Heteroflexibility Page 5

  My hand missed his completely, slashing the air and swinging to smack against my thigh. I blushed furiously, bringing it back up.

  “Let’s try that again,” he said, smiling, and leaned forward to grasp my fingers. He lifted them to his lips and for a moment I forgot everything, our company of gay softball players, Fern, even my soon-to-be ex-husband. The emotional torrent of the week rolled away and calmed.

  “Nikki said your name is…Zest?” he asked.

  I heard his words but couldn’t quite yet formulate a response, still zinging with the warm kiss on my fingers that had now cooled, the grip of his hand on mine, and the startling perfection of his face. He should model, I thought, already posing him, leaning against a stone wall, lying on a hardwood floor, laughing in a lake, water droplets falling from his hair—

  “She’s got it pretty bad,” Nikki said. “Give her a minute.”

  Bradford grinned at me, and I realized, slowly, with increasing heat, that I was making a fool of myself. I jerked my hand back.

  “Yes, Zest. My mom…thought it was funny. She liked the soap.” Good God, I never told anyone that. Someone needed to break my blurt button.

  “That’s better than being named after fruit scrapings,” Bradford said. “But not quite as good as bubbly.”

  “I don’t…consider myself…bubbly,” I said, willing the frenetic thoughts to slow down. But God, if I put him with Fern, I’d be famous. Maybe I could convince them do a session. But the thought of him admiring my friend made me trill with jealousy.

  “Nice,” Nikki said. “You two get acquainted. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “That’s a short list,” Bradford said, cocking a half smile. “Is there anything even on it?”

  “Boys, for one,” she called over her shoulder. “Giant fist-shaped dildos, for another.”

  I shook my head. “She’s really something.”

  “She is. I guess you know I’ll be handling the wardrobe.”

  “Yes!” I popped back into professional mode, relieved for a safe topic. “Please, give me details. Are they going formal? Semi? A lot of white?”

  Bradford leaned easily against the rail. Images formed in my mind again. Shirtless, looking into the distance. Close up, focused on his eyes. “Each couple is a little different,” he said. “Only Bella will be in a traditional gown.”

  “They said you are coming with us. Is that right?” Please. Say. Yes.

  “I have hair and makeup detail.”

  Sweet!

  Fern stumbled across the patio in an awkward dance with a Palin Power Tool girl. She waved as she passed.

  “Friend of yours?” Bradford asked.

  “For maybe five more minutes.”

  “That close?”

  “We’re hard on each other. It’s part of the gig.”

  He crossed his arms, and I had to work to avoid getting distracted by his hands. “And how is she hard on you?”

  “She thinks I married wrong.”

  “You’re married?” He said it quietly, but several people turned anyway.

  I glanced down at my hand. I still wore, I realized, the diamond ring. Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to me to take it off.

  “I was.” I shoved my hand in the pocket of my jeans.

  “But not now?” His eyes had turned gentle, the smallest creases forming in the corners. He wasn’t as young as most of the others, all in their twenties. Definitely thirty.

  “He served me the papers last weekend.”

  “You going to be okay?” Bradford asked. “Photographing another wedding so soon?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “Business. I’ll be fine.” Yeah, I was desperate for cash. I would suck anything up.

  Fern circled in front of us again, this time almost falling.

  “And that, I better handle now. I’ll see you on the plane, I guess. We’ll figure everything out.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  I grabbed Fern by the arm and pulled her away from the other girl. “Just let me cut in here.”

  Fern let go of the Power Tool. “Party pooper.”

  I led her away. “I know you’re not drunk, Fern. You have the alcohol capacity of a fifty-five-gallon drum.”

  “It’s easier to get them relaxed if they think I’m toasted.”

  “This is a work situation for me,” I said quietly. “Please don’t wreck it.”

  “But they LOVE me!”

  “I know. Everybody loves Fern.”

  “Did you fall for that gay boy?”

