The Chiropractor's Assistant

  The poetry reading was billed as a retrospective, but for some reason Gregory - a thinly elegant man with bifocals and a thick head of unkempt, silver hair - chose to open with ten poems from his most recent publication. He read with a renewed passion and sincerity that caught many of the listeners off guard and left the audience hanging on every poignant image and jaggedly sculpted verse. A half hour into the reading, the author shifted to a work-in-progress, a series of haiku-style, shorter poems which, while not as interesting as the earlier material, was still quite remarkable.

  On the ride home, Elliot glanced at Marilyn. Again, her hands were folded demurely in her lap, a contented smile coloring her lips. Chrissy had moved to the front seat wedged between her mother and the window. The scowl was gone, replaced by an expressionless, neutral mask

  When they reached the apartment, Chrissy nodded, almost but not quite cordially, and vanished into the apartment. "Thank you so much, Elliot," Marilyn said. "I can't remember when I've had such a wonderful time." She leaned forward, cocked her head to one side and kissed Elliot full on the lips. The kiss was generous and lingering; she was in no hurry to give it up. And yet, the gesture was perfectly discrete.

  Elliot's first wife, Nadine, had been an effusively wet and sloppy kisser, one might even say an hysterical kisser. Even before their marriage, her emotions careened haphazardly all over the place. She favored the shotgun approach to sexual bonding, spraying her affection (and her rage) like buckshot pellets. Marilyn Moneghan’s approach was totally focused and deliberate - like a hunter with a single-shot, high-powered rifle. There was nothing random or arbitrary about the woman.

  The following Saturday, Elliot took Marilyn on an outing to Horseneck Beach. Before they left, she asked Elliot to stop at her church. The request caught Elliot off guard. But then, so many unusual things had happened in recent days that he simply shrugged and replied, "Yes, of course," as though it was the most ordinary thing to do.

  At Saint Mary's, Elliot followed her up the stone stairs and waited in the foyer as Marilyn lit a candle and knelt

  briefly in prayer. The church smelled of incense and musty hymnals. In an alcove was a statue of the Virgin Mary, one hand poised gracefully over her heart, the other extended in a supplicating gesture. Elliot, who associated statues of any kind - even plastic lawn ornaments - with idol worship, moved several feet to the right so that he was no longer directly in front of the Holy Mother. When Marilyn finished her petition, she crossed herself and came out to join him.

  "You pray to the statues?" Elliot indicated a row of decorative, plaster images - apostles, angels and saints - that lined the far wall of the church.

  "I pray through, not to them," she corrected. Standing there in the entry of the church with her thin, chiseled lips and high cheek bones, there was a pristine, almost spiritual elegance about her. "I ask the Holy Mother to intercede for me and grant my prayers."

  Elliot had studied Jewish law: the Talmud, Shulchan Aruch, Maimonides' Guide for the Perplexed, the Torah and its various commentaries - even some of the esoteric, otherworldly works of the Hassidim - but his approach to God was more pragmatic than devotional.

  Marilyn dipped her fingers in a porcelain bowl of holy water and touched her hand to her forehead. "Do you believe in prayer?"

  "Half-heartedly," Elliot replied. "I’ve never been terribly sure that God hears my prayers or cares enough to act on them."

  "Sounds more like a politician than a supreme being."

  In lieu of a formal response, Elliot shrugged.

  "I’ve been having some pain in my hip," Marilyn said, turning the waistband of her skirt inside out to reveal a small patch of red velvet no bigger than a postage stamp, which had been attached to the fabric with a small safety pin. "My mother gave me this piece of cloth. She brought it back from a pilgrimage to a shrine in Southern France." She let go of the waistband and the cloth disappeared back under her skirt.

  "It’s going to cure your hip?"

  "Certainly can’t hurt."

  "And if the pain doesn’t go away?"

  "I’ll let Dr. Edwards have a crack at it."

  Elliot scratched his ear and stared at the statue of the Madonna. The benevolent, enlightened eyes and outstretched hand seemed less imposing. "You believe that silly little piece of cloth can heal your hip?"

