The Jewel Box (30 page)

“I’m sorry,” was all I could choke out. I didn’t blame him for distrusting me, but the dejected look in his eyes crushed me.

He stared at me for what seemed an eternity before he spoke. “Put her back in Pearland High.”

“I’d rather go to Lee and get high.” Nikki threw a fit.

I threw a bigger fit. Kid didn’t get her melodramatic personality from the milkman.

“We’ll enroll her in parochial school,” Gabriel interrupted my ranting.

“You’re the best.” Nikki hugged Gabriel.

He popped the top off his Budweiser longneck.

I popped the top off a canister of Pillsbury chocolate frosting.

Our family of three checked out Mt. Carmel together. Sister Mary Francis warned us narcotics were inescapable, but assured us the school kept a close watch on students and the arduous academic schedule left little time for getting into trouble. I hoped that Nun wasn’t lying. We registered Nikki to begin classes and Gabriel crossed his fingers in the air before writing her tuition check. I prayed to God that He would somehow undo my child rearing and remake my daughter into the perfect teenager. It hurt my heart to think my years of selfish neglect could have easily caused me to lose Nikki to drugs.

20

Nikki began her tour de Mt. Carmel, and I continued working part-time for Eduardo, which enabled me to deliver and collect her from school daily. Gabriel and I theorized less idle time would translate to less time for illegal deeds. Working for the travel agency seemed a bit like pouring salt on Gloria’s wound, but I adored Eduardo and the flexibility he offered. Tending my child took priority over a paralegal career. Thankfully, Nikki loved her new school and her friendship with Gabriel flourished, with both constantly joking about her being his illegitimate child. In the looks department, she’d gotten Kent’s long eyelashes and my heart shaped face, but her pale blue eyes and red, full lips were Gabriel O’Quinn personified. At an early age she developed his odd mannerism of mid-laugh snorting, but apologized after doing so. “It’s not very feminine and only happens when I’m really tickled,” she claimed. Possibly via osmosis, Nikki had acquired Gabriel’s less-than-subtle dry wit. After repeatedly asking us to keep a lid on things in our bedroom at night, she nicknamed me the giggler, him the screamer. One morning she entered the kitchen half asleep, but mouthy. “Could you guys lower the noise after nine o’clock? I’m just a teenager, ya know.”

“We’ll turn the TV down from now on.” I sipped some java.

“Oooh. . .baby, baby,” she moaned, flipping her hair over one shoulder before joining us at the table. “It’s not the TV keeping me awake. Try things that go bump in the night.”

“See, Blondie.” Gabriel blushed as he jumped up for more coffee. “I told ya we should’ve given her away when she was three years old and adorable.”

“I’m still adorable,” Nikki piped. “And old enough to log parental abuse.”

“Watch out, sweetie. She’s serious with those diary threats. I haven’t read it lately, but suspect an entry about wire hangers is forthcoming.”

Aspiring journalist Nikki jotted anything she felt noteworthy, filling her room with composition books, diaries, letters, and notes written on any handy paper. She was evolving into a fairly happy teenager and I was thrilled. Having experienced the agony of Nikki’s drug use, it upset me that my irresponsible behavior once drove her to escapism via mind-altering chemicals.

There was no denying we were walking a wobbly bridge over troubled waters. I spent more quality time with Nikki in my dedication to be a better mother. Whatever it took to keep my child from raising the national recidivism rate for teen drug users.

During the week Gabriel helped Nikki with her math, history, theology and even literature homework. I wanted to bop his head while they discussed everyone from J.D. Salinger to Gertrude Stein. Fourteen-year-old Nikki was absorbing the happiness that filled our home, and like myself, gathered Gabriel’s pearls of innervision as though they were precious gems. I smiled each time he discussed authors with her whom he once pretended to know nothing about, but didn’t smile about her replacing proper English with Texas drawl or other colloquialisms he spouted. In fact, I complained loudly. They told me I needed medication for my delusions.

