Venus Envy, page 6
Mandy’s eyes widened in fear. “Are you still sick? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it quite that way. Come on over here—let’s sit in my office. I’d better tell you exactly what I’ve done, because there’s going to be hell to pay. Big time.”
Frazier’s office was painted a soft yellow, the yellow that the Metropolitan Museum of Art often uses on its walls. The two sat on the 1930’s overstuffed sofa. The office, simple but sensuous, with lots of curving lines, betrayed a secret side of Frazier. Most people would have expected her office to be an homage to Hepplewhite, Sheridan, or Chippendale, a bow in the direction of the eighteenth century.
“Shoot,” Mandy said nervously. “No, wait. You’ve experienced a catharsis. You’re selling everything and moving to Hawaii. Actually, for you it would be the south of France. Lake Como, or New Zealand. Am I right?”
“About everything except New Zealand. Beautiful but so far away. Argentina.”
Mandy fell back on the sofa. “I knew it. I knew you’d leave.”
“No, I just meant if I were to go it wouldn’t be to New Zealand. I’m not going anywhere, although I might be run out of town.”
“Frazier, what did you do? I mean, what can someone do who is full of tubes and flat on her back in the hospital?”
“You told me to write letters to Tomorrow.”
“I got one. Thank you back at you.”
“Uh, I did write letters to Tomorrow. I wrote everyone and told them the truth about myself and what I believe to be the truth about them. I begged my brother and Billy to change their ways. I told my mother exactly what I think of her—I emphasize exactly. I bequeathed the same favor, different flavor, on Ann Haviland. I wrote my father an exhaustive letter about him, Mom, Carter, and myself. Who else? Auntie Ruru, whom I adore, and Kenny Singer. I opened the whole can of worms.”
“Jesus H. Christ on a raft.” Mandy was speechless after that. Frazier pulled herself up and opened the little refrigerator. She handed Mandy a Coke and took one for herself, grabbed the crystal old-fashioned glasses, filled them with ice cubes, and rejoined her on the sofa.
“Imagine what would happen to you if you told everyone around you the truth,” she said.
“I’m doing that very thing.” Mandy rattled the cubes in her glass and then poured the Coke. “I’ve been more open than you are but I guess I’ve got a couple of skeletons in my closet and I’ve got my own stuff right now, you know?’
“I don’t know.”
A little involuntary twitch, which blossomed into a smile, indicated that Mandy registered this but wasn’t sure what to do next. “Right. Boyfriend trouble. We can talk about me some other time. My first question is, do you remember what you wrote?”
Frazier’s eyes glassed over. “Kind of.”
“What do you mean, ‘kind of’?”
“I ripped the morphine tube out of my arm. It swung in my way every time I moved my arm and I couldn’t write and anyway, as the night wore on I sank deeper and deeper into the slough of despond or anger or wherever I was. I did tell the truth. I just think had I been in a better emotional state I might have chosen my words more wisely. I don’t think I was ugly. Well, I was to Mother.” Frazier breathed in sharply. “But she deserved it and I should’ve laid my mother out to whaleshit years ago. Am I being unfair? Doesn’t everyone blame her mother for everything?”
“Uh, I don’t. I love my mom. Most times, anyway. Don’t start beating up on yourself. I’ve seen tua mater many times. She’s no prize.”
“Whew.” Frazier crossed her legs under her and turned to face Mandy, who did likewise. “Thanks for that. You know, when I was writing Mother from the hospital I kept thinking about how she would read Carter and me stories at bedtime when we were tiny. When I got a little older I wanted to read them myself. So I opened Babar the Elephant and Bambi and found sentences, even paragraphs, blacked out. When I asked her, she lied and said the book was printed that way. So one day at the library—oh, I must have been in third grade by then—I found Bambi. Do you know what she had done?”
“I can’t imagine,” Mandy replied.
“She’d crossed out every reference to the mother being killed.”
“No!” Mandy exclaimed.
