Chapter 1 #17
Using just the right amount of leg-thrust, I propelled myself off the side of the house, over the redwood fence, and then, controlling the rate of my descent via skillful arm-flaps, drifted slowly down, landing gracefully, just so, among a crowd of dancers on a temporary parquet floor, and whisked at the speed of light from one guest to the next (two hundred and eleven in all), attempting to drive him out of my mind and fill it, instead, with these thousands of vivid, co-arising impressions.
Such as:
This fellow, gazing over at the aunt of the bride? Is Kent.
The aunt of the bride (Jeanie) glances back at him. (Such heat.)
Jeanie, the aunt of the bride, is having an affair.
With Kent, boss of her husband.
Whisking into Walter (Jeanie’s cheated-upon husband), I see that he’s known about the affair since March, but hasn’t let Jeanie know that he knows, because he’s afraid she might do something rash, such as leave him before she finally gets tired of/burns out on Kent, that petty tyrant, whose office, even when Kent is not in it, has this weird smell to it that seems to emanate from Kent’s chair, which means it ultimately must emanate from Kent’s ass/pants.
Leaving Walter, locating/whisking into Jeanie (Walter’s wife, Kent’s lover), I learn that, yes, of course she’s noticed Kent’s smell, but doesn’t actually mind it, associating it, as she does, with long, sexy afternoons in Kent’s office on those days when Kent has sent Walter to Amarillo on business.
If things go according to plan, Walter will soon begin traveling perpetually as part of his “promotion” (arranged by Kent) to Amarillo, to Oklahoma City, to Tulsa, to Lincoln, to Iowa City, and then back the same way (Iowa City, Lincoln, Tulsa, Oklahoma City, Amarillo), returning to Dallas only one weekend a month, meaning Kent will (joy, joy!) have her, Jeanie, entirely to himself (and vice versa) for, say, eight weeks out of every nine (!).
She knew it was wrong. Walter was so sweet and kind. It would kill him if he found out.
But he wasn’t going to find out.
Unless she told him.
Which she wasn’t going to. Until she decided to leave him. In order to dedicate herself wholeheartedly to fucking and being fucked by Kent. Which, she only now realized, she might have to.
Soon, very soon.
Maybe tonight.
This thought sent a shivering, lustful thrill through her (through us).
Oh, life, love, desire, I just couldn’t get enough.
I sent my alertness out in every direction.
Were the people here aware at all of the horrible truth Mr. Bhuti had just communicated?
Yes, they were. Many of them knew about it, believed in it. But were carrying on.
It was, after all, a wedding.
Blasting out of Jeanie, I found Carol-Ann, the cheated-upon wife of Kent, sitting alone at a table near the pool, thinking (in response to Joyce, Joyce Jackson, a bright-eyed TV interviewer in her mind, who admired Carol-Ann for living her life in such a fun, optimistic way that gave hope to so many): No, Joyce, it doesn’t bother me at all that I’ve been sitting here alone practically the whole wedding.
A modern woman is secure in who she is, and recognizes that her husband, when at a wedding with many of his co-workers, may find it necessary to offer each one of them meaningful face time.
Now, Carol-Ann, says Joyce, checking her notes. I see here that Kent doesn’t often bring you to his office events, does he?
No, he does not, Carol-Ann says. And, again, great question and thanks for having me. Opportunities like this really help me spread my message of hope and never getting down about anything.
That is so true and insightful, replies Joyce. You have labored long and hard, it says here, in the pretty boring darn vineyard or orchard or whatnot of being constantly ignored all the time by Kent.
Isn’t that the truth, says Carol-Ann. And isn’t that true of so many women these days?
At which the crowd bursts into applause.
Although, I have to ask, says Joyce. Kent seems, at the moment, kind of sweet on that dumpy little what’s-her-name. Doesn’t he?
Jeanie? says Carol-Ann.
Yes, Jeanie, says Joyce. See that right there? That look of adoration he just now shot her? And now she’s looking back at him with such narrowed sexy eyes. Can you, audience, feel the heat, like I’m feeling it?
The audience could.
The audience really could.
Oh, shut up, Joyce, says Carol-Ann. Isn’t it time for a break or something?
Well, as you know, Carol-Ann, Joyce says. We don’t take breaks here on this TV station that runs only in your mind.