Gabriel made everything seem easy, but the absence of Gloria and Hope hung over me like a dark cloud. Nikki talked about how Hope had always treated her like a grown up instead of like a child. Gloria had become a mainstay to me from the minute we met after Sean’s death. She couldn’t be all bad. After all, her genes produced some wonderful children, especially my crude talking, humorous, sexy man, delightfully bundled in blue jeans and T-shirt.

February found us staying up late to watch a new show hosted by David Letterman. Cavett was no longer on the tube. Dave reminded me of Gabriel—smart, calm, and a little wacky despite his often eloquent vernacular. Gabriel appreciated the way Letterman defied the system by wearing
white gym socks and tennis shoes. Our bedtime that consisted of talking, laughing, and semi-quiet lovemaking, now included Dave. Some
ménage à trois
. We lost sleep Monday through Friday, but even with sleep deprivation, Gabriel woke up happy. My transition from night to morning person hadn’t exactly been a glowing success.

“Just one more month,” he announced early one morning. No need for crowing roosters or alarm clocks in our home.

“Really?” I said distractedly, trying to hide my excitement about our May ninth nuptials.

“And we’re keeping it a low-key, private ceremony with just us and Nikki.”

“Gabriel, we can’t exclude your family.” Even though Hope had wrapped her pretty self in bitterness ribbons, I sensed Gloria was attempting to mend things.

“Ah, who cares about that crazy family?” He rubbed my arm.

“You do and you know it. Stop trying to act like a hard ass. I’ve known you too long.”

“Hey, I am a hard ass, goddammit.”

“A hard ass who misses the family closeness. I don’t want to make things worse and hurt Gloria’s feelings by marrying without her attending.”

“She’ll get over it.” He pulled me against him. “Now forget about them and focus on me.”

It truly seemed like my first and only, but being the third marriage for each of us, we decided on an unconventional wedding at a justice of the peace in neighboring Friendswood. No frills, flowers, music, or guests. I slipped into an ivory lace sundress with ivory pumps, before attempting to expedite my daughter’s dressing efforts.

“You’re yanking me bald,” Nikki complained when I tried to brush tangles from her long hair that was inching closer to her butt crack than our agreed upon length.

Gabriel walked into the living room wearing dress shirt, slacks, tennis shoes and white Letterman gym socks. “Well girls, I’ve never been married in tennis shoes, so maybe this marriage will work.” He reached over and kissed me.

Nikki utilized our smooch to slip away and do her own brushing.

“How could you be doubtful of us?” I reached up and scratched his sexy moustache.

“Cause I’m part of
us
, and I’m far from perfect.”

“So am I, but together we’re Plato’s perfect fit.”

“Damn weird philosophers,” he said with a grin. “Leave ‘em at home and let’s go.”

“I do. I do,” Gabriel said several times as Nikki and I chatted along the drive to Friendswood.

“Why are you reiterating
I do
?” I finally asked.

“Cause I don’t want to screw up in the presence of clergy and say I’d do just about anything for a piece of ass.”

“Seriously, Gabriel. How bout as a wedding gift you retire that stupid line?”

“What? It bugs you?” The corners of his mouth edged upward.

“Kill it, bury it, and never resurrect it.”

“Whatever you say, Ms. Steinem.”

Radio saved his bum. As we pulled into the JP’s driveway,
Chapel of Love
came across the airwaves. “Someone’s taking care of the musical arrangements after all,” Nikki said. When we walked inside, the JP handed me a bouquet of yellow roses before beginning the ceremony. I looked at Nikki, who was smiling precociously as though all the little unplanned pieces had magically fallen in place. Gabriel stood beside me and darted his eyes down the top of my sundress while Nikki lifted her eyebrows Groucho-style—another of his habits she acquired. After the epithalamium when we were pronounced husband and wife, Gabriel and I locked lips.

“Save something for the honeymoon.” Nikki bolted out the door.

