The Mermaid that Came Between Them

Excerpt

Prologue
August, 1948

At the ripe old age of five years and four days, Jacob Koleman was about to fall in love. It was the start of summer, on a desolate strip of South Hampton sand. Reared on Grandpa Marshall's stories of treasures buried at sea and sunken ships, he was especially fond of the Old Man of the Sea, royal ruler, king of jeweled castles and skyscraper cities, surfing the waves in a chariot drawn by six giant squid.

"The Old Man of the Sea has grandchildren, scores," Grandpa said, "some your age." Dozing off in the shade of a striped beach umbrella, perpetually tilted to one side no matter how far wedged in, Grandpa gave orders for Jacob to take the first watch. "Keep your eyes open, Mate. The Old Man's closer than you think."

Jacob put the finishing touches on his sand castle. He patrolled the shore, careful to stay within shouting distance, even though Grandpa was so hard of hearing, everything you said had to be repeated. Sometimes you had to act it out like you were playing charades.

When three barechested girls surfaced just offshore, Jacob wasn't startled. Standing at the water's edge, he asked, "Is the Old Man of the Sea your grandaddy?"

"Sure," they said. "Want to meet him?"
Jacob was not a willful child. Fooling around with matches was unthinkable. He ate his spinach without complaint. Each and every Sunday, without fail, he dropped ten of his pennies in the poor box for the starving children of India. He obeyed the rules.

One rule was, if Grandpa's napping, go up to your ankles. No farther.

The girls smiled, their two front teeth missing, same as his. Boys aren't supposed to stare at titties, so he didn't.

"Follow us," they said. Hurry.
He waded in. Ankles, calves . . .
"Now or never," they said.

. . . knees, waist. He was in, all the way. He clutched their hands, holding tight like Mama said to do crossing the street. He thought of Grandpa Marshall, snoring up a bee storm, opening one eye, then two, seeing the castle Jacob carved. But no Jacob. Grandpa Marshall would search the Ark, a real live, old-as-Grandpa ship turned beach house. Still no Jacob. Grandpa might release the Ark's grips, put his shoulder to the Arkhouse, slide it back into the water and set sail. Only nowadays, Grandpa couldn't stand too well and the decks of the Arkhouse creaked, the roof leaked, the masts swayed in the wind, the sea might swallow them up. And Mama would weep.
He squirmed. He tried letting go, but it was three against one. He was seized, netted, and towed. In the struggle, he saw the girls were bare down there too. But they didn't have legs. They were fishtailed.

Dragged kicking and screaming, Jacob Koleman had every reason in the world not to fall in love. Yet far more wondrous than the Old Man in his kingdom at sea, Jacob was moments away from catching a glimpse of an altogether different kind of kingdom.

They were under an abandoned wharf. The shallow water was bath warm. Small as the holes in the netting were, they couldn't keep his skinny arms from sticking out. The three girls nipped before he could swat them. The stings stopped him cold. Freed from the netting, he went limp. The girls sang. "Oh Still-Waters-Running-Deep, wise and ancient waters of life, do not forsake your Daughters of the Sea. May this be the day we spawn."

They shivered, they got goosebumpy. They made baby sounds like the newborn kittens belonging to Jacob's neighbor. He got goosebumpy too. His arms burned where he'd been bit. His head felt fuzzy like it had bubbles.

The girls rubbed his thighs, he didn't push away. Their hands on his chest weren't anything like Mama's fingers patting him when he had a fever.
It was at that instant that he decided to take a good, long look at their titties. Just what he'd been taught not to do. Mama's Little Prince, behaving just like a pirate.

Suddenly, his pee-pee swung out. He pushed it down. It wouldn't stay. He escaped their net and darted wildly away. The girls looked like their feelings were hurt. They were stuck in the mud like somebody glued them in. Their faces got spotty red. They bit their nails. As he ran across the muddy banks, he could feel their pretty-please-don't-leave-us stares. The two diddies on his chest were pebble hard. Pressure in his groin swelled him up.

Sprinting past Grandaddy, still sound asleep, Marshall's tummy the shape of a basketball, legs thin as the letter I, the bulge in Jacob's bathing suit pointed him straight that-a-way. Leaving a muddy trail of footprints, he barely reached the Johnny in time. He relieved himself, the most he ever peed. Rain buckets. At least it wasn't stiff and sore anymore.

