Love May Fail Page 3

  “Oh, dear,” she says, pulling endless tissues from her bag like she’s David Copperfield. “What’s the matter?”

  “Seriously?” I take a wad of tissues and dab my eyes.

  “Of course.”

  “You really wanna know? Be sure before you answer, because I could just pass out here and let you be. I’m appropriately medicated. You don’t have to hear my depressing pathetic story.” The businessman seated across the aisle from us is staring at me, so I point my finger at his nose and say, “You, sir, can mind your own business!”

  His eyes snap down to the magazine in his hands, and I feel like a powerful woman capable of making men in suits do whatever I say.

  When I spin my face back toward the old nun, she says, “I’m happy to listen. What else is there to do on a flight? Half the fun of flying is learning the stories of fellow passengers. I collect them!”

  I notice the wooden rosary beads wrapped around her hand and catch a glimpse of Jesus’s naked and well-toned body, which is meticulously carved.

  All of the good men are either gay or the sons of gods with martyr complexes. I swear, we heterosexual women are a doomed lot.

  “You collect the stories of strangers?” I say.

  “Why, certainly. Everyone’s story is precious.”

  I can tell this woman is a little nuts, but she seems kind, and kindness goes a long way at a time like this. “Okay, then. But remember. You asked for it.”

  As we taxi, I tell her everything, slurring away.

  I say the word wang several times and describe Ken’s tiny penis at great length before I think better of using such vivid sexual imagery while conversing with a nun, but she seems fascinated—riveted.

  She squints and smiles when I say the word, maybe in spite of herself and her religious convictions.

  Wang.

  Hilarious!

  Like I’m tickling the old woman with dirty words.

  “Do you remember that song ‘Everybody Have Fun Tonight’? No, of course not,” I say. “Everybody Wang Chung tonight,” I sing. “You really don’t know it?”

  “Oh, my,” she keeps saying, and then she suddenly pushes the button above us.

  I have a paranoid thought: What if this nun is going to report my drunkenness and try to have me removed from the plane?

  My fists clench.

  The flight attendant appears in the aisle.

  Maeve holds up two pink wrinkly fingers and says, “My friend here has had an awful day. Simply awful. We need vodka and some rocks immediately. If you have any of the citrus flavors, we’ll take those. Any citrus flavor will do.”

  “Beverage service hasn’t begun yet, Sister,” the flight attendant says.

  “Oh, I’m very sorry to ask, but this is a bit of an emergency,” Maeve says. “I can hold you up in my prayers if you oblige us. The whole sister house will pray for you”—she squints at the flight attendant’s name tag—“Stephanie.”

  “Okay, Sister,” the flight attendant says, smiling now. “I’ll take that deal.”

  “People will do anything for nun prayers. Even atheists!” Sister Maeve whispers to me as Stephanie walks away. “Between us girls only. One of the perks of sisterhood.”

  “Are you the type of nun who goes around saying you’re married to Jesus?” I ask.

  “I don’t know if I ‘go around saying’ that. But, yes. I am married to Jesus.”

  “If all nuns are married to Jesus, that would mean he currently has thousands of wives and has had maybe millions over the past two thousand years, right?”

  “Well, I guess so.”

  “You’re okay with Jesus having multiple wives? Jesus the polygamist.”

  “You can’t think of it that way—it’s not sexual, or anything like that. He’s not your Ken, after all.”

  Ha! Funny old nun. Still sharp as a razor blade in a Halloween apple.

  “You would totally have sex with Jesus. Admit it,” I say. “He has an amazing body.”

  Maeve shakes her head, laughs, and looks up. “Oh, Lord, what have you sent me this time?”

  “You talk to Jesus?”

  “Every waking hour of every day.”

  “Right now. You can talk to him here?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What does Jesus say about me? Ask him.”

  “He says you need more vodka,” Maeve says.

  The flight attendant returns on cue with glasses of ice, which she hands us before bending down and pulling the mini bottles out of her pocket and slipping them to my nun friend with a wink.

  “Enjoy your flight, Sister,” she says and then proudly strides away down the aisle like she’s just done a good deed.

  As if Sister Maeve makes such sneaky deals every day, she simply pours two glasses. “To new beginnings.” She hands me mine. We tap plastic and begin sipping citrus-flavored alcohol.

  “So you’ve never had sex?” I wonder if that would have been a good decision for me—complete and utter abstinence.

  “Do you always handle pain like this?” she says. “By trying to make others uncomfortable?”

  “Pfft.” I wave her words away with my hand.

  We sit in silence for a time.

  “I just want to be a good feminist,” I say out of the blue as the plane takes off and we begin to fly. “I really do. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Nuns are the opposite of good feminists, wouldn’t you say? Submitting to men is sort of your thing, right?”

  Sister Maeve smiles and nods, and then she even chuckles.

  “Have you read Gloria Steinem?” I ask.

  “No, I have not.”

  “‘A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle,’ she said—Gloria Steinem. I wonder if she’d include Jesus as a man.”

  “Wouldn’t know.” Sister Maeve’s voice seems tired and distant now.