“Every syllable. So I marched home and asked her why she’d done that and she said because those passages would have upset Carter and me. She wanted to protect us from Death. Only made it worse, of course. I never really trusted her after that. Of course, I’m not sure I trusted her before that either. Bambi and Babar made me realize what I had always known, I guess—that Mother wants everything controlled, placid, no involvement. You feel things as a child but you don’t know what you’re feeling. After that I knew what I was feeling, about her anyway. I sure knew not to tell her my feelings too.”
“Who knows what your mother will do now? She can’t black out the sentences in your letter.”
“I reckon I’ll find out.”
Mandy sat straighten “Did you tell them all that you’re—”
Frazier interrupted: “Gay? Yes, ma’am.”
A long silence followed. “In the long run you’ll be glad you did. In the short run …”
“In the short run I am going to be sliced and diced, I am going to be barbecued, I am going to be deep-fried Southern style, I am going to be trussed and trounced and beat so hard about the ass that my nose will bleed. Honey, I am in deep shit, like all the way to China deep and you goddam well know it.”
“Now I Feel responsible. I gave you the stationery.”
“Nah. This was my doing. I’m taking full credit and if I’d had any ovaries I would’ve read everyone the riot act years ago. I’m not eager to suffer the consequences though, and suffering is such an important part of Christianity that Mother feels it’s her duty to spread it around. Oh, sweet Jesus, I need a friend.”
“You got one.”
“In a pig’s blister.”
“Me.”
“Ah, Mandy, there’s nothing you can do to protect me or save me.”
“No, but I can stand by you. And so will Auntie Ruru.”
Frazier turned her glass around in her hand a few revolutions. “Billy, maybe.”
“Billy?”
“Considering I told Billy he’s going to hell in a handbasket, in so many words, I don’t know which way he’ll cut. I think it’s me that will get cut, actually.”
“He’s gay, too, of course.”
“I don’t feel it’s my duty to blow the whistle on anyone else.”
“Bullshit. I’m not an idiot. Anyway, past the age of thirty, roommates look suspicious.” Mandy’s flash of anger gave her a sultry, sexy look.
“He doesn’t have a roommate.”
“Oh, Kenny Singer is just attached to his hip, is that it? I mean, if I’m going to be here in the center of the hurricane, you can’t be Little Miss Daisy in a field of cow flaps. You’d better tell me everything I need to know.” She put her glass on the coffee table and folded her arms across her chest. “What about Carter?”
Frazier shook her head. “He’s going to be the biggest surprise of all, I think. Hell, Mandy, I don’t know. Right now I don’t know shit from Shinola.”
Mandy leaned over and patted her hand. “The great thing about the truth is you’re not obliged to remember it. You can claim amnesia. Not that you would. You know what my mother says …”
“No, but I have a feeling I’m going to.”
“If you’re going to be hung for sheep you might as well be hung for a wolf.” Mandy finished off her Coca-Cola.
“Hung is the operative word, a word I don’t wish to hear unless it applies to the male of the species.”
“Amen, sister.” Mandy uncrossed her legs, swinging them over the sofa. “Know how to tell if a man’s well hung?”
“I’ve got my method. Let’s hear yours.” “If there’s three inches between the rope and his collar.”
“Oow.” Frazier squinted. “Mean.”
“A small diverting moment from the crisis at hand. All right, let’s catalogue the worst. You’ll be drummed out of the Junior League.”
“My heart is breaking.”
“You’ll have a devil of a time getting a golf foursome at the country club. Your women friends won’t want to be in the bathroom when you’re there. Uh, children. Yes, they’ll hide their children when you drive by.”
Frazier suddenly froze. “Mandy. It’s not funny. Some people are that ignorant. I’ll no longer be Mary Frazier Armstrong. I’ll be Mary Frazier Armstrong, comma, Lesbian. My identity will be skewered on a word derived from the name of an island off the coast of Greece, or is it closer to Turkey? I’m about to lose my individuality, my social position, parts of my family, if not all of it, and God knows what else.”
“That’s why I have the advantage over you.”
“What?”
“You can lie about who you are. I can’t. My face tells the tale.”
“Your face is uncommonly beautiful.”
“Thank you, but it bears the stamp of Africa. That’s hardly a plus in the land of the Blond Beast. At any rate, I can’t be anything or anyone other than who I am. It’s better that way.”