Many things were beyond his understanding, but this he knew: Never tell a soul who dragged you off. Keep it to yourself. You aren't a single drop sorry where your eyes went (almost stayed, too). They'd send him away to summer camp, wash his mouth out with soap, say he was girl crazy when it wasn't girls he was zippo over.

Nothing but questions remained.
Did mermaids do sleepovers?
Were mermaids titties magnets?
Would they let him touch?
Most of all, would he ever tell Mama her perfect Prince was, once upon a time, a Naughty Boy.

August, 1963
Smitten for the second time, the circumstances were entirely different. Jacob had been hired to write a brochure for a New York City public school. He visited the site. This was in the era before security guards and metal detectors. All the same, one couldn't just roam at will. There were procedures.

He went to the main office where he was name-tagged. The guide assigned to him was soft-spoken. When she asked him about himself, she listened to his answers. He liked that she wasn't too inquisitive. She didn't toss quips like horseshoes. She wasn't put off by his awkwardness or how his voice sometimes broke out like he was still stuck in puberty. Baby pink ribbons adorned her hair. Another time, another place, she might have carried a parasol. She would, perhaps, have looked after orphans and strays. Her eyes were green-almost sea green-but with none of the sea's turbulence. They were serene as cathedral glass. Her curves were female. There was nothing not to like.
A year later, they married.

Not until they were legal, did his pee-pee make the acquaintance of her sugar cube. The whole time, he kept his eyes shut.

They honeymooned at the Ark. He scanned the ocean. He didn't tell her what for. Every mermaid sighting turned out to be dolphins. Just as well. The second time one falls in love, one ought to be able to look back on First Love like it isn't even a close second.

One
In which Jacob discusses his divorce with his ex,
attends an art opening, offends his son's girlfriend,
and meets Kate Vestor, Conflict Counselor.

August, 1997
The keys were a hurdle. The lawyers handling the divorce gave the Kolemans rave reviews, lavishing the kind of unqualified praise that Jacob's novels, well-received as they were, could only aspire to. Phrases like, "best in decades," "if only they were all like this" and-Jacob was especially partial to this one-"restores our faith in the benevolence of mankind." But usage of keys was, of course, restricted. He may not barge in uninvited. He may not let himself in, even when invited. They were strictly for emergency purposes only.

Cheryl called, mother of his child, executive in charge of keys (not by word of mouth, in the divorce decree, printed large enough so you didn't have to squint). He nodded into the phone. Yes, be right over, Mac's room? last lingering looks before we ship him off to college? Cheryl asked for verbal confirmation. He forgot she couldn't see him nod, wasn't there in the room, didn't physically share the same space. "On my way," he said.

The keys in his pocket felt like paperweights. But standing outside the door to her brownstone, he was honorbound.

It was August. Sweltering, unbearable . . . naked in New York City, and you'd still be overdressed. His earlobes were growing slacker by the minute, practically grazing his shoulders. Prior to the inexorable wait to be buzzed in, they were nowhere near swinging, cheesy pendulums. Killer humidity, gravity using him for target practice-if not now, when?

"When I key in on why Cheryl divorced me, that's when," he thought. "Saying she doesn't know the reason is not the same as saying she doesn't have one. Once I have the passkey to that, there's no door in the world that can keep us apart."
The brownstone's owner had never installed a security camera. No one would be the wiser. After all, puddles were forming at his feet. "She dumped me without any probable cause whatsoever. Thirty-three years, our voices were never raised." Under his watchband, things were getting squishy.

He held out, dug in, kept his itchy trigger finger off the keychain, observed protocol, did it by the handbook, like his laudable driving record-only one traffic violation, period. Marital record exemplary. Lusting after no other non-amphibians except his wife . . . and Marilyn Monroe. (His feelings for Marilyn weren't chaste-whose were?-but at no time had he ever maxed out on masturbation.) The marriage exemplified fidelity, not sainthood. (His pursuit of mermaids didn't mean he loved Cheryl any less. Or them more. Rowing and swimming in the Atlantic is the lowest of low-rung surveillance. Exercise is cardiovascular. Can't a man have a pastime? Be nostalgic? Stretch his legs? Study footprints in the sand to see if any are tailprints?)