  I’ve already worn her down with my flippant and obnoxious comments—I’m very good at wearing people down whenever I’m upset, although I’m not proud of this.

  I wish I had been nicer to Sister Maeve, but what can I do about that now? I can’t go back in time and start over. And I’m having a bad day. When you catch your husband screwing a girl half your age, you are permitted to be bitchy, even when talking to adorable nuns on airplanes—nuns who buy you vodka, even.

  Right?

  No.

  I’m a terrible person.

  I’m sorry, I think I say, but I’m not sure if I’ve actually moved my mouth and tongue, which is when I realize I’m fantastically drunk.

  Maybe I should have used Ken’s Colt .45 on myself.

  Suddenly nothing seems funny anymore.

  I stare at the seatback in front of me for a minute or so before I pass out.

  When I wake up, I’m disoriented and my head’s throbbing.

  My shoulder is wet from my own drool.

  “Where am I?” I say.

  The nun to my left says, “Welcome to Philadelphia. I drank your vodka for you, Ms. Lightweight. Time to exit.”

  I look up. The plane is empty.

  “We’ve been shaking you. I think they might have gone to find a doctor,” the nun says.

  “I’m okay,” I say, but when I try to stand, I feel sick.

  I make it to the bathroom just in time to empty my stomach.

  Someone is knocking now, aggressively.

  “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

  I wash out my mouth in the sink. “Coming.”

  I look in the mirror and see a monster.

  An old-looking mythical creature.

  Red eyes.

  Makeup running.

  I might as well have snakes for hair.

  “Great.” I open the door, trying to avoid eye contact. “I’m okay. Nothing to see here.”


  I push past the flight attendants.

  “Ma’am, your friend left this for you.”

  I turn around, and the flight attendant extends a folded piece of paper.

  I snatch it from her, say, “Thanks,” and then head for baggage claim, each step echoing in my skull like land mines exploding on impact, trying my best not to throw up again.

  My nun friend is nowhere to be seen, so I read the note while I wait for the machine to cough up my suitcase.

  Dear Portia,

  It was very nice meeting you on the plane. Sorry we didn’t get to talk more. I will pray for you. Very hard! Daily! And I will ask “my husband” to intervene in a special way for you. He says he’s not mad at you for making sexual jokes, so if you are worried about that now that you’re sober—don’t be.

  Galatians 3:28—There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free man, THERE IS NEITHER MALE NOR FEMALE; for you are all one in Jesus Christ.

  Good luck with your quest.

  Love,

  Sister Maeve

  PS—Here’s my address, should you ever want to write me. I love letters!

  Sisters of St. Therese

  Sister Maeve Smith

  (Wife of Jesus Christ Number 2,917,299)

  16 Waverly Park

  Rocksford, PA 19428

  Weird, I think, and then stuff the note into my pocket.

  Am I on a quest?

  Maybe the quest to become a novelist?

  But why would she write that? Did I mention something I don’t remember now? I don’t think I ever used the word quest.

  I’m too hung over to care all that much, so I drop it.

  I try to remember if I really said “wang” to a nun, repetitively.

  Did I actually describe Ken’s horrible inadequate stubby penis in excessive detail to Sister Maeve?

  It’s impossible to know for sure, and so when my bag finally slides down the conveyor belt, I grab it and catch a cab.

  “Take me home,” I tell the dark-skinned man in the driver’s seat.

  “Where is your home, please?” he says as he turns on the meter. His accent is sort of sexy. Seal without the scars on his face, I think, but then I quickly remind myself not to say that aloud, because it seems racist, even though I compare white strangers to famous Caucasians all the time, and without guilt.

  “Across the Walt Whitman Bridge,” I say. “Westmont. You?”

  “Me what?” he says.

  “Where’s your home?”

  He pulls away from the curb and says, “Philadelphia.”

  “Yeah, but you weren’t born here, I can tell by your accent. So where are you really from?”

  Silence.

  There are mounds of exhaust-smoke-gray snow on the ground outside. I’m no longer in Florida, that’s for sure.

  “Are you afraid to tell me where you were born?” I say.

  Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror. “Nigeria.”

  “Is it nice in Nigeria?”

  “No,” he says. “There is too much violence. Please. Never go.”

  “Westmont is pretty fucked too.”

  “It is better than Nigeria.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But it ain’t like I have a choice tonight.”

  “You always have a choice. Look at me. Here in America. A choice.”

  “Do you like it here in America?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Very much. I will bring my family here one day. Soon, I hope.”

  “You have a wife?”

  “In Nigeria. And five children. Three strong sons.”

  I ignore his sexist favoritism. “You love her—your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s lucky.” I hate myself for envying this woman in Nigeria whose husband drives a cab halfway around the world, saving money to rescue her from whatever hell Nigeria currently offers. It sounds like a fairy tale. She might as well be in an ivory tower. So romantic—beautiful even. Their struggle.

  Portia, you are a terrible person, I think. Terrible.

  “I am lucky. Very lucky. My wife is a strong woman. Very beautiful. Good mother. She will make me more sons here in America. I am the lucky one.”

