Love May Fail (8 page)

I look down at my plate—at the four-inch-high pile of waffles and the additional three-inch fluffy white pyramid of whipped cream on top—and I actually start to feel sick.

“You’re not going to eat a bite, are you?” I ask Mom.

“I’m invisible.
Can we leave yet?
”

“Okay, Mom. You win.”

I flag down Danielle, ask for take-home containers, explain that my mother is not feeling well, and let her know I’ll call later. I leave a hundred percent tip on the table, thinking of little Tommy at home, who doesn’t yet work on the docks but may someday, since his mother already works the diner by day, and also remembering my own waitressing days. I pay the cashier, and then walk Mom home hand-in-hand.

As soon as we’re in the door, she asks if she can eat her waffles, and I say, “Sure.”

She grabs a fork and eats lustily out of the white Styrofoam box. She’s seated in her pink recliner among the towers of junk and lurking dust-bunny filth.

“Yum,” she says. “Aren’t you going to have any, Portia?”

“You got what you wanted, didn’t you, Mom? This is what you want.”

“Waffles with whipped cream!” she says, which is when I realize that she’s eating
my
waffles.

“Enjoy,” I say. “I’m going to my space now.”

“Your room is yours. I haven’t touched a thing!” she says, flashing a mouth full of half-chewed waffles, white whipped cream, and sticky brown syrup. “It’s yours!”

I turn and approach the steps, which are only half as wide as they should be. Mom’s stacked sundry boxes of crap two feet high along the left side, where there is no railing. She needs the railing on the right side to make it to the upstairs bathroom, which is the only thing she uses up there, since the halls, closets, and her entire bedroom are stocked floor to ceiling with what-have-you.

She’s been sleeping on the pink recliner for decades.

I stand at the bottom of the steps, wondering if it’s safe to climb, or if there is so much stuff up there that my added weight could bring the second floor crashing down. But then I remember that my mother outweighs me by an entire person, so I begin to climb, trying not to look at the six hundred or so rolls of toilet paper stacked eight feet tall and four feet wide, the bathroom door trapped behind them so that it’s no longer possible to shut it while sitting on the toilet or taking a shower.

I enter my room and try to ignore its museumlike qualities. My mother has preserved the past with freakish dedication. Only one thing has been missing here: me. If my mother could have put me in a bottle of formaldehyde and kept me a little girl forever, she probably would have.

I ignore the red varsity letters that hang on the wall because I played the flute, wore a ridiculous uniform, and lettered in marching band.

A life-size poster of Vince Neil making an orgasm face and grabbing his crotch through ripped jeans hangs eternal and slightly faded on the back of my door.

My old flute is in its case on the bureau.

My collection of stuffed animal unicorns has grown because Mom still buys me one for my birthday and one for Christmas.

You know what you call a herd of unicorns?

A blessing.

True.

There are six less-dusty members of the blessing who I have not yet met, and the thought of Mom placing these on my bed because I’m no longer here and I’ve told her she’s not allowed to mail me anything makes me so sad.

I’m a horrific daughter, yes.

But I’m also back in the exact place I ran from all those years ago.

I’m a homing pigeon.

What goes up must come down.

Then I remember why I came up here in the first place and rifle through my underwear drawer, tossing twenty-year-old panties—which would split in half if I tried to fit into them now; I’m not exactly fat, but I’m not eighteen anymore either—over my shoulder as I search. Finally I have it in my hand.

“Incredible,” I say to myself.

I stare down at the Official Member of the Human Race card and examine the picture taken by Mr. Vernon the week before I graduated high school. He took everyone’s picture—well, everyone who was in his senior English class. My face looks thinner, my skin smooth—absolutely no wrinkles—and I appear . . . innocent, completely oblivious to what’s ahead.

Hopeful.

God, I was so beautiful. Stunning, even. Why did I feel so ugly back then? Was I blind? I’d kill little old adorable Sister Maeve and all of her nun friends—figuratively speaking, of course—to look like this again.

My bangs are teased up a little—okay, they’re teased up so high they barely fit into the picture—and the rest of my brown hair hangs down straight, disappearing behind my shoulders.

Here in my bedroom, I look to my right and see my old curling iron on the nightstand, next to an aerosol can of Aqua Net hair spray that belongs in a real museum.

I smile.

On the card, even though it must have been June—maybe it was a cool June, but I don’t remember—I’m wearing a white jean jacket and there are buttons pinned over the breast pockets. The buttons are hard to make out, but I can name them all anyway.