Just when the squish under his watchband began rolling down his fingers, she buzzed. The door clicked open. Borne by love, his legs sprang to life.

Cheryl, my land Goddess, won't you please take me back?

The points of her elbows were snub-nosed.
She stood in the doorway, left arm folded vertically. Her hankie, cradled in her palm, was trimmed in lace, like a wedding veil. Blotting is for ink; her tears were dabbed. A documentary he once saw on art restoration showed the same tender ministrations. Not seeing the wedding band on her third finger, only a ghostly band of pale skin, he compared it to the time before. His little ritual: Take readings of the fading outline, like you do a barometer. He set a tentative date, sort of a deadline: The day the mark would be no more-early Fall was his estimate-by then, she'd change her mind. Hopefully. Because love lives on. Because she treasures him.

Cheryl's air kisses were plentiful, released in threes and fours like doves set free at a peace rally. "Soon as the packing crates came, I started blinking back tears of happiness." Pivoting with grace, she started for Mac's room. After years of ballet classes, she was sea foam.

"Mac's over at the gallery," she explained. "Intellectually, he recognized how meaningful it was for you and I to mark this auspicious occasion. All those touch-and-go years-the crisis over college applications-how can we be matter-of-fact now? Our boy's going away. The stuffed owls are going into storage, even Mr. Gerbil's corpse is going beddy-bye."

En route, they passed the living room, nearly identical to the one he went home to nightly. His recreation of the original was an homage to enduring love. Carpet, gray with blue overtones, the color of winter ocean. The wooden tips of the chairs and divan seemed squiggly one day, wavy the next.

Arriving first, she graciously waited. Her emerald green sleeveless silk was more muted than neon. Cheryl didn't jar the eye. She was that other kind of eye candy. Quiet elegance. Delicate slithers of gold graced her wrist, bangles one could wear with assurance to the theater. Her poise made him stand up straighter.

"The confined space may have prompted Mac's absence." Her voice precisely the tone of warmth and concern you'd want of someone delivering a eulogy over your casket. "We know exactly where we stand in relation to each other: Friends forever, but husband and wife, never again. However, within the narrow confines of his room, the three of us in close quarters-you on one side of him, me on the other, Mac in the middle, enveloped in close family bonds and no hard feelings-seeing it through the eyes of a child, it's a challenging setting. By fleeing to the art gallery, he's telling us he's not emotionally up to the challenge."

Jacob could identify with that. What kind of divorce is it when two people get along so well? Alarm bells went off in his head. In a misguided attempt to reduce Mac's alleged confusion, might Cheryl have deliberately distanced herself? Found another friend to confide in? Worst scenario, she would begin leading the life of a single woman. She'd date, she'd expose Mac to tall, dark, handsome strangers who'd wine and dine her. She and the tallest, darkest, handsomest might ride off into the sunset. Somehow, he would have to find the words to preserve their close-knit happy home.

"We peptalked him through the choppy waters of high school," he agreed. "We'll continue to toss him lifelines, and he'll catch them. Six years from now, after the bar exam, he can study taxidermy to his heart's content. I'm confident, trust me on this: Seeing us together, regardless of the size of the room, provides the kind of solidarity he can draw strength from."

She smiled appreciatively. He felt as if his tummy had been rubbed. She wouldn't enter the room ahead of him. Her consideration wasn't just window-dressing; she sincerely wanted a simultaneous entrance. He obliged by aligning himself shoulder to shoulder. They crossed the threshold. To his right was a mirror. The short guy with the close cut, thinning gray hair looked played out. The sack on this kangaroo wasn't empty. Attached to his abdomen was a ten-pound lump of fat. The rest of him was slim. Muscles indecipherable, like the fine print you need a magnifying glass to read. His dockers looked blah.

They sat on Mac's trundle bed.
"It's been such a long haul. His journey from preemie to pre-law placed so many demands on us," she sighed, crossing her legs, barely disturbing the air. "Had I known then what I know now, I wouldn't have been so indulgent. Spending that year volunteering in p.s. 11's gifted and talented program was instrumental in predisposing me to bright kids pursuing eclectic interests."

