The Fourth Plainsong: What Would You Have Me Do

I didn't want to go out with Edna.

Edna Todd was the second of the junior college girls my father had set me up with. Not that I had anything overt against Edna. That would have been difficult because I'd never met her.

Point of fact, I only knew three things about her: 1, She worked at my father's shop. 2, She was another of my father's many paramours. 3, She'd, as Dad put it, "fuck at the drop of a hat and sometimes liked it a little kinky." I guess counting the "kinky" part that's four things I knew about Edna.

My problem was a bad case of the losts. My view of the world and my place in it had been scrambled as thoroughly as a carton of eggs tossed into a cement mixer. Over the span of less than a year, I'd got religion, albeit not a mainstream theology; gained a potential girlfriend/wife who I hadn't gone out with yet; discovered my parents were, for differing reasons, swingers with a taste for exhibitionism and voyeurism, and with the approval of my mother, lost my virginity to one of my Dad's lovers.

These events had knocked out the underpinnings of my life, robbing me of my sense of surety, leaving only the swirling winds of cognitive dissonance in its place. Without any sort of an internal compass to guide me I was, as the Kinks were to sing several years later, living in mixed up, muddled up, shook up world.

I thought I'd been handling it all rather well in that Sixties nonjudgmental hang loose, do your own thing kind of way. Emotions in check, I'd taken everything in stride, accepted the weird as just another form of normal, proceeded as though it all made perfect sense which, of course, it didn't.

In my more rational, non-hormonal driven moments I knew all of this was seriously twisted, knowledge I buried deep in order not to have to think about it. Instead I soldiered on, unwilling to allow anything to put my relationship with Elle at risk and hoping it would all eventually be come together for me.

It was way Debbie and I parted that really threw me into my tailspin.

After being lovers, Debbie had asked, almost begged, for me to be her friend. The fact I couldn't was haunting me, as was the realization I was treating her the same way as my Dad did. But soon I might be able to begin chaperoned dating with Elle, an exclusive arrangement that would leave no room for even the most casual of contact with any other woman.

I'd called Debbie at the shop and tried to explain this to her only to hear the hurt in her voice as assured me she understood "... but the other phone's ringing. Gotta go Jake, maybe we'll see each other around sometime."

At first I was mad at her for making me feel the way I did. We both went into this with our eyes open, hers far wider than mine. Just some casual sex with no strings attached, that's all this was supposed to be about; it wasn't my fault it turned into more. But it wasn't her fault either; she hadn't asked me to marry her, just to be her friend.

I sought advice from my parents about what had happened with Debbie, an exercise in futility.

With the exception of my mother, my Dad treated women like facial tissues; disposable after you came in them. He encouraged me to do the same. I had with Debbie and at her own request until the night she revealed the bitter consequences of self-deception to us both.

Dad had a jaded view of the whole thing. "Don't worry about it Jake," he advised me wryly. "Deb's just seizing her chance when she can. Can't blame her for that. Of course, you gave her the perfect opening with that silly gift of yours. Giving flowers is fine, even a small inexpensive piece of costume jewelry is OK. But a book of love poetry, that kinda shit only put thoughts in her head. She went after you, figuring to play on your guilt and the fact you wouldn't know any better.

"It's an age-old scam. At first you're friends, friends who fuck like minks but still friends. The deeper she gets her claws into you the closer she gets to her goal. Shacking up would be the next step and then before you know it you're standing in front of the justice of the peace wondering how in the hell you got there.

"Don't worry about kid, she'll land on her feet just like the cat she is. Believe me, in a while she'll have forgotten all about you and be balling someone else. Hell, I think I'll give her a toss just to help things on their way."

My father had also warned Edna not to play mind games with me. "She knows the score. You won't get any 'just love me for myself' shit out of her but you are going to get some loving of a type Debbie doesn't like to do. Just don't give her another damn poetry book. I've got the perfect gift you can give her"

Mom wasn't any more help, in fact she was harsher than Dad, reminding me of her view liberated women, with their independence and insistence they were a man's equal, if not superior, were perpetuating Eve's error and bringing great unhappiness on themselves.

