The Marriage Bed
Tommy Hays
A Writer Memory
Harry Meets The Goddess

Something else happened during this time. A memory came up for me with regard to Tommy Hays. He probably doesn't recall this, but he was the first person to offer me an opportunity to read at Malaprop's, Asheville’s wonderful independent bookstore, for the first Writers At Home presentation. It was in 2005. My novel, A Love Apart, had come out shortly before then. And to this day, I really don’t know how he came to invite me. I was not in the program, and had never taken any courses with him, and he was not yet facilitating workshops at Wildacres Writers Workshop, which I had been attending since 1998.

Surprised and delighted and petrified to read aloud, I prepared a bizarre story that I had entered into a competition. Synchronistically, I’d found out the day before the readings that I had placed in the competition, and I actually received a check for $100!

So that Sunday, Malaprop’s came alive for Writers At Home. The place was packed with standing room only. WLOS news was there. I was a nervous wreck, but somehow got through reading a story that had several lines of pornography in it. It’s called Harry Meets The Goddess. And interestingly, there was a man in the audience, who for years afterwards, would come up to me whenever he saw me around town, chuckle and tell me he still remembered me and “that story.”

Because I have been struggling with what to write this month, since I've been primarily involved in deep inner contemplation that needs to be held close, I thought, since the memory came up, I’d offer you the opportunity to meet Harry Gold and the goddess Lu. Enjoy…or not.

 

Harry Meets The Goddess

Harry Gold stood in line at the supermarket imagining how he would compose his letter to Penthouse. The object of his lust was at the checkout one aisle over. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with the required 36C breasts, blond hair to her waist, and jeans tight enough to reveal she wasn't wearing any underwear. Harry was up to then she ran her big blue eyes slowly down my body, and seductively said, "I wonder if you'd mind helping me carry these groceries to my car…" when the cashier broke his trance.

"Sir. Sir? That'll be $47.58."

"Oh," Harry said. He pulled his wallet from his pocket. When he looked again, the young woman was gone.

Women were always disappearing on Harry, the last being his wife, Shari, who had asked him for a divorce the year before.

"You’re a pig, Harry," she'd said. "I'm leaving you." Shari was not one for beating around the bush.

"What!" Harry shouted. "What did I do?" He'd given her a nice house on Long Island, expensive jewelry, a new car every other year.

"If you try real hard," Shari said, "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

But Harry hadn't figured it out. Not all of it, anyway. Harry was from Brooklyn. And this, according to Shari, was why there were a lot of things he hadn't figured out.

Harry had a medium build with a few middle-aged pounds settled into what he called "love handles." His coarse, still mostly dark hair sprung short and Brillo-y around his head. His skin was olive, his eyes the color of weak coffee, and he had an aquiline nose with a slight bump near the top. But his most remarkable feature was a dimple deep in his left cheek which, when he smiled, made people expect something more congenial than what usually came out of his mouth.

The last time Harry was single, the passwords to pleasure were straightforward, contained no subtleties, no subtexts. "Your place or mine? or "Do you wanna do it?"—short and to the point, just like the act—had pretty much gotten him what he wanted.

Now, at fifty-one, Harry felt cheated by a world where women did not operate the way they used to. Now, he encountered a whole new breed who wanted not just to climb into a man’s bed, but to penetrate his soul. Women who seemed to breathe a lot and use words like tantra and spiritual union. Worse yet, women who worshipped Oprah, the person who, according to Harry, was single-handedly responsible for the whole unfortunate evolution of the female sex. Things have gotten far too complicated, he thought as he gathered his groceries.

Harry deposited the bags in the trunk of his Olds Cutless Supreme and slid behind the wheel. He was about to turn the key in the ignition when his eyes were drawn toward the seat beside him. A woman was sitting there, a woman he would swear on his father’s grave had not been next to him a millisecond before.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, in his usual gallant manner.

"The goddess," she replied, focused on fastening her seatbelt. "Well, one of them at any rate."

"The WHAT?"