"I, on the other hand, was the stay-at-home dad, the reins were mine to pull as well. Does stifling a kid's hobbies stifle his creativity? I didn't have it in me then, and I don't have it in me now."

The gold standard of most green-eyed beauties was not in her arsenal. Her eyes didn't spit fire. They could, however, narrow to slits . . . tender drops of tears peeking out the corners like pristine petticoats. "These are still his formative years. We are his reality checks," she explained, gesturing toward the walls. "In other words, the worship of a dead icon is not what a woman looks for in a companion. Man-to-man, you've got to tell him to lay off Marilyn."

Posters of Marilyn Monroe peered down on them from the ceiling. Every inch of wall space belonged to her too, even the inside of Mac's closet.

"There's never been a bone of contention between you and me," he offered, buying time, arranging the words in his head.

"Hardly ever."

"He's a late bloomer, eventually he'll get off the ground," he tried to take the heat off Mac.
"No, the spell must be broken. Eighteen dateless years? Marilyn's marginalizing our boy."

Drawing himself up to his full five feet seven, pulling his stomach in, he stood with the dignity of a patriot singing the national anthem. "Marilyn Monroe is an intrinsic part of the American landscape. Generations of boys owe her. She is the male fantasy. Crossreference that with your shrink. Life without fantasy is a harsh reality. To live in the real world, both feet on solid land, earth between your toes, floor beneath your feet, reality must occasionally be checked at the door." Hand over his heart. "When it comes to accepting our lot in life, the path would be rockier without her."
"Mac's a die-hard, he's hooked."

"Point well-taken. But not tonight. Not yet. It's the stuff of turning points."

She toured the room, fingers to lips, puckering, kissing, touching the furniture like sacred relics, bestowing canoodles of kisses more substantive than the air-filled ones she greeted him with. It broke his heart. He wanted to put his head on her chest and cry, Take me back, I'll do anything. He embarked on a different tack.

"This mutual admiration society of ours isn't getting us anywhere. Suppose we turn up the static. I'm not advocating slinging mud or tongue-lashing--more along the lines of a heated exchange. People in the heat of the moment stand a better chance of inadvertently saying things they never would otherwise."

Her hands, only seconds ago fluttering like the wings of angels, dropped to her sides. She came toward him, gliding like a heron making a water landing. She requested a moment to collect her thoughts, ended up taking several. Then her words took flight.

"Much as I told myself this day might come, there's really no preparing. Go ahead and have your outburst. But first hear me out. It's my hope our divorce will be every bit as successful as our marriage. You always brought out the best in me. But I can't tell you what I don't know. One bright spot-it's not as uncommon as you think. Getting divorced under a cloud of mystery surrounding my motivation, though frustrating, doesn't mean I'm mental. In Finkle's experience, rushing to judgment leaves one with more questions than answers. Arriving at an all-conclusive universal takes time. And even then, Finkle's seeing a trend towards flip-flop. Complete switcheroos. The definitive answer (derived under proper supervision) often backslides into hypotheticals. What you have left is . . . square one."
His voice was level, like train tracks across Kansas. He couldn't spook an old lady on a dark dead-end street. The furrow of his brow lacked hump. "I demand an answer, I don't give a damn what that cockamamie radio jock pseudo-shrink says. That's my outburst, and I stand by it."
"You wonderful man, you. There's nothing about you I don't admire. Kind, courteous, patient, loyal, faithful, principled, smart, attentive. Your nurturance-innate to you-has no rival. None. My Prince."

Writing of knaves and cutthroats who get away with murder, manipulative, blackhearted pirates of the high seas, was how he earned his living. But the Prince's Code of Conduct was how he lived. During his outburst-brief as it was-he felt his entire Princehood at risk.

"Yet somewhere along the line, I . . . the Prince . . . fell out of favor. It's Mac, isn't it? While you were knocking yourself out raising private funds for public education, I was the primary caregiver. It was at my breast, he first developed an interest in gerbils, hamsters, and whatnot. I introduced him to Marilyn. Me. Me. Before he lost his first tooth, he was watching Marilyn flicks."