"Look at Debbie. She claims to be liberated, freed from obedience to any master, able to do what she wanted when she wanted, including in matters of sex. Is it working for her, this 'liberation' she brags about? From what you told me she doesn't seem very happy with her life does she? She doesn't reverence the sex act as a sacrament from God; she uses sex as a way of making herself necessary to someone."

Perhaps realizing I found her lack of sympathy distressing, Mom tried to soften the callousness of her words.

"God does work in mysterious ways, Jake, taking us down paths we can't understand for his own ends. Sometimes the road of excess leads to the Palace of Wisdom. We can only pray these girls' casual promiscuity will bring them to the Lord in his own good time."

Pushing the envelope, I asked Mom how I was any different from these promiscuous women. Wasn't I just having sex for sex's sake, reveling in the physical pleasure it brought me? What made me any better than them?

"Search your feelings, Jake. Was it just sex or was it something more?"

I had to admit to my mother I felt the sacred along with the profane, the bestowal of God's sacrament, when Debbie and I made love.

"Then you are different than them, different but not better. You keep that in mind when you go out with the next girl your father has lined up for you, or any girl for that matter. If I ever find you've been discourteous or contemptuous to someone who shares herself with you it will go hard on you," she warned me sternly. "I mean it Jake. They may be doing these things for all the wrong reasons but they deserve your respect and compassion."

Begging off of my dates with Edna was out of the question, said my mom.

"You still need the experience, more than ever after what happened last time. You have to know its not just lust that attracts you to Eleanor. You're going out with this Todd girl and that's it."

Monday night found me peddling my bike to Edna Todd's. Like me she had no car but she did have a small efficiency apartment carved out of a turn-of-the-century Regency home on the edge of the village.

Along the way I worried about what would happen next, the memory of Debbie foremost in my mind. While that was a wound I couldn't heal, at least right now, the last thing I wanted was to injure Edna as well.

As I rode up the street her place came into view, a white-painted brick three story house, its hip roof covered with grey-green moss on the side shaded by the towering oak trees that dotted the property.

The place cried out for some care, the black paint on the double-hung windows and wooden shutters was peeling, the chimney on its west side badly in need of tuck-pointing where the mortar had crumbled away. Maybe Dad could get a hold of the owner and make him an offer to do the repairs, give us a chance to work together and earn some money at the same time.

Cruising up the crushed gravel drive as it gently curved and dipped its way though the oaks, I pedaled to the back of the home, parking my bike under the back stairs. Taking a brown bag out of my bike's saddlebag I carefully began ascending the stairs, watching for the loose steps I had been told were there, just one more thing for Dad and I to fix.

Passing by the landings at the second and third floors, I reached the end of the steps, a small door offering access to the space under the attic. Pushing my unease aside and after a small prayer all would go right, I knocked on the door.

I might have been troubled by Dad's treatment of his women but I had to admit he sure could pick them.

Edna Todd was a stunner. She was the very definition of "willowy," with just enough flesh to keep her from being bony. Luxuriant red hair framed her elfin face, pouring down her back to end just below her shoulder blade. She wore a thin leather necklace, a shiny metal ankh hanging from it to rest in the hollow of her throat.

Soft dark brown eyes, framed by a pair of slightly rounded tetragonal tortoise shell glasses resting on an upturned button nose, confronted me with a bold and direct gaze.

This time I remembered my manners from the start, extending my right hand toward hers, introducing myself as Jake Gledhill, Leonard's son and asking if she was Edna.

Smiling warmly, she took my hand in hers. "Hello Jake. It's a pleasure to meet you but I'm not Edna," her voice sweet and lyrical.

As I started to apologize for my mistake she laughed. "It's OK Jake, I'm who you came to see. I just hate the name Edna. Why my parents saddled me with it I'll never know. It's not like either of my grandmothers were named Edna. I'm the first 'Edna' in the whole damn family. Just call me 'Toddie, ' like everyone else and we'll get along just fine. Come on in and make yourself at home."