Over my right breast: Bon Jovi, Guns N’ Roses, Metallica, Mötley Crüe, of course.

Over my left: A purple peace sign. A yellow smiley face. Kurt Vonnegut Jr. smoking a cigarette. Sylvia Plath looking smart and sad in misbehaving bangs. They’re all still pinned on that white jacket—all I have to do to check my memory is open the closet door and take the relic off the hanger.

In the photo I’m holding now, I’m smiling in a way I haven’t smiled for a long time. I look unburdened. Naive—in the best of ways. Like the rest of my life was going to be a late May afternoon on the Jersey shore, a walk on the beach in the most pleasant weather with the ocean tide tickling my toes.

I read the words that Mr. Vernon printed next to my photo. What happened?

               
Portia Kane, Official Member of the Human Race!

This card entitles you to ugliness and beauty . . .

. . . and remember—

you become exactly

whomever you

choose
to be.

I call Danielle Bass at 6:20 p.m.

I thought about googling Mr. Vernon on my phone to see what happened to him, but I didn’t. I don’t know why. Maybe because I want to hear whatever happened from someone who knew him? Maybe I’m worried that he did something deplorable like fuck one of his students—exactly like Ken and every other base man with whom I have ever come in contact would probably do? I don’t know why it’s suddenly so important for me to keep Mr. Vernon in the scarcely populated Good Man column, but it is. And if he isn’t a good man, I want to hear it from a living breathing, person—preferably a woman—whether that makes sense or not.

“Portia!” Danielle says, after I tell her who it is. “You left me a nice tip. Thanks!”

“Well, good service should always be rewarded,” I say, and hope it doesn’t come off as condescending.

I’m relieved when she lets it go. “Glad you called,” she says. “You wanna eat dinner with me and my kid at the Manor? I’m starving. And my treat. I insist.”

“The Manor?”

“You know, that bar in Oaklyn. Near the school? I live in an apartment cattycorner to the Manor. I could hit it with a stone.”

“The place with the deck, with the train tracks behind it? Next to the trestle?”

“That’s it.”

“I haven’t been there for—”

“It’s exactly how you remember it. The place never changes, which is the beauty of it, right? It’s a constant. You wanna eat with us?”

“Um, sure. But I’m wondering if you could quickly tell me what happened to Mr.—”

“I just walked through the door, and I haven’t seen my boy all day. Meet us at the Manor in, say, a half hour. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know then.”

“Okay, but—”

I hear her yell, “Tommy, Mommy’s home!” just before the phone goes dead.

“Shit!” I say, remembering that I have no car.

I don’t know why I open my closet and pull out my white Levi’s jean jacket from high school, but I do. All of the pins are still affixed.

I try it on. It’s snug, but chic. We used to wear them a little baggy, back in the day. It’s definitely retro, but I like it—it takes me back and makes me feel like I’m home again—so I leave it on, almost like a costume.

Pre-Ken me.

I skip every other step down to the first floor, which is when I realize I’m sort of excited.

“Mom,” I say.

“Did you say that Ken died earlier?”

“Yes, but he didn’t really.”

She’s staring at the Buy from Home Network on her boxy old television set. A middle-aged woman is twisting her wrist under an intense light so that the faux-diamond-encrusted face of an imitation Rolex watch—which they are calling a “Roll-Flex” on the screen—sparkles and dazzles with fabulous faux brilliance.

Mom looks up at me from her recliner. “You must be careful, Portia. Sometimes when you wish for things, you get your wish! Maybe Ken really died today! It would be your fault then!”

“I could live with that, believe me,” I say, and then quickly add, “but I’m going out with Danielle Bass.”

“Who’s Danielle Bass?”

“Our waitress today. Remember her?”

“I was invisible then.”

“I know.”

Mom turns and faces the television again. I can see the saleswoman now. A tanning booth has turned her face into a catcher’s mitt, but she speaks and moves with the sensuality of a Victoria’s Secret model half her age.

“With only five easy payments of fifteen ninety-nine, this beautiful classic cubic zirconia Roll-Flex can be yours! Perfect for any occasion, whether you are shopping at the mall or spending a night on the town! You’ll be in style and the envy of your friends with this little equalizer on your wrist.”

“
Equalizer?
Why do you watch this shit, Mom? You never buy anything unless it’s on sale at Walmart.”

“Father doesn’t allow profanity in the house, Portia!” she says without taking her eyes off the screen. “You grandfather simply won’t—”

“I might be out late, okay?”