Oh, Joyce, Shmoyce, there was no Joyce and no TV show and she was just dumb old her at this boring stupid wedding in this big old honker-ass rich-person yard, watching her gross selfish pig of a husband put his boner for Jeanie on total public display.
Which was why she was leaving. Right this minute.
I whisked along behind her, staying within the orb of her thoughts as, fighting back tears, she (we) raced away through the crowd, resisting the urge to check to see if Kent had even noticed we were leaving, the big dope, and whether he might, for once, come rushing after us, having finally realized that if someone loved someone as much and in such a self-sacrificing way as we loved him, well, that was it, that was the person you should choose, right?
Oh, how rich, to be in love, humiliated, longing to be taken back, striding along in new, uncomfortable spike heels, wearing, beneath our elegant new Elie Tahari sheath, some simply beautiful Fleur du Mal lingerie, in case this might turn out to be the evening Kent finally saw the light, but no, this was not going to be that evening, and now we had to go home and undress in utter despair and put on our big baggy comfortable Winnie-the-Pooh PJs and sob ourselves to sleep even as we considered how to present/rationalize this unprecedented bailing-on-the-wedding business in the most positive light possible when Kent came home.
If, in fact, he ever did.
Which, it wouldn’t be the first time since this Jeanie nonsense began that he hadn’t.
Oh, Carol-Ann, I thought, you’re nice, you’re pretty, you deserve someone who’s simply crazy about you.
Like Lloyd.
Like Lloyd had been about me.
For example:
One “Christmas Eve,” when I had “stomach thingy,” he “called in sick,” yelling at “Sergeant Blue” that, yes, “for crap-sake,” he knew they were “short-staffed due to the holidays,” but what “the hey” did that have to do with the fact that “his wife, man” (who Blue knew and, Lloyd had always thought, liked, having met her that time at “bowling alley”) could “barely stand the hell up?” No, sorry, Blue could “shove it,” if that’s what it came down to, no disrespect intended, sir, but gosh!
Then Lloyd slammed the phone down, came over, lifted me up off the couch like I was a baby, sat back down on it with me in his arms, and tenderly put his lips to my head to see if I was still burning up.
Lost in this memory, I stopped short, causing Carol-Ann to clip-clip-clip despairingly away down the driveway, taking the orb of her thoughts with her.
I was alone now, just myself, out in the world, free as the breeze.
—
And soon became aware of a powerful energy.
Like a beckoning call.
Emanating from inside the wedding-house.
From a sort of pantry in there.
In I whisked.
The bride and groom had snuck away, and he had her pushed into a corner and they were laughing at how long it was taking for her to hike up her voluminous—
This was not the first time they had ever.
But it was the first time they would today.
Doing it in the pantry like this, during the reception, was, they felt, proof of the daring, special, epic love-bond between them.
As long as they (yikes) didn’t get caught.
In it went. She gasped. From the kitchen came a sound, and they laughed (oh God, this was too good, too memorable), and out it came, and the groom hustled off into the kitchen to fend off two snooping-around old ladies, by offering to show them the honeymoon brochure, if only he could find the darned thing, senoras, oh, wait, he knew where it was, it was in his jacket, out there in the reception, hanging over his chair at the main table, ladies, so please, come on, follow me!
Oh, the secret thrill of sneaking away.
Oh, the joy of someone wanting you so bad.
Lloyd (muddy “head to toe,” just having finished “sled run number 6”) flings “cardboard sled” away like it’s no longer interesting, given that, you know, here I am, and his eyes light up with love, love for me, and he picks me up and totes me on his hip over behind the Sinclairs’ “garden shed,” while back on “patio,” “the gang” oohs and whoops and makes “smooching noises” and he whispers, “Jillie, kid, I want to give you what you really want,” which I find sort of risqué or racy, to which I go, “Oh, really, Mister Man, maybe this isn’t exactly the right time and place?
” and his voice goes all soft, like: “Not that, kiddo, no. Well, yes to that, sure, any old time, but what I mean is, well: what you said you really wanted and have been bugging me about since basically day one? I just wanted to tell you that, you know, I’m ready. Whenever you are.”
Which, what that meant was: a baby.
Oh, dang, I could’ve ate that guy alive.
Eek, I was rounding a critical bend now and, tell the truth, felt a tad bit more Jill than not.
And was loving it!
Against my better judgment, just one more: