Best to Laugh: A Novel by Lorna Landvik
There was a little catch in her plaintive voice, and I found myself inviting her to join Ed and me.
“Oh, all right,” said Maeve gruffly while Ed proffered me a smile whose vinegar content could have pickled an entire peck of peppers.
6
OUR HOST’S APARTMENT WAS A SURPRISE.
“Goll-eee,” said Maeve, imitating the actor who played Gomer Pyle on the old TV sitcom. “These are some fancy digs.”
“Thanks,” said Ed. “Want a tour?”
We oohed and ahhed over the fact his bedroom not only looked like an adult slept in it—there were no orange crates serving as nightstands, no mattresses on the floor—but that it seemed restful, as if thought had gone into its design and decoration. His bathroom had the same octagonal white tile as the one in my apartment did, but his towels matched and hung from the rod as if folded by a maid. It was his office, though, that most excited me.
“Look at this library!” I said of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering three walls.
“I wish I had a two-bedroom,” said Maeve, plopping on a leather chair with wheels. “It’d give me space for a weight room.”
“You’ve sure got a lot of stuff about the Kennedy assassinations,” I said, my finger running along the spines of more than a dozen books. “And look at all these CIA titles!”
Maeve swiveled in the office chair and squinted.
“Who’s Really in Charge?” she read. “Our Shadow Government in Nicaragua. Secret Presidents—More Powerful Than Our Elected Ones. What the hell, Ed, are you some kind of conspiracy nut?”
“If you consider wanting to know the truth nutty, then I guess I am.”
“Mrs. Dalloway, A Bell for Adano, Leaves of Grass,” I read aloud, moving on to his expansive fiction and poetry section. “Well, at least you’re not completely nuts.”
“No, not completely,” said Ed. “Now let’s go open up that wine—unless you’d like to psychoanalyze the reasons I may or may not have The Joy of Sex on hand.”
“Do you?” asked Maeve brightly. “Have it, I mean? Because if you do, I’d love to borrow it.”
IN ED’S LIVING room, Maeve plunked her big sculpted self down on a sleek suede couch and crossed her big manicured feet on top of the coffee table.
“I had no idea substitute teaching was so lucrative,” she said.
“Hey, you mind?” asked Ed, nodding toward those big feet and when, with a long aggrieved sigh, Maeve removed them, he put in their place a tray holding the bottle of wine and three glasses.
The bodybuilder’s spiel on the unhealthy aspects of alcohol was interrupted when Ed said, “Fine. It’s just more for Candy and me.”
“Oh all right,” said Maeve. “But just one glass.”
“And substitute teaching is criminally underpaid,” said Ed, steering back onto the conversational road. “Everything in this room was paid for with my game show winnings.”
Maeve took a big gulp of wine. “Oh yeah, I forgot you’re a big television star.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ignoring Ed, she turned to me. “And you. Are you Japanese or Chinese or—” she drummed her kneecaps—“Americanese?”
“Geez, Maeve,” said Ed.
“Just asking!”
“I’m a quarter-Finnish,” I said, with nursery-school-teacher sweetness. “A quarter-Norwegian and half-Korean.”
“And I thought I had an identity crisis!”
“Maeve, really,” said Ed, “what is your problem?”
“Who said I had a prob—”
The weightlifter was unable to finish her sentence, overcome as she was by a sudden crying jag.
Mood swings are by nature odd and unexpected things to witness, but this one seemed truly bizarre. Ed’s expression telegraphed he felt the same way I did; nevertheless, he got out of his suede club chair and the two of us flanked the bereft Amazon, patting her wide, shuddering back and offering inane assurances like “There, there” and “It’s okay.”
She picked up real quick on the inanity part.
“It’s not okay!” she said, sniffing in a gurgle of phlegm. “It’s never okay!”
“What do you mean?” asked Ed gently.
“That ‘Americanese’ thing—I was just trying to be funny! But I’m just a doofus and nothing—not even a little joke!—ever works out for me!”