She doesn’t answer, so I make my way around the various junk piles to the front door.

I pause for a second before leaving just to see if Mom will break away from the Buy from Home Network long enough to say, “Have fun!” or even “Bye,” but she doesn’t, of course.

Never has.

Never will.

Outside I use my phone to google a local cab service, make the call, and wait on the sidewalk, hoping the nice Nigerian driver will show up again, but instead it’s a tiny old man in one of those Irish caps that look like a duck bill sticking out of his forehead.

I tell him to take me to the Manor in Oaklyn, and he puts it in drive without saying a word.

Why don’t I ask him where he’s from and whether he loves a woman?

I’m not the same person I was last night, I guess. I’m sober, yes, but it’s more than that. The rush of leaving Ken—taking action—is running out, and I wonder if I’ll need another fix soon.

What’s he doing tonight?

Is he with Khaleesi?

Are they screwing in my old bed?

Should I be talking to a lawyer pronto?

Why am I not more upset?

And Ken hasn’t even called or e-mailed.

Is there something wrong with me?

Am I too old?

And what exactly happened to Mr. Vernon?

“Ten bucks,” the old man says, and I realize we are outside the Manor. I remember the sign—a suspiciously young-looking man sitting on a barrel and downing a pitcher of beer.

There are red-and-white-striped metal awnings, and the building is made out of sandy-colored bricks. What looks like a double-wide red phone booth juts out from the front corner to protect the door from letting in gusts of cold air in the winter and hot air in the summer, maybe.

I give the cabbie what he asks for plus a few extra bucks and make my way to the side entrance.

The wooden tables and booths inside are old enough to make the flat-screen TVs seem like futuristic technology. Thick, dark wooden beams run along the ceiling and a brick archway divides the room, which is full of people who work and live hard in the various surrounding blue-collar towns—Oaklyn, Audubon, Collingswood—a patchwork of small homes with tiny yards. Many of these people are wearing orange-and-black Flyers jerseys, red Phillies caps, kelly-green Eagles coats.

“Portia!”

I spot Danielle in a booth at the other end of the room, waving me over with her hand in the air.

I make my way through the tables and notice a kid sitting next to her.

Tommy has shaggy blond hair that is maybe a little too long to be in style and makes him look a bit androgynous, but he’s adorable. I immediately recognize Danielle’s eyes and nose on his little face, although he has a strong chin, which is weird to say about a five-year-old, I realize. I imagine his father as a classically attractive Brad Pitt type.

When I sit down across from Danielle and Tommy, he says, “Hello, Ms. Kane, I’m going to perform soon!”

“Are you now?” I say.

Danielle doesn’t say hi, but watches her son the way I’ve learned mothers do, as if their child were the most amazing thing in the world and therefore they remain mute out of sheer awe—like they don’t want to interrupt what they think will be the best part of your day, talking with their kid.

I realize that will sound harsh to some readers, especially mothers.

I’m not looking down on Danielle so much as identifying what’s going on.

Child-free women do this—observe with all the objectivity of an outsider—whether you want them to or not, and I am a child-free woman.

“Chuck and I are in a band,” Tommy says.

“You’re just in time for the show!” Danielle says to me and then musses Tommy’s hair. “Tell her the name of your band.”

“Shot with a Fart,” Tommy says and then giggles so hard he can no longer open his eyes—he even tears up.

“And you’re to blame!” Danielle says, poking Tommy’s ribs with a forefinger to the rhythm of each syllable, and then tickles him.

I wonder if this is the performance.

But then a curly-haired blond man who looks to be about our age or maybe a few years older enters the room from the front bar. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and black high-top sneakers. Into a microphone he says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please put down your two-dollar Coors Lights, your deep-fried chicken wings, your cheese fries, and your tuna melts, for you are about to see the greatest show South Jersey has to offer before five-year-old bedtime.”

I look around the room, and the patrons are clapping and smiling in anticipation.

“You know me as Chuck the bartender—the man who’s continuously provided you with free Chex Mix and who will always be there to turn the channel for you sports junkies. The man with the remote control. Quick wrist on the tap. The guy who gives you a generous pour every time. The man who works extra hard for your tips. But I also lead a double life as the awesome uncle of Oaklyn’s best-kept secret, the pint-size man who fronts South Jersey’s most supreme Bon Jovi cover band, Shot with a Fart, the one and only Tommy Bass!”

The room explodes with applause.

Little Tommy jumps up out of the booth and runs behind the side bar.