  "It doesn’t matter what I think," she replied, ignoring his sarcasm. "My mother believes in the miraculous powers of the cloth." She showed him the red velvet patch again. "It was cut from a much larger piece of material that was blessed and touched to the base of the shrine. The cloth has special, healing powers." Though she said this with childlike innocence, there was nothing frivolous or naive in her demeanor.

  He reached out and grabbed her right hand and studied the long, slender fingers with the pale red nails. "When you crossed yourself after saying your prayers, your hands were so lovely." He released his grip, and they headed back in the direction of the car. Elliot picked up Route 195 East a short distance outside of the city and, a half hour later, crossed over the Mount Hope Bay. When they reached Fall River, they turned south on Route 88 and rode the highway straight to the ocean.

  They had been dating a month and Elliot told Marilyn he wanted to make love to her. They were driving home from the movies. She edged closer to him on the seat. "I can't sleep over," she cautioned. "We have to be discrete." It was a dry, clear summer night with a multitude of stars. "On Saturdays, Chrissy takes flute lessons at the Conservatory. If I'm not home when she gets back, she won't think anything unusual."

  For the sake of modesty, Elliot went about the apartment drawing the shades, but for some crazy reason, all the lights - even his 200-watt reading lamp - were burning when Marilyn arrived and began peeling her clothes off. First the blouse, then the bra. Wriggling out of her panties, she dropped them near the night table and stretched out on the bed sheets. Elliot was more shock by her nonchalance than seeing her in the buff. He quickly undressed and lay down beside her. "Aren't you going to turn the lights off?" she asked in her gravelly monotone. He threw the switch and, as he turned back to face her, was met with a kiss and tangle of arms and hair.

  Afterwards, Elliot had to admit that it wasn't what he had expected. Despite her libidinous good looks, Marilyn was basically a meat-and-potatoes romantic, a sedate and comfortable lover. There were no animalistic excesses, no kinky eccentricities. The sex was far more perfunctory than funky. "I'm going to take a shower now," she said when the lovemaking was finished. With her flawless, ivory-colored breasts swinging gloriously from side to side, Marilyn Moneghan sashayed out of the room.

 

  Around the middle of the following week, Elliot called. "There’s an art exhibit on the East Side Friday night."

  "It's no good. I'm spending some time with my parents."

  "Well, what about Saturday?"

  "Sorry, that's out, too. I've already made plans."

  There was a short, uncomfortable pause. "What sort of plans?"

  "I've got a date."

  "With who?" Elliot felt a tightening in his throat.

  "Just someone I met, that's all."

  "I see." Elliot didn't really see anything at all. He was blinded by resentment. "Have a nice time," he said and hung up. Why was he wishing her a nice time? He didn't want her to enjoy herself with some sex-starved lothario. Short of sodomy and food poisoning, he wanted Marilyn Moneghan to have every woman's worse nightmare of a date - the quintessential date from hell.

  Over the remainder of the week, Elliot slipped into a disagreeable funk. On Sunday morning rather than call, he drove over to Marilyn's apartment with a dozen warm bagels and a small container of whipped cream cheese with chives. Chrissy showed him into the living room.

  "I didn't know you were stopping by," Marilyn said.

  "Thought I'd surprise you," He said, affecting a flippant tone and handed her the bag.

  "Truth is, I don't much like surprises." They went into the kitc
hen and Marilyn began slicing the bagels.

  "So, how was your date?"

  "We went out to eat, that's all."

  Chrissy wandered into the room and sniffed at the food. The word 'Hootie' was etched on the back of her neck in two-inch high red and black letters. "I hope that isn’t permanent," Elliot said.

  "It's just a rub-on," Chrissy replied. "I got it at a novelty shop."

  "What's it mean?"

  "Hootie and the Blowfish. They're the hottest group in rock." She tore a sesame bagel in half and smeared it with a thick glob of cream cheese. "Their debut album, Cracked Rear View, sold 13 million."

  "I don't know," Elliot countered testily, "that it justifies using the back of your head as a billboard for some obscure rock group."

  "When you sell 13 million albums, there's a certain amount of name recognition," Chrissy said drolly and left the room.

  "You know what I mean," Elliot said turning to Marilyn.

