Love May Fail Page 8

  Outside I use my phone to google a local cab service, make the call, and wait on the sidewalk, hoping the nice Nigerian driver will show up again, but instead it’s a tiny old man in one of those Irish caps that look like a duck bill sticking out of his forehead.

  I tell him to take me to the Manor in Oaklyn, and he puts it in drive without saying a word.

  Why don’t I ask him where he’s from and whether he loves a woman?

  I’m not the same person I was last night, I guess. I’m sober, yes, but it’s more than that. The rush of leaving Ken—taking action—is running out, and I wonder if I’ll need another fix soon.

  What’s he doing tonight?

  Is he with Khaleesi?

  Are they screwing in my old bed?

  Should I be talking to a lawyer pronto?

  Why am I not more upset?

  And Ken hasn’t even called or e-mailed.

  Is there something wrong with me?

  Am I too old?

  And what exactly happened to Mr. Vernon?

  “Ten bucks,” the old man says, and I realize we are outside the Manor. I remember the sign—a suspiciously young-looking man sitting on a barrel and downing a pitcher of beer.

  There are red-and-white-striped metal awnings, and the building is made out of sandy-colored bricks. What looks like a double-wide red phone booth juts out from the front corner to protect the door from letting in gusts of cold air in the winter and hot air in the summer, maybe.

  I give the cabbie what he asks for plus a few extra bucks and make my way to the side entrance.

  The wooden tables and booths inside are old enough to make the flat-screen TVs seem like futuristic technology. Thick, dark wooden beams run along the ceiling and a brick archway divides the room, which is full of people who work and live hard in the various surrounding blue-collar towns—Oaklyn, Audubon, Collingswood—a patchwork of small homes with tiny yards. Many of these people are wearing orange-and-black Flyers jerseys, red Phillies caps, kelly-green Eagles coats.

  “Portia!”

  I spot Danielle in a booth at the other end of the room, waving me over with her hand in the air.

  I make my way through the tables and notice a kid sitting next to her.

  Tommy has shaggy blond hair that is maybe a little too long to be in style and makes him look a bit androgynous, but he’s adorable. I immediately recognize Danielle’s eyes and nose on his little face, although he has a strong chin, which is weird to say about a five-year-old, I realize. I imagine his father as a classically attractive Brad Pitt type.

  When I sit down across from Danielle and Tommy, he says, “Hello, Ms. Kane, I’m going to perform soon!”

  “Are you now?” I say.

  Danielle doesn’t say hi, but watches her son the way I’ve learned mothers do, as if their child were the most amazing thing in the world and therefore they remain mute out of sheer awe—like they don’t want to interrupt what they think will be the best part of your day, talking with their kid.

  I realize that will sound harsh to some readers, especially mothers.

  I’m not looking down on Danielle so much as identifying what’s going on.

  Child-free women do this—observe with all the objectivity of an outsider—whether you want them to or not, and I am a child-free woman.

  “Chuck and I are in a band,” Tommy says.

  “You’re just in time for the show!” Danielle says to me and then musses Tommy’s hair. “Tell her the name of your band.”

  “Shot with a Fart,” Tommy says and then giggles so hard he can no longer open his eyes—he even tears up.

  “And you’re to blame!” Danielle says, poking Tommy’s ribs with a forefinger to the rhythm of each syllable, and then tickles him.

  I wonder if this is the performance.

  But then a curly-haired blond man who looks to be about our age or maybe a few years older enters the room from the front bar. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and black high-top sneakers. Into a microphone he says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please put down your two-dollar Coors Lights, your deep-fried chicken wings, your cheese fries, and your tuna melts, for you are about to see the greatest show South Jersey has to offer before five-year-old bedtime.”

  I look around the room, and the patrons are clapping and smiling in anticipation.