Letting the screen door bang shut behind me, I stepped in and began to check out the place.

Dad had been too kind when he told me her place was small. My bedroom at home was almost as big as her entire apartment and I didn't have to wedge a bathroom, a kitchen and a table in my room. Because it was directly under the attic, with four and half-foot walls running the length of the apartment, the ceiling pitched sharply, making it impossible to stand up straight anywhere but the center of the room.

To the right of the entrance door was what passed for a kitchen, the refrigerator and stove half their normal size, as though they'd been designed as toys for a child's playhouse, and a single sink, just big enough to wash one plate at a time. Two miniscule cupboards were jammed above the sink. The far end of the room was curtained off by a folding plastic door, ajar just enough for me to see a small shower stall and, thankfully, a full-sized toilet.

A daybed with pink tubular scrollwork was pushed against one wall, a squat three-drawer chest framing one end, a rack made of wrought iron pipe, which substituted for a closet, the other. On the wall directly across from the daybed was a narrow table, maybe two, two and a half feet deep and four feet long, with a pair of folding chairs tucked underneath it.

The only natural light came from a window to the left of the door and the glass panels in the door itself. The apartment didn't run the full length of the house, only to its center, another "efficiency" apartment on the other side of Toddie's bathroom wall. Just how efficient her apartment was I couldn't say but there was no doubting the efficiency of her landlord in squeezing out every last penny he could from his building.

As a teenager, I couldn't wait for the day I could leave home and move into my own apartment. Toddie's cracker box added some caution to my desire.

It was fairly warm in the apartment but, despite the lack of windows, not overly hot, the shade from the oaks protecting it from much of the sun's heat. An old beat-up box fan, its blades moving torpidly, blew air from the outside toward the other end of the room where a bathroom exhaust fan sucked it out, the air current not even strong enough to ripple the wall's decorations, photos of rock stars cut from magazines.

I was almost through with my examination when I caught a glimpse of something that was definitely out of place in the apartment, my gym bag. It was tucked in the corner of the daybed next to one of the pillows. I knew it was mine because the name "Jake" was stenciled in blue letters just below the school's Flying Dutchman logo, a red and white depiction of an old two-masted brig under full wind. It was in my closet the last time I had looked. I didn't have the slightest idea of how it got here or what it was doing here.

Determined to be cool, I ignored its presence. Instead I complimented Toddie on having "such a nice place," making her snort with amusement.

"You don't have to butter me up. My apartment is so small the door mat just says 'Wel.'"

Not wanting to be topped, I went into my best Johnny Carson imitation. "Your apartment is so small, even the mice are hunchbacked."

"My apartment is so small my closet is a nail."

"Your apartment is so small when the sun comes in through the window you have to leave."

"My apartment is so small I can use my washcloth for wall to wall carpeting."

"Your apartment is so small you have to go outside to change your mind."

"Now you're repeating yourself."

"How about this one then? Your apartment is so small when you put the key in the lock you stab all the people inside."

"Much better. My apartment's so small when I walk through the front door I'm in the back yard."

"Your apartment's so small, Barbie did your interior decorating."

Throwing up her hands, Toddie surrendered. "Enough already. I give up. You win. So what's in the sack? A present for me?"

Reaching inside the bag, I pulled out a fifth of Southern Comfort, Dad's gift of choice for my date.

"Oh yeah, very nice. Much more practical than a book of poetry. More effective too. 'Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker.' There's some Coke and ice in the refrigerator and some jelly glasses above the sink. Why don't you make us each a drink while I get out of my work clothes and into something more comfortable."

With no pretense at modesty, Toddie unbuttoned her blue chambray shirt unveiling a chest as flat as the Kansas prairie. Watching me watching her, she grinned. "I hope you're not a tit man Jake. If you are, well I may not have a giant pair of juggs but I make up for it in other ways.