  "It's not the sort of thing you or I would do, but so what?" Elliot made an unintelligible sound by way of protest. "She's 13 years old. Can't you remember what it was like to be that age?"

  Unfortunately, Elliot did remember. At 13 he was barmitzvahed. His face was covered with pimples and he was obsessed with the female genitalia - a subject about which he possessed absolutely no first-hand knowledge.

  "Hootie and the Blowfish. I'll have to remember that name." His thoughts reverted back to Chrissy but for a different reason. He wondered if the girl knew that her mother had been out with another man. He felt foolish, humiliated.

  Marilyn set the toaster oven on top brown and placed several bagels on the metal rack. When the bagels were done, she arranged them on a small serving tray. "Coffee or tea?"

  "Tea's fine." Elliot took a tentative bite. "So are you going to see this fellow again?"

  She put the kettle aside and stared at Elliot with a fixed expression. "I appreciate your driving over here with the bagels. That was a sweet gesture. But I don't like being put on the spot because I did something you don't approve of." She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and scowled at the floor. "If you get bent out of shape because I have a date, it's your problem, not mine."

  Elliot, who thought he had hit rock bottom when he discovered Marilyn's quasi-infidelity, slid another few notches down into crushing worthlessness. They ate in silence. "I don't think we should see each other for a couple of weeks," she said as she was walking him to the door.

  Elliot heard the words filtered through the numbness of his gloom. "Are you breaking up with me?"

  "No. That’s not it." Marilyn placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed him with a casualness, an unassuming briskness, that only added to his misery and confusion. "Things are getting a bit too intense."

  Everything was falling to pieces. His self-serving ploy with the bagels had been exposed for what it was - a transparent sham - and blown up in his face. "All right," Elliot mumbled. He turned to go but lingered uncertainly in the doorway. "What should I do, then?" he asked like a contrite child.

  "Call me in a couple of weeks."

  "Fourteen days?"

  "And we'll pick up where we left off."

  "That sounds fair enough." Actually, it didn't sound fair at all. She might as well have chained Elliot to the wall in the basement and beat him nightly with a pressure-treated 2 by 4. That would have been preferable to the Chinese water torture of a two-week wait.

  Elliot called the following Sunday.

  "I thought I said two weeks."

  "Yes, but I wanted to hear your voice. What's the harm in that?"

  "The harm is you didn't fulfill your end of the bargain."

  "What bargain?"

  "You agreed to wait until the second Sunday. I was quite clear about the length of time."

  "So I'll hang up and call back in seven days." Elliot could feel the insane panic gurgling up from his bowels into his chest. Or was it flowing in the opposite direction? He couldn’t be sure about much of anything these days.

  "Two weeks is two weeks," Marilyn said evenly. "We’ll start from scratch. Call back two weeks from today."

  "Two weeks from today," he could just barely manage to keep the hysteria in his voice under control, "will be three weeks if you count the time that's already passed."

  "We had an agreement. Don't you dare call me for another 14 days."

  She hung up and that's when Elliot began to cry. He stormed about the apartment kicking at things, throwing books and magazines, banging his fists against the hardwood table until the knuckles ached and his hatred of Marilyn Moneghan and the entire Christian community became slightly more manageable.

  Two weeks. A British fortnight. Elliot had to survive the next 336 hours - 21,160 minutes - and hope that, between now and then, which would put him into the middle of June, Marilyn Moneghan would not become formally engaged and with-child. Elliot was crushed, demoralized; the idea of anyone else putting their grubby hands on her body made him physically sick.

  Shiker ist a Goy, und nichter ist a Yid. Drunken Cossacks rioting in the streets. That had been his grandmother Esther’s reality. Here Elliot was, less than a century later, fawning over a devout Catholic with breasts the size of melons, a woman who dated other men, humiliated and degraded him with her unwavering edicts.

