I gave Izzy a bath every night following dinner and then put her to bed in our room. Once she was asleep, I joined the adults in the living room, or on the screened porch. They listened to music, or Jimmy strummed his guitar. Jimmy and Dr. Cone each had a cup of tea, Mrs. Cone and Sheba drank wine, and a joint circulated. Dr. Cone, like me, didn’t smoke, though once I saw him take a single puff just before he went to bed. And another night, I cleared the teacups and smelled something funny in Dr. Cone’s cup. I suspected he was pretending not to drink, so Jimmy wouldn’t be the only adult without alcohol.
Jaws was always on my lap at these living room hangouts, but usually the conversation was so engaging that I didn’t read. Sheba talked the most. She once named every famous person she’d had sex with and also told us how big each man’s penis was and what it looked like. She said one looked like it had knuckles under the skin, one was the size of her pinkie, one smelled like ham and was the color of ham, and one was angled to the right like it was pointing out directions. I had no idea that penises were that variegated. One movie star, an action guy, had a penis so big, Sheba couldn’t put it in her vagina. I hadn’t known who some of the stars were, but now I’d never be able to watch any of their movies or TV shows without pulling up the image of their penis.
Of the star with the enormous penis, Jimmy said, “I’m bigger than him, but then she had a little surgery to let me in and now it’s all good.” Everyone laughed at that, so I knew it was a joke.
Mrs. Cone asked Jimmy if he’d made love to as many stars as Sheba. Jimmy took a hit off the joint, furrowed his brow, and looked like he was thinking. Then he said, “You know, Bonnie, I just don’t fucking remember. No idea. Drug brain. Before I was with Sheba, the way I’d know I’d fucked someone was that she’d be in my bedroom or the hotel bed or on the tour bus in the morning. Sometimes I’d sense I’d been with someone, so I’d check my back in the mirror. If I didn’t see scratch marks, then I’d sniff my fingers.”
Everyone laughed, but I didn’t get it.
“You remember the girl you lost your virginity to,” Sheba said. “And you remember sleeping with Margaret Trudeau.”
“Well, yeah, there are people who stand out—”
“You slept with Margaret Trudeau!” Mrs. Cone leaned forward in her chair.
“You didn’t forget Streisand,” Sheba said.
“No one forgets Streisand.” Jimmy winked at Sheba and she laughed. I was surprised she didn’t get jealous. But maybe when you were Sheba, and every man in the world wanted to make love to you, you didn’t get jealous.
“Miss March,” Sheba said, and she put her hands in front of her chest to indicate breasts that jutted out about three feet.
“I think you’re thinking of Miss June.”
“Miss May.”
“There was a run of four Playmates,” Jimmy conceded. “I believe it was June, July, August, and September.”
“Did you save the issues?” Dr. Cone asked. I thought he was kidding, but I couldn’t be sure.
“The only issue he has is the one I was in.” Sheba moved from her chair to the ground in front of Jimmy’s legs. She wrapped her arms around his calves.
“That’s the only issue I cherish,” Jimmy said.
I wanted to know what it was like to pose for Playboy. If I could summon the nerve, I’d ask Sheba later. And maybe I’d also asked her why Jimmy would look at his back or smell his fingers to see if he’d made love to someone.
On the fifth day at the beach, Jimmy turned his pockets inside out and presented his behind to Dr. Cone, who looked up from his book and waved him away. Jimmy then presented his behind to Mrs. Cone, who giggled and gave a little slap on each of his back pockets. He went to Sheba next. Sheba was wearing a bikini that looked small enough to fit Izzy. Her skin was smooth and creamy, like she’d been sanded down.
“I need to do a thorough exam.” Sheba kneeled at Jimmy’s back and felt his pockets. Then she leaned in and bit him. Jimmy yowled and Izzy laughed so hard, her curls shook.
“Your turn.” Jimmy presented his bottom to Izzy. Izzy slapped his pockets over and over again like she was playing the bongos.
“Mary Jane has to check too!” Izzy stood and pushed Jimmy toward me.
I slapped his pockets once each. He had swum in his jean shorts and they were damp and sandy. “All clear!”
“Then I’m off!” Jimmy lifted his leg, cartoon-style, like he was winding up to run. And then he did. Run. Away from us and down the beach wearing only those damp, gritty shorts and the leather rope with feathers around his neck.