Final Vinyl Days Page 2

  “Look, it’s Adam and Eve,” the goofy-looking little ring bearer said, and several guffaws and titters followed. It was clear he had been put up to it. Apparently, their socializing had sparked quite a few Adam-and-Eve jokes, the punchlines all having something to do with a rib or a snake. Apples. Fig leaves. Then there were jokes about the company, Adam and Eve, that manufactured all kinds of sex toys and devices, the kinds of things the boys gave John Jeffers after his shave and the girls gave Missy Malcolm after her stamping.

  “So you grew up here?” he asked. They had moved over to a table near the window—like a wide-screen movie—to escape all the traffic, and now they were watching people walk up from the eighteenth hole, swimmers pulling themselves up the pool ladder and adjusting body parts. She continued her commentary on people at the reception: the woman in a purple sarong had once chained herself (along with her two dachshunds, Oscar and Meyer) to the door of the local veterinary office to protest pet euthanasia (her husband was an anesthesiologist who was at that time being sued for overgassing someone); the couple making out in the corner had built a relationship and marriage upon dramatic breakups and reconciliations (like the time they were caught having sex behind the shower curtain display in Wal-Mart); the man stuffing chicken livers wrapped in bacon in his mouth had taught her high school geometry class and was the first person in town to come out of the closet. A few people came over to try and get in on the conversation, to ask her to dance, or (she said) to check up on them, but eventually they were left alone. An hour into the reception and people stopped asking.

  “They will be saying all sorts of things about us before long,” Eve said. “Here’s the half story. We have spent the entire reception all alone drinking champagne: you, the out-of-town stranger, me the local yokel who supposedly has a man in the city.” She lowered her voice to simulate danger.

  “Supposedly?” Adam asked. “Are you asking me to speculate?”

  Off to the side, the pool shimmered and children screamed and cannonballed and teenage girls lounged in bikinis catching the late afternoon rays. In the main room the champagne swan had gone empty, and bottles were being brought from the kitchen and passed around. The young black man on the Casio was singing “Sunshine of My Life.” He put on some sunglasses and moved back and forth like Stevie Wonder, which delighted the old people hugging the wall as well as the youngsters who were periodically appearing and then quickly disappearing with shaving cream and soda cans. He sang you are the apple of my eye while the parents of the bride twirled and dipped.

  Eve talked more freely now, and with that freedom came the accent, the slow drawl familiar to everyone else in the vicinity. “My dad grew tobacco, not much, but enough.” She was home for a long weekend and, in the midst of giving her family history (two younger brothers and a mother who teaches fifth grade), she began describing her room there, the tape marks on the pale yellow walls from where she had hung posters in high school. Posters that said things like “Rain Is a Freedom Song” and “Up with People.” She described her parents: childhood sweethearts who had developed a whole language with eyebrows, winks, and hand gestures. She described the cool, soothing feeling of the central air conditioning and how she had spent much of her childhood without it. “My brothers and I used to sleep on the screened porch floor in our underwear.” She laughed, staring out at the pool now as if she could see her young brothers standing there in their briefs. “And my dad would take us out to the little local airport on Sunday afternoons to see if a plane came. You know little planes, crop-dusting types.” She talked faster and faster, her neck and chest flushed. “We’d spread a blanket and count jets, which of course did not come to our airport. My dad said, ‘Look, they’ve scarred the sky.’ I always liked the sound of that, scarred the sky. And sometimes we’d stay until dusk and count the bats that flew out from an old barn nearby.”

  The lazy haze of the sun, the alcohol, her voice were getting to him. The smell of chlorine and the slow whirring of the ceiling fans. He was thinking about his room at the Ramada Inn, how dark those heavy, lined drapes could make it, how the unit on the wall could generate the artificial coolness. He couldn’t help imagining her there with him, and once he’d let the forbidden idea in he couldn’t shake it.

