drinking, Patrice says I see Scott as a father figure and think if I can fix him, it’ll be like fixing my dad. Repairing my childhood. Rescue him to rescue me.”

“Yeaaah. Don’t think I’m not familiar with the old white knight syndrome. I’m a caretaker too, especially if children are involved.”

The young faces of his daughters flooded my thoughts. He had mended their childhood to the best of his ability, considering the damage we had done, and I realized all the pain I felt from leaving him hadn’t been in vain. But we needed to keep our distance so things could remain repaired. “We better say goodnight. I need to get some rest and I know you still get up at some ungodly hour.”

“And you still stay up watching Letterman. Say goodnight, Blondie.”

“Goodnight, Gabriel. Take care of yourself.”

I continued my alternative lifestyle with Scott. We were two troubled souls, fighting very different emotional dragons with little possibility of ever slaying our monsters. Worn out by my unconventional bond with Scott, during a weak moment I foolishly agreed to have lunch with Gabriel when he called. Beau knew something was up the minute he heard my voice. I fessed up about my upcoming tête-à-tête.

“Reviving a love affair is like warming up cold biscuits,” he staunchly warned. “They never taste as great as they did when they were fresh baked.”

“Pleeease, Beau. That’s a cute analogy, but Gabriel and I aren’t country cuisine. And we’re not trying to revive our love affair.”

“Well baby, you sure could’ve fooled me.”

“Oh,” I mumbled. Beau knew me too well.

“Did you ever read
Texasville
?” He changed subjects.

“I’m almost finished. Thank you again. I just hope the movie version does it justice.”

“If McMurtry does the screenplay it’ll be super. Just no
Lonesome Dove
.”

“Let’s watch it when it comes out on video.” I knew Beau could never sit in a theatre without coughing others out of their seats. “Can I call you back, Beau? Someone’s knocking on my door.”

“I need to hook up to my oxygen anyway. I’ll call you tomorrow, baby.”

Scott walked in with a six pack, started in on some narrative about National Security Advisor Colin Powell, then grabbed the remote and plopped his rear in front of the TV. He was rambunctiously gorging himself on a giant bag of pretzels I’d intended to keep in the family at least two weeks, when my phone rang.

“Cherie,” a loud voice shrieked icily. “This is Fran O’Quinn.”

“Yes. . .” I responded nervously, attempting to catch my breath.

“What’s going on between you and my husband?”

I sat down on my bedroom floor, hoping she might tell me. And focusing on Beau’s advice to keep quiet when a conversation was one of questionable content.

“I know Gabriel’s been calling you because I found this number on his desk. Now what the hell is going on between you two?”

“Nothing. He’s called here, but only to ask about Nikki,” I lied.

“You sure about that?” she asked, phrasing it both as a question and the answer she wanted to hear.

“Yes.” I shifted uncomfortably. “Gabriel and I are just friends.” I glanced into the living room at Scott who was too busy putting a lip lock on a bottle of Coors to notice my conversation. “Fran I have company, and can’t talk now.”

“Okay Cherie. Thanks for answering my questions.”

Fran seemed relieved by my inaccurate account, but for me it seemed like déjà vu all over again. I had spent too much money on analysis to let this nonsexual involvement with Gabriel get out of control. Besides, I’d parked my deceiving bum right in the middle of my bedroom floor and lied—yet again. These fibs had to stop. Lunch with Gabriel would not happen.

Beau and I spent an afternoon at Leon’s Lounge and after wine, I told him about Scott’s frequent visits to my “Drunks Drop Inn” motel. About Fran’s call and my dishonesty with her. About my inability to detach from Gabriel. He listened patiently.

“I always liked Gabe and wish you could be together, but I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“When it comes to Gabriel, I can’t hurt anymore than I have. And I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. It’s just hard not to talk when he calls.”

“Toughen up, baby. This bond you’ve got with him isn’t healthy.”

“But, it’s like he truly was my mythological split-apart and we’re still seeking to return to our original union, Beau. Maybe love taken at the expense of others is destined to end like a Greek tragedy. All I know is that my life seems to be a series of attempts to get over him.”

