My face burned. I shoved two fries into my mouth. Izzy didn’t seem to notice that Dr. Cone has used the word sex. With the word addict! I didn’t even know you could be a sex addict. A slideshow started in my brain: images of people kissing, naked, pushing themselves against each other hour after hour. Would the sex addicts ever get hungry? Would they eat while doing sex things?
“In this situation,” Dr. Cone continued, “it seemed better that the patient and his wife just move in and stay with us until everything’s more under control. They live in New York City and he’s been taking the train down for twice-weekly visits with me. He’s actually detoxed now; we’re just working on ways he can stay sober.”
“Oh okay.” I took the drink back from Izzy, swallowed another strawful, and then handed it to her again.
“The thing that’s tricky here,” Dr. Cone said, “is that they’re both very, very famous.”
“Movie stars?!” Izzy asked.
“Yes. The wife’s a movie star. He’s a rock star.”
“A rock star!” Izzy shouted. “I want to be a rock star!” She held the drink in front of her face as if it were a microphone, and started singing a song I’d heard a couple of times but didn’t really know. Izzy had it down word for word, so I assumed the Cones had the record.
“A movie star and a rock star from New York City are going to move into your house?” I asked, just to be sure I was understanding this correctly.
“Who who who who who who who?” Izzy asked. “Is it the Partridge Family?”
“You’ll see when they get here.” Dr. Cone reached out and mussed up Izzy’s hair.
I had many more questions but didn’t dare ask. What was the rock star addicted to? Would I ever see him or his movie star wife, or would they be in Dr. Cone’s office all day? Were they bringing maids with them? Did they have a limousine and a driver?
If Izzy didn’t know who they were, I doubted I would. I barely knew Little Tavern burgers! The records in my house were all cast albums from Broadway musicals or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Kids at school talked about bands and rock music, but the names of the singers and bands were as foreign to me as the neighborhoods and streets east, west, and south of where we lived. For all I knew, the rock star and the movie star, the drug addict and his wife, might be less recognizable to me than Dr. and Mrs. Cone.
3
All weekend long, I thought about the Cones and the addict rock star/movie star couple who would be moving in. On Saturday, I walked up to Eddie’s market and flipped through People magazine to see if there was any mention of a rock star/movie star couple dealing with an addiction. I wondered if the addict would look like the addicts I’d seen downtown from the window of the car. Skinny people in dirty clothes, leaning against doorways. Or the man with only one limb who pushed himself around on a wide skateboard. I’d seen him many times. Once, I asked my father if we could roll down the window and give him money. Dad didn’t answer, but my mother said, “We can’t roll down the window here.”
That Sunday night, my mother was serving ham, peas with bacon, coleslaw, succotash, and corn muffins and a trifle for dessert. I always stood by and helped while she made dinner. Step by step she’d narrate what she was doing so that I could do it myself when I grew up. If she handed me a knife, she showed me exactly where on it I should place my fingers. If she handed me a whisk and a bowl, she showed me the angle at which I should hold the bowl in the crook of my left arm, and the speed and force with which I should use the whisk with my right hand. But that night she let me prepare the trifle all by myself. Mostly.
When it was time to eat, after I’d set the table, my mother and I sat in our padded-seat chairs, waiting in silence for my father. He finally arrived, still wearing the tie he’d had on at church that morning. The Sunday paper was tucked under his arm.
Dad sat, placed the paper on the table, and put his hands together for prayer. Before he spoke, he dropped his forehead onto the pointed tip of his first fingers. “Thank you, Jesus, for this food on our table and for my wonderful wife and obedient child. God bless this family, God bless our relatives in Idaho, God bless President Ford and his family, and God bless the United States of America.”
“And God bless that man with no legs and only one arm who hangs out near the expressway,” I said.
My father opened one eye and looked at me. He shut the eye and added, “God bless all the poor souls of Baltimore.”