"I don't know how Debbie can stand all that weight pulling on her all the time," she said as she continued to undress, pulling off her brown workpants to reveal a pair of plain cotton panties ala J. C. Penny. "By the time she's 30 she'll be as hunchbacked as my mice. If it wasn't for the fact these damn work shirts rub my nipples raw, I wouldn't wear any bra at all. I mean it's not like I need one for support or anything. Besides, my apartment's so small if I had big tits I'd have to rent the apartment next door too." Leave it to a woman to always have to have the last word or in this case the last joke.

Turning her back to me, she bent over to open a drawer, treating me to the sight of a tight little ass moving under the cotton fabric. Selected clothes in hand, she moved to the daybed. "Not that I don't appreciate all your attention but it was pretty hot in the shop today. How are those drinks coming?"

Before my time with Debbie, such an inquiry would have sent me blushing into the other room, embarrassed at being caught enjoying Toddie's little strip tease act, stammering out some type of lame apology. But that was before. Even though I was still troubled by the way it ended, my affair with Debbie had given me a measure of self-confidence, even a little bravado.

"You were working so hard at putting on such a tantalizing show, I didn't want to miss a minute of it," I bantered, at the same time letting her know I knew what she was up to.

"Well, the show's over," she responded, "so get us those drinks and then come sit down."

As I mixed the drinks, Toddie finished dressing, putting on a avocado green and white pullover with a matching pair of shorts. Standing in front of her, our drinks in my hand, I casually asked her to move my gym bag to the floor so I could sit down.

"Sure Jake, the floor OK?"

"For now."

Moving my bag, the black plastic bracelets around her right wrist sounding like a baby's rattle, I noticed Toddie's fingers didn't match the rest of her body. Short and thick but with sharp edges, the bright red polish was chipped away in most places, the remaining patches making her nails look like they had the measles. The most striking anomaly was her right index finger, which was missing the entire first joint.

"Camping accident," she said matter of factly. "Chopped it off with a hatchet at Camp Crooked Tree when I was a Brownie. I was cutting down some branches to build a lean-to. They never did find it, probably made a nice little snack for some scavenger. The camp leader made a big fuss over it though, paid all the medical bills and even refunded the camp fee.

"Got a camp joke for you. Know when a Cub Scout becomes a man?" I shook my head no. "When he eats his first Brownie." As I chuckled, she took a sip of her drink.

"Pretty good Jake. Most guys put in too much alcohol; I guess they want to get me drunk as quick as they can. You've got the mixture just right. Are you moonlighting as a bartender nights or is this just a natural talent?"

I explained I'd been making drinks for my parents and their friends since I was 10.

"Well, you've got a real talent for it," she said taking another swallow. I followed suit, the caramel taste of the Southern Comfort softening the sharpness of the Coke.

"I don't know very much about you Jake, other than what your dad told me and I know you don't know anything about me other than what your dad told you which you should take with a mountain of salt. Lennie's a dear but he never lets the truth stand in the way of a good story."

With a final gulp she finished her drink, holding the glass out to me. "Drink the rest of yours then make us both a fresh one. When you get back we're going to play a little game called "Spanish Inquisition" to help us get to know each other better. It's a simple game. We just take turns asking each other questions and giving one-minute answers. I'll be the timekeeper. We're each on our honor to tell the truth. Can I trust you to tell the truth Jake?"

What the hell, I thought to myself. What can it hurt; after all I won't be seeing her again once I start dating Elle. "You can if I can."

"Fair enough," she said her eyes crinkling merrily. "I'll start you off with a simple question while you're getting those refills. What do you like to do for fun," she asked her eyes turning to her watch attached to her left wrist by an inch and a half wide leather band.

"Read, go to the movies. I write a little, fish and hunt some. I like fishing better than hunting. In spring when the floods come I like to canoe down the drainage ditches. It's exciting and scary to go through those big metal culverts not knowing if they're blocked with brush or not, whether or not you'll make it out the other side or drown in the dark. In winter I go snow camping on the weekends. But mainly I read. What do you do for fun?"

