I swallowed hard. I’d never heard anyone use that word, but I did know what it meant. I tried to let my brain move past the idea that Sheba was discussing this part of her body; I tried to be the adult Sheba expected of me.
“You’ve been nominated for an Academy Award,” Dr. Cone said. “You’re always asked to sing on talk shows. I think it’s factual that you are also adored for your many talents.”
“But, Richard, no one on this Earth would pay five cents to see my talents if I didn’t look the way I do.” Sheba threw her hair forward.
“Do you feel any gratification when you’re rewarded for your talents, or do you only feel gratified when you’re rewarded for your physical attributes?”
“When I was in Playboy, I got more recognition, more adoration, more praise than I did for anything else I’ve ever done. And you know what?”
“What?” Mrs. Cone asked, too loudly, and then she hiccuped.
Sheba and Dr. Cone both looked at her like she’d just shouted during a silent prayer in church.
Sheba turned her head back to Dr. Cone as if he had asked the question. “It made me feel good. It made me feel like I mattered. Playboy filled the hole my mother carved out of me when she told me I was a whore and a slut and that I’d never be as good as my brothers.”
“Like I said,” Jimmy grumbled, “lady’s a bitch.”
“So you’re defying your mother, in a sense.” Dr. Cone was nodding. He paused for a moment and then said, “Does this defiance feed you spiritually?”
Sheba thought about this, and I thought about it too. Wearing the crochet bikini Sheba bought me did seem like it filled some spiritual need. When I wore it, it was like I was transforming into the freer, less afraid person I wanted to be. But could I really compare my semi-nudeness in a bathing suit on a private beach to Sheba’s total nudeness in a magazine that just about every man in the world looked at?
“It might. Allowing myself to flaunt what my mother wanted me to hide makes me feel like I exist on my own terms,” Sheba said, and I understood her completely.
“Let’s look at it from another angle,” Dr. Cone said. “Is there anything that’s worth doing without an audience? Is there any part of you that doesn’t need to be seen?”
“When Jimmy and I make love, I feel whole. Complete. Like everything that’s missing in me is filled.” Sheba reached her arm out to Jimmy and they held hands. He leaned in and whispered something to her. Mrs. Cone sighed so loudly, I wondered if she wanted to interrupt them. Dr. Cone looked entirely calm, like he had no problem waiting for the two of them to finish whatever it was they were whispering, lip to lip.
I heard Jimmy say, “Baby, I just love you so much.”
My stomach rumbled again. Sheba had just admitted that her most complete moments in life were when she was making love to Jimmy. And mere hours ago, Jimmy was doing exactly that with Beanie Jones.
When they finally stopped whispering, Sheba said, “I think I need to meditate on how I can feel complete and whole without continuous feedback from exterior sources, including Jimmy. Like, I need to totally chill out and sit with myself, just see what it means to be me without the world telling me who I am, or who I’m not, or who I am to them.”
“You have given yourself excellent advice,” Dr. Cone said. I thought it was neat that he didn’t feel like he had to be the one to come up with the advice. And then I wondered if I should see what it felt like to sit with myself without taking into account feedback from exterior sources, even though I usually felt comfortably and quietly invisible, except to my mother, who gave me continuous feedback. Maybe part of my joy in being at the Cones was the joy of not getting feedback from my mother. I wanted to think about this more, but then Jimmy started talking and I didn’t want to miss anything he had to stay.
“But wait. I mean, fuck, man, if Sheba’s not the superstar sucking up all the attention, then everyone’s gonna look more closely at me.” He knocked his thumb against his chest when he said me.
“So you prefer to be in the background?” Dr. Cone asked. Were all psychiatrists like this? It seemed like Dr. Cone offered very little. Though maybe his questions were designed to help people come to conclusions on their own.
“Fuck yeah. I was never after fame. All I’ve ever wanted was to make enough money to buy guitar strings and eat. I hate celebrity. If I could do what I do anonymously, I sure as fuck would. I just want to play my damn guitar and sing. I don’t want strangers talking to me or trying to touch me, or even telling me how much they love my music. And I sure as hell don’t give a shit what they think about how I look. In fact, I’d prefer they didn’t look at me at all.”