"A boy couldn't wish for a better father," she consoled. "Whatever the inexplicable rationale that's compelled me not to grow old with you, the quality of your parenting isn't it. Dr. Finkle and I are constantly dialoguing. Anything even remotely resembling an approximate answer would be a start. "Her lower lip trembled. Her voice quivered. "Do you really think I relish feeling like mystery meat?"

Under Marilyn's glare, they resumed sitting on the bed. Achingly close. The scent on her skin was arousing. He didn't have on any aftershave, not that it would do any good. Marilyn was available. They'd done it before. Now and then. Never in Cheryl's presence, that would be a cheat. The divorce didn't kill it for him and Marilyn . . . but something had been lost in the transition.
Tomorrow night he'd be at the Ark.
Oh Daughters of the Sea, you got there first . . . nobody ever forgets his first time. But I can't help who I really am.

The title of the show was dickheads, something he and Cheryl found out when they got there. Jacob read from the flier. 'Maya Evans's exploratory range has been called defiantly delicious. Looking at her portraits, the viewer looks in vain for faces. Maya's globes-males turning their backs to the camera-is a back-of-the-head striptease. Not content to just let the lads' posterior heads flaunt the phallic, she delves deep into the erotic. In the tradition of Georgia O'Keeffe's sexed-up flowers, Ms. Evans's cranial photos are imbued with sensuality and vulnerability. In the best sense of the word, the back of these heads are two-faced. dickheads will be shown through Labor Day, part of our Discovery Showcase, sponsored by eye pride.'"

They hadn't spotted Mac yet. The gallery was on two levels. Just inside the entrance was a wet bar.
Glass in hand, Cheryl said, "If this isn't one big divorce backlash, then what is? Three months go by. The crucial three. Each session with Finkle, I report there's nothing to report. Mac doesn't act out, the moods don't swing. Now that his delayed reaction is finally here, it's like nothing I expected."
"The important thing is, we aren't floored individually. We live apart, but we unite to floor together."

"Three months of anticipating God-knows-what. He doesn't give us the finger, no fresh batch of cadavers, no spending spree on replicas of Marilyn. Instead he gives us . . . penishead." Clinking her glass forcefully against his. Had his glass been filled to the rim, his sandals wouldn't have walked away unscathed. "Granted, it's artsy-fartsy, but any way his teenage sexuality comes, I'll take it. He's broadcasting loud and clear: Look Ma, I'm a boy."

Over his dead body would divorce get all the credit. "And you attribute this to breaking up?"
"Finkle says all children of divorce backlash."
"For all you know, Mac's first baby steps into teenage sexuality could be connected to Marilyn." Momentarily dropping his eyes to his groin. "Suppose Mac went into overdrive, patting himself while gazing at her. What's he really broadcasting? Look Dad, Marilyn's finally made a man of me?" Eyebrows arched to his hairline. "Understand, I'm not being belligerent, there isn't a belligerent bone in my body. But I strongly caution against snap rulings."

She mulled it over. "My magnificent Prince. Always encouraging me to give all sides a fair hearing. First chance we get, we'll ask Mac directly."

They started through the crowd, four deep in front of the photos, backs of heads obscuring their view of pictures of backs of heads.

Finally, they spotted Mac. Hanging on his arm, another arm. A female, old enough to be his mother, red nails sharp as talons.

Mac and Cheryl nuzzled. They hugged. They kissed, five consecutive, non-incestuous thirst quenches. A miserly chickenscratch peck for Jacob. Boys will be boys.

"Mom, Dad, I'd like you to meet Maya Evans."
Cheryl gave her proper first name: Cheryl. She gave Jacob's too, first and last: Jacob Koleman. Maya thrust her hand into his, a handshake like a gladiator.

Hands off my son. Rumors of my open-minded/sissy-liberal-pacifist peace-on-earth reputation have been greatly exaggerated. I am a strict/no-nonsense/authoritative/patriarchal/neck-wrenching despot. Mean streak miles long. Raw meat for breakfast. One badass. Right before bed, bacon rinds. Don't go by my grip, go by my clenched eyebrows.