"The godddessss," she repeated, slowly this time, looking him right in the eyes so it might sink in. "But you can call me Lu."

"Lu." Harry stared in disbelief.

"It’s short for Luna, which is so affected, don’t you think?"

Harry wasn’t paying attention. A goddess named Lu, he thought. Perhaps this was some kind of hallucination caused by too many lascivious fantasies. Perhaps he was even more desperate than he realized, for in Harry’s humble opinion, Lu was not exactly goddess material.

The woman sitting beside him was in the prime of her forties, yet she radiated an ageless quality which Harry totally missed. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was gathered loosely at the nape of the neck, the shorter lengths at the top and sides falling in soft waves and wispy tendrils around her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes were hazel brown with generous lids, her face heart-shaped. Except for a natural blush, her skin was very fair. And in her ears she wore tiny iridescent pearl earrings.

What Harry saw, however, was a pale, middle-aged lady at least ten pounds overweight with no boobs. Still, the situation would have been less than suspicious, except for the fact that it was November and this woman was wearing a sleeveless, semi-transparent, calf-length tunic, and seemingly nothing else.

"This is some kind of joke, right?" Harry prayed it was true. It must be Bernie's idea, he thought. Only his friend Bernie, who constantly teased him about his non-existent sex life, could have such a warped sense of humor. "Bernie put you up to this, didn’t he?"

"Who?" Lu hugged herself, shivering. "Do you have a blanket or something? I always have a little trouble pinpointing which season I’m going to wind up dropping into."

Harry was about to lose it. "Okay, this has gone far enough. You can get out of the car right now."

"Oh no," Lu said with sudden seriousness. "You don’t understand. I can't leave you. I was 'sent.'"

"Sent?"

"Yes, 'sent.'"

"Riiight." Harry thought perhaps Lu was a few cards shy of a full deck. "I'll just drive you home, okay?" he said as if speaking to a child. "Where do you live?"

"For now, I guess I live wherever you do." Lu’s teeth began to chatter. "Do you think you could at least turn on some heat?"

Keeping his eyes on Lu, Harry tried to blink her away. When she didn't disappear, he turned on the ignition and pushed the heat lever to high. "It should warm up in a minute or two," he said. He wondered why he was talking to this person as if she were a rational human being.

Harry didn't know what to do next, but Lu seemed to.

"We should go home now, Harry," she said. "There's really nothing else you can do. Trust me. Once I've been 'sent' I have to stay with you until I complete the assignment. Besides, you have perishables in the trunk."

"I'm an 'assignment'?"

"Yes you are, Harry. And a tough one so far."

Maybe there was something going on here Harry had missed. "Am I dead?"

"Of course not. You're as alive as I am."

"Oh that's really comforting."

"If you were dead, you'd be a lot smarter."

Harry thought he was smart enough. He may not have finished Queens College, but he hadn't done so bad. He had a nice house, which he got to keep since Shari moved back to The Bronx. He'd made Salesman of the Month three times in a row after sliding a whole lot of customers behind the wheel of a shiny new Oldsmobile. And he hadn't even gotten caught that one time, two years before, when he'd returned a kiss thrust upon him, tongue and all, by Doreen, the horny widow down the street. Well, at least not until months later when she got annoyed with him and opened her big mouth to Shari.

And now, even though he'd been a man who usually kept out of "women's work," he'd actually learned to sort his laundry before washing it so the whites didn't become pink or gray, and to clean the hair from the bathroom sink after shaving. He'd even invented his very own recipe for bourbon chili. He lived pretty well, he thought, despite those damned alimony payments which, mind you, he always made on time. How much smarter could he be dead?

It became obvious Lu wasn't going away, so Harry eased out of the parking lot. The sun, low in the autumn sky, streaked through the front windshield casting seductive shadows over Lu's anatomy. Suddenly, she didn't look half bad and Harry thought maybe he needed to reassess the situation. After all, Lu was female. She appeared to have all the right body parts. And little boobs were better than no boobs at all. Besides, maybe after he'd made her moan his name, she'd be willing to do womanly things for him like cook a decent meal and straighten up around the house, things Harry really missed since Shari had left.