"You mean besides fuck," she asked provocatively. "I like to tell dirty jokes; working on the shop floor you learn to be one of the guys if you want to get along. I like swimming, hiking in the woods. I'm into astrology. Listen to the radio. I don't read much, just rock magazines. I'm not a big movie fan, they're OK but there's better ways to spend a couple of hours in the dark. What's your favorite subject in school?"

"Journalism. What was yours?"

"Shop and auto mechanics, I was the only girl in my school they let take those courses, all the others took home economics. But Jake, you can't just parrot my questions back to me, you have to come up with some on your own," she chided me. "What was the best day of your life and why?"

"Gezz, Toddie, I haven't lived that long."

"No fair stalling. Answer the question."

"The day my debate team beat St. Bonaventure in the regional finals last year. They were a bunch of stuck-up rich private school kids who knew they were better than anyone else. They even had a regular debate class with a full-time teacher. We just had Mr. Homn for a few hours after school. They went home and we wound up finishing third in the state." I was surprised at the distaste I felt for those rich little pricks even now; the satisfaction I still got from beating them like a drum warming my heart. "What's your favorite season," I asked her, still keeping the questions fairly impersonal.

"Spring, when everything and everyone seems to get a fresh start on life. What'd you get away with in school you've still never told anyone about?"

"A friend and I broke into the school. He stole the janitor's key and I made a copy of it at the hardware store I work in. It was a real commando job. We dressed all in black including black ski masks and black gloves. Once we were in we went to the science lab and freed all the frogs they were going to dissect in biology the next day, must have been more than a hundred of them. It was pretty funny; we left little ladders made of pins and string on the edge of the tanks along with a note from the Amphibian Liberation Movement. Let them all go in the creek behind the school. They never did figure who did it or how we got in."

Toddie got a real kick out of my tale; laughing so hard she spilled some of her drink on the daybed. After we got it blotted up I asked her, "What's your favorite clean joke?"

"Clean not dirty huh? OK I'm up to the challenge. Man says to his doctor, 'I can't sleep. Every time I lay on my left I hear 'The Green, Green Grass of Home' and when I lay on my right, I hear 'Delilah.' The doctor says 'I'm afraid you have a case of Tom Jones Fever.' Guy asks the doctor, 'Tom Jones Fever? Is that common?' Doc tells him, 'Well, It's not unusual.' So what's your best dirty joke?"

I thought for a moment.

"A Catholic teenager goes to confession, and after confessing to an affair with a girl is told by the priest he can't be forgiven unless he reveals who the girl is. 'I promised not to tell!' the boy says. 'Was it Mary Patricia, the butcher's daughter?' the priest asks. 'No, and I said I wouldn't tell.' 'Was it Mary Elizabeth, the printer's daughter?' 'No, and I still won't tell!' 'Was it Mary Francis, the baker's daughter?' '"No, ' says the boy. 'I'm sorry, son, ' says the priest, 'I have no choice but to ban you for six months.' Outside, the boy's friends ask what happened. 'Well, ' he says, 'I got kicked out of mass, but Father gave me three good leads.'"

"I knew we'd get around to sex eventually." Toddie joked. "Next question?"

"What's your family like?"

"My dad's a long-distance truck driver, not around home much, maybe a week out of a month although not all at the same time. Mom works part-time at the Topps in Marion. She's a shelf stocker, sometimes a cashier when it's really busy. Rita's my older sister. She's a beautician over in Lumstead. Married with three kids, ugly little buggers every one of them. Her husband's an assistant night manager in the party store there. My brother Chaz is living in an ashram in California trying to find himself. We don't get together much, not what you could call a close family. Now it's my turn to repeat a question. I know your dad real well. What's your mom like and what's she think of all this? Remember, we promised to be honest with each other."

I felt like a butterfly in a net, the killing jar in sight. The questions were starting to get serious now. "Come on, come on. I can't be that hard to answer. One minute, go."

"Mom loves her family, loves Dad even though she knows she's sleeping around. She works hard, keeps the place together. Wants me to be a success and to save you a question, she knows I'm here and she's Ok with it. Says I need the experience." I didn't mention my mother's very active sex life, figuring it's not a lie if you don't say anything.