The applause grows, and then everyone starts chanting, “Tom-MEEE! Tom-MEEE! Tom-MEEE!”

After thirty seconds or so another bartender—a beefy bald guy with the Phillies P tattooed in green on the side of his neck—lifts little Tommy up onto the bar, only Tommy is now wearing fake leather pants, a little leather fringe jacket, a long purple scarf, mirrored cop sunglasses, and a blond wig that makes him look like he has a lion’s mane on his head.

Chuck hands Tommy the microphone and then picks up a broom.

Tommy says, “How you doing tonight, Oaklyn, New Jersey?”

Everyone cheers.

“This one’s for my mom over there in the corner,” Tommy says and then looks down at his feet on the bar, which is when I realize he is wearing little cowboy boots. He looks up again and says, “She really works at a diner. It’s true.”

Someone puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out one of those eardrum-piercing whistles, and the cheers get louder.

I look over at Danielle, and she’s staring at her boy intensely—she’s smiling, but she looks like she could break down crying too.

The beefy bartender puts some money in the jukebox, punches in a number, and then we hear the synthesizer chords and that jingling baby rattle. When the drums kick in, Tommy begins to gyrate in rhythm and the now straight-faced Chuck does his best Richie Sambora, strumming his broomstick, nodding his head, opening and closing his mouth to imitate that voice-box sound that Sambora does for “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

“Everybody up!” Tommy yells into the mic, just before he starts singing along. I’m surprised that everyone actually gets up and also
that Tommy can sing pretty well for a kindergartner. The little guy has more confidence and swagger than seem possible.

And while he works the entire room with his shades and finger pointing, most of his glances and gestures go toward his mother in the corner, which is when I realize he’s doing this for her, to pump her up and keep her going, and even though I know he’s five and has no idea what he’s doing at all, but is most likely naively running on instinct, I love the kid instantly.

I watch Chuck lean back and make comical faces during his guitar solo. He’s terrible compared to Tommy, but sacrificing himself for his nephew and I’m guessing Danielle too, who must be his sister if Chuck is Tommy’s uncle. I sort of remember him from high school. Maybe he was a grade or so ahead of us? And he’s still pretty fit—actually
very
fit. And his face has remained kind after all these years.

Tommy cocks his head to the side, points at me when he sings, “
You live for the fight when that’s all that you got!
” and then does a pelvis thrust that makes me more than a little uncomfortable, since he’s five, but I seem to be the only one thinking about age-appropriate behavior, because the rest of the bar is pointing back at Tommy and singing along.

He’s too young to be this captivating, and yet there are fifty or so Bud-bottle-drinking adults dancing and singing and clapping and enjoying the hell out of the performance.

I look over at Danielle and catch her wiping a tear from her cheek as she nods and dances and sings along, which is when I realize that this is the pinnacle of her week—this moment right here at the Oaklyn Manor bar with her brother and son performing a Bon Jovi song.

This is what she has.

And it makes me so sad and happy at the same time.

It makes me think about Mom watching me drink Diet Coke with Lime.

And before I know it I’m screaming too, “Whoa! We’re halfway there!”

Which is crazy, because I’m not halfway to anywhere, but maybe that’s the point of the song.

Shot with a Fart gets a thirty-second standing ovation before Tommy disappears behind the bar again and Chuck makes his way over to kiss his sister on the cheek and say “Did you like the show?” to me.

“Very much,” I say, laughing. “I sure wish I had an uncle like you.”

Chuck smiles proudly, but breaks eye contact before saying, “What are you drinking? On the house for Danielle’s friends. Especially those who wear Mötley Crüe buttons.” He makes the devil horns with his right hand and sings, “
Shout at the devil!
”

I raise my own devil horns and in a deep, put-on voice sing, “
Home sweet home
.”

“Best rock ballad ever. Fucking
ever
,” he says. Then he quickly covers his mouth and says, “Sorry,” to his sister.

“Ewwwww,” Tommy says. “Bad words!”

“What do you think, Tommy? ‘Home Sweet Home.’ Best rock ballad ever?” Chuck says quickly, redirecting like a pro.

“We should perform that one next week,” Tommy says.

“We’d have to change our cover band name if we started doing Crüe songs.”

“But Shot with a Fart is
the best
name!”

“I completely agree, little man!”

“This is Portia, Chuck,” Danielle finally says. “She went to good ol’ HTHS. In my class.”

Chuck smiles with nothing short of movie-star charm and shakes a finger at me like I’ve been very naughty. “I thought I recognized—”