  I glanced back at Bradford, back to chatting with the other men. “Of course not, I don’t exactly need a man right now anyway.”

  “They always come when you aren’t ready!” Fern waved at a Love Monkey. “Ready or not, here they come.”

  “This is a theme with you lately.” I grasped her firmly by the arm and led her through the maze of jerseys, smiling and waving as we passed through.

  “If you knew who I’ve been banging lately, you’d totally get it.”

  “Zest! Wait a minute!” Nikki barreled across the patio.

  I stopped, not letting go of Fern.

  Nikki smiled at Fern. “You always look even better up close.” She turned to me. “The Hoebags are all going to Rainbow tomorrow night for dance lessons. You should come!”

  Fern took a breath like she was about to talk, but I squeezed her arm.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

  “You know where it is?”

  Fern refused to be thwarted. “I do.”

  Nikki winked. “I bet you do! See you then!”

  I hustled Fern back to my car and loaded her into the passenger seat. A couple team members still watched us. I waved again as I rounded the car and opened the door.

  “What was with you tonight?” I asked. “Did you even like that boy? Or that girl? Was it all for show?”

  She stared morosely out the window as I pulled away from the curb. “Everything’s for show.”

  Chapter 9: There’ll Be Sad Songs, to Make You …Trash Your CD Collection

  This photo shoot was never going to end.

  What I definitely didn’t need to improve my last day in my own house was Harry Histrionic, Jr. and his clan exploding into waterworks during their session. I leaned on my tripod, waiting out the group hug and calculating if I had enough shots at this point to call it a wrap.

  “And Dad…Mom,” Harry said, lifting a pretend glass in a toast, “none of us would be here today without you both.”

  Of course not. They sired you.

  I stifled a groan as the mush continued. When I’d booked the shoot two weeks ago, Harry-boy had told me the picture was a gift to his parents for their fiftieth anniversary. I’d figured, hey, three families in one, nice-size order, wall portraits all around.

  I hadn’t counted on the sap factor.

  The matriarch gathered her progeny to her bosom, eyes wet with joy. Harry Senior passed her a handkerchief, red-faced and beaming, touching the heads of his bored little grandchildren, one of whom was staring at me like I was the spawn of Satan. He squinted his beady eyes at me, freckles peppering his face like someone had attacked him with a Sharpie.

  “Did you stick your finger in a light socket?” he asked.

  The hair. Always the hair. “Nope. Turned these lights up too high.” I twirled the dial on the back of one of the strobes and the modeling lamp brightened.

  His eyebrows shot up, and he ducked behind his mother’s gray skirt. Kids. Just as well Cade was having his with some bimbo. I didn’t have the patience or the temperament.

  Except maybe for that one. A smallish girl, probably five or so, clung shyly to Harry Jr.’s pant leg. She looked up at the pictures on the wall of my studio with a solemn expression, taking in every one.

  I followed her gaze to an image of a little boy with a puppy. What a horrid shoot that had been, but I’d learned from a bonus feature on a movie DVD to spread peanut butter on the kid’s face to make
the dog lick him. And it had worked too, the resulting photo almost iconic, a boy in overalls, barefoot, sitting on the curb with his pet Beagle.

  “You like that one?” I asked her.

  She slid another quarter turn behind her father’s knee, watching me with quiet eyes. I waited—the rest of the family was still hugging and mock-toasting each other—and finally she nodded, her tiny chin shifting ever so slightly up and down.

  I knelt near her. The droning of the adults was fainter down low. “Do you have a puppy?”

  She shook her head. Her red hair was tied into tight braids, but the ends bushed out like puff balls. I pointed at the freckled boy. “Is that your brother?”

  She nodded again.

  “Does he make fun of your hair too?”

  Another nod.

  I scooted closer. “Here’s what you say next time.” I glanced up at Harry Jr. “You tell him that when he gets old, his hair is all going to fall out like your daddy’s.”

  Her eyes grew wide.

