The Running Joke
(continued)
Love, especially great love, can destroy you if you do not feel yourself worthy. If there is even one small scrap of shame in you when love ignites, it will be the sharp, jagged scrap that cuts away at your insides when your lover levels their gaze at you; when she tastes the inside of your mouth.
It will cut you.
When Joy opened her eyes the morning after their first lovemaking, DaVinci was already staring, unblinkingly, at Joy. Wrapped in sheets, reclining on her side, her head resting on her palm, her palm resting on the pillow, her brown chest divided by deep cleavage, her thick eyebrows lowered sternly. A puzzling curl to her lips: not quite happy, not quite sad. Perplexing. A grin exactly like Mona Lisa's, Joy thought, as she rubbed her knuckles into her eyes and unfurled with delight. As she stretched up from her arms and clear down to her toes with an exuberant, Ahh! As she dropped limply from the stretch, mumbling a gravelly, inarticulate, "Good mornin', beautiful."
But Donna's expression didn't change a fraction; the grin on her full lips remained resolutely ambiguous. Her large bronze eyes stared with feline concentration. Even as Joy raised her small pale hand to Donna's soft brown cheek, held it in her palm, encircled it. Reiterating, "Yuh beautiful, hon." Even as Joy moved her fingers up into Donna silky, tangled hair, tucking it delicately behind her ear. The most Donna did was blink, long and slow, those enormous bedroom eyes. Never diverting them from Joy's own. And so Joy took in the stare, participated in it, allowed herself to be completely encapsulated by Donna's rust-colored irises.
"Well now, Joy," DaVinci said at long length. "I feel I must tell you." Joy jumped slightly, swallowed hard, and questioned the unchanged face of the woman beside her. Donna's hand had abruptly settled itself between Joy's thighs. Her long fingers had gently, but categorically, established penetration. Joy's mouth sprung open and out of it extended a musical note of gratitude so lovely and clear, Joy hardly recognized it as her own voice at all. "I am vulnerable now," Donna continued, and Joy couldn't help it any more. Reflexively, her eyes rolled behind the lids, closing DaVinci slowly out of her vision. Closing out that unchanged expression; those solid, staring eyes, that puzzling little grin.
And then, in a faraway corner of the room of her pleasure, Joy could hear the monotone sound of Donna's appeal:
"Don't let me down."
It was Sunday night, a month and two days since she'd begun dating Donna, and Joy was in the liquor store. Her brown leather jacket zipped-up over her uniform in what Patty would most definitely describe as "a most plebeian fashion-statement."
Joy walked briskly past the shelves of Tequila, hardly giving the dusky-tan bottles a glance. She was in love, after all, things weren't that bad. Brandy, vodka, beer, wine, Schnapps'. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. Tonight was a celebration; it was going to be a good drunk. A bottle of whiskey, yeah, yeah. Something with a slightly more expensive label than the usual. She was worth it, yeah. Just like Patty said. She couldn't help it; it made Joy Fetter chipper, picking out the bottle and bringing it up to the counter. Her short legs and small feet walked with a smidgen too much bounce after having pulled an 11-hour shift at the diner. But it was all too good and all too happy for a Sunday night, despite all this. Tonight Donna was making dinner for Joy, cheesy rigatoni and warm apple pie. Homemade she had promised, with a wink and dimpled grin, when she'd stopped by unexpectedly at the diner during lunchtime rush, surprising Joy. And boy, was Joy surprised. She felt her own small form animate into double-time, weaving around the greasy tables, trays in hand, with a proud and spunky energy. Calling out her orders with a squeaky, plucky vivacity -- her "Roast beef on rye, hold the lettuce!" sounding like Hallelujah and praise the Lord, I'm in love! I'm in love! There was cause for some celebration tonight. A drink was in order. And anyway, Joy thought, handing the bill to Sammy behind the counter, listening politely as he rattled on, as usual, about his wife, Tamara, their arguments, their dramas, And anyway it's not like I'm gonna show up drunk or anything tasteless like that. Jeez. I'm just gonna pour one or two back at my apartment, yeah, before I shower. Then over to DaVinci's house, calm as can be and whetted-up for a good meal.
It sounded good in theory. But, once back at her apartment, Joy performed the usual routine. Switching on only the fluorescent light above the yellow Formica counter in the kitchen. Placing upon the surface of the counter the bottle and the glass. Filling the glass. Sipping it once. Holding it mid-air. Taking a breath. Finishing the glassful. Placing the glass back down on the counter. Remarking, aloud, a blurry-sounding, "Good, good." Smacking her lips. Experiencing the first rush of heat down her throat and in her belly, suffering the small involuntary shudder.
