Altared States
by Doug Hawley
A few days
after my wife Celestine died suddenly from
encephalitis, I got a phone call that I suspected
was some form of condolence. I had not
recovered enough to talk to anyone, but the
caller ID – Jellane Jefferson - shocked me
into answering.
“Duke, I’m so sorry that your wife died. I
know that we parted on bad terms, but I never
wished anything as horrible as this to happen to
you. If it is OK with you, I’d
like to see you and see if I can at least heal
some old wounds.”
As I said, I was surprised to hear from the woman
that I had called Jelly – “It must be
Jelly, ‘cause Jam don’t shake like that”. My
father, who appreciated voluptuous women, had
frequently used that phrase. Jelly had
passed the off ramp to voluptuous at 100 miles
per hour and showed no signs of slowing down. Jellane
thought Jelly was short for her name, but then
she got a lot of things wrong
A few years before Celestine and I married, Jelly
and I were hot and heavy. Jelly was
ready for marriage and children in some order,
but I insisted on graduate school first. Her
response was to elope with Edgar Grand after
knowing him for a week. Before she
left, she complained about my masculinity and
social skills. I seem to remember
something about “unconscious, undermanned
nerd”. It hurt, but at least it
was a well turned phrase and not completely
inaccurate. I had taken her for
granted. Our dates could have taken
place outside of my car, and I could have worked
more on her pleasure. A six pack and
Jelly in the back seat was all I cared about.
I hated her and her treachery at the time, but it
set me free to meet the not-Jelly. Celestine
was multi-talented, intelligent and sophisticated. Painting,
music, swimming, comedy – she excelled at
whatever she tried. Her athleticism
carried over into our bedroom. She was
hard to keep up with, but I tried my best. I
can’t imagine getting over losing her as
long as I live.
So why let Jelly drop by? Maybe it
would take my mind off my grief for a little
while.
When she came over, I asked how she knew about
Celestine. “I saw it in the obits. She
got a big spread. Wow, you were really
lucky”. I let the implied insult
and insensitivity go, but did note that there
must have been some low level stalking for her to
get my phone number and address.
I can’t claim to be the good guy here
because I asked how she and Edgar were doing. I
already knew that Edgar was seeing several women
while married to her. She said “I
shouldn’t have rushed into marriage so young
and unprepared. We divorced after a
couple of years.” She didn’t
elaborate and I didn’t push. She
looked down into her lap and said quietly “I’m
really sorry about the way that I treated you. I
hope that you can forgive me.”
To keep the ball rolling I said “I should
have treated you a lot better. We were
both young and made mistakes.”
We ended up talking for an hour. A
week later, we went out to dinner and a movie. The
week after that we ended up in bed. A
month after Celestine died we had planned our
wedding.
With all of Jelly’s negatives, I will give
her credit for her amorous acrobatics. To
belabor a point, she was built for comfort, but
she had several speeds. I made a mix
disc from my music collection including things
like “Super Freak”, “Venus”,
“Work With Me Annie”, and “Kashmir”. I
tried to finish our session with the line “they
were dying to get off” from “Life In
The Fast Lane”. If I hit the
timing right, I’d reward myself with some
pear brandy. If Jelly knew what was
happening she never mentioned it.
On the big day, we had each invited twenty
friends. As we stood in front of the
minister, Jelly asked to say something before we
said our vows.
“Duke, you are the same self-centered creep
you always were. You still don’t
have any social or bed skills. No way
am I marrying you.”
“Please Jellane, stay for the music I
prepared, maybe you will change your mind.” I
could see that she wanted to go, but her
curiosity kept her from leaving.
“See the old loss, same as the new loss. Go
away Jelly-Jam, I don’t give a damn. I’m
surprised you don’t limp; you are as big a
blimp. Think you can do better, go
back to Edgar.” The song goes on
like that. I had taken the “Who”
classic “Won’t Get Fooled Again”,
stripped out the lyrics and added my own.
It was her turn to be shocked. She
stayed through the whole song before running out. Would
I have played the song if she had not burned me
first? We’ll never know. Either
way, it hurt that she got to me first.
We have not talked for months, but I have a
feeling that we’ll get back together in the
future if for no other reason than murder. We
deserve each other. Maybe I should
call her this time.
A
sanitized version appeared in Bull & Cross
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