The Girl Who Ran Off With Daddy Page 10

  “He’s hoping you’ll go back to school.”

  “But I don’t wanna go back to school!” she cried, her voice turning high and shrill. “I wanna be with him! I can’t believe him! Gawd, I hate guys sometimes. I mean, they just go off and they do whatever they wanna do and then you have to find out about it from their friends. And if you have a problem with it, then, like, it’s your problem.”

  “Why did Thor get so drunk tonight, Clethra?”

  She looked away, her face tightening. “He was real upset about that video.”

  “I can well imagine. You weren’t?”

  She shrugged her shoulders inside her jacket. “Not really. I don’t get upset anymore.”

  More of that blasé Generation X nihilism. Briefly, I wanted to throw her over my knee and spank it out of her. But that prospect made my face tingle and my palms sweat.

  A romantic night. We definitely needed a romantic night.

  “Let’s go inside and talk.”

  She shook a cigarette out of her pack. “Can I smoke in there?”

  “Let’s stay out here and talk.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, lighting it. “Only, I didn’t have shit to do with it.”

  “Who did?”

  “We were goofing is all. I mean, God, it wasn’t like it was ever for somebody else to look at.” She squirmed unhappily there on the hood, much the way Lulu does when she has a personal itch. “But I guess now that I’m some bizarre public figure the temptation is too big for some people.”

  “Which people, Clethra?”

  She hesitated, her eyes glistening at me in the porchlight. “Like Tyler.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “Ex-boyfriend.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  I heard a skittering noise in the carriage barn. Lulu stayed put, not so much as a woof out of her—Sadie was stalking a mouse. Or, even worse, a bat.

  “Well, it wasn’t filmed in some hotel, okay?” Clethra said. “We made it in his parents’ bedroom on East Seventy-second Street—one night when they were out of town. Their place just looks like a hotel is all. We were smoking a joint and drinking some peppermint schnapps and Tyler, like, found this video camera of theirs and so we decided to do it. Y’know, for fun?” She pulled on her cigarette. “I didn’t even know he still had it. I mean, I figured he’d thrown it out or something.”

  “Well, he didn’t. Is Tyler at Columbia?”

  “Uh-huh. He lives in Furnald Hall. His last name’s Kampmann.”

  “Are you still seeing him?”

  “No way!” she answered hotly. “He kept dicking other girls behind my back. He’s just a total snake. But I guess that’s pretty obvious, am I right? His father used to have big bucks. Lost it all in the stock market crash, not that I’m trying to make excuses. Tyler’s really into the ambition thing. Has all these big plans for law school and shit. So I guess now he’ll be able to pay for it. I still think the only real reason he went out with me was so he could meet my mom. He was just, like, totally impressed by her.”

  “I saw her today.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she said, feigning a lack of interest.

  “Arvin as well.”

  “You saw Arvy?” she cried, her brow creasing with tender concern. It was the first genuine, human reaction I’d gotten out of her. “Oh, man, how’s my sweet baboo?”

  “Confused and upset. He misses you.”

  “God. Like, me, too.”

  “Would you like to see him this weekend? I might be able to arrange it.”

  “I’d kill to.”

  “That may not be necessary. Of course, I’ll expect something in return.”

  She peered at me, instantly suspicious. “Like what?” she demanded, giving her jacket a huffy little tug.

  “I don’t like surprises, Clethra. In this business, they can be just about the worst thing there is. So I want you to tell me what you haven’t told me.”

  She considered this a moment, plump lower lip fastened between her teeth. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t,” she insisted heatedly. “I really, really don’t.”

  “There’s nothing you want to tell me? Not one thing?”

  She ducked her head. “Well … I guess there’s something I wouldn’t mind asking you, if you wouldn’t mind. I thought about asking Merilee but she already thinks I’m some kind of bimbonic whore slutsky …” She glanced nervously over at the chapel. “Do you think it would be bad for me to see other guys? Like, since I’m with Thor and everything. I mean, if you were him, would you mind if I went out with somebody else?”