Here, Joy deviated from the routine only in that she paused for a moment, resting her small, pale hand on the rim of the empty glass. Then, bringing the fingers up to her lips, Joy considered what it might be like to stop there. To stop right there. Her whole adult life Joy had wondered. Stopping right there. Could she do it? Right now was the perfect time. There were only a handful of drinking years left inside Joy's small body anyway, the disease was taking its toll. Forty-four years felt and looked like 66. If she stopped now, however, who knows? Maybe she would heal; maybe the poison would ebb away. Maybe she could still have a long, vibrant life. Sipping tea, going roller-skating, renting sailboats. Falling in love. "And wouldn't life be nice, Joy Joy?" she asked the empty glass on the counter top. "Wouldn't that be a lovely way to start ovuh, hon.?" Joy bit down on the tip of her thumb. Stopping right there. Could she do it? Could she do it? For the love of her life, could she do it?
But then the moment passed. Just one more, that's all, Joy reasoned, and refilled the glass. Immediately afterward she emptied the glass, unmoved from where she stood before the kitchen counter. The third glass was less pressing, Joy brought that one into the dim living room and placed on the coffee table. The first two were still working on her; she now had time to take off her jacket and shoes.
After that, the drinks followed one another in succession, each glassful a small execution of forgetfulness, until the entire bottle, the entire evening, was dispensed with in a blurry haze.
Vaguely, Joy recalled glancing at the digital clock when it read 12:04 a.m. But, immediately following that, her head dropped back down to the couch cushion and her ears filled with tears. She wouldn't remember why.
It wasn't that Joy Fetter wanted to sabotage her new love affair; that wasn't the reason she continued drinking whiskey alone in her one-bedroom apartment on the weekends (although self-sabotage was a nifty little trick that Joy had employed in the past). When Joy thought about it carefully, she couldn't figure any good reason why she did it. Sure, there were hurts. There were regrets. But who didn't have those? It was just warm and indulgent, that slow numbing-out that was the long and the short of it. And those first few glasses were delightful; especially if Joy had her Ella Fitzgerald LP's spinning. But that was no reason. And anyway, what could she possibly say to the sharp, discerning, rust-colored eyes of Donna DaVinci? To justify her bad habit, what could she possibly say to those eyes? My father was a drinkah? My mom never approved of my lifestyle? My work is hard, demanding? I'm exhausted? I'm afraid? I need relief, somehow, and don't I deserve that, huh? What could Joy possibly say that wouldn't be shrugged off by Donna's large, soft shoulders, a slightly condescending curl to her lips, an arrogant eyebrow raised, a definitive and automatic, "So?"
Joy had been there with Donna before. Had looked at that shaming and beautiful grin full of broad, pearly teeth. Had listened as Donna invariably began to catechize.
"Uh uh uh, Joy. No. All excuses. You're not fooling me. Or yourself."
What could she possibly say?
Doctor DaVinci walked the length of the block as if it were a fashion show runway and what she had to offer would never be for sale. She walked as if her full, resplendent body contained the power of the cosmos, her womb the entire populace of the earth, her mind the secrets of the physical realm, her heart the secrets of the mystical one. She walked as if her Ph.D. were hung upon her puffed-up bosom; as if the heels in her shoes could penetrate the pavement, causing living, green vines of integrity to sprout; as if her knees flexed to the meter of enlightened poetry she'd committed to memory; as if this Monday morning was opening up, a brand new week beginning, only because Donna DaVinci judiciously asked it to do so.
Joy closed her deep-set brown eyes, placed the bridge of her nose into her palms and bit down on her lower lip. She could just smell Donna DaVinci, the smoky-sweet explosion of perfume in her nose, the bitterness of it on her tongue, the rich, humid tang of Donna's skin beneath the overarching fragrance. Joy slowly raised her eyes from her hands. Peered over the steering wheel at the graceful woman in motion. Whispered, "Jesus, Joy… Are you gonna leave her?" It came out sounding more like a statement than a question, and Joy wrinkled her nose and laughed under her breath for a few quivering seconds.
It all suddenly seemed so very comical. She was late for work. She was palpitating with caffeine. She was sick to her stomach. She was an addict. She was in love. She was never going to find another DaVinci. She was never going to get a second shot at something this good. She was never going to change. She was never going to stop running. Joy Fetter laughed deep from the gut now, her small hands trembling against her face. The laugh sounded like strange, crazed weeping coming from a woman she'd never met before. However, Joy thought -- as she wiped the corners of her eyes, put her dusty old VW beetle into drive, and eased away from the curb -- at least she still had her sense of humor. And, well, at least she wouldn't be letting DaVinci down.