  “And you can straighten yours, but he can’t make his grow back.”

  The girl cracked the tiniest smile.

  I stood up again. Everyone had gone all kissy. Harry Jr. nodded at me, the signal to play the song he’d picked out.

  A photography seminar had instructed us to create what I called the CD of Doom, something to keep around for emotional moments. Playing it during a session was supposed to build sentimental sales. I had a list on my web site to choose from. I started up “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

  Fresh sobs commenced. Tighter hugs. Harry Senior motioned for me to come over, as if to envelop me in their love-ring. “You’ve made this such a special moment,” he choked out.

  “Someone’s got to capture it!” I said, ducking behind the camera to avoid any pretense of joining the fray. I’d rather peel a pineapple with my thighs.

  And yet, as I snapped the shots, Senior kissing the matriarch, adult children wiping their eyes, even the younger ones clutching various skirts and legs, I felt the inner tug. Who wouldn’t want this? All the love and family and gush.

  Harry Senior came forward to clasp my hand. “This is a fine, fine day, Zest.” He gestured back to the family, “Fifty years. When I had that triple bypass in ’86, I didn’t think I’d live to see this.”

  The wife touched his sleeve, her hand veined and pale against the dark wool. “You’re too stubborn to kill off that easy.”

  I forced a smile. This was part of the job. In the background, Bette Midler warbled to her climax about flying higher than an eagle.

  Harry Senior grasped me more firmly. “Trust me, Zest, there’s nothing like looking back at all the years you’ve spent with wife and family, and knowing they were the best thing to ever hit you.”

  Hitting something. Violence was becoming a viable option. I pulled my hand back, acting as though I needed to adjust the equipment. “I know what you mean,” I said, even though I didn’t, randomly changing dials on the camera.

  The grandmother pulled the eldest son to her and kissed his forehead. “You were so smart to plan a photo,” she said.

  I walked behind them, clanging the roller chains against the metal poles as I raised the background. Swimming against the tide of tenderness was exhausting.

  I tried to avoid doing the math, but the numbers came anyway. If I managed to find a new man and remarry within a year, I’d be seventy-eight at my own fiftieth. Someone would probably have to stick a hat on my head as I slumped on a motorized geezer cart.

  Congratulations, Zest, here’s your anniversary cake puree.

  Harry Senior squeezed my shoulder. “You okay, Zest?”

  I snapped off the studio lights. “Now don’t be late to your big dinner. I’ll call you when the proofs are ready to view!” Not sure where I’d be or where I’d show them, but I’d have them.

  They all began hugging me in turn as they filed out the side door, other than freckle boy. I gulped in air between each embrace, holding stiff to avoid letting their sentiment rub off on me. No more anniversary shoots, not for a while. Screw the money, I couldn’t handle it. The little girl peeked out from behind her father’s leg again. She didn’t offer a hug but gave me a shy smile. I pushed on my hair and pointed at her brother. She smiled bigger.

  When the last one was gone, I turned back to the garage. I’d spent weeks getting it converted to a studio, what seemed a lifetime ago. Time to pack it.

  In the quiet, the CD served up the next song. Celine Dion. “My Heart Will Go On.”

  One CD Frisbee smashed against the wall, coming right up.

  Chapter 10: Sweet Destitution

  I pushed my red cart down the aisles of Target, dodging mothers with toddlers hanging from the sides of their overloaded baskets, and snagged the cheapest self-inflating mattress from the shelf. On an end cap I found a fuzzy pink blanket, as soft as I’d ever laid my hands on. It would make a good set piece for infants anyway, pastel and washable. I could write it off as a business expense. The IRS didn’t have to know that I’d photograph three-headed dogs in hell before subjecting myself to the presence of a bundle of joy.

  Pillows cost more than I’d figured. Anything fuller than the squished flat things in the bottom bins were $30. I pulled one off the middle rack and tucked it under my arm. Cade would probably have to pay half of anything I bought anyway, since we were still sharing credit.