  “You know me as Chuck the bartender—the man who’s continuously provided you with free Chex Mix and who will always be there to turn the channel for you sports junkies. The man with the remote control. Quick wrist on the tap. The guy who gives you a generous pour every time. The man who works extra hard for your tips. But I also lead a double life as the awesome uncle of Oaklyn’s best-kept secret, the pint-size man who fronts South Jersey’s most supreme Bon Jovi cover band, Shot with a Fart, the one and only Tommy Bass!”

  The room explodes with applause.

  Little Tommy jumps up out of the booth and runs behind the side bar.

  The applause grows, and then everyone starts chanting, “Tom-MEEE! Tom-MEEE! Tom-MEEE!”

  After thirty seconds or so another bartender—a beefy bald guy with the Phillies P tattooed in green on the side of his neck—lifts little Tommy up onto the bar, only Tommy is now wearing fake leather pants, a little leather fringe jacket, a long purple scarf, mirrored cop sunglasses, and a blond wig that makes him look like he has a lion’s mane on his head.

  Chuck hands Tommy the microphone and then picks up a broom.

  Tommy says, “How you doing tonight, Oaklyn, New Jersey?”

  Everyone cheers.

  “This one’s for my mom over there in the corner,” Tommy says and then looks down at his feet on the bar, which is when I realize he is wearing little cowboy boots. He looks up again and says, “She really works at a diner. It’s true.”

  Someone puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out one of those eardrum-piercing whistles, and the cheers get louder.

  I look over at Danielle, and she’s staring at her boy intensely—she’s smiling, but she looks like she could break down crying too.

  The beefy bartender puts some money in the jukebox, punches in a number, and then we hear the synthesizer chords and that jingling baby rattle. When the drums kick in, Tommy begins to gyrate in rhythm and the now straight-faced Chuck does his best Richie Sambora, strumming his broomstick, nodding his head, opening and closing his mouth to imitate that voice-box sound that Sambora does for “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

  “Everybody up!” Tommy yells into the mic, just before he starts singing along. I’m surprised that everyone actually gets up and also that Tommy can sing pretty well for a kindergartner. The little guy has more confidence and swagger than seem possible.

  And while he works the entire room with his shades and finger pointing, most of his glances and gestures go toward his mother in the corner, which is when I realize he’s doing this for her, to pump her up and keep her going, and even though I know he’s five and has no idea what he’s doing at all, but is most likely naively running on instinct, I love the kid instantly.

  I watch Chuck lean back and make comical faces during his guitar solo. He’s terrible compared to Tommy, but sacrificing himself for his nephew and I’m guessing Danielle too, who must be his sister if Chuck is Tommy’s uncle. I sort of remember him from high school. Maybe he was a grade or so ahead of us? And he’s still pretty fit—actually very fit. And his face has remained kind after all these years.

  Tommy cocks his head to the side, points at me when he sings, “You live for the fight when that’s all that you got!” and then does a pelvis thrust that makes me more than a little uncomfortable, since he’s five, but I seem to be the only one thinking about age-appropriate behavior, because the rest of the bar is pointing back at Tommy and singing along.

  He’s too young to be this captivating, and yet there are fifty or
so Bud-bottle-drinking adults dancing and singing and clapping and enjoying the hell out of the performance.

  I look over at Danielle and catch her wiping a tear from her cheek as she nods and dances and sings along, which is when I realize that this is the pinnacle of her week—this moment right here at the Oaklyn Manor bar with her brother and son performing a Bon Jovi song.

  This is what she has.

  And it makes me so sad and happy at the same time.

  It makes me think about Mom watching me drink Diet Coke with Lime.

  And before I know it I’m screaming too, “Whoa! We’re halfway there!”

  Which is crazy, because I’m not halfway to anywhere, but maybe that’s the point of the song.

  Shot with a Fart gets a thirty-second standing ovation before Tommy disappears behind the bar again and Chuck makes his way over to kiss his sister on the cheek and say “Did you like the show?” to me.

  “Very much,” I say, laughing. “I sure wish I had an uncle like you.”