Dear Penthouse, you will never believe my story, but here goes. This woman who says she is "the goddess" appears in my car one day. She's about twenty-five with blond hair to her waist and firm 36C breasts that are straining to be squeezed. I can tell all this because she's only wearing a see-through toga, like something out of the orgy scene in Caligula. When I ask her where she came from, she says she's been "sent" just for me. She keeps looking at me with her sultry blue eyes. She licks her lips, and I can see her squeeze her thighs together just enough for me to notice. Well as you can imagine, I'm having to do all I can to keep from jumping her bones right there in the car. "Let's go back to your place," she says. "That's just fine by me," I say, and start to drive us home. Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out what I might have done to deserve a goddess, but it turns out to be too much for my brain to handle. All I want is to stick my tongue down her throat, take a few licks at those tits and ride her like there's no tomorrow…

"Not a chance," the real Lu said.

"What?" Harry replied, startled.

"There are no secrets, Harry. And you have a very limited idea of what a sexy woman is."

"Holy shit!  You can read my mind?"

"Afraid so."

Harry began to panic. Since his divorce, his mind had become triple X-rated. He would say it was because he'd been married for so long and hadn't had any really exciting sex for decades. But the truth was thinking raunchy thoughts distracted him from feeling how much he missed Shari, even her yelling, even her restless poking arms in the night. And how guilty he felt. Sometimes Harry thought he and Shari were like a bad TV sitcom that managed to stay on year after year—she nagging at him, he talking big, acting wimpy. He could have been a more loving husband. He knew that. That's why he didn't fight too hard when Shari had said she wanted out. Not that she was perfect, far from it, but Harry felt maybe Shari had deserved better.

Harry looked at Lu. I've got to stop thinking, Harry thought. Especially about sex. But how can I stop thinking about sex with a half-naked woman sitting next to me?  Shit! I can't think that either. Okay, I'll think about nothing. I'll hum. Harry began to hum a random melody.

Lu turned to him with an it won't work expression on her face.

"Shit!  This is ridiculous," he muttered. I want you to go away. He aimed the thought at Lu like a laser. I want you to go away right now! Go away!

"It's no use, Harry."

"Isn't there some kind of law against eavesdropping in someone's mind?"

Lu didn't answer.

Screw her, Harry thought. I'll think whatever the hell I want to. So what if she knows. What's she going to do, wash my mind out with soap? Report me to the porno police?  First she'd have to explain her half-naked self, now, wouldn't she? Read my mind if you want. See if I care. Harry glanced over at Lu as if daring her.

"If it makes you feel any better Harry, I can only do it when I want to, if I focus on doing it. And since your thoughts aren't all that interesting, I'd just as soon stay out of them."

"That suits me fine."

Harry turned left onto Cedar, then right onto Sycamore Road where he lived. Thank God he had a garage. At least he wouldn't have to explain Lu and her toga to his nosy neighbors. He activated the garage door opener and pulled in. He remembered his house was its usual mess, and wondered if he would lose some kind of cosmic brownie points for it. But then he figured, if Lu didn't like it, she could either disappear the way she came or clean it up, the first option now being his personal preference.

Lu, however, opted for the second and immediately began to create order out of the chaos in his living room.

"Don't get used to this, Harry," she said as she disposed of empty Michelob bottles and weeks worth of Newsday. "It's just my nature to do what's in front of me. It's a Zen thing."

For the next forty-five minutes, Lu washed dishes, wiped countertops, vacuumed taco and potato chip crumbs from the carpet, Windexed the glass-top coffee and end tables, turned and fluffed couch cushions. "How can you live in such disarray?"

"Very easily," Harry said. Lu's words reminded him too much of Shari's, although Shari would have said them much louder. And she would have said, "a pig sty. how can you live in such a pig sty?"

