style="font-size:15px;"> Whitesnake is in my head as I kiss her. And why wouldn’t Whitesnake be in my head? For one, their ’79 album Lovehunter is graced by the greatest piece of cover art in rock history—a naked, bare-assed Amazonian warrior princess astride a giant snake. For another, it is both a blessing and a curse of my generation that we set our lives to a constant soundtrack of suspect music and even more suspect decisions, the pitiful made indescribable by David Coverdale’s cautionary serenade that I should have known better, than to let you go aloooone.
I just now realize that Whitesnake is a euphemism for penis.
Chapter SIX
Mom lost another baby again. Her doctor told her that the first trimester was the most critical time for the viability of the fetus, but he made the mistake of counting on my mom’s uterus. She almost made it to six months this time, three months longer than the first miscarriage.
My father was better this time around. He has been an absolute rock, if I’m being honest. Yesterday, Uncle Mitch called to tell him the annulment with Aunt Ophelia was final and that he was relocating to the West Coast. Dad seemed more angry than sad. I was more resentful than grateful that he didn’t want to talk about it.
Chapter seven
Laura squeezes my shoulder. “How’s your mom doing?”
“Good.”
“Really?”
“Almost too good. Mom and Dad say they’re trying again as soon as they get the okay from the doctor.”
“Wow.”
“I know—crazy, right?”
“I was thinking more like courageous.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Cut her some slack, Hank. She’s just a mom who wants to be a mom again.”
“I guess.” I hand Laura her bottle of Sea Breeze. “Is this the last of them?”
“I think so,” Laura answers.
I’ve spent most of our last night together before spring break helping Laura pack. For the last hour, we’ve emptied and washed a large assortment of shampoo, mouthwash, and hair gel bottles, which we then refilled with an even greater assortment of alcohols in the clear family: schnapps, vodka, gin. The Sea Breeze bottle is filled with tequila, its amber color passing for the skin astringent. Laura’s suitcase comprises these dozen or so bottles, two pairs of frayed jean shorts, three pairs of underwear, three T-shirts, and a white bikini. She modeled the bikini top for me earlier, her large breasts overwhelming the white cups. At least it isn’t red.
The opening chords of “Moving in Stereo” ring again in my ears. “This all you taking, honey?”
Laura bats her eyes. She softens her smoky lilt down to a feminine and sexy tone. “I was thinking about packing just my bikini and the booze.”
I don’t see the humor in this, and Laura notices. “Come here, sweetie,” she says, her hand extended towards mine.
I step cautiously toward her. She grabs my hand and pulls me into her. She gives me a deep kiss, one of those kisses that’s so long and intense you start gasping through your nose to breathe.
“What was that for?” I say.
Laura puts her head on my shoulder. “Reassurance?”
I want to be comforted, but I can’t tell if she’s talking to me or herself.
Chapter eight
“I’m not going on no fucking retreat.”
“Watch your mouth,” Mom says. “I already paid for it, and you don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s with some kids from East Catholic up at the CYO center in Indianapolis. It’ll do you some good to meet new people. Get out of the Ridge social circle for a few days, get your mind off Laura.”
“I don’t want to get my mind off Laura.” I stare at the television. For the last week, MTV has been broadcasting live from Panama City Beach, and I’ve spent every waking hour since Laura left watching the coverage in lieu of eating, showering, or engaging with the world on even a rudimentary level.
“If I have to watch you mope around this house for even one more day, I’m going to go nuts. It’s pathetic.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, but going on a three day religious retreat for my spring break isn’t much of an upgrade on the pathetic scale.”
Future Cardinal Joseph E. Ritter started the Catholic Youth Organization back in the thirties or forties. The “CYO” supports a variety of youth activities—anything that keeps our dicks in our pants. And nowhere is this brainwashing more acute than the retreats.
Retreat. The word carries with it a certain connotation in Catholic circles: rebirth, resurrection, renewal…retarded. You disappear for a few days, get all hopped up on Jesus, then spend the next few months trying to clear him out of your system. Jesus is like bad lunchmeat, I guess.
I went to my first retreat last year as a sophomore. They corralled a thousand of us into the East Catholic High School gymnasium. The motivational speaker was a “rock ’n roll priest,” a guy who tried to validate his coolness by using contemporary music during Mass. Father Don was his name. He played Mr. Mister’s “Kyrie” as an entrance hymn. I made out with a girl who had a Mohawk and smelled like peaches and marijuana, which, come to think of it, wasn’t a totally horrible experience.
“You’re going,” Mom says. “End of discussion.”
Chapter nine
I enter the house. Mom is huddled over the stove in the kitchen, coffee mug in her left hand, sharp knife in her right. She looks up at me.
“There’s our good Catholic boy,” Mom says. “Glad to have you back.”
I smile. “Glad to be back.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, leans back, and points at my face with the knife. “Haven’t seen that smile around this house in more than a week. Nice to have you back. How was it?”
“It was okay.”
Mom’s eyes perk up. “Okay?”
“Kind of fun, actually.”
“Tell me about it,” Mom says.
I humor my mother. I tell her the retreat began like any Catholic retreat, with a procession of pep talks, a Bible study, a group sing, and a daily Mass that numbed the brain and cleansed the soul. I tell her about our retreat leader, this guy in his mid-twenties who in the span of an hour fought drug addiction, dropped out of high school, was ostracized by family and friends, found Jesus, went back and got his GED, and was now in his second year of trade school where he was studying to become an electrical engineer. The second speaker, months
