By Skelton Alabaster Church
It's Tuesday and we're sitting at Arleen's kitchen table, Arleen, and I. In the middle of this large table made intimately small by Arleen's decorations, maybe by accident, is the biggest bowl of Cantaloupe I have ever seen in my entire life. Somehow she had cut up four Cantaloupes and fit all of the pieces into what I considered a single monument of Tupperware.
We are sitting in front of what are probably the most expensive paper plates on the market because Arleen doesn't really do dishes. It's not that she detests doing the dishes but after she's done she has to sit down because she's tired which is really what she hates. Arleen K. Fergusen has no stamina. Furthermore, it's always been a mystery to me as to how she ever has energy in the first place despite the fact that I know perfectly well she drinks enough Diet Dr. Pepper to, I think, give a common lab mouse cancer. Arleen's diet consists of a lot of fatty foods, (not junk foods, but certainly fatty foods) but also a lot of fruit. Any dessert that is sugar-free is fair game. By comparison, Arleen is actually much healthier than she used to be because she had Diabetes far before she was diagnosed, like a large population of the elderly nowadays. I've often heard Arleen admit "what have I got to be healthy for anyway? I'm seventy three years old!"
Any way, I'm breathing heavily because the Cantaloupe is so good, slobbering practically, but I would never give her the notion that I liked it so much because I told her once that I didn't and I hate when some bozo asks "I thought you didn't like"…Cantaloupe, or Sardines, or whatever the hell they thought was important. As such, I kept my eyelids from half-closing (for this is a sign that I'm enjoying the tactility of something; a gentle warm touch of the hand or of the breath), tried not to pay so much attention on the delicious Cantaloupe (as though it were a task to eat this fruit, which in this case, it was, for that was the purpose of my visit at Arleen's request), and sat up straight like I normally would for dinner at the Fergusen house. I had another reason for behaving so well despite my deep, and full-bodied involvement with this melon: Alreen was expecting the red-haired girl from down the street. I almost expected her presence today was actually because Arleen had called her to help her eat the veritable Everest of Cantaloupe, but I knew better than that. Sure, she liked to have visitors come to just loiter in her parlor (which is really a living room) but more often than not the purpose of a visit was business. If the case were Mrs. President Arleen K. Fergusen, the fate of the western world would be decided lying in a lazy-boy and wrapped in a bathrobe.
Arleen: You'd better eat all of this Cantaloupe or I'm sending some home with you!
SC: (Uncommonly quick to arrive at my point) You could always serve it this Sunday for dinner. (I felt a vague sense of shame for abruptly implying that I had already been invited to dinner. I consider discourtesy, including and perhaps especially odd occasions of discourteous slights, to be an offense comparable to murder in terms of atrocity. I hold myself to such rigid ethics but do I so rigidly obey them? One might suppose that ethics and morals are a luxury for it is a pleasure to enjoy them just as it is to display a sacred relic in one's home as a treasured mantle piece).
Arleen: Yeah I thought about it. I probably will if it lasts that long; I bought all these melons at Harmon's 'cause they had a sale on them, which is a miracle because they always have the most expensive fruit if it's worth a hoot, but otherwise (shakes her head while curling her lips into a frown) I don't bother.
(Arleen dislikes rhyming in common vernacular and the fact that she had just done so disturbed her.)
SC: I caught one of your photos breathing today. Pass the butter please.
Arleen: (Quietly leaning towards me and in a still low voice) It's good butter isn't it?
SC: Mmhmm! (I always complement her on her food. I can't bear to give her a bad review-a quality impressed on me by her former spouse.)
(The butter she is speaking of is not just plain butter; it is a butter blend that contains egg, sour cream, and sweetener but not sugar, of course, because of her diabetes. Its mellow flavor is intended to take the edge off this very ripe, very strong Cantaloupe. How did she anticipate she'd need it anyway? What the hell, woman!)
SC: I was looking at one of the photos of great grandpa Milton today and I could have sworn he sighed at me assuredly.
Arleen: (While buttering her Cantaloupe) Are you sick? Are you hearing voices now?
SC: No. (Pause) A voice I'd like to hear for once is God's.
Arleen: Everyone hears God's voice. Ain't no person can say they don't. I don't know where you inherited your imagination from but it sure wasn't from your mother's side of the family.