  With that thought, I headed over to housewares. Fern had the most useless kitchen ever, nothing but a microwave and a blender. She subsisted solely on alcohol and protein shakes. I grabbed a couple Pyrex dishes and a saucepan, then on impulse, a coffee maker. No more pricey Starbucks for me, unless I had a meeting set up there. Time to act like the impoverished wretch I was.

  I picked up a few food items on the way back to the registers. I should be set for a little while. I wheeled the cart to the checkout lane, where a beehived woman in her fifties greeted me.

  I watched her scan the items, wondering how a woman like her, no wedding ring, probably no help, could make ends meet working at Target. I wished I could ask her, get tips maybe, but instead pulled my credit card from my wallet and zipped it through the machine.

  “Transaction canceled,” it read. “Try again or use another card.”

  “Just swipe it again, honey,” the woman said. “It’s always on the fritz.”

  I ran the card more carefully this time, but it still read, “Transaction canceled.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, panic already rising.

  “Let me try it over here,” she said, sliding the card across the groove above her keyboard.

  She shook her head. “You’re tapped out. It doesn’t tell me why, if you’re over the limit, or expired or whats-it. But it won’t go through. You want me to call them? Or you got another way to pay?”

  I pulled out the check card from my joint account with Cade, but I had a feeling I knew what would happen. “We can try this,” I said and ran the card through the machine.

  Transaction canceled.

  I checked my wallet. Two twenties and the uncashed check from Harry Histrionic. My face burned. “I guess I’ll have to put some things back, see what I can pay with cash.”

  A women with two kids behind me sighed and began grabbing her items off the conveyor belt and sticking them back in her cart.

  The checker smiled sympathetically. “Okay, honey, what you got?”

  “Forty dollars.”

  “What’s most important?” She pointed to the screen, which listed what I’d bought and their prices.

  The bed was over thirty all by itself. The blanket was twenty.

  “Um, keep the bed and the saucepan.”

  “Gotcha.” She began shoving the rest in a bin beneath the counter. “Okay, $37.98.”

  “And the Ramen noodles.”

  She scanned the packages, six for a dollar.

  “39.06.”

  I handed her the cash, utterly humiliated.

  ***

  I struggl
ed beneath the boxes loaded with studio gear and essential clothes and pushed the button to the elevator for Fern’s condo. A security guard watched me from behind a polished teak desk as I tried to maintain my balance. Musak drifted from invisible speakers.

  At last the doors slid open. A greasy-haired twenty-something stood inside wearing a ridiculous gray bellboy get-up straight from a sitcom. “Moving in?” he asked as I shuffled inside.

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. There could be a policy against long-term guests. I didn’t want to get Fern in trouble, but even more importantly, I didn’t want to get kicked out.

  “Oh no, just some…stuff.”

  “What floor?”

  “Four.”

  He pushed a button, face forward, but his eyes kept shifting to my box. Finally, he pointed to the Target bag with the package sticking out, clearly marked, “Auto Blow Up Mattress.” Nosy asshat.

  I angled the box so he couldn’t peer in. “We’re going camping.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “The Ozarks.”

  “Which part?”

  Crap. What states were the Ozarks in? Maybe he didn’t know either. “Missouri.”

  “It’ll get cold at night. You’ll have to cuddle up.”

  The elevator dinged, and the door opened. I stepped forward, but the man put his hand against my box. “Wrong floor,” he said. “Someone pressed a button on two.”

  He moved to the doorway, looking both directions. “No one here. I should investigate.”

  “Probably somebody just forgot something.”

  “Could be someone in trouble.” He pressed the red button to stop the elevator from moving and puffed out his chest importantly. “Just let me check.”

  I leaned back against the wall, trying to find a comfortable position with my box.

  He disappeared down the hall. I blew a wisp of hair out of my face and waited.

  And waited.

  Finally, he popped back into the elevator. “False alarm.”

  “What a surprise.”