  “Who looks stupid, us or them?” she asked, a mere second after ending the airport story (how they always stopped at the Tastee Freez on the way home, and how her youngest brother always asked if you could order a sundae on any day other than Sunday). For the first time he noticed the slight space between her front teeth, the little whistle sound she emitted with each and every s. It made his chest ache just to look at her.

  “What do you mean?” He took off his coat and found his arm stretched out behind her, his finger lightly brushing the spaghetti strap of that hideous dress that looked amazingly good on her. He was now of the belief that anything would. She could grab one of those starched old-lady dresses and whirl around a few times, and it would look perfect: soft and easy and lived-in. She could wear the tablecloth, the ivy trailing from the centerpieces. He waited to see if she would move away from his hand, but instead she leaned in closer.

  “Well, there they are in bathing suits.” She lifted her hand with the champagne glass, index finger pointing outward. “And here we are in formal wear.” She had kicked off her shoes and had her legs stretched out, ankles crossed on a chair.

  He was about to make a flirtatious suggestion, something that she wouldn’t necessarily have to take seriously, when there before them stood a plump twelve-year-old, her own spaghetti straps digging creases into her sunburned shoulders, handing out little net sacks of rice. It was clear to Adam, having observed all of the bridesmaids at the front of the church, that Missy had chosen the dress with Eve in mind; she was the only woman there who could do it justice.

  “Believe it or not,” Eve said, shaking her head with a lovely look of pity on her face, “there was a hell of a lot of thought that went into what just happened.” At first Adam thought she had read his mind, and then he followed her gaze to the kid with the rice. “The girl, that basket with the streamers that match our dresses, and the great-aunt’s wheelchair,” she laughed a little too loudly and then patted her lips as if to reprimand herself. “The net cut exactly the right shape and sewn up, the Comet rice dyed the right pale shade of pink.”

  “They dye the rice?”

  “Of course.” She touched his arm, lightly fingered the fabric of his cuff. “What, you’ve never dyed rice? Lived all these years and you’ve never dyed rice? It’s a big deal, this dyed rice. The only thing hotter is birdseed.” Now her hand was curled up on top of his, and it was perfectly natural for him to turn his wrist and lock fingers with her. She talked faster as this was happening, all about birdseed for the environment, nobody has to come and sweep it up. She had told Missy all about this, all about how every wedding she had gone to in Atlanta had had birdseed, but Missy was just so traditional she had to have rice. “She even wanted to go to Niagara Falls!” Eve attempted a whisper but failed. “Donna Reed is her idol.” Eve held one of the little napkins that said “Missy and John” up to her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter as she continued the appraisal of her friend. “She knows how to make seven different meatloafs, loaves, and forty-seven things to do with Jell-O.”

  “No lie.”

  “No lie.” She squeezed his hand tightly and moved closer, their foreheads almost touching.

  “Sounds a little kinky.”

  “No shit, Jack.” Clearly she was not entirely sober, and he caught himself hoping that the glassy-eyed haze would never wear off, that they could just step out into the bright June day and walk off into a perfect world. “You know, I meant Donna Reed as she was on TV, of course, with the Jell-O and meatloaf, you know. Donna in real life was really cool, protested Vietnam, thought women were capable of a hell of a lot more than that show made it look like, you know? Donna was okay.”

  There was a lot of activity outside, and they stood an
d looked out the window just in time to see the groom lifted and hurled into the pool, a herd of children in bright suits and water wings scattering so as not to be hit by the big drunk man and all of his tuxedo-clad groomsmen and two bridesmaids who followed. Eve said that the local rental place was used to this. She had been surprised when attending weddings in Atlanta that every groom didn’t always get thrown in the pool. It was a ritual around here, had been forever.

  “Are we being antisocial?” Eve asked as the groom stood by the pool wringing out his coat. He pulled wet money from his pocket and fanned it in the air. It seemed most of the people had gone outside to watch. The singer had packed up his keyboard and was getting some food from the sparse table. They had missed the cutting of the cake, and now the little plastic bride and groom along with two doves and a big silver heart perched on the upper tier reigning over a messy, half-eaten cake.