  At the end of the two-week hiatus, Elliot and Marilyn picked up where they left off with no apparent damage to the relationship. There was no further mention of the other man, and Elliot had the good sense not to bring the matter up again. In the bedroom, he might have wished for more variety, but there was something comfortably engaging in Marilyn’s blunt, no-nonsense approach to sex. When the lovemaking was over, Elliot would stare at her lovely body, the ivory skin lathered in a thin film of sweat, and count his blessings. The sight of her with her wide shoulders thrown back and hips rocking gloriously from side to side as she glided naked about the room, took his breath away.

  "How can you stomach that awful nonsense!" Friday night they were sitting on the sofa at her Silver Lake apartment. Marilyn was watching The Wheel of Fortune.

  She turned and stared at him with mock indignation. "It's just something to pass the time."

  Vanna White had just revealed another letter. Marilyn, her lips moving silently, was cycling through a series of words that might unravel the phrase on the game board. She leaned forward, momentarily tuning Elliot out. "I hate these shows. They drive me nuts!"

  "Would you like me to turn the volume off?"

  She reached for the clicker, but Elliot grabbed her hand. "No, that's not necessary. I just don’t grasp what you see in it."

  "I could say the same about some of the books you read." She lifted a hard-cover volume from his hands and, fixing her eyes on a paragraph midway down the left-hand page, began to read out loud:

  "Deconstructive fiction is parallel to revisionist

  history in that it tells the story from the other

  side or from some queer angle that casts doubt

  on the generally accepted values handed

  down by legend. Whereas metafiction deconstructs

  by directly calling attention to fiction’s tricks, - "

  She stopped reading but kept her eyes glued on the printed matter. "You obviously like this stuff or you wouldn't waste either your money or your time on it."

  Elliot could feel his ears burning. She handed him back the book, lowered the volume on the television by half and settled in with what was left of her game show.

  "How's the stiffness in your hip?" he said shifting gears. "You never mentioned it after the trip to Horseneck Beach."

  "Everything's fine now."

  "You went to Dr. Edwards?"

  "There wasn't any need. The pain went away."

  Elliot ran his finger over the spine of his book. "The red cloth miraculously healed your leg?"

  "I'm sure it helped," she said in an offhand manner.

  Elliot was more put off by her blind fait
h, her pig-headed guilelessness, than by the fact that something inexplicable might have occurred. "But there's no proof that anything happened."

  "The stiffness is gone." Again, her tone was bland and unquestioning.

  "Perhaps it went away of its own accord. A spontaneous remission."

  "Yes, that's also a possibility." Her mind was like a body of water flowing easily and smoothly around an immovable object.

  "Shiker ist a Goy, und nichter ist a Yid."

  "What was that?" Elliot told Marilyn the story of his Grandma Esther.

  After he had finished she kissed him on the cheek and said, "Now I understand why you are such a doubting Thomas."

  Tears glistened in his eyes, which he made no effort to hide. "I was thinking," he said in a choked voice, "of asking you to marry me."

  If the abrupt shift in both his tone and mood caught Marilyn off guard, she revealed nothing. "When were you planning to do that?"

  "In a month or so." Elliot rose and went to the window. There was a warm breeze. The smell of summer barbecues and fresh mown grass hung sweetly in the humid air. "I was wondering what your answer might be."

  "Hard to say. A month is a long way off and a lot could happen." Marilyn took an elastic band from her pocket, gathered up her hair and secured it in a cropped ponytail. "I suppose that, if things continue as they have, I'd agree to marry you." She rose and joined him by the window. "A word of advice, though. Between now and then, you might want to work at improving your delivery."

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  No Bear, no Forest

  Around two in the afternoon an olive-skinned girl wandered down to the lake and started skipping stones across the placid water. One of the rocks almost struck Lester McSweeney’s bobber. “Would you please stop doing that.”

  The girl scowled then came and stood next to him. She wore tan shorts and a crisp white blouse. The face was finely chiseled with a broad sweep of delicate, ebony eyebrows. “Catch anything?”

  Lester reeled in, the line weighted down by a slimy tangle of vegetation. “Almost.”

  “I don’t see any fish so I will assume you’re having a crappy day.” The girl, who spoke with a thick guttural accent, turned and stared at him impudently. The way she sauntered about, hands on hips, one might have thought she owned Lake Winnipesauke, all the guest cabins and the humpbacked mountain range off to the east.