It was almost completely dark now, and Harry turned on another light. He watched Lu as she scurried around, but didn't offer to help. He'd never been good at those things. The times he'd tried to clean the house, Shari said it wasn't worth it, that she'd only have to do it over. She told him he always missed spots when he dusted, and didn't vacuum all the dirt underneath the chairs. So Harry stuck to things he was good at, like selling cars and making smartass remarks.

In case Lu was tuned in, Harry tried not to think anything too self-deprecating. But he had to figure out what to do about this crazy woman taunting him with a see-through toga, taking over his life as if she was settling in for the long haul.

A minute later, the phone rang. It was Bernie. As much as he knew he'd regret it, and even though Lu was probably tuned into every word, Harry filled Bernie in on what had happened. He needed to tell someone.

"I don't believe a word of it," Bernie said. "I'll be over in ten minutes to see for myself."

"You'll believe it soon enough."

When Harry went back to check on Lu, he hardly recognized his own house. The living room, dining room and kitchen looked like a photo out of Good Housekeeping. Lu was still there, standing at the stove, basting something that smelled exactly like Shari's pot roast, Harry's favorite. Over her tunic, she had on his bright blue muslin apron with the words BBQ King written in white across the front. The back of her, however, was still semi-transparent, and Harry couldn't help eyeing her ample and inviting behind. The whole scene, as absurd as it was, presented possibilities that made him hopeful. The doorbell interrupted his fantasy, and Harry heard Bernie let himself in through the unlocked door. He rushed to intercept him.

Harry had been friends with Bernie for five years, several spent working with him at the same car dealership. When they'd met, Bernie, himself divorced, was living with a woman named Isabel. Shari and Isabel shared complaining about their men and got on famously. A month after Shari left Harry, Isabel split from Bernie, taking more than her share of their household furnishings with her, and after that, Bernie traded selling cars for selling electronic security systems. It was a continual mystery to Harry how Bernie could get a woman to share the same conversation with him, never mind the same bed. But somehow he could, and as a sideline, Bernie put himself in charge of checking up on Harry's sex life.

"Hey buddy," Bernie said, examining himself in the hall mirror. The five hairs left on the top of his head were standing at attention from the wind. He smoothed them down. He took out a six inch pocket comb, the kind last seen in the hands of Elvis Presley or James Dean, and ran it through the only slightly more abundant rest of his hair. He didn't bother to take off his orange and black ski jacket. "So where is this 'goddess'?"

"In the living room," Harry said. "Look for yourself."

Bernie walked into the living room while Harry waited in the hallway. Three seconds later, Bernie came out. "Have you lost your mind?  There's a woman in there, but she's no half-naked goddess."

"What do you mean?"

Harry bolted through the archway, part of him hoping Lu had finally taken off, another part hoping she hadn't so he wouldn't look like a total idiot. Lu was still there, sitting on the couch, but instead of her sheer toga, she was dressed in black wool slacks and a burgundy boat neck sweater, her legs tightly crossed. "

So you're Harry's goddess," Bernie said with a smirk. He walked toward her.

"I'm Lu."

"Hi 'Lu.'" He emphasized her name. "I'm Bernie."

"Nice to meet you."

"Be careful, Bernie, she can read your thoughts," Harry said.

Bernie sat down next to her. He stared at her sweater. Lu didn't flinch.

"Harry says you can read my thoughts."

Lu seemed amused. "So he does."

"Well, can you?"

"Can you read mine?"

Bernie moved away from her a bit. "If you ask me, you sound more like a shrink than a goddess."

"Interesting," Lu replied.

"Okay," Harry said. "Enough of this bullshit." He turned to Lu. "You're making me look like a fool. And a liar."

"I'm sorry Harry. I don't mean to."

Harry looked at Bernie. "I think you better leave, okay?"

"Sure, Harry." Bernie seemed to humor him. He got up and headed for the door.

"Bye 'Lu.'" He leaned in toward Harry's ear. "She's no goddess, buddy, but whatever she is, you ought to be grateful. Maybe you'll get lucky."