“I don’t know,” Frazier honestly stated. “Funny what runs through your mind. I keep hearing a phrase Carter used one time when we got campused by Mother for throwing a party when she and Dad were out of town. It happened to be prom night too. He said, ‘It doesn’t matter if the rock hits the jug or the jug hits the rock. The jug still gets it.’ I’m the jug.”
“I hope not, Frazier.”
“Me too.”
“How much damage did the party do to the house?”
“Frazier’s voice lifted into the mezzo range. “Oh, nothing. The house was untouched but Carter and I took photographs of various St. Luke’s sports heroes engaged in indelicate acts with cooperative ladies. The taking of them wasn’t the issue. Circulating them at school for profit landed us in hot water.” Frazier burst out laughing. “But it was worth it. The sight of the prom queen giving Ernie Watkins a blow job, tiara and all. Yahoo!”
“Frazier, there’s a whole side of you I don’t know.” Mandy stared at her in wonder and admiration.
“Carter and I could cut a shine—until I had to earn a living. That’s when I pulled in my horns, or became mature—take your pick. Yeah, and that’s when I began to hate myself too. Have you ever seen rainbow trout? They’re shimmering, living rainbows in their element. Take them out of their element and their colors fade. I guess I was like that, or I am like that.”
“Sounds to me like you’re coming back to life.”
That sentence ran through Frazier’s head as she walked into the second gallery room. An enormous canvas, ten by fifteen feet, dominated one wall. Painted in the seventeenth century by an unknown artist, it depicted the gods and goddesses on Mount Olympus. Their perfect bodies, except for that of crippled Hephaestus/Vulcan, inspired worship. Zeus/Jupiter, a man at the peak of his powers, forty or fifty perhaps, his body thick with physical might, light shining from his head, gazed over his brood. Their happiness was both earthly and heavenly. Guilt, suffering—well, long-term suffering—and pain had been banished.
His wife, brothers, children, and his wife’s children were positioned around the Thunderbolt God in a mix of personalization and parentage that would send a therapist into transports of analysis. Modern man needs to explain everything in order to feel safe—a dangerous illusion, for there is no safety. The ancients didn’t need to explain; they needed to experience, and this anonymous artist, no doubt a hearty Venetian, must have reveled in his work as he mixed his oils from mounds of dried powder. He, too, must have craved experience, and his sensual nature was reflected in the Olympians.
Zeus/Jupiter sat on his throne in the middle of a semicircle arranged around him. Hera, or Juno, his wife, stood by, statuesque, at his right hand, her hazel eyes trained on her philandering husband. Clearly she didn’t trust him even when he was sitting down.
To her right glowered Poseidon/Neptune. Perhaps he left his mighty ocean kingdom for this family portrait, poised between squabbles for a moment of calm. He strongly resembled his brother, although his beard was golden whereas Zeus’s was gray. Poseidon leaned on his trident, casting his eyes not at his overlord brother but at Artemis/Diana, who was standing next to him, her silver quiver on her back, her silver bow in her hand.
Fat chance. Not even the god of the sea could turn her chaste head. The only man the youthful, perfect huntress loved, and not physically, was her twin, Apollo. He sat on a rock slightly in front of Artemis. He wore his golden quiver and his golden bow lay at his feet. The two were mirror images of each other, gorgeous, yet somehow rather cold.
Ruddy Ares/Mars made up for their lack of heat. His red hair was shorn, as one would expect of a soldier. His armor further enhanced his virility. His sword, sheathed, hung by his side. He held his helmet in the cradle of his arm; the flaming-red horsehair seemed to sway in the breeze. His gaze smoldered at Aphrodite/Venus, who sat directly opposite him in the semicircle.
She returned his gaze with equal heat. Here the artist broke with convention. No washed-out blond Venus. Rich, dark curly hair fell to her shoulders. Her eyes glowed a dark blue. Everything about her suggested passion, erotic possibilities allied to tender mercy. This Venus was far more than a sex goddess.