SC: Well I don't know where I inherited my uneven arms for that matter. All my suits have to be specially tailored. Speaking of suits, I don't know if my suit will be cleaned before this Sunday. By the looks of it yesterday, I shouldn't expect any day before Tuesday. Getting ready for Sunday takes a lot of effort sometimes.
Arleen: I wish church was a drive-thru.
SC: (Silence) I beg your pardon?
Arleen: I said I wish church was a drive-thru. I wish I could go to church in my bathrobe and not get out of the car not once. They could serve the sacrament through the car window and we'd pass it to the car beside us.
SC: And the bishop could preside over us from a giant screen like a drive-in movie.
Arleen: (Suddenly rather excited) That's what I'm saying! We wouldn't have to go through all that trouble of putting all our clothes on, no one would have a care in the world. Wouldn't that be nice? I think everyone wants to go to church like that.
SC: Not me, I like to look like I give a damn.
Arleen: Well, me too. I like to get pretty for church. I like to be the fanciest gal there.
SC: I think a lot of people go to church for that reason, the aisles between that pews are just catwalks.
Arleen: That's the only time I dress up.
(I don't show it, but right now I'm imagining a gaudy sermon presided over by the Reverend Elvis Presley whose cross is embedded with shimmering diamonds and rubies, where all the men wear fine Armani suits and look totally dapper and sleek, and where the women wear the softest colored suits, some blue, some violet, and many pearly pink. Subsequently I imagine a church has collapsed on a nearby congregation full of grieving single mothers, former alcoholics and drug abusers, and bastard children that, later when published in the papers, nobody pays much attention to. Also I find it increasingly difficult to resist laughing feverishly).
I can't get off of this butter Arleen has prepared, and this is an example of why I could never give a bad review of Arleen's cooking. This is true because she seldom made anything that didn't make my tongue lay back and bathe in flavor. When her husband was alive and ate her dinners he always ended every meal by saying "that was very good my dear, thank you!" He said it without fail, and as usual she was nonplussed by his complement. They were not unhappy, no, they were simply displaying a comfortable ritual that remained unbroken until he suffered a stroke and died thereafter at the hospital having fallen out a four-story window trying to put his shoes on so he could escape the orderlies.
Donald, or "Jibs" as he was commonly known since childhood, was a goofy man. Very few people understood this; Jibs was not the kind of man who was goofy to some people and to others not, he was goofy in front of everyone and at all times. Part of the reason most people did not know this is because of his serious looking face; his eyebrows were most severe: they were colored dark brown and white and due to their unnatural length they point upwards and were longest at the ends. His voice sounded the way a farmer pulling stubborn cattle looks. Often the words that escaped from the struggle inside his vocal chords were parrot like repetitions of things people were saying around him. When he prepared to say something it appeared as though he was about to say it unnecessarily loud. It usually was. Jibs cared very little that very few people understand him.
The red-haired girl arrives in the frame of the front door window. This visage is so powerful I lose feeling in my legs like I'm about to experience a terrific orgasm. I briefly panic inside because I'm fairly sure she has seen me stuffing my face, and I'm almost certain I look oafish right now but I quickly control my appearance by taking a drink of cool water as she enters the house. I look presentable, and luckily Arleen doesn't notice I've made the effort or else she'd make a deal out of it in front of this girl whose name I consider a devilish delight to hear for it reminds me of writhing naked on sun-warmed silk bed sheets on a cool autumn day. I need to lie down.
Arleen: Come sit down and have some Cantaloupe.
Girl: I starved myself all last night and this morning just so I could, I'm so glamorous.
SC: (Delighted by her grotesque sense of humor, I pour her a glass of water) Have some water so it's easier to throw this up! You've got to stay young and beautiful if you want to be loved! (We all laugh except for Arleen, who isn't offended but just doesn't think it's as funny as we do.)
Arleen: So what am I then? I'm not young and beautiful so that must mean I'm not loved.
Girl: (Snickering) Oh, you stop it.
SC: Maybe that's why no one sits next to you at church.
Arleen: (A burp of laughter)
SC: I guess now that you know the truth you can give up this guise of the respectable well-dressed lady and go to church in your bathrobe like you've always wanted. You could be 'Arleen, the crazy church lady'.
Arleen: I am a crazy church lady. Don't you know?