This confession inspired another bout of tears (for such a big woman she had a delicate, kittenish way of crying), and when she was all done and Ed refilled her wine glass, she explained how she and her trainer had been confident of her taking home the Miss Dynamo Lady trophy and how she had just that evening heard from said trainer that they’d failed to get her entry in on time and she’d been disqualified.
“And the cash prize is five hundred dollars! The women hardly ever get cash prizes, and we have to fight to get even an ounce of the ton of respect male bodybuilders get, even though we have to work harder because of our testosterone deficit!”
Maeve’s face, by virtue of her nearly nonexistent eyebrows, looked naked, and when it crumpled, Ed and I braced for more of her kitten cries, but the big cat drew in a deep breath and lifting her broad jaw to the ceiling sniffed deeply.
“I guess I’ll just have to train extra hard for the Valley Vixen event. The cash prizes aren’t that hot, but rumor has it the winner’ll get free membership at this great gym in Toluca Lake and a year’s supply of protein powder and vitamin supplements.”
“Speaking of which,” said Ed, “anyone hungry?” He retreated to the kitchen and returned with a tray of nuts, cheese, and crackers, none of which he served in their original packaging, further impressing me as to the man’s hosting abilities.
Muscly Maeve was curled up on one side of the couch, I sat on the other, and Ed was back in the club chair, and it was in these positions that we did what people will when they don’t know each other; we told our stories. That is, Maeve told hers, and we listened.
Watching as Ed topped off her glass for the third time, she told us if she had to describe herself as a kid, it would be tall, homely, and lonely.
“It’s not that my parents didn’t love me; it’s just that there wasn’t a lot of time for me. See, Father is a professor of linguistics—he’s at the University of Munich now and Mother—well, Mother of course is Taryn Powell.”
I knew I wasn’t drunk—a few too many Ripple wine binges in my misspent youth had tainted my taste for the grape, and I had hardly touched the cabernet Ed poured—but the bodybuilder’s words made me feel as if I were.
“Wait a second,” said Ed. “Did you just say your mother is Taryn Powell? Taryn Powell, the actress?”
“No, Taryn Powell the bearded lady. Who do you think?!”
“Wow,” I said.
“No kidding,” said Ed.
“I don’t like to broadcast it,” said Maeve, picking cashews from the bowl of mixed nuts. “People are never straight with you when they know your mother’s a movie star. Well, was. Now she can only find work on TV.”
My grandmother never missed an episode of Summit Hill, the nighttime soap opera starring Taryn Powell as Serena Summit, the regal, long-suffering matriarch of a wildly rich and fabulously flawed family.
“I can’t wait to tell my grandma that I live above Taryn Powell’s daughter!”
Maeve finished chomping nuts and swallowed hard, her red-rimmed eyes threatening to irrigate her face again.
“See, that’s exactly what I mean! Now all of a sudden I’m someone interesting, when just minutes before you thought I was some freaky bodybuilder.”
“I didn’t think you were—”
Maeve waved away my weak denial.
“Listen, it’s Father—Mother’s first husband—I most take after, and proudly so. I followed his footsteps into academia.”
“You did?” asked Ed.
“Yes,” said Maeve coolly. “I have a master’s in physiology.”
“Are you a physiologist?” I asked, not exa
“Right now I’m working as a medical transcriber. It’s not my life’s goal, but it pays well and I can set my own hours.”
“I had no idea,” said Ed, balancing a wedge of cheese on a cracker.
“Well, you haven’t exactly been eager to get to know me.”
Maeve wrinkled her nose, as if Ed’s unreciprocated attention had an actual odor to it. Seeking cleaner air, she turned to me. “But it was that study that sparked my interest in bodybuilding. To be the master of my own physical destiny! To fine-tune and mold my musculature! To transform the gangly girl into a powerhouse of womanhood!”
Stirred by her own words, Maeve Mullman stood up, posing with her glass held high. Her T-shirt and baggy warm-up pants couldn’t disguise her well-defined body; her muscles were convex and shapely, and I raised my own glass to salute her and her efforts.
“To powerhouses of womanhood!” I said.
“To mastering physical destiny!” added Ed.
“Hey,” said Maeve, the celebratory moment fleeting. “Are you making fun of me?”
Both Ed and I averred that we were not.