“I’m concerned about the animosity of his sister and mother. In-law interference has caused many a marriage to fail, but in this case they just can’t keep you two apart.”

“I know. So do you have any advice other than cute analogies about cold biscuits?”

“Not really. Just that you’re in the middle of an emotional downpour of unsalvageable love, so please look out for yourself.”

“You somewhat instilled ‘look out for number one’ in me years ago with Wesley, thus I’ve always remained emotionally detached with other men. With Gabriel, it’s like he produces a conditioned reflex that accelerates my pulse, heightens my anxiety and sends me into a frenzy. If he weren’t Irish, I’d swear he was related to Pavlov.”

“That dog feeding, bell ringing, Russian scientist?” Beau coughed.

“That’s right.”

“Baby,” Beau took a shallow breath before signaling the bartender for our tab. “Thought I told you years ago that everything you do in life, every friend and every relationship you possess is your choice. There’s a dark side to every soul, but whether you lead or follow, do good or evil, the choice is all yours.”

“Yes, you were talking dialectics and Nietzsche.”

“Yep.” Once again, Beau attempted to drag some air into his lungs. “And in my opinion, you should stay away from Gabriel as long as he’s in thrall to wicked Gloria.”

“You’re right.” I jumped off my barstool to save Beau from expending energy by helping me down. Always the gentleman, he gave me a little frown that I shrugged off with a sweet smile.

“Every human being has ethical and corrupt tendencies and the merging of those is what makes us into who we are,” Beau completed his observation.

“I believe in dialectics, but wasn’t Nietzsche the one who hated women, then died of syphilis or some other sexually transmitted disease?”

“Life has no plot, baby.”

“Hey.” I thumped his shoulder. “That’s my line.”

New Year’s Eve was spent quietly with Beau, although we were guests of his friends for a celebration aboard a colossal yacht docked in Corpus Christi. Beau loved to mingle, but when I noticed him tiring, I found an isolated upstairs corner with a great view for observing others. We chatted about determination and free will, the cosmos, and harmonious structure. “Aristotle called metaphysics ‘the first philosophy’ and divided it into three parts,” Beau informed as I sipped champagne. Who knew Beau was hip to metaphysics? My brain absorbed only minor bits of his explanation, but I absorbed his presence like a sponge.

Nikki and her new love, Tad, went to his family’s beach house to drink champagne and welcome 1989 with his relatives, singing
Auld Lang Syne
or whatever happy people sing. Tad was a third year law student, following the footsteps of his attorney father. My girl was maturing into a responsible young lady who grew more like Gabriel every year. Besides possessing his mid-laugh snort, she listened to AM radio, made a production of watching sunsets, and often read recipes to me—complete with orgasmic sounds.

The year officially kicked off with Texan George H. W. Bush becoming the 41
^st
President of the US in January. And in March the
Exxon Valdez
spilled eleven million gallons of oil in Alaska. Spring came and went with
Gabriel calling intermittently, whilst calls from Patrice doubled due to her excitement about moving to London with potential of becoming a senior partner. “My salary is substantial, but so is the cost of living, not to mention taxes for Queenie.”

“Ah yes, the royal pain in the commoner’s ass.”

“Speaking of pains, are you still in that symbiotic relationship with Scott?”

“How’s this symbiotic for me?”

“He offers male companionship without making physical or emotional demands.”

“And what benefit does Scott derive?”

“You give him credibility with his associates. It’s likely you’re the only sane woman who’s stuck around for any length of time.”

“I appreciate you calling me sane, Patrice.”

“Just be careful. This guy is like one of those unsightly warts you can’t burn off.”

Nikki stayed wrapped up in Tad all summer, which worried me some. They looked at each other the same way Gabriel and I always had. They weren’t overly affectionate to the point of causing nausea in others, but no one else existed in their world. Leave it to my child to fall in love with a slow walking, calm talking, star gazing, nature loving, guitar strumming Irishman who made her giggle uncontrollably.

By the end of summer, my affiliation with Scott was making me weary. And as Beau’s health declined, I spent much of my free time with him listening to his plans to return to Vegas.

“Gosh, baby, you don’t sound well enough to be out visiting,” Beau said when I arrived under the influence of an upper respiratory condition.