Moving back toward Zeus, Hermes/Mercury, laughing, stood next to Venus—perhaps the only woman, apart from his mother, whom he completely trusted. His long-muscled, slender body gleamed. No beard appeared on his sharp jaw. If paintings could move he would have been twirling his caduceus, and the intertwining snakes on the magical rod would have been dancing with laughter.
In sharp contrast to Mercury stood Athena/Minerva. Her impressive helmet covered the blond hair, which was tucked underneath, a few tendrils escaping. Her gray eyes evidenced no passion but she didn’t seem cold, just preoccupied. Her shield rested on a tree stump behind her. She looked at her father, Zeus, and he returned the gaze. She was his favorite child.
Standing between them but a step back was Hades/Pluto. So enthralled was he by his underworld kingdom that he, too, rarely ventured out of it, much less to Mount Olympus.
Hades/Pluto was as dark as Neptune was light and tremendously handsome. All three brothers were powerfully built men with beautiful mouths and white teeth. The finest cloth covered his body. Unlike Neptune he showed little interest in plotting against their brother. Pluto, although distant and judgmental, was a loyal, honest soul.
In the near distance the artist had placed immensely muscular Hephaestus/Vulcan, still sweating from his work at the forge. Zeus/Jupiter couldn’t stand him, so Hera/Juno tried to make up for this by taking his part at each opportunity. His crippled leg stuck out at an odd angle from his good one.
Another god at a distance from the others was Dionysus/Bacchus. He lounged in the lower right-hand corner of the canvas. In his late twenties or early thirties, the prime of life, he should have cut a splendid figure. He was slovenly attired, however, which detracted from his beauty. A golden goblet was raised in his right hand, raised not to Zeus but to the painter or the viewer, for Dionysus peered out of the painting, away from the circle of gods. A slight smile played on his ruby lips—a jeer or genuine pleasure?
This florid artwork had supposedly hung in the grandest whorehouse in Venice. The sneaking sensuality of it, the subtle assault on Judeo-Christian priggishness, the sheer grandeur would attract someone, a buyer moved by impulse, an impulse probably not understood.
Frazier especially liked the brushwork, so smooth, so silky, so unobtrusive. The flesh seemed real. She could reach out and caress Mercury’s eternally youthful figure or tweak Jupiter’s majestic beard. The painter believed in art that conceals art, an attitude in keeping with Frazier’s philosophy. She detested artists who wailed about how difficult their work was and then further tried the patience of all the giving saints by telling you how they accomplished their masterpiece.
The front door opened. Frazier’s shoulders stiffened. Was it Mother? Dad? Carter? Was the axe raised ready to grind? The Fed Ex man dropped off a package, offered his congratulations upon her good health, and left with a wink. Frazier was relieved and strangely disappointed.
13
THE METALLIC-COFFEE EXPLORER PURRED DOWN THE TREELINED drive. Frazier pulled up at her parents’ white brick Federal home. She sat a moment remembering the first time she had driven the Explorer down the brown pebble driveway. Libby had walked out of the house, disappointment etched all over her face.
“You sold the Range Rover?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“But why? A Range Rover has some élan.”
“Because the dealer is eighty miles away.”
“I loved your Range Rover.”
“Then you should have bought it.”
Frazier blinked, tried to focus on today, got out of the car, and slowly walked to the back door. She opened the door, hinges squeaking.
Libby, potting plants in her sink, barely uttered a hello.
“Need any help?”
“No, thank you” came Libby’s clipped reply. “I want these narcissus ready for your dinner party.”
“What dinner party?”
“The dinner party to thank God for the miracle of your recovery,” Libby pronounced.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“I was planning to call you tonight.”
“Momma, did you pick up your mail yesterday or today?”
Libby’s lips stretched tighter across her face. “I did.”
Frazier was losing patience. She hated this trick of Libby’s. Don’t volunteer any information; don’t facilitate a discussion. Force the other party to bring up any unpleasant or volatile subject and declare yourself an unwilling victim of such upset. Upset equaled bad manners. “My letter, Mother? I know you must have gotten my letter.”
“I did.”
“Well?” Frazier’s tone hardened.
“I am putting that right out of my mind because I think you must have been out of yours.”