“Because that’s what I can’t stand. People making fun of me. I don’t mind honest questions—‘Why do you lift weights?’ ‘Why do you like to bulk up like that?’—but I hate people making fun of me.”
She banged her empty glass down on the coffee table and bolted toward the door, her long strides making tracks in the thick gray carpet.
“I wasn’t making fun of you!” said Ed, and I echoed him, but Maeve exited, slamming the door against our assurances.
“I think,” said Ed after a long moment, “a nerve may have been touched.”
Shortly after Maeve’s departure, I made a less dramatic one.
“Since it looks like she’s eaten all the cashews,” I said, pilfering through the crystal nut bowl, “I guess I should be going, too.”
“Hey, we never got to our Scrabble game,” said Ed.
“I would have creamed you.”
“In your dreams. And don’t go just yet—I’ve got something for you.”
After dashing into the kitchen Ed returned with a six-pack.
“Isn’t that the chocolate milk stuff you were drinking down at the pool?” I asked.
“YaZoo. It’s chocolate soda. It’s one of my game show ‘parting gifts,’ which I now realize means ‘hard to part with,’ since no one wants any.”
“Well, gee . . . thanks.”
Laughing as I reluctantly accepted the six-pack, Ed took out from his back pocket a folded piece of newspaper.
“Here’s your real present.”
“Want ads?”
“For game show contestants. See here,” he said, pointing to red-inked circles, “this one’s for Word Wise, and here’s one for Use It or Lose It—although they only have prizes, not cash—and this one’s for The Money Tree. That’s the show I was just on. Call them up and see what happens.”
ED OFFERED TO SEE ME HOME, and while I thanked him for his chivalry I reminded him I lived in the same complex and thought I could safely navigate the short distance between his four-plex and mine.
I breathed in the jasmine and eucalyptus-tinged air. After the harsh smoggy daylight, there was something tender and wistful about this Hollywood night that smelled of sachets tucked inside the lace and satins of a widow’s lingerie drawer. It was almost dreamy, that soft-scented air, and I could have walked for miles in it, but instead I turned toward the back of the complex and the pool.
Light shone from behind a shaded window in Billy Gray Green’s apartment, but I presumed he was out bartending and like most people didn’t want to come home to a dark house. Just in case he was home, I stripped to my underwear in the shadows and slipped into the water, slicing through it in long quiet strokes, thinking of the evening, thinking of the melodrama of Maeve’s story, of my own.
7
HERE’S SOME GOOD ADVICE: don’t read your old diaries when you’re depressed. Earlier that summer I had holed up in my bedroom doing that, and believe me, you can’t win: the bright and cheery entries will make you wonder why you don’t feel like that anymore, and the sad and whiny ones will make you think nothing changes.
5/12/68
Dear Cal,
Dad gave Grandma a box of chocolate-covered cherries and we drove out to Aunt Pauline’s for lunch. I didn’t want to go because I had a stomachache.
I hate Mother’s Day.
2/24/69
Dear Cal,
One word for the Nokomis Jr. High Talent Show: Huge Success! (Okay, two words.) Miss Lindblom asked me to emcee and it was so much fun! When Dale Ferguson walked off the stage after forgetting the words to “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay,” I said, “I guess he fell in.” The audience cracked up. And when Carla Dierks and Paula Peterson came out to dance in their little leotards, a bunch of boys started to whistle and I pretended to crack a whip and said, “Settle down, animals.” And not only did I get to emcee, I got to close the show! Paul Dahlquist and I sang “If I Had a Stammer.” With Paul’s good guitar playing and my okay Bob-Dylan-as-a-stutterer impersonation, we got a standing ovation!
6/4/70
Dear Cal,
Finally, FINALLY, at the ripe old age of fourteen, I got my period! Grandma had given me a box of pads when I was eleven years old and it was starting to seem like I’d never need them, and besides, my friend LeAnn Jerdy and I used most of them up making houses (mostly igloos) for our Troll dolls and sleeping bags for Ken and Barbie.
I stayed up late, surprising Dad when he came home by giving him a big hug. He was so surprised he hugged me back, but it didn’t take him long to let go and say, “What’s this all about?”