At that moment, Harry found Bernie's condescending remarks even more irritating than usual. "Get out of here," he said, following him to the door, locking it behind him.

He stormed back to the living room. "Just what the hell is going on?"

"Did you expect me to sit around in a toga and explain myself to your friend?" Lu said calmly. "I'm a goddess, Harry. I don't explain myself to anyone. Besides, I was 'sent' for you. My business is with you, not with Bernie or anyone else, and I'd appreciate it if you would please remember that." She did not sound unkind.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"As long as we understand each other."

Harry wanted to ask Lu where she'd gotten the clothes and the food, how she knew the recipe for Shari's pot roast and how she cooked it so fast, but he thought it best to keep his mouth shut for a change. He guessed if she really was a goddess, she could do a lot of miraculous things, and as much as he tried not to, Harry couldn't help thinking about what miracles she might be able to work in the bedroom and whether or not he could get her to perform them on him.

*     *     *

Harry's first week with Lu was nothing like he'd expected. Lu slept in the guest room, wore normal clothing which she seemed to pull out of thin air, continued to cook some of his meals (other times they ordered take-out) and helped him around the house. They played gin rummy in the evenings, or watched TV. She never yelled. For a while, she hardly spoke at all.

"I'm making assessments," she'd say, sometimes indicating slight yes or no gestures with her head as if communicating with someone unseen.

Harry didn't know what to make of all that quiet. Most of his life he'd been surrounded by women—his mother, his aunts, his sister, his wife—who had not addressed him without raising their voices at least a thousand decibels. Sound bellowed around them like a force field that kept all men at distance. But with Lu, it was different. Something inviting hovered in her air. It filled his house. It felt peaceful, made him feel relaxed, like he didn't have to put on a show. When he came home each day, it welcomed him. He could slip into it like a favorite sweater, feel warm and safe inside of it. It made him want to remember to put the toilet seat down.

Harry thought about what he might have had with Shari if he hadn't been so self-centered, and had more often kept his own voice down a few decibels. He waited for Lu's "assessments," waited for her to rail against him for having been a lousy husband, a cosmic embarrassment to his sex. He wanted it, so he could get it over with. That was why she'd been sent, wasn't it? The goddess bit was only a tease, a cover-up. He waited for the wrath of God himself to be visited upon him for having been an over all despicable human being.

By the second week, Harry found himself inspired to do things he'd never done before. Maybe it was because Lu, unlike Shari, hadn't gotten on his case about anything. With Shari, there was always an objection—to the way he chewed his food, to the angle at which he draped the bathroom towels on the rack, to the sound he made when he sneezed with a very loud HAH-SHIT on the exhale. Now, Harry found himself saying "please" and "thank you." Twice, he complimented Lu on her outfits. One day, for no reason at all, Harry had the impulse to buy her flowers, and not just the cellophaned bunches you could get at the supermarket either. Harry drove out of his way to a real florist shop and had the woman (to whom he hardly gave his usual once over) make up a bouquet of peach colored roses he really liked, decorated with ferns and baby's breath. They cost a fortune.

When he gave them to Lu, he prepared himself for some hurtful remark like "you must have a guilty conscience over something, Harry," or "whatever it is you want from me Harry, flowers aren't going to do it." Instead, Lu took the bouquet and cradled it in her arms. She inhaled deeply of its subtle fragrance.

"They're just lovely, Harry," she said. "How thoughtful of you."

On Saturday, over their dinner of pepperoni pizza, Harry mustered the courage to try having a serious talk with Lu. There were things he had to get to the root of.

"Okay," he began, "I know why you're here."

"And why is that, Harry?"

"To punish me, right?" He picked off a piece of pepperoni and popped it in his mouth as if rewarding himself for finally having spoken up.

"Of course not. I am not here to berate or judge you, Harry. You do a very good job of that all by yourself." Lu took a sip of the Michelob she'd gotten in the habit of sharing with him. "Why haven't you ever asked who sent me?"