  I look at my ruined reflection hovering in the window as we pass the Philadelphia professional sports complexes on the left.

  What is this guy smoking? Because I want some.

  He takes me across the Walt Whitman Bridge.

  “I do not know this area. Will you please advise me?” he says.

  I advise him.

  We navigate away from Camden and toward safer suburbia, with me yelling out rights and lefts. Finally I say, “Over there. The one with the highly embarrassing metal awning.”

  He pulls up to the row home in which I grew up, across the street from the Acme grocery store.

  His index finger taps the glowing red numbers hovering over his dash, and he quotes the price.

  Instead of paying, I say, “Have you ever cheated on your wife here in America?”

  “What?”

  “Have you had sex with a woman since you left Nigeria?”

  “No!” he yells in a way that lets me know he is highly offended.

  “Do you consider your wife to be your equal? Do you encourage her to have ambitions and dreams?”

  “Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “Tell me you love your wife.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Just tell me you love your wife.”

  “I do love my wife! I miss her very very much. Now you must pay.”

  “I believe you. You’re not lying. I really believe you,” I say. “Wow. You’re the needle in the haystack. The real deal. I can tell.”

  “I do not understand you. Please pay. I have to drive new people to make money.”

  “You’ll do it. Bring your wife to America yet.” I stick five hundred-dollar bills through the plastic hole, feeling a bit like Ken in that Cuban restaurant, back in Miami, except I’m a more altruistic feminine version of Ken. Maybe I’m the Gloria Steinem to Ken’s Hugh Hefner.

  “This is too much,” the Nigerian taxi driver says. “Far too much.”

  “Bring your wife to America. And don’t cheat on her in the interim. Be a good man.”

  “I am a good man!”

  I exit the taxi as Mr. Nigeria keeps saying, “Too much, please, take some back, please. Please!”

  I don’t have the strength to confront my mother, so I walk around the block to the alley behind our row of homes.

  I open the ripped screen door, which still creaks, step into the grave-size back porch, pull a few blankets from the old army chest, wrap myself up, and lie down on the shitty plastic-cushioned rusted-springs gliding couch, which is even older than me.

  It’s musty and damp from the snowy weather, but I don’t really care.

  Just like high school, I think. After a night of drinking in the woods. Running from the cops. Eating fried grease at the Crystal Lake Diner. And then sleeping off hangovers out here.

  I lost my virginity on this couch.

  Jason Malta.

  He was terrified.

  He was nice, though.

  Really sweet.

  It didn’t hurt because he was so timid and gentle—and a bit on the small side, which I didn’t mind one bit.

  Despite what I have been saying about Ken’s tiny penis, it’s not the shape or size of a man’s dick that counts, it’s the character of the man himself, if you ask me. Most women over thirty-five would agree, I’m betting. Somehow I knew this when I was seventeen, and then I forgot.

  When I took Jason Malta inside me, I kept thinking it was like I was sucking away the worst of his life, cleansing him, making him pure, which I realize is strange and unus
ual thinking for a seventeen-year-old virgin.

  But I swear he knew what I was doing for him—he knew I was taking his pain away from him, or at least lessening it, and that it was more like a favor than true love.

  We both knew.

  And we were okay with it.

  I didn’t come.

  Not even close.

  But I enjoyed it.

  Giving him pleasure.

  Relieving his anguish, if only for a few minutes.

  Jason was a good person.

  And he had been in so much pain.

  After he ejaculated, he kept whispering “Thank you” over and over again, and then he started to cry and shake, but he couldn’t explain why when I asked him, or maybe he just couldn’t verbalize it, because we both just knew.

  We knew that the moment we shared was about much more than getting off.

  His mom had died the year before.

  I don’t even remember what she had, but I remember he missed a lot of school, and then when he started attending every day again, everyone knew it was over, and he seemed like a ghost.

  I just wanted to bring him back from the dead.

  Resuscitate him.

  I remember he used to be funny in junior high. We had been in a play together, a comedy that he had written called Charles Barkley Goes to the Dentist.

  The funniest part was that Charles Barkley never even makes an appearance in the play, maybe because we had no black classmates to play the role. But I remember it was set in a dentist’s office. Jason played the dentist. I played the woman who worked the office, answering phones and greeting patients, and Jason had me wear these huge red Sally Jessy Raphael glasses. And a few other classmates played the people in the waiting room, reading magazines and newspapers, looking up curiously every time the phone rang. Reporters kept calling and asking when “The Round Mound of Rebound” was coming in to get his teeth cleaned—Jason had our science teacher, Mr. Roorbach, play the reporters, speaking into a microphone offstage, almost making the calls sound like the voice of some absurd Samuel Beckett version of God, even though none of us knew who the hell Samuel Beckett was back then. I had to keep saying I couldn’t “give out Mr. Barkley’s information,” and when the people in the waiting room overheard, they kept saying, “Charles Barkley? The Round Mound of Rebound is a patient here?” and, being a bad secret keeper or an unethical dental assistant, my character kept winking and whispering, “Well, everyone has to take care of their teeth—even professional athletes!”