“Oh, I just wanted you to know I’m not a hermaphrodite like Charlotte said I was and today I turned into a woman!” That’s what I wanted to say—it was sort of momentous news after all—but in the end, all I could say was, “Nothing. Good night.”
10/1/71
Dear Cal,
We had a Laugh-Off Assembly at school for April Fool’s Day, and the sophomores RULED. Tom Schmitz dressed up in a gray wig and a baggy dress and sang “Folsum Prison” in an old lady voice. Matt Triggs dressed up in a blonde wig and shorts and a tank top and did a cheerleading routine. I dressed up in a man’s suit and tucked my hair up into a hat and gave a speech called, “What I Expect from You Brats.” The first big laugh came right after I introduced myself as Mr. Welby (our school principal). Afterwards, Mr. Welby came up to me and said he didn’t know whether to be flattered or suspend me!
7/29/72
Dear Cal,
Debbie Hutchinson said I wasn’t supporting the team. Peggy Brendan said I made the rest of them look dumb. “No,” I thought, “you did that all by yourselves.”
The thing is, I’d already done it last year; the stupid fundraiser in which we took turns washing cars, or standing on the corner of 46th & Hiawatha, waving signs and hollering “Support Roosevelt’s Swim Team! Support the Teddies!” I didn’t mind doing any of that; what I did mind was the “uniform” we’d been told to wear—cutoffs (“the shorter the better!”) and bikini tops. I didn’t like all the guys honking their horns and whistling and how we were all giggly, spraying each other with hoses or how Bonnie Anderson would lean over a car and practically smash her boobs against the windshield while the guy inside sat with his tongue (I hope that’s all) hanging out.
So I dressed in my dad’s old uniform, the kind he wore before he got promoted to foreman; a one-piece jumpsuit that zips up the front. And I tied a scarf around my hair, like Rosie the Riveter.
And I did what I was supposed to do—shout loud, wave signs, and wash cars—without that icky feeling of giving away something I didn’t want to.
Coach came by in the afternoon, and when she saw me she shook her head and muttered, “Typical,” but she wasn’t able to hide her smile.
2/14/73
Dear Cal,
Another Cry Day. On a
After English class, I ditched school and took a bus to the Electric Fetus, figuring I might as well buy myself a Valentine. When I was up at the cashier, paying for Exile on Main Street, I hear this voice saying, “Excellent choice, Candy Bar.”
It was Jim Clark, my childhood crush. I spent a lot of time admiring him from afar (i.e., my bedroom window), watching him jump in and out of cars filled with yelling, joking high school boys and girls, and, once, watching him pose on his front step with his prom date, wishing I was that girl in the pink dress and blonde pageboy who held his hand and laughed when Mrs. Clark pointed her camera and said, “Cheese!” Anyway, from what Mrs. Clark told Grandma, he’s had a hard time since he got back from Vietnam, and I admit, I hardly recognized him with his Fu Manchu mustache and scraggly beard.
“Jim Clark, I haven’t seen you in forever!”
“Seems that way. You’re all growed up!” Then he said that surely I wasn’t old enough to be out of school yet, and I said, “No, I’m a junior,” and then he said, “A truant junior,” and asked if I wanted to go for a ride and I said sure.
He fired up a joint and we drove toward the River Road, listening to “Ride, Captain Ride” and “Smiling Faces Sometimes” and when “In the Summertime” came on, he said, “Do you know who sings this? Mungo Jerry. Do you know where the name Mungo Jerry came from?”
“At the Stupid Names for a Band store?”
Jim laughed. “From a T. S. Eliot poem.”
Our fun and mellow drive changed when he blurted out how sorry he was he didn’t go to my dad’s service because funerals are hard for him.
“Good old Mr. Pekkala,” he said and sighed. “Every now and then I’d wander over to your garage late at night when your dad was in there working on his car, or just sitting there smoking. So we’d talk.”
“You would?” I said, my throat clogging up. “About what?”
Jim scratched his nametag sewn on the front of his camouflage jacket. “Everything, really. Cars. Sports. Politics. He was really mad that Johnson didn’t run for a second term.”