Harry didn't know why he hadn't asked. Maybe he'd been a little afraid of the answer. What if Lu had been sent by weird Uncle Leo who claimed connections to the netherworld? Or worse, by Shari's recently dead Aunt Shirley who'd hurled matzo balls at him across the dinner table and on her deathbed threatened to cast an evil eye on him for eternity? But now Harry was ready. "Okay," he said. "I'm asking. Who sent you?"

"You did, Harry."

"I sent you?"

"Yes, Harry. You're the one who sent me."

On the surface, it sounded preposterous, yet down deep in his gut something rang true.

"You think this is about what's between your legs, Harry, but it's not. It's about what's in your heart."

Slowly, Lu reached out her hand and held the open palm an inch in front of the center of his chest. He could feel a warmth radiating from it. No one had ever before addressed Harry's heart. He felt this tremulous rumble rise from that deep down true place like a river when a dam breaks, and before he knew it, an unstoppable torrent poured down his cheeks. Harry hadn't cried since he was ten years old and his dog Ziggy had gotten hit by a car. He hadn't even cried when his father died, or when Shari had miscarried their baby, or when, after twenty-one years, she'd told him she wanted to end their marriage. He wondered if Lu had cast some kind of spell over him. Besides being able to read his mind, maybe she could control it as well.

Harry felt embarrassed. Grown men didn't cry. He buried his face in his hands. "What the hell are you doing to me?"

"You've needed this for a long time, Harry." Lu got up and brought him a box of tissues. For the first time, she touched him, stroked his hair. "It's all right, Harry." She pulled him against her, let him wrap his arms around her waist and weep into her breast. Under any other circumstance, Harry would have had his hands all over her, but at that moment it didn't even cross his mind.

"I feel like…" Harry began, but couldn't finish. A broken man, he thought.

"You're not," Lu said. "It takes courage to call the goddess to you. The larger You sent me here not to make you broken, but to break you open. There's a new Harry emerging, one who will no longer be addressed as swine. The old sitcom has finally been cancelled."

Harry reached for another tissue. There was nothing he could say to a woman who had seen him turn to total mush right before her. He could hardly look at her. He wasn't sure about this new Harry, but the old one thought it would be nice not to be called a pig.

"Harry," Lu said.

He could sense what was coming. Don't go.

"I have to Harry. The assignment is completed. I'm being called back."

*     *     *

Late that night, as Harry drifted between awake and asleep, Lu came into his room. He could see by the slatted moonlight through the partially opened blinds she was wearing the tunic she had arrived in.

"I couldn't leave without saying goodbye, Harry," she whispered.

Whether or not he dreamed what followed, he would never know for sure. Without saying another word, Lu slipped under the covers and slid over next to him. He thought he had died and gone to heaven.

When Harry awoke the next morning he knew Lu was gone for good, yet the peacefulness she'd brought to him remained. It was Sunday and there was no hurry to get up. Harry pulled the covers to his chin and closed his eyes. He re-lived the night before.

Dear Penthouse, in a million years I never could have imagined I'd be writing this. One day, not too long ago, a goddess named Luna showed up in my life. I don't mean goddess in the sense you think I do. This was a real goddess, and she had none of the things I'd always fantasized about. She was not blonde. She did not have 36C breasts. And she was probably almost twice twenty-five. Yet she made love to me as if I were a god. This didn't happen from the start. I had to wait weeks until she'd even let me touch her. But on that last night, before she had to return to wherever goddesses come from, she snuck into my room and slipped naked into my bed. "This is against the rules," she said, "but I just can't resist you."  Then she…

Harry tried to continue, to describe all the ways in which they'd made love and how many times, but found he couldn't. Suddenly, it did not feel right to tell anything to anyone. Not Penthouse. Not even Bernie. He lay back and watched the morning flicker through the room like polished gold. He stretched his naked limbs between the sheets, and for a moment, he thought he detected the comforting aroma of Shari's pot roast.