The Nirvana Blues (62 page)

“You don't even have a fierce exterior.” She drew aimless little patterns on his chest: his penis tingled. “You know what you look like to me?”

“I couldn't guess.”

“You're like somebody who simply wants to be a good guy, but you know that good guys finish last. So you try to fool people by acting tough. But underneath you're nothing but a whimsical child. And you're all perplexed inside because you know you're supposed to act like a grownup but you don't
feel
like a grown-up. Of course, constantly you pray that nobody finds out, because once they discover you're not a mature person they'll skin your ass and hang it from a belfry.”

“Oh, I dunno.” Joe allowed himself to grow lazy despite the nagging image of a misparked bus in the back of his mind.

“I do.”

Diana leaned forward. Her lips dangled tantalizingly above his face for a moment, then settled upon his mouth. Such pliable meat! Joe closed his eyes; his hands sought her breasts. Her tongue probed across his teeth. She backed off an inch and murmured, “I want to make love with you tonight. I'm really sorry about yesterday. But it's been so long since I could trust anybody.”

“I don't know. Maybe it's easier not to make love. I'm all confused. Sometimes I think I'd rather be friends with women. I don't know how to be a good lover. Also, I don't think I want to lose my family.”

“I can tell you desire me a lot, though.”

“I know, but—”

Her mouth silenced him. They rolled together, back and forth, lazily rubbing up against each other's bodies. They burrowed about in the tangled bedding, licked each other's noses, and undressed slowly. Momentarily hovering above her, Joe was captivated by her fragile, opulent torso. Her pale throat curved like a plume of snow; luminescent white breasts flooded her chest and the biceps of arms clamped against her sides. What bewitching and achingly textured material! Moonlight, starlight, distant streetlamps—their auras filtered through the tent's transparent roof, laminating her skin in a frighteningly evocative radiance. The effect was so powerful, Joe almost cried, “I love you!” But he rejected it as he would have rejected his own doom. The visual image of her was so strong it threatened to cripple him, so Joe closed his eyes and sank slowly onto the woman. Holding her tight, he stayed inserted, scarcely moving, aching to break down and destroy his life by promising her the moon. How wonderful it would be to give in, accepting another human being absolutely without strings attached. Melting into her body, into her soul, dissolving … merging … emotionally readjusting … until all the anger, suspicion, paranoia, game playing, jealousy, selfish hungers, greed, and stupidity evaporated, and nothing but clarity remained.

“Oh,” she whispered faintly, “how I love you.”

“Don't say that.” His voice was tiny.

“I can't help it.”

“
Please
don't say that, Diana.”

“I can't help it.”

“But we hardly know each other. I don't love anybody.”

“Yes you do. Whether you admit it or not, you love me.”

“No…”

“Yes.”

“Oh help…”

“It's all right. I'm here … I'll take care of you.”

Obviously, the only solution to his sexual gluttony was suicide. Warm snow fell through his body. He wanted so much to let semen course languidly into her body. He wanted an orgasm to seep through all his pores, caressing Diana's flesh, making it sprout goosebumps that would prickle back against him like soda bubbles. “I love you” rose in his throat, but he choked it back, determined to survive. She constricted her muscles, lovingly squeezing his cock.

“I'm not afraid anymore, Joe.”

“I am.”

“I know, but don't be. Everything is all right.”

“You don't know anything.”

“Yes I do. I'm wiser than you think.”

Enveloped in wings, powdered in carnal down, locked in a baby-sweet embrace, Joe was touched by an angel's wand. His body puffed up and cried out for the blowsy fluff of satiation. If he could only let go, they would drift through the apocryphal land of Dreams Come True. It was so close. Almost intoxicated by fear and longing, Joe dared not move even the chromosomes in a molecule. An orgasm wailed for release; his testicles ached; he wanted to give up and accept the rare and exquisite mood of such vibrant despair, such powerful and radiant and melancholy blues.

Perfection of sorrow, perfection of grace? Eyes open, Joe regarded a hand—his or hers? Actually, it belonged to both of them. Joe was still hard inside her. Tears bloomed at his eyes. An incredibly strong, undiluted sensation of orgasm tarried in his penis, pulsing like a quasar—but he could not, he would not, let it go.

A moment later, Joe brooded over this strange woman. She reminded him of Thomas Hart Benton's
Persephone.
Moonlight glistened provocatively against the damp curves of her belly, breasts, and shoulders. Her throat was caught in aching beauty. Despondently, he viewed her as some pure and unnatural princess spirited into his prosaic life from a long-lost Xanaduvian region. Her skin had been pampered with tepid mosses for generations; her body
was
her soul.

Joe contemplated Diana as he might a work of art. For this suspended moment her perfection was overwhelming, intimidating. Giddy laziness invaded his muscles. He breathed oxygen strained through rarefied champagne filters. Sorrowfully, he relaxed. He felt beautiful, also extraordinarily melancholic. A heavenly minute ensued as his eyes, trained on her poetic form, gradually unfocused. Where had he been transported to all of a sudden—Anami Lok? All colors and all objects ran together, until Joe visualized her as a fuzzy indeterminate pristine glow in the center of an infinitely mollifying universe. There was no need to make sense out of things, or to feel responsibilities or obligations. Something had cast a spell, and he was bewitched. He suffered from those old Nirvana Blues. If his life were to end right now, he probably would be crowned a saint. They'd fly him—in a presidential jet, no less—to go on view (for a fortnight) at the Vatican, before he was embalmed, placed in a glass sarcophagus, and retired to permanent public display in the basilica of Saint Peter's.

“The sweetest fuck…” she whimpered, falling asleep (and completing the phrase from her dreams), “that I ever had.”

Where
were
those keys?

*   *   *

I
T RESEMBLED
a long-distance telephone connection with Kabul: “Joe? Are you in there?”
Fzzt … crackle … ping …

“Huh? Whuzzat? Who…?”

“Is that you?”
Burp … gurgle … glug …

“Who?”

“Joe Miniver.”
Chakata … chakata … chakata …

“Uh, yeah, right away. Who's that?”

“It's me.”
Drone … hum … clickety … clickety …

“Oh.” Which me? Floundering like a child caught in ocean breakers, Joe flailed upward into a poor semblance of groggy rationality. His brain was detached, lost, adrift. He lunged for the surface, stroking frantically toward the light, and banged his nose against the bottom. “I'm asleep.” His words were made unintelligible by muffling cobwebs. “What time is it? Where—?”

“Can I come in?”

“No. Wait a minute!” He awoke.

Stretched out nude in a nest of rumpled blankets and old clothes, Diana looked tragically clean and natural—a perfect little girl.

“Who is it?”

“It's
me.
I came to take you back.”

“Back where?” Who the hell was talking? Several gears in his head were stuck. The connection eluded him.

“Back to the hospital,” she said.

“The hospital?” A sickness in the family? A loved one about to kick the bucket? Was somebody having a baby?

“Are you all right?” she asked solicitously. “You sound funny.”

He felt funny. Sleep held onto him with savage tenacity.
Morpheus as Epoxy!

“Yeah … I'm fine … sure. Hi.”

“Hi. Are you positive I can't come in?”

“Well, I, uh, I mean, you know—right?”

“Joe, don't be silly.”

“Wait a minute … I'll come out. Is it nighttime or daylight? What day is this?” Dizzily, he crabbed onto his knees, crawled forward, and poked his head through the flaps into a night as dark as Russian owl hoots. Staggering upright, he wavered incoherently, a veritable senile oaf.

“We can't go if you're naked, Joe.”

At first, even as he peered through the dark, Joe could not connect her face to a personality and a name. Then finally his brain woke up. “Oh, it's you, Nancy. Jesus…”

“Who did you think it was?”

“I dunno. I'm riddled with sleep. I feel like a geriatric nitwit. Maybe I inhaled a drug.…”

“It's only ten o'clock.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“I came to drive you back so you can find the keys and fetch the bus.”

“The bus?”

“It's over at the hospital. Joey, what's the matter with you?”

“Mom,” a child called from back in the driveway, “I wanna go home!”

“In a minute, Bradley. You hush now, dear.”