I never thought it possible to love Gabriel more, but life after marriage was glorious. He verified everything I always dreamed love could be, and with passion and compassion perfectly blended, every day was Valentine’s, every night the Fourth of July. When I did stupid things (which I did often), he acted like he did dumber things all the time. I could have blown a hole
through the roof, and he would have calmly said “Great, I was thinking about putting a sky light up there anyway.” He listened to every word I spoke—even trivial ones—with such quiet concentration it flattered me and made my imperfect feelings vanish. I gave him rubdowns when his legs ached. I loved doing his laundry and folded his socks and underwear as though they were the shroud of Turin. When he did yard work, and I brought iced tea or Budweiser for his riding lawnmower trek, he cupped his hand over his mouth and blew me kisses until I disappeared inside. We were that annoying couple at red lights too busy with each other to notice light changes, causing people to lay on their horns. For us, love was simple. I didn’t try to analyze our happiness, we just were. He colorized my black and white world and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, I was his life as fully as he was mine.

But oh, his idiosyncrasies. The man who had never belched in my presence, read cookbooks and moaned while reciting recipes like he was reading a Braille version of
Playboy.
He often shoved a pair of my panties in his back pocket, claiming he wiped the sweat from his brow with them during the day. “Beats a raggedy ass ole bandanna and makes me think you’re right there with me.”

“Do it once, you’re a philosopher. Do it twice you’re a pervert.”

“Blondie, where do you get these expressions?”

“Yeah I know.” I handed him my car keys. “You’ve never heard of Voltaire.”

Gabriel was teaching Nikki to drive.

“She drove into the gate and knocked the side mirror off your car, so we’re moving onto Body Shop 101. She drives wilder than you. Put two Budweisers on ice for me.”

I watched out the window as he instructed Nikki on checking air pressure in tires and all fluid levels. They walked inside laughing, with Gabriel affectionately calling her “Boy.”

“Thanks, Old Man,” she said while he slugged back a beer. “You’re the most patient guy on Earth. Good thing you’re teaching me to drive ‘cause Mom and I would’ve ripped out each other’s hair by now.”

Gabriel slid behind her and pretended to yank hair from her head.

Many weekends were spent with Ben and Mei boating on Clear Lake, and afterwards we often stopped by Gloria’s for a quick visit since her house
was along the way. I desperately wanted things to return to the way they were, and soon Gloria began dropping by our home. Brief visits only, but I felt hopeful. Hope made no efforts, even though I called repeatedly trying to reopen communication lines. Mending family fences became my goal.

Shortly after Gabriel returned from visiting Lauren and Skylar in Phoenix, Astrid called, saying she had quarreled with her parents and they froze her trust fund. The chick who had never worked a lick in her life couldn’t find a job. Gabriel agreed to send money. “Little Miss Finishing School said she was so desperate she almost lowered herself by working as a waitress.”

“Oh, the horror.” I flung my hand across my mouth, and then smiled as visions of me waitressing half naked to support myself and Nikki flashed before my eyes. Ironically that inglorious job allowed me to meet my glorious dream man. From a young age, I dreamed I would be swept away by an Adonis wearing a three piece suit and mesmerizing me with iambic pentameter, and here I was, head-over-heels in love with this rugged blond who wore faded jeans and charmed the pants off me with eloquent prose like, “Git in the truck, Blondie.”

“How are you and that cute husband doing?” Patrice asked in one of her rare calls.

“Words can’t explain the emotions that evolve from knowing the love I feel for this man is one hundred percent mutual.”

“You’re lucky, indeed. Especially with this scary malady sweeping the globe. AIDS has certainly put a damper on my recreational sex. I’m taking the abstinence route until scientists unravel this mysterious disease.”

“I feel for all the singles out there dating. And thank God for this wonderful man. He works more than I’d like, but other than wanting more time with him, nothing is lacking in my life.”

“That’s a significant statement. Other than time, nothing is lacking?”

“Really. We consider ourselves the luckiest couple alive. Just yesterday Delilah said Gabriel and I have a ‘fairy tale’ love because in real life people subject themselves to each other’s bodily functions. Then she belched. Or farted. It was hard to tell over tell over the phone line.”