  “Oh,” he said and let his other arm drop around her waist, the light pink fabric cool and slick. “Are there other people here?”

  It took forever for the bride and groom to come out for the big farewell. Many people had already left the reception. Supposedly, all the bridesmaids were going to help the bride get dressed, but Eve said that she thought they could do without her. The result was lots of people whispering “Where is Eve? Where is Eve?” so that someone else could say “Oh, of course, with Adam.”

  By now the biblical humor had been reduced to a lot of snake jokes. The mothers and grandmothers and aunts were tired and flat, eyes dulled by the champagne they had pretended not to drink. Missy’s parents wept openly as she turned and whirled her bouquet, which was caught by a middle-aged man in a bright yellow suit. Adam confessed this was unfamiliar to him, these men in fluorescent colors, that they should be required by law to pass out sunglasses.

  Everyone cheered when the car drove away, and women pretended not to see where someone had written get some in shaving cream.

  One of the grandmothers pointed out to all the guests the delightful message “Come again and again.” Adam and Eve both said good-byes to the remaining people they knew, both complimented Missy’s parents on the lovely wedding. And then they were left there, in the parking lot of the country club with the heat weighing down oppressively. Eve was swinging her shoes by her side, her other hand still clinging to his. “Well,” he finally said and looked off into the pine trees surrounding the tennis courts. “Would you like to go get something to drink? Eat?”

  On the ride to the Ramada Inn he regretfully had to let go of her hand to shift gears. She talked in great bursts of speed, much information delivered, such as that she would have to go back and get her car, her parents were expecting her for dinner, her feet were killing her, and then she fell silent. He was worrying about what to say next, what to do. It seemed that the force that had brought them together was dwindling and he didn’t want that to happen. He pulled into a parking space, killed the engine, reached over, and took her hand.

  The rest of the afternoon passed slowly in the cooled, darkened room, in the light of the muted television as the weather channel continued its ceaseless forecast—Washington, Atlanta, Kalamazoo. Her dress was crumpled in the corner, like some ghost of the Victorian era that had pulled up a chair to watch. Her unlikely underclothes, strapless bra and briefs in red-and-green striped cotton, were looped over the lamp that was bolted to the bedside table. He lay there watching her, trying to decide where to go from here. What did this mean? Were their lives irrevocably altered, or would they say good-bye and pretend it never happened? A long-distance relationship was the last thing he needed, that and an angry, hulking boyfriend, now standing seven feet tall with multiple tattoos and an arsenal. He had no desire to go through what he had just witnessed, this ceremony that might lead him right into his parents’ life, the ultimate sacrifice, thirty miserable years thrown down the sewer for the sake of the child’s well-being. But then again what was he waiting for? His own history offered none of the porch-sleeping comfort she had described.

  The last thing Eve had said before dozing off was that he shouldn’t let her sleep past four-thirty and already it was a quarter till five. He shook her gently and was greeted warmly, as if some part of her had not expected to see him there, and then she was in high gear, clothes retrieved and adjusted, fresh lipstick and mouthwash. He drove her to her car at the country club and, without meaning to, asked if he could see her again. Without breaking his stride or giving her opportunity to respond, he continued “and if I could see you, then when?” How much longer did she plan to live with this guy who obviously meant nothing to her?

  During the next two months they met six times, once in Atlanta (the only trace of his predecessor being a book about transcendental meditation, a makeshift bong, and one really ugly polyester blend shirt, which enabled him to replace his Mr. Wonderful image with one that made him question her taste), once in Washington, and four times in a Days Inn in Greensboro, North Carolina. They talked on the phone every other day. Adam was starting to feel an obligation. Once he even thought the words future and commitment. He could foresee all the problems on the horizon: where would they choose to live? Would she even consider leaving the job that was going so well for her? God, would she have to have three children, just as there had been in her own family?