Unflaggingly cordial, Cheryl made Maya feel welcome. "A portion of the annual monies I raise for public education goes to the arts." Then she consumed the rest of the wine. Half a glass, down the gullet.

Even from the front, the back of Maya's head loomed large. Her hair was a curly red blaze that wouldn't go out. Her perfume was citrus. In keeping with her age-forty if she were a day-the face was lined here and there, not running riot, but gearing up. Her t-shirt, the color of Milk of Magnesia. Jeans tight enough to cut off circulation. "The camera loves the back of Mac's head. I could just sink my teeth into his neck, it's so tender. And the skull," palm stretched out over Mac's head, making a saucer landing, "so childlike, on the verge of manhood. What baby-fine hair, what ears-they are his crowning glory. His cherubesque ears."

Cheryl and Jacob mobilized, voices colliding, Jacob's deferring, Cheryl insisting he talk, without delay, say something.

"Great turn-out," he said. "Kids, parents, family branches. The controversial nature of your work, it goes without saying. . . jumping to conclusions, you must get alotta that. I write. Mac musta told you, how could he not have? Same in literature. Write a certain way, people get the wrong idea. They think it's you on the page. But who knows you better than you?"

August heat. Mac wore a white shirt and black leather jacket from his junior high days. The shooting-up-overnight stage-boys growing out of their clothes by morning-had skipped him.
"Perhaps I was being too abstruse," Jacob said. "Do you see your work as self-expression of the true self or the opposite of self?"

The pup zipped his jacket. "Maya's a babe," Mac said. "Now you know." He stood with legs apart, like a gunslinger.

Slender and featherweight, delicate as froth, Cheryl hardly tipped the scales. Meringue as pie filling. Helium light. Non-corporeal. But with the deftness of a samurai, she severed the connection between Maya and Mac, inserting herself between them. Not pausing to rest on her laurels, she said to Maya and Jacob, "Mac's going to give me the grand tour. We'll leave you two to get better acquainted."

Off they went.

Could this be his son? The razorcut on the rear end of his head was a tiny likeness of Maya.

"Ask away," Maya said.
"How serious is it?"

"Semi-platonic. We hold hands. We kiss, mouths shut. We don't feel each other up below the waist. I've got an instinct for cunt-teasers, groupies, and fortune hunters. Your son doesn't meet the criteria. Let's just say he's curious and leave it at that."

A moment ago, it was ask away, now it was "leave it at that." Two riddles too many. An unsolved divorce wasn't like driving yourself crazy looking under the couch cushions for reading glasses. The mental antics, wrestling, self-recriminations, chasing after your own tail, investigating, pouring over testimony-what Prince wouldn't be stretched thin?

"Have a heart. Don't leave me hanging. I throw myself on your mercy. There are things you aren't telling me." His whole body went slack.
"Don't start in on tears. It doesn't warrant tears. Mac's just passing through. End of story."
"Done?" he asked.

"In your dreams," she snapped. "I'm good company, damn good. Dynamic. Inter-active. I give off. Mac may be passing through, but while he's here, it's never been better. He's one hell of a soulful kid."

Not far-fetched at all. Mac's touched her tender spot. She admits it's going nowhere. But she's melancholy, disappointed, lonely, lost. His tender spot had a sudden urge to comfort hers.

"In fact," he offered, "I see what he sees in you. If I may say so, one feeling person to another, you are special."

Three inches taller, she didn't have to stand on tippytoes. She fastened on. Her palm to his cranium. She traced his lumps and bumps. She studied him from behind. "He gets it from you. I sense it, you sense it, don't bother denying it. You're some kind of special yourself. We should put our heads together. Meet me later for a drink. If anything comes of it, I'm sure the three of us can work out an . . . arrangement."

A string of stunning blows, now another stunner. Ambushed by mermaids precipitated decades of celibacy. He married for second love. He fell for Monroe (more unrequited love). The one and only fully consummated love of his life divorced him. Plus bringing a child up properly is no picnic.

ow Maya wants what she can't have. Sharing a woman is as taboo as it gets. He wanted to say, Forget it Lady, the Kolemans will never join a harem. What he actually said was, "Thank you, no."

"Dickhead," she gave him the middle joint. "I'm gunna tell," vanishing into the crowd.