  Chuck smiles proudly, but breaks eye contact before saying, “What are you drinking? On the house for Danielle’s friends. Especially those who wear Mötley Crüe buttons.” He makes the devil horns with his right hand and sings, “Shout at the devil!”

  I raise my own devil horns and in a deep, put-on voice sing, “Home sweet home.”

  “Best rock ballad ever. Fucking ever,” he says. Then he quickly covers his mouth and says, “Sorry,” to his sister.

  “Ewwwww,” Tommy says. “Bad words!”

  “What do you think, Tommy? ‘Home Sweet Home.’ Best rock ballad ever?” Chuck says quickly, redirecting like a pro.

  “We should perform that one next week,” Tommy says.

  “We’d have to change our cover band name if we started doing Crüe songs.”

  “But Shot with a Fart is the best name!”

  “I completely agree, little man!”

  “This is Portia, Chuck,” Danielle finally says. “She went to good ol’ HTHS. In my class.”

  Chuck smiles with nothing short of movie-star charm and shakes a finger at me like I’ve been very naughty. “I thought I recognized—”

  “Chuck, we need you. Get up here!” the beefy bartender calls from the front.

  “To be continued.” Chuck gives two sets of devil horns to Tommy, sticks out his tongue like Gene Simmons, and then says, “Dude, you totally rocked.”

  “You rocked too, Uncle Chuck.” Tommy returns the devil horns before Chuck jogs back to the front bar and yells something at a blonde, who smiles as Chuck points me out.

  The blonde delivers two bottles of Budweiser to our table and says, “From Chuck. If you break his heart, I’ll kill you.”

  “Easy, Lisa,” Danielle says.

  “I’m serious.” Lisa holds my gaze for an uncomfortable beat and then walks away.

  I look to Danielle for an explanation and she says, “Lisa and Chuck have worked together for years. She acts like his mother. What can I say? It’s weird.”

  “Okay.”

  Several people come over to our booth to congratulate Tommy, and Danielle keeps telling them that it’s not necessary to give Tommy tips, which seems strange to me because—from what I’ve gathered so far—she could certainly use the money.

  Chicken wings and tuna melts arrive as Tommy colors with crayons in a blank notebook and Danielle tells me all about the Oaklyn public school system and how Tommy is “special” and “gifted” when it comes to performing, but those skills aren’t appreciated in towns like Oaklyn and Collingswood and Westmont and Haddon Township.

  I’m tempted to point out that her kid just got a standing ovation for performing right here at the Manor in Oaklyn. The people here at the bar seemed to appreciate the hell out of Tommy. But I know from experience that you should never disagree with a woman when she is speaking about her children. Women lose their objectivity when they give birth. There is no reasoning with a mother when it comes to her child, especially her firstborn.

  “It’s an okay school, but I mean, it’s not Faddonfield,” Danielle says, referring to Haddonfield, the wealthiest town in the area—the one that always seems to outperform the rest of us no matter how hard we try, proving that money and contacts help a whole bunch in America.

  “Fuck Faddonfield,” I say. “You want your kids to grow up snotty and entitled?”

  “Portia!” Danielle says, and gestures to her son with her eyes and head. “Yo!”

  “Sorry. I’m not used to being around kids.”

  Tommy is drawing what looks to be Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction album cover—a cross with the skulls of the band members decorating it.

  Her five-year-old knows that album, which features an illustration of a raped-and-left-for-dead-in-an-alley woman with her underwear around her ankles on the inside flap AND uses the word fuck multiple times on different tracks, and Danielle’s worried about my using profanity in front of him?

  “Do you want kids?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Oh,” Danielle says in a surprised way, trying to mask her disappointment. Or maybe it’s disapproval.

  I don’t elaborate on the many reasons I don’t want children. I know it will win me no points tonight.

