possible reasons kept Martha awake for the rest of the night. Did he leave her? Did he kill her? No, John couldn't do that. She knew him too well; he was a truly good man.
With a shock, she realized she could find him. She knew where he lived, what his phone number was, what time he got home. And now, right now, he was alone. And hurting.
Sunday morning at the thrift shop. The cashier opened the front door and jumped aside as this crazy lady rushed in, yanked an old lace glove off her hand, and began grabbing at every article of clothing in the store. It was the weirdest thing the cashier had ever seen, in a business where weirdness was part of the inventory. The lady would grab a nightgown, her eyes would pop and she'd sag a little, then she'd shake it off and grab the next one. It was like each one gave her a migraine or something, and she was desperate to get 'em all. She went from rack to rack, shuddering with spasms, and almost fell to her knees in the underwear bins. But she never once slowed down.
Martha drove herself on, memory after memory, life after life. She dashed through the thoughts and lives of thousands of people, searching for clues to John. She had to know if he was all right, if he was recovering, if he was dying inside, if he needed her. All she could think about was a man she had never met, a man she had worshipped completely and betrayed utterly in the space of ten minutes, a stranger with whom she was deeply in love. Waves of second-hand thought washed over her mind, threatening to overwhelm her, but she kept grabbing everything within reach, looking for traces of her lover.
If I don't find him here, she thought raggedly, there are an awful lot of thrift shops out there. It's amazing the perfectly good things people throw out. And she reached for the next memory.
Chapter 5 — The Lucky Dick Club
The night after I won the lottery I made a list of all the men I’d ever slept with. I’m not one of those girls who pretends she can’t remember. There’s only been a coupl e dozen, an d I ca n recal l ever y moment tha t my skin h as b een s t roked, every time a no t h er hu man being has spent their energy pleasing me, no matter wha t thei r rea l intention s migh t hav e been. This is something basic that men would be wise to tattoo on their hearts- women remember. We
believe that it all matters, even when we’re drinking and dancing at the clubs and acting like post-second- wave-feminist — entrepreneurial-sex-goddesses with tattoos on our breasts and condoms tucked inside our stockings. We remember. Girls want dreams to come true.
Money’s never been much in my dreams, though, so it’s ironic I would win so much. Pay off my bills, buy a new car, share with friends-then what? I have what I need, don’t have kids, my family is long gone, I live my days peering at the world through the vision of things sexual, hiding in my imagination more often than not, consumed by music an d ar t an d passio n an d ideas. I think of the French film Amelie and it comes to me, the need for whimsy and kindness and appreciation of some of the great lovers I’ve known.
I count them. I rate them. I am surprised to find that for every two bad lovers there is at least one great one to offset them. There are men whose passion still leaves imprints on my skin, there are men whose every word of affection was like diamonds and rubies and pearls falling from their tongues, enrichin g my soul with the brigh t colors of the morning sun. I check off the bad lovers, laughing, hoping for them that somewhere along the line they’ve learned to pay attention, learned that they need to do something in this world beside just take up space and waste the time of girls who matter.
Michael J., New York City — he’s first on the list that remains. I wan t t o shar e m y lott o winning s wit h him, and the others on the list, and I want them to know it’s because they were great lovers, but I never want them t o kno w it’ s fro m Emily, thi s gir l who now lives in London an d who will never forget. I ask m y lawyer, Jackson-who happens to also be the man I’m currently sleeping with-how to do this, and we begin.
It’s a simple letter. We copy the MacArthur Genius Grant idea, the people who call up scientists and artists and philosophers out of the blue-surprise! — an d tell them they’ve won a fortune for their good work. Only mine’s a bit more personal. We start calling it The Lucky Dick Club privately, but give it a more formal name for legal purposes.
To: Michael J.
From: THE LDC FOUNDATION
You have been selected by our committee to receive an LDC Powerballs Grant. Our selection is done in secret, and there are no strings attached to this award. The first of four checks for $25,000 is enclosed; additional checks will be issued on the first of September in the next three years, for a total of $100,000.
You are considered a pioneer in touch, a kind and passionate man in a world of sloppiness and unreturned calls. You have demonstrated particular strength and insights with women. LDC grant recipients are singled out annually by the foundation for extraordinary creativity in their desires. You have been rated as a bold, experimental lover, whose social and philosophical themes speak to the heart of modern society. You have shown a marked capacity for self-direction, and a respect and passion for the female gender that should be emulated by all mankind.
We share with you one of our committee member’s recommendations:
I remember Michael J… he was tall and kind and had eyes a girl could get lost in. He took the trouble to be romantic-there were strawberries and peonies and cream for tea-and he took the time to worship my body from head to toe with his kisses and his compliments. I am sure he knew prettier women; I am sure he had way more experience than me; but when I was with him I knew that I was the most sensual woman in all of New York City. He had hands that could make love to me all by themselves, hands almost like a masseuse, knowing, caressing, finding the spots that mattered, carrying me up beyond my physical sensations onto a higher plane of loving. When he would finally enter me I knew that there was only one reason that we had such beautiful bodies that fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, and it was so that he could drive me hard and long into the night until I had not a single ion of negative energy left in my soul, left only with light and enthusiasm and gratitude for existing in such a beautiful fucking world.
The LDC Foundation is proud of your performance. Do carry on.
Michael J. is in his forties now, he’s a man in New York City, he’s not likely to ever remember who it was, since I didn’t give any identifying details. We send the lette r off. I’ m goin g craz y waiting. Jackso n love s m e pa ss ionatel y t o help ease my anxiety, and I swear he seems to be working on becoming a better lover every single day… but I don’t even know Michael or any of his friends well enough to check up on what’s happening. Finally, three weeks later the check is cashed, and the “foundation ” never even receives a cal l in question. Bu t I’ m betting he thinks about it every single time he looks at a woman, and maybe even ever y time his lucky dick gets hard.
The second grant goes to a lover from almost fifteen years ago. I remember Allen McD, now in Toronto… he is the hottest man I’ve ever known, hot in that way that you can’t even describ e t o friend s unti l they’v e experience d somethin g lik e it. He’d back me into a corner in a club or the subway or just a doorway on the street and begin to make love to me. He made me feel like I was born to fuck. It wasn’t really a sensual thing, more like two animals in the night in heat and in need. It wasn’t a grab and grope thing like guys do, the way women hate, this was in the words and the look and the need to be inside of me, the need expressed as though I was a drug that he would die if he didn’t get another hit of immediately. I began to walk differently during and after Allen McD., a little more swing to my hips, a lot more confidence, an unwritten sign across my chest that said “I am hotter than thou.” Allen McD. wrote those words across me, and I know he wrote them on other women, and whether it was all because we had raging hormones or were nymphos for a while or because he was a troubled soul in so many other ways, it doesn’t matter, because i t stays with me toda y an d I stil l ca n exude the same air to any man I want every single time I walk down the street.
The check is cashed, again a month later. Do they sit and ponder, do they hide it, do they think it’s a joke, or finally deposit the check just to see? This time I still have a former business acquaintance in common who works with Allen McD. I wait another month and call her up o n som e busines s pretense and chat about things, and then casually ask what good old Allen’s up to these days. “He seems really happy,” she says. “He got engaged last month…and he’s taking her on a long honeymoon to the G rand Caymans… you kno w, he laughs a lot, more than he used to. He ought to bottle it and sell it, whatever it is he’s got going on these days.”
