Jason tried to send Charles Barkley—who was a rookie playing for the 76ers at the time—free tickets to our play, but the organization never returned his call.
Jason Malta’s mom got sick shortly after that, and he stopped writing comedies. He became transparent as a window. You could see right through him for years. And when he made love to me for the first time, I swear to God, he became flesh and bone once again, if only for a few seconds, which was when I first realized that sex and womanhood were powerful.
He used to buy me roses from the Acme, a dozen at a time. Cheap flowers that wilted and turned brown within hours. I thought I loved him, and maybe I did. He wasn’t very good-looking—red hair, pale skin, and a concave chest. But he was kind. Even when he stopped being funny, he was still kind.
The smell of trash from the alley behind my childhood home makes me feel nauseous again, but I manage to avoid the dry heaves.
She’s inside, my mother; I know it. I can feel her heavy presence. But I’ll need strength to face her, more than I have right now.
The finality of what has happened—it sinks in.
It cuts.
It mutilates.
I try to shiver myself to sleep.
In the cushions, I think I smell the Drakkar Noir cologne I once gave Jason Malta for Christmas, and which he wore dutifully for the rest of our high school tenure. I hope Jason Malta’s happily married with kids and is wildly successful. Maybe he’s even writing comedies again. Maybe.
It’s a nice thought.
“Portia Kane,” I say to myself, thinking about the vibrations of those syllables floating away into the night. “Portia Kane. Portia Kane. What has become of you, Portia Kane?”
I close my eyes and try to erase the world.
In my mind, I keep seeing a fish riding a bicycle.
The fish is singing a song about how she loves to pedal her bike, and I can’t figure out how she can move both pedals with a single tail, which is when I realize I’m still drunk.
I’m spinning.
Bile runs halfway up my throat like some horrible acidic tongue and burns as it licks its way back down.
“Fuck you, Gloria Steinem,” I say, although I am not exactly sure why.
CHAPTER 4
“Portia?” I hear. “Portia? What are you doing out here on the back porch?”
I open one eye and see my large mother in a pink bathrobe. Her breath is visible; her short gray hair—which she cuts herself—juts out in untamed triangular bursts that make her head look like a weird diseased flower.
“I took out the trash this morning, and what did I find? You. Happy! Happy! May I give you a kiss? May I hug you, my darling? Are you real? Am I dreaming now?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer.
Every inch of my face is kissed.
It’s like an octopus has attached itself, her mouth sucking like so many tentacles, somehow all at once.
Or maybe it’s like being licked by a hippopotamus.
She throws her ample weight on me. I feel the rough burn of her aging terrycloth robe and make a note to buy her an update, even though I know she won’t use it and probably has a dozen brand-new unworn backups stuffed somewhere in a closet.
“I can’t breathe, Mom.”
“Have you been drinking, Portia? You smell like alcohol. Stinky, stinky.”
“I could kill a Bloody Mary right now,” I say, and think about why I haven’t been home for years.
My mother’s lack of a filter.
Her penchant for being honest as a mirror.
Her often creepy childlike demeanor.
Her proclivity to annoy and embarrass and depress, like a genetic oracle that screams out my doom whenever I am within earshot.
It all strikes blunt as a hammer to the thumb.
“Where’s Ken?” she says.
I listen to cars driving up and down Cuthbert Boulevard for a second before I say, “Ken died. Was shot with his own handgun. Colt .45. They made it out to be a random intruder. A burglary gone wrong. But Ken had many known enemies. Made the five o’clock news in Tampa even. But they didn’t get the story right. Not even close. The detectives said they could make Rorschach tests out of the blood-splattered wallpaper and then laughed like hyenas, which I thought was insensitive, even if their observation was completely accurate. Regardless of all that—so long, Ken. Nice knowing you and all that. Sucks to be you.”
Mom pulls in a dramatic gulp of air. “That’s simply terrible, Portia! Horrible! What is a roar-shock test? I feel so sad for you. Ken is really dead? Or are you kidding? I can never tell. Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I’m so confused.”
“Didn’t want to worry you, Mom. It’s probably for the best, Ken’s murder,” I say, thinking I really shouldn’t be talking like this anymore now that the booze has worn off. But I can’t seem to stop myself. “I was getting tired of him. He couldn’t even get hard anymore. I’d been wanting to recycle him for more than a year. Our sex life had passed away long before that.”
“Portia!”
“Why did you name me Portia anyway? You’d never even heard of The Merchant of Venice, let alone read it.”
“Was Ken really shot? Is he okay? You are kidding, right?”
“Ha ha! No. He wasn’t shot. He’s not really dead. But he’s definitely not okay either. He is the antithesis of okay. And—”
“You’re making my head hurt! One minute you tell me Ken was murdered, the next you’re asking about your name—and I haven’t even seen you in many years. You just show up and—”
“Focus, Mom. One thing at a time. Forget all the rest. Concentrate. Why’d you name me Portia?”