  “You know this is never going to work,” he said, his hand slowly pointing from her chest to his own to make sure he was understood. She was in his sparse apartment, her hair still dripping from his shower, which she had quietly mentioned was a haven for fungus; she was wearing the flip-flops he kept just outside of the bathroom door.

  “Why?” She absentmindedly picked up the magazine she had brought with her. A woman in a tweed blazer looked up provocatively from the slick page. She angled herself, terry cloth robe tied loosely. “You mean us?” She said the word us as if it had been there forever, us like life, truth, God, eternity. He nodded slowly, and she nervously picked the magazine back up, riffled the pages sending the heady floral fragrance advertised there into the room. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure.” He went over to his CD collection and began flipping through cases. “I’m just not sure.” What he was thinking was it’s now or never. Either we’re going to call it off, or we’re going to make a decision. He was thinking that tradition says she should be the one initiating all of this and yet there she sat, calmly asking all of the questions.

  “Is it the North/South thing? I mean I never said I have to always live in Atlanta.” She waited, forehead furrowed while he shook his head. He had given up on the argument that DC was not “the North” and in fact was considered by many to be in “the South.”

  “Well, is it the Jew/Gentile thing? Because I really feel that I could go either way.” She paused, mouth twisted in thought. “I mean I wouldn’t exactly broadcast it at home.”

  “No. That’s not it.” Now he was thoroughly confused. He had no good reason. All of the likely ones were there, but they simply weren’t good enough. They weren’t good enough to overlook that rare match that might never happen again. How many awful weddings would he have to attend just to even come close to such a meeting? Still, he felt like a fool, confused and speechless.

  “It’s the Adam and Eve thing,” he finally said later that night when she was almost asleep. “It drives me absolutely nuts.”

  “You’re not serious?” She fumbled to turn on a light and then turned to face him. She was propped up there on her elbow without a stitch on, her thick hair fanned out around her face. “I was going by Evelyn, remember? You were the one who started calling me Eve. Little Eve Lyn Wallace. Little Eve Lyn Wallace. You said it so often you sounded like a mynah bird.” Her eyes watered, but she fought the impulse with a deliberate laugh and a forced shake of the head. He waited for her to deliver her biggest piece of ammunition, the fact that she had let him talk her right out of her old life and romance and right into his. He could hear it coming, the blame and insult, the imposed guilt and obligation. And then he knew. H
e knew that what he really wanted was for her to tempt him, seduce him, beg him to marry her.

  “You are serious.” She sat up and pulled her worn-out robe from the floor. She had announced proudly on her first visit that fashion should never forsake comfort. Now she was lost in the loose folds of terry cloth, the belt pulled tightly around her waist, and he found himself thinking about how she had said that as a child she had to sleep with her hand over her navel for fear that the bogeyman would come and touch her there. He realized then that he had already wrapped the blanket around his body like a cocoon. This was not a conversation to have naked. “What if we were Mary and Joseph?”

  “They had better results.”

  “I have no intention of being the person you want to step in and ruin your life, be an excuse for you to be screwed up and feel sorry for yourself.” Her speech gave way to the slow twang he adored. “I know that’s what you’re looking for, and that’s not why I’m here.”

  Now he felt entirely stupid. He felt so incredibly stupid that he tried to turn it all around into a joke. She pulled out that big piece of hard Samsonite luggage that her parents proudly surprised her with (it was a story she often told when she had had too much to drink and was feeling homesick) when she moved to Atlanta, and he felt desperate. He begged her never to leave him. He said they should get married then, that weekend. He suggested they pull out the atlas and look up all of the Edens they could find—Arizona, Maryland, North Carolina, Texas, Wyoming. They could get married in Eden, North Carolina, or Eden, Maryland; maybe they would live there forever. Maybe they would go to Eden, Australia, on a honeymoon, or maybe that was a trip for later, maybe that was for the silver anniversary. He hadn’t meant anything that he’d said; it had been anxiety talking.