Joe said, “Lemme walk around a little.” He shook his head and slapped himself. Then, stepping gingerly in his bare feet, he advanced onto the garden area spaded over that afternoon. Earth, cold and damp, crumbled between his toes. What had happened to the cocaine? He couldn't remember, but a sense of disaster rode his aching bones. Joe shivered, accepted the jolt, and became a semi-intelligent, partially functioning human being.

Joe dressed, and got in her Bug. Heading out the driveway, Nancy said, “We're planning a healing tomorrow at daybreak for Sasha.”

“You're
what?
” Joe stared into Eloy's front field, where the Hanuman U-Haul, leafed in misty moonlight, glowed eerily. Geronimo's soft, unhappy whinny hurt his heart.

Nancy reached over, tousling his hair. “You're funny, Joe. You're the most comical guy I know.”

“What exactly is meant by a ‘healing'?”

“I'm a member of a healing group. We've decided to get together especially to heal Sasha. It's very simple.”

From the back seat, Bradley broke his sourpuss pose. “I always hated Sasha, Mom. I hope he dies.”

She chose to ignore him. “Joe, is there anything wrong with a healing?”

“It's stupid.”

“Why?”

“For starters, Sasha is a really creepy monkey.”

“A purely subjective opinion.”

“He's right, Mom. Once Tofu Smatterling and me were building a castle in the sandbox, and Sasha hopped down and kicked apart the castle. Then he made a caca where it had been.”

“You see?” Joe grinned smugly. “Anybody who knew that monkey hated its guts.”

“That's because most people don't really understand what Sasha is about.”

“You bought him in a pet store, Nancy. He isn't the Son of God.”

“All of us—all creatures, all things—are the sons of God.”

“And daughters.”

“Granted.”

“Well, where does it say in the Bible that Jesus Christ shat on sand castles?”

Patiently, she handled his belligerence. “You realize, of course, that you are completely missing the point.” Her smile was so aggravatingly sympathetic and tolerant that he wished to erase it with a bolo punch. “And missing it deliberately, I might add, just to provoke me.”

“No, seriously. I don't understand. Michael plugs with his BB gun a dime-store ape that's into pornographic antics and child abuse, and suddenly my kid is a pariah being hunted down and mugged by gangs of the Cosmic Mafia's offspring. I don't get it at all.”

“That was very unfortunate. It's because they were children.”

“I still don't understand.”

“Unfortunately, that's because you're not a spiritual person.”

Bradley insistently tapped his mother's shoulder. “Remember what happened last year, Mom?”

“I don't think I care to hear it, dear.”

“Remember when Mary Beth Eisley came over and Sasha threw a rock that hit her on the head.”

“That kind of story right now has no positive effect on anything at all.”

He continued whapping her shoulder. “But that's not all, Mom. Don't you remember? She cried a whole lot, and got real tired, so you put her to bed for a nap. But while she was asleep, Sasha sneaked through the window with a spoon he stoled from the kitchen, and he jammed the handle into one of the holes in her nose and made it bloody.”

“Bradley!”

“But that's not all, either. Remember? He jammed it in so far you were afraid to take it out by yourself. So we hadda drive her to the hospital with a spoon stuck up her nose.”

To rollicking Joe, Nancy said, “I fail to see what's so humorous.”

“A spoon rammed up her nose by a monkey? You fail to see the
humor?
” Joe couldn't help it, he sputtered and ho-ho'd until the tears fell like rain.

Spurred on by this show of approval, Bradley reached into his sack for another yarn.

“Remember the time Sasha shoved a banana down our toilet? It got jammed in there somewhere, and the plumbers had to take the toilet out of the bathroom into the yard and push the banana out with a Roto-Rooter?”

“Bradley, I'm going to ask you not to talk about Sasha anymore, sweetie.”

But the kid was on a hot streak. He tapped Joe's shoulder. “Did my mom ever tell you about the time Sasha carried my football onto the roof and dropped it down the chimney when we had a fire going in the fireplace? It exploded and blew flames all over the living room. A curtain caught on fire, and our house almost burnt down.”

“That's what I like,” Joe wheezed between derisively merry gasps. “A real spiritual monkey.”