Boxstep Betty
Dear Box,
Many times problems go undetected because of the frantic pace of our world, which we have come to accept as normal. Have your fiancé checked for pinworms. This may be the problem.
Lucy sat on the floor beside Hildon. He smiled and handed her the column. He was in a bad mood, and she didn’t think it was the time to tell him that an agent had called from New York, wanting to represent her. She found it strange to think of herself out there with Hints from Heloise and the Bhagavad-Gita. There was no noise from upstairs. She thought about asking Hildon to go up, just because Nicole knew Hildon less well and his nagging might have some effect.
“Maybe it’s hard for her, not having any friends around. I think she’s a little jealous of the two of us,” Lucy said.
“Tell her to call some of her friends and cheer herself up.”
“I wonder why she hasn’t,” Lucy said. “That must be it. Edward was sort of her property. They hung out together all the time.”
“I wish I could have taken a swing at that guy before he got out of town.”
“Oh, Hildon. He didn’t do anything.”
“You sound like Nicole.”
“Well,” Lucy said. “She sounds like an adult.”
“She needs an education,” Hildon said. “She ought to have a tutor or something. She’s never learned anything.”
“She’s very bright.”
“She knows lyrics to songs and she knows what people are talking about if they say something dirty and she knows who’s who on television. She doesn’t know anything about the world.”
“Hildy — what is this sudden Puritanical outrage?”
“If you care about the kid, you ought to get her around some people who have a brain.”
“She’s around us,” Lucy said.
“You just proved my point,” Hildon said.
She hit his arm and got up. St. Francis, lying on his side panting in his sleep, opened one eye, saw that nothing was moving that he could kill, sighed deeply, and went back to sleep. Lucy went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was some white wine. She poured a glassful and went back to the living room.
Dear Cindi Coeur,
I am a struggling artist, but lately I have had more than my share of struggle within my own family. I am a painter, and recently my wife has begun to eat my art supplies. At first she gnawed the bristles on some brushes. I thought this was a nervous tic, because she had given up smoking and was trying to give up chewing gum. Then, my pastels began disappearing, or I would find stubs of them, wet at one end. I know that for a long time she has eaten bits of charcoal. The other day I saw Burnt Umber smudged at the corner of her mouth. I am worried that this is harmful to her health, but whenever I try to discuss it with her, she pretends that she has accidentally rubbed up against some paint or that she mistook a nub of charcoal for a loose chocolate chip. Do you have any advice about how I can solve this problem? I am now a
Reluctant Rembrandt
Dear Rem,
Forgive me for reciting contemporary cant, but I do believe that we are what we eat, and your wife must believe this also. The problem is simple: she wants to make herself into a work of art. Consider the relationship between palate and palette, and you will immediately understand your wife’s symbolic quest. She obviously feels that you have concentrated too much on your work and not enough on her. It is, of course, a problem with all artists that they tend to become very self-involved. Think about having a romantic evening together regularly, with wine and candlelight. You might take the occasion to admire her, and perhaps suggest that she stand against the wall. When she feels more secure and feels that she occupies at least an equal part in your affections along with your artwork, you can confront her with your findings and tell her that she has been framed.
“I’ll go tell her to call some of her friends, and we’ll take the dog to the falls, okay?” Lucy said.
“Okay,” Hildon said.
She went upstairs. Nicole’s door was closed. The TV was on again. Lucy knocked on the door.
“What?” Nicole said.
“Are you serious about wanting us to go without you?”
“Yeah,” Nicole said.
“Can I open the door?” Lucy said.
“It’s your house,” Nicole said.
“Nicole — when have I ever said that it was my house, or done things because it was my house?”
“So open the door,” Nicole said.
Desi Arnaz was beaming on the television. The contestant put her hands over her mouth and jumped up and down in her seat. Bells rang, and everyone was screaming at once.
“Are you feeling lonesome?” Lucy said.
“Why would I feel lonesome?”
“Would you like to call some of your friends?”
“What friends?”
“Friends in California. You haven’t talked to anybody in a long time, have you?”
“I don’t know where Jane is,” Nicole said.
Lucy didn’t know what to say. “But you could call some friends,” she said.
“I don’t have any friends,” Nicole said. “If I knew Edward’s phone number, I’d call him.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t call Edward.”
“Information did. It’s unlisted.” Nicole rearranged her nightgown. “Surprised?” she said. “I was going to call him to apologize for the crazy way everybody acted.”
A monkey was playing the drums on television. It was dressed in overalls and a straw hat. The hat fell off as the monkey beat the drums. Loud canned laughter filled the room. The monkey jumped onto one of the drums and started swaying. “Oh no!” someone screamed.
“I know you think we’re boring,” Lucy said. “Why don’t you call some people and talk to them? It’s better than watching this idiocy all day.”
“Who am I gonna call? Blueballs? And hear about how he’s got the hots for Tatum?”
“No. Call somebody you really like.”
“Lucy — I don’t have any friends. You know who I hang out with all the time? Mom and Piggy.”
Lucy tried to think of the names of Nicole’s friends, but she could only remember names she had read in the tabloids. It wasn’t possible that Nicole didn’t have any friends her own age; L.A. was full of kids, even kids who were actors and actresses.
“Boy, you really look weirded-out,” Nicole said, smiling for the first time. “What did you think? That those guys I show up places with were my friends? We just show up together to make each other look good.”
“Are you telling me the truth?” Lucy said. “Don’t you want friends?”
“I don’t need any more hassles,” Nicole said. “You’ve got to do things for friends. They jerk you around. It’s all I can do to keep Piggy cooled out.”
Lucy sat on the bed. “You must at least like some of those guys you’re photographed with.”
“Boy, this really interests you, doesn’t it?” Nicole said. “People don’t have friends when they’re my age and they’re in the business. It’s a thing from your generation that people have friends.”
“You had friends when you were a little girl,” Lucy said.
“Playmates?” Nicole said. “We were just a bunch of kids that our mothers parked together. We got along all right. We had to.”