  I always think of Philip Larkin’s poem “This Be the Verse” whenever someone asks when I’ll have children. My mom fucked me up, and I don’t want to pass that on. Imagine if I had children with Ken the misogynistic porno king? Khaleesi and company would have hurt much more than my pride. But I also don’t want to be like Danielle, who seems to live solely for—or through—her kid. I want my life to count. And I’ve seen how so many women have kids as a way of contributing when they no longer feel as though they are contributing. Their college dreams and hopes are crushed by the world, so they fall back into the traditional role of motherhood, where they will be praised for simply taking a man’s seed into their bodies and then allowing it to grow. They become livestock, really. The simple fact that they’ve reproduced makes them palatable to society. A woman could be the worst mother in the world, but if she is holding a baby in public, everyone will smile at her with admiration usually reserved for saints and deities. She’s not just some woman anymore, but a life giver, a Mother Mary. That’s how they trick us into going through the pain of childbirth and all the rest. Just reproduce, and people throw you parties and buy you gifts and sympathize with you. You enjoy a sense of belonging and achievement simply because you had sex successfully. And who can resist that?

  I guess I can.

  My own mother had sex with a stranger and gave birth to me, and I’m sure people congratulated her for it along the way, but she was a criminally bad mother, who I must now take care of for the rest of my life or suffer extreme guilt. Motherhood is no bulletproof plan for happily ever after, that’s certain. But will anyone say that openly? Not even I have the stomach for that.

  “Portia?” Danielle says. “Where are you?”

  I shake my head and blink a few times. “Must be the beer.”

  Danielle looks at my full bottle of Budweiser and raises her eyebrows. “Do you want to come over to my apartment? Once I tuck in Jon Bon Jovi here, we can talk about Mr. Vernon if you want. That’s why you came, right? I didn’t bring it up before because”—she shields her mouth with her hand and whispers—“it’s not a story for kids.”

  I nod, and it occurs to me once again that Tommy is a strange little boy. I mean, he gets up in front of strangers and performs but then says nothing during dinner. Come to think of it, he didn’t even eat anything. He just colored in his blank notebook. “Sure,” I answer.

  I’m tired and can see that Danielle and I have little in common, but I want to know what happened to Mr. Vernon.

  I reach into my purse, which sits next to me on the booth, and finger the little Official Member of the Human Race card, di
gging the sharp corners into the soft flesh under my fingernail for as long as I can take the pain.

  I try to pay, but Danielle explains it’s not necessary since Chuck works here. “One of the very few perks,” she explains. “We eat and drink for free at the Manor.”

  Outside we cross the intersection diagonally, little Tommy holding his mother’s hand and yawning now, appearing absolutely exhausted before nine, which is strange for a Saturday night, I think, but then again, he’s a unique kid.

  Their apartment is tiny.

  A small TV is set up on what looks like a card table. I take in the dusty dorm-room-style metal frame futon, three wooden chairs that look like they are from three different 1950s-era dining room sets, probably all trash-picked, I think. Plastic crates of records—real old-school vinyl—are stacked next to an old record player with huge faux-wood box speakers that appear to predate the Jimmy Carter administration.

  When she sees me looking at her collection, Danielle says, “Tommy gets one bedtime song. We rock out every Saturday night. What are you going to pick, Tommy?”

  He doesn’t answer, but runs into another room and returns wearing a disturbing mask that looks like it was made from papier-mâché and then spray-painted silver. There are two rectangular eyeholes slanted downward, a ridge for the nose, dozens of holes the size of pinheads where the mouth should be and straps that run around the back of the head.

  When Tommy pulls Quiet Riot’s Metal Health album from a crate, I realize that the mask is a damn good representation of the one on the cover we all loved in—was it fifth or sixth grade when that record came out?

  Danielle helps him put the record on the turntable. “Do you still love Quiet Riot, Portia?”

  “Hell yeah!” I say, forgetting that you aren’t supposed to curse in front of elementary-school kids. “And I bet I know what song you’re going to pick too!”

  When I hear the snare and bass drum alternating, I know I’m right.

  Tommy’s doing a new show now, with the mask on, which strikes me as more than a little icky—not just this kid’s need for attention, but the fact that he’s wearing a Hannibal Lecter mask and singing about getting wild, wild, wild.