Girl: You're what? A crazy church lady, is that what you said?
Arleen: (laughs) Yeah.
Girl: Why?! Why are you the crazy church lady?
Arleen: (Good-humored but indignant) Because! I want to go to church and be comfortable, and I don't want to sit in those pews that hurt my old butt when I sit in them and I don't want to be distracted by some little brat that needs to be spanked! Is that too much to ask?
SC: You know what I think is the funniest? God loves little children, as everyone knows, they're the most innocent, most perfect out of all of us according to Jesus, but do they act like it? That's what's funny: God's most revered are also the most irreverent. (Continued is the remainder of this thought expressed, for I wouldn't reveal it in front of Arleen for fear of her judgment of my doubt: I wonder sometimes if we can trust what we feel is God's presence; when a child is in danger and scrambles for assistance, panics for safety, prays to God, can we say that a child knows God exists? Can it not also be that in times like those we simply reject the present reality? This is a normal occurance, is this really evidence of God? Is there life on Mars? Will a raft stay adrift at sea forever? What about church collapses? What about heroin babies? What about unsolved serial murders? Should I wash my hair daily? Is money truly evil? Is it the economy? Can Africa be saved?)
My comment puts a stop in the topic and I worry that I have been too serious.
Girl: This Cantaloupe is delicious. (Feigning a swanky high-English accent) It's divine, really. It will be a pleasure to use your restroom later so I can (makes a vomiting sound) powder my nose.
SC: (With a mouth full of Cantaloupe I smile through perched lips and laugh at this joke of hers, ours, so as not to reveal the carnage of tangerine-colored flesh inside it. My laughter comes from my nose instead and I cover my mouth to prevent juice from squirting out. This excites her and, thus, excites me deeply. This gesture was more for her benefit than mine. I want her to see that I'm enjoying her, which I am and would be, regardless of this gesture. It seems Arleen is oblivious to my feelings for this girl. This is actually normal and I'm glad. In this moment it is revealed to me that I never liked to confess my love interests to anyone close enough to be considered a family member. I like this girl deeply. She reminds me of the feeling I had when I was twelve and I first saw a naked woman. It's the sort of feeling that makes my heart sweat. It makes my feet tingle and my mouth taste the way saunas feel, and the only music I can hear is Prince, which is not unusual anyway.)
Arleen divides the rest of the Cantaloupe into different plastic containers and makes a phone call to a pharmacist and we retire, one by one, to the parlor for lounging and I convince myself not to eat for another six hours. I sit in the recliner next to the door that faces the room and is directly across from Arleen's chair, to the left of me on the couch is my secret admiree. While I regard the red-haired girl for a moment I notice she has begun to capture each space occupied by porcelain figurines and statuettes. It has dawned on me that she has come to the realization that I came to years ago: this house is full of ornaments. She looks at me with disbelief and I encourage her observation by showing her my eyes looking around the entire room. I confirm her thoughts by nodding my head quietly as my gazes breathes her incredulous stare into mine: she gets the joke! She sits back and spreads her arms across the crest of the couch. The fragile swans and country folk around the parlor seem to laugh with us, and at last I sense the chemical energy of magnets slowly gaining power. I am giddy.
Arleen hangs up the phone and finishes a Dr. Pepper. I direct my attention to her but she stares into space above my head. She is arranging her day, but she could also be arranging an assassination, or a wedding. Who knows? This takes eleven seconds.
"I guess I'll go wash up", she says with the calamity of cranking her recliner to the stationary position, and the red-haired girl and I take that as our cue exeunt. "I'll see you two on Sunday.
I've been invited to dinner, so I start arranging what I'll wear. I dress to impress. I want to wear flowers but I don't want Arleen or this girl to get comfortable with the idea that I might be a homosexual. I can look cute too, that has worked for me in the past with complete strangers but I act like the look is brand new, like I have no idea how cute I am. I'm a wolf in sheep's clothing.
I hand the girl her coat sitting on top of mine and she smiles and says thank you. Arleen says Ciao and we oblige as she shuts her front door. Her arms are thick and strong so this act is kind of noisy. We depart by harmlessly exchanging rude, loud insults about fashionable eating disorders until we start our cars, and as she speeds past me I can see she's still laughing. Finally I feel hope. I haven't felt hope in five years