Читать книгу WASH ME ON HOME, MAMA - Pete Najarian - Страница 11

MARIAN AND SAM

Rearranging her life, she put her bed in one corner, desk in the other, rocking chair by the desk, bureau by the bed, books next to the bureau, plants next to the books, Durer’s Rabbit over the bed, and all the knick-knacks neatly in place, the fine oriental cloissone case of Zuni jewelry, the Dundee Marmalade jar of freeze-dried wildflowers, two tiny ivory elephants, a wicker box of sewing stuff, her special saw and hammer she did not want in the tool shed because it was always getting lost, her work-boots and sandals, dresses and overalls, all in proper order, all the elegant and precious, funky and second- hand talismans and mementos gathered and gleaned from friends, flea-markets, forests, and the sea, an agate here, a handblown vase there, an ancient tin Murad Cigarette box full of old postcards, a pewter cup of bleached bones from Baja, all the remnants of her history that each year she kept shed ding and growing, every scar and spoil, studied and adored with her own desperate yearning for something permanent and real, and then recycled by garagesale and potlatch, her life as an antique shop, everything now dusted and straightened and fitted and smoothed and folded and tacked and readied in a new room, a new space. She hung the woven curtains, nailed the tapestry next to the window, lit a stick of frankincense, and stood in the doorway picking her nose: HER SPACE.

He would enter tip-toed. He would speak softly in this sanctuary of her tears and solitude. He would respect her pride and be gentle and considerate to her hatred and understand her anger and let her cut his balls off. Because he was afraid of that room. Because he liked it, he thought it was beautiful.

She came out of the shower naked, springing on her arches, with an imaginary string holding her head high and her back straight, her hair in a snood, droplets beading her body, beautiful body, lovely breasts, soft shiny hair on her cunt, Apollonian next to his kinkiness. He wanted to fuck her from behind as he studied her buttocks. He would ask her to crouch on her bed and let him hold her breasts and raise her cheeks to his cock and he would come up from underneath. Instead he said:

— Hey!

— What?

— Is there any hot water left?

— Sure, there’s plenty.

Her soft purple and red panties dangle on the doorknob. He put his nose in the crotch of the smooth nylon. Ah, sex! He stepped into the shower with a hard-on, his golden key that would open the door to her paradise. She didn’t want it anymore, and he watched it shrink back into all the rejections of his life. Water would soothe them away. He stared at all the different plastic bottles on the shelf of the communal bathroom. Herbal shampoo, Dr. Bonner’s 100% natural cocoanut-olive-peppermint oils, Johnson’s Baby Shampoo, Ivory Soap, glycerin soap, oatmeal soap, lavender, strawberry, and avocado to wash away all the shame of every time he knocked on a door to ask: Please let me fuck you. He lathered his balls, asshole, and armpits, and from deep in his longing for every woman he ever wanted to enter he yelled Che ha detto ii Medico from LA Boheme: Mimi! Oh, Mimi!

Meanwhile Buster. Buster always meanwhile, the in-between friend who hides behind the wrinkles of his phony smile. He moved in too because why not? The rent is cheap, and in one of the garages he can build a workspace and make believe he’s an artist. Here with the others he won’t have to be alone anymore. And yet he’s always alone, trying to hide from the angel of death on his shoulder.