  I stood there studying her face. She seemed incredibly sincere. Also incredibly young. She was still only eighteen years old, no matter how fast she was growing up. I had to keep reminding myself of that. “Yes, I would mind,” I said slowly. “As a general rule, it’s not a good idea to sleep with more than one man at a time.”

  “Y’see, that’s just it,” she said, nodding. “We’re not.”

  “You’re not what?”

  “Sleeping together. I mean, we are but we aren’t—if you can dig where I’m coming from.”

  I tugged at my ear. “I’m afraid you’ll have to help me.”

  “Look—how well do you know Thor? I mean, you’re his friend, right? So when do you think we’ll … y’know, get busy?”

  “You mean you’re not?”

  “Like, I don’t think so.”

  “Like, you’re not sure?”

  “No, I’m plenty sure, homes. We’re not. We sleep together. We hold, we hug, we kiss. But no sex. Not yet, anyway. He won’t. He just plain won’t.” She pulled on her cigarette, squinting at me through the smoke. “You’re surprised.”

  “Every once in a while. In fact, this one may make my highlight reel.” Not that I should have been surprised. One of the chief characteristics of the work I do is that just when I think I understand what’s going on I realize it doesn’t make the least bit of sense at all. In that regard it’s a lot like the films of David Lynch. “So let’s get this straight, Clethra. Everything you told me before was bullshit? That whole seduction scene? How it was different than it was with Tyler? How Thor made you feel cleansed? How you two like to get cleansed every afternoon? Lies? All lies?”

  “I guess it maybe comes off that way,” she replied uncomfortably. “But it’s, like, if you keep on telling yourself enough times that it’s happening you start to believe it is, even if it isn’t.”

  I nodded. She wasn’t wrong there. This was the entire basis of Reaganomics.

  “It’s like we should be,” she went on. “I want us to be. I guess I’m hoping that by saying it is I can somehow make it real. Only, why won’t he do me, Hoagy? Is it because he’s so old?” She lowered her eyes. “I mean, I heard a lot of men his age can’t get a chubby.”

  “And what about your mom?”

  “Huh?”

  “Has she actually abused you and Arvin? Or is that just more of your Disneyfied reality?”

  “She terrorizes us,” Clethra replied harshly.

  “That’s not an answer,” I said.

  “That’s the truth,” she insisted, her voice trembling.

  “I see.” Was it? Who the hell could tell? Not me. This teenager was the consummate liar—she believed in her make-believe as much as she did in the truth. If not more. “Have you spoken to Thor about this?”

  “Like, yeah. Constantly.”

  “And what’s his response?”

  “He says we’ll do it when I’m ready. That’s what he keeps saying—when I’m ready. Shit, I’m so ready I could die. I mean, sometimes after he’s fallen asleep next to me I have to—”

  “I don’t need to know this part.”

  “Will you talk to him for me?” she pleaded. “Will you ask him when we get to fuck?”

  “Clethra, may I ask you a stupid question?”

  “Duh, yeah.”

  “Why did you
run off with Thor?”

  “I thought it would be excellent,” she replied simply.

  “You thought it would be excellent to destroy your entire family?”

  “I guess I just thought, like, people would be more cool about it. That they wouldn’t freak out so much. And I thought that when we did split that we would. Get it on, I mean. Like, that the only reason we hadn’t was because we were still living at home.”

  “Do you love Thor?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “No second thoughts?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Then why do you want to see other guys?”

  “I don’t,” she insisted. “I just … I’m frustrated, that’s all.”

  “Clethra, why did you really run away with him? Was it to get back at your mom? To hurt her? Is that what this is all about?”

  She rolled her eyes, greatly annoyed. “No!”

  “Then why?”

  “You really, really don’t get it?”

  “I really, really don’t get it.”

  She stared at me like she thought I was a major doof. And replied, “He asked me to.”

  There were two faxes from Clethra’s editor waiting for me on the kitchen table. One said: “What do you think about Clethra topless on the cover?” The other said: “Disregard previous fax.” Me, I value my independence. I disregarded them both.

  I tiptoed up the stairs with Lulu in my arms so as not to wake Tracy. Stripped off my clothes and climbed into bed next to Merilee, who was all long and warm and cozy. She stirred, snuggling against me.

  I lay on my back with my arm around her. I could feel her breath on my neck. “Merilee?”

  “Yes, darling?” she murmured heavily.

  “I just reached a somewhat startling conclusion about us.”

  “Wait, don’t tell me …” She yawned. “You think I’m the cutest human life-form on the face of the planet and you can’t live without me.”

  “No, I’ve always known that.”

  “Why, darling, that’s absolutely the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “What’s the nicest?”

  “That time you told me I could count Velveeta as a vegetable.” She reached for her water glass and drank some, the nursery monitor on her nightstand mercifully silent. “So what is it?”

  “We lead an extremely sane life.”

  “Well, that was rather the whole idea, wasn’t it, darling?”

  “Yes, I suppose it was,” I said quietly. Too quietly. I could feel her eyes searching for mine in the darkness. “I brought you a pile of stuff from the city. Scripts they want you to read.”

  “Ptooey. Not interested. I’ve got better things to do than get disemboweled by those lousy sons of sea cooks.” She plumped her pillow. She had herself another drink of water. She lasted a full seven seconds before she said, “Anything good?”

  “The new Spielberg.”

  “I said anything good.”

  “The Shuberts are bringing The Miracle Worker back to Broadway.”

  “For Mac Culkin,” she sniffed. “They’re still looking for their Annie Sullivan.”

  I frowned. “Who’s Mac Culkin playing?”

  “The child, naturally.”

  “Isn’t he a little old?”

  “He plays young.”

  “But it’s a girl child.”

  “Not anymore it’s not.”

  “But it’s Helen Keller.”

  “Correction, darling, it’s Broadway, and Mac is a tourist attraction, which is all they care about anymore.” She sighed regretfully. “They’re destroying the theater in this country. Turning it into a satellite of Las Vegas—garish and mindless and not half as entertaining as Hard Copy.”

  I glanced at her. “You saw it?”

  “The three of us watched it together. She was enthralled, he was ill. All I kept thinking was that there’s no point in being a performer anymore. You’re better off if you commit some crime.”

  “She didn’t,” I reminded her.

  “People don’t want to see Hamlet. They want to see Joey Buttafuoco.”

  “Me, I want to see Joey Buttafuoco in Hamlet.”

  “This is serious, darling,” she said gravely. “I’m obsolete.”

  “Talent and beauty never go out of style, Merilee.”

  “Craftsmanship does,” she countered. “If everyone is a performer, then no one is.” She paused. “Does it bother you much?”

  “You being obsolete?”

  “Us leading this so-called sane life.”

  “Come here, I want to show you something.”

  I took her in my arms and kissed her. She kissed me back and then the furnace kicked over and, slowly, the heat started to come on all over the place. We slid deeper down into the bed, and each other, her breathing becoming deeper and steadier, my own more rapid and fervid. I heard her groan softly under me. And then I heard something else.

  From the baby monitor.

  I heard the Monster Gulp.

  We called it that because it sounded exactly like the startled gulp Frankenstein’s monster made the first time he caught a gander at himself in the mirror. This was Tracy’s way of letting us know she’d been activated and was now lying there in her crib pondering what she could do for amusement. Chances were now nine out of ten she would choose: Cry. There wasn’t much else on her personal menu.

  We both froze, hoping she’d fall back to sleep this once. Just this once. Hoping, hoping …

  She didn’t.

  “Let’s ignore her,” I suggested over the din. “Let her cry herself out.”

  “Are you saying this because you consider it an important aspect of child rearing?” Merilee wondered, her eyes gleaming at me. “Or because you’re desperate to slip me your frightful hog?”

  “I adore your quaint little expressions.”

  “Is that all you adore?”

  “Come here, I want to show you something else.”

  “I’ll tell you what, darling,” she offered, struggling to climb out from under me. I wasn’t exactly helping. “Keep my side warm and I’ll be back before you know it.”

  She was right, too. Kind of. I didn’t know it when she got back. I’d been fast asleep for an hour.

  “Why did you run off with Clethra, Thor?”

  Thor downed his shot of Wild Turkey and washed it down with a gulp of Rolling Rock. “I told you, boy. I love her.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning at me contentedly. “I feel reborn. Possessing that fine, firm young flesh of hers. Feeling her heat around me, squeezing me, pulsing around me like a—”

  “Shut up, Thor.”

  He peered at me, taken aback. “Shut up?”

  “You haven’t laid a hand on her and we both know it. So why don’t you drop-kick the reconstituted Henry Miller and tell me what the hell’s going on?”

  Thor hesitated, scratching at his beard. Then he gave me a brief nod and signaled the proprietor, Slim Jim, for another shot. They called him Slim Jim because he was circus fat, 350 pounds easy. His place, which was up past Rogers Lake on the old Boston Post Road, was our nearest watering hole. A rustic log cabin with a potbellied stove that served shots and beer and corn nuts. Sort of a biker bar, only without the glamour. The slack-jawed boys all hung there, grungy and unshaven; the air was thick with their cigarette smoke. There was a pool table and a jukebox and a TV. It being a Saturday afternoon, Notre Dame was busy running up the score on some patsy. The dozen or so regulars were hunched over their beers watching them in bored, dumb silence, all of them young and big-boned and sullen. More of Thor’s Lost Boys. I recognized them. They were the ones who mowed the lawns and pumped the gas and rounded out the paving and roofing crews during the paving and roofing season. Most of them still lived with their folks, although if you wanted to contact them the best way was to dial 1-800-HUH?. This was where they hid out. Us they ignored, just as they ignored the pair of low-rent bar floozies who were shooting pool, both of them short and
fat and forty, with raccoon eye makeup and bleached-out, sticky-looking hair.

  “I can do this cool trick,” one floozie announced hoarsely to no one in particular. “All I need is two balls and a straight stick.”

  None of the gang reacted, no doubt because they’d all heard it before eight or nine hundred times. Lulu, who was curled up at my feet, ignored her completely.

  Even when she sidled over to me and said, “Hey, mister, can I borrow your balls?”

  “Sorry, they’re in use.”

  She let out a wicked laugh, which I suppose she thought was sexy, and which quickly turned into a hacking cough, which decidedly was not. And then Slim Jim waddled back with Thor’s whiskey and chased her off.

  Thor stared moodily down into his glass, cupping it in his big scarred mitts. “I love her, boy. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Then why won’t you have sex with her?”

  “That,” he replied, “is none of your business.”

  “Wrong, Thor. You made it my business when you showed up out here, begging me to help you. Besides which, she asked me to ask you. So I’m asking you.”

  He tugged at his lower lip, his big chest rising and falling. His eyes were on the TV over the bar. “I’m over seventy years old. You’re barely forty. You can’t possibly understand it, boy. Maybe when you get to be my age you will. But not now.”

  “Not good enough, Thor. Let’s try it one more time: Why did you run off with Clethra?”

  “Just shut up about Clethra.”

  “I’m sorry, Thor. I can’t do that.”

  He tossed back his whiskey and smacked the shot glass down hard on the bar. “Bartender!” he roared, waving his big arms in the air. “A round for the house! Drinks for all my friends!”

  This seemed to make everyone in the place happy. Everyone except me. It was my money. Slim Jim passed out the beers and the guys raised their bottles to Thor and he raised his to them. “To all of you lost little boys,” he toasted, launching into one of his lusty orations. “With your pickup trucks and your jet skis and your flaccid little dickies in your hands. You confused, misbegotten little jack-off artists, out of touch with your wild selves, afraid of women, afraid of your own manhood—”

  “Ooh, this dude’s twisted!” cried one of the floozies.