God bless the first non-European, Latino Pope - Francis I.
My thanks to Anita, the Merry Mailwoman, just returned from vacation, who bought a couple of thrillers, and also to Abdul the Friendly Porter, who donated another batch of popular books in excellent condition, and to Moses, who dropped off one. When he asked what I thought of the Conclave, I had a senior moment, no idea what he meant. When I finally regained my senses we agreed that it would be cool if an American became Pope. Maybe next time.
I'm about halfway through the proofread of my near 200,000 word rock n roll epic, Rising Star. Here's another excerpt, about a ten-minute read. Each chapter is preceded by a song lyric. This one may be obscure to all but headbangers. The artist's name will appear at the end.
30 "...All I have to give you is a love that never dies...."*
"Would you like some more meat, Mitchell?" said Mrs. Zimmerman, reaching for the serving dish.
"No, thank you. Everything's delicious. I'm just not a big eater."
"As you can see," said Bonnie, "you and I are in the minority in that respect here."
The ensuing silence was tense. The entire Zimmerman family was present, including each pair of grandparents and Mark's wife, who was pregnant. Mrs. Zimmerman's preparations were elaborate: three extensive courses served on her best china, fine wine decanted from beautiful carafes into elegant glasses, all spread over her loveliest linen.
"How long do you plan on staying with your band?" she said.
"I haven't really thought about it. As long as it's lucrative and fun, I guess."
"Will you be away long this time?"
"Three months."
"That's a long time to be separated from someone you love."
"We're really lucky in that regard. Some bands tour much longer. I wouldn't enjoy that. I'm really a homebody."
"My mother's trying to establish how hopeless our relationship is," said Bonnie, smirking. "She'll never forgive you for missing Mark's wedding."
"I understand her concern. Fell free to ask me anything you like, Mrs. Zimmerman."
"Thank you. At least one of you has sense."
He was quietly amused at her domination of the household. The others, including the three generations of lawyers, barely said a word. They seemed uncomfortable with the grilling, which, curiously, made him feel more at ease, as everything was in the open. Bonnie was much more tense than he.
He liked Mrs. Zimmerman and had realized what strategy to adopt the moment they'd met. To have resisted, to have insisted the relationship would work despite the problems it faced, would have been foolish. He decided that calm, lucid realization would serve best to disarm her. He refused to give her an argument.
The family sing-along was a disaster, despite Bonnie's desperate effort to make it work. Without Mrs. Zimmerman's lead, the others' participation was halfhearted. Mitchell was unable to bring himself to even hum.
"Won't you play for us?" said Mrs. Zimmerman, smiling.
"What would you like to hear?"
"Anything. We're not fussy."
"No, of course not," said Bonnie ironically.
He warmed up by doing several lively glissandos, paused a moment for effect, then went into the Love Theme from Romeo and Juliet. The others were mesmerized. Bonnie was beside herself with glee. She loved him as much for his wit as for his intelligence and skill. She could barely keep from laughing, as none of the others, including her mother, realized the joke being played on them, so stunned were they by the performance. When he finished no one moved. He suppressed a smile.
"I guess it could've been better."
"On the contrary," said Mrs, Zimmerman, gathering herself. "It was wonderful. We just didn't expect it. When Leslie brought that dreadful record home I refused to allow her to play it. And that vulgar video -- it's a shame such talent's going to waste."
Mitchell chuckled, no longer able to restrain himself. He did not know how else to respond, the situation suddenly too absurd to be intimidating. It made no difference to him that she thought less of him because he played in a metal band. His sole concern was Bonnie. He wasn't sure himself if Mrs. Zimmerman wasn't right about the music of Rising Star. In fact, Bonnie hated the music too.
He was assigned Mark's old room. The shelves and bureau were vacant, the walls bare, imparting a cold, sterile atmosphere, which seemed to reflect Mrs. Zimmerman's attitude toward him. He wished he was home.
In the middle of the night Bonnie tiptoed into the room and slid into bed. He was still awake, unable to sleep.
"Excuse my mother," she said softly, cuddling. "She has to butt in. It's her nature."
"She has every right to. Her reservations are right on the money."
"You handled her so well."
"I was trying to show her we're not ignorant of the problems of a show biz couple, that we're not two adolescents blinded by love."
"I think she got the point, Romeo."
She put a hand between his legs. He pressed his thighs together, crushing her hand.
"Stop."
She propped her chin on his shoulder. "You don't know how turned on I got while you were playing. I wanted to throw you on top of the piano and take you right there in front of them all."
"Your mother put us in separate rooms for a reason. You know how loud you can get."
"Let's get back at her."
He turned to her, angered. "Revenge is no motivation for sex, at least not for me."
"Come on. When was the last time we did it in the middle of the week?"
"We can hold out until we're home tomorrow."
Irked, she nudged him. "I can't believe what a prude you are."
"How can you say that after all we've done together?"
"That's it, Romeo, get tough. Juliet's hot to trot."
He made a face. "You sound like some bimbo in a porn film."
"What's wrong with you?"
"Not here. I'm not comfortable. And it's not right to disregard your mother's wishes."
"Your putz is certainly willing."
He turned away from her. "No."
"She probably knows I'm in here, anyway. The walls have ears in this house. I used to put a pillow over my face when I masturbated. I had to risk suffocation to enjoy myself. Come on, she'll assume we made it, anyway."
"I have no control over that, but I do have control over right and wrong, and this is wrong."
"Would you've done it if she'd put us in the same room?"
He turned and looked into the silhouette that was her face. "You didn't ask her to, did you? I can't believe you could be that naive."
"Naive? Because I want to sleep with the man I love."
"We're not married, shmuck."
"Who are you calling a shmuck? She knows we've been sleeping together. Why be hypocrites?"
"We wouldn't be hypocritical -- we'd be deceitful. This is her house. She sets down the rules here."
"I can't believe it. You're just as afraid to stand up to her as everybody else in this house."
"What right do I have to oppose her? I'm not family. I'm a guest. We'll pull over to the first rest stop we come to tomorrow."
"I can't wait that long."
He dug his nails into her wrist, forcing her to release her hold. "Go pull a pillow over your face."
She shoved away from him, spun out of bed, and slammed the door so that the whole house would hear.
"Shmuck," said Mitchell, dreading the thought of facing Mrs. Zimmerman in the morning.
Symptom of the Universe by Black Sabbath.
Visit Vic's sites:
Vic's Third Novel (Print or Kindle): http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic's Website: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic's Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic's Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3
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