AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 36

In the morning, Reed took Courtney to her doctor’s appointment.  Courty kept hitting the cuddle alarm over and over, forcing them to skip breakfast.  Reed had the hired car pick them up inside the underground garage to avoid the reporters.  Strobe Light City, as they drove out of the underground garage.

During Courtney’s examination, by a female gynecologist, Reed made a number of business calls, from a public phone down the hallway from the doctor’s office.  At SoundSync East was a reminder from Emmy that made him swear out loud, and a message for him to call his mother.  It was a little early in Los Angeles, but he called her anyway, and received some exceptionally bad news.

His father had just died.  Complications from the heart surgery, his mother told him, beginning to cry as she said the words.

He made the appropriate responses and promises and declarations of love, and numbly hung up.

Courtney was quiet as the two of them waited for some test results in the waiting room——as quiet as Reed.

Background sounds, other people’s conversations.

She leaned her head over and quietly said, “Blues Brothers.”

It got a smile out of Reed.  They were both wearing big, black sunglasses.  He gave her hand a little squeeze.

“Ms. Ryan?” the male nurse called out, and Courtney went back into the office to find out the second half of her test results.

Afterward, with a poker face, she asked to be taken back to her place.

The reporters had apparently given up their vigil.

Reed told the driver of his hired car to hang around in the garage.

Very quietly they sat together in her living room, with the front door closed.  She held a large manila envelope on her lap.  Reed put his arm around her.

He watched her finger her engagement ring nervously.   “And don’t even think about taking off your ring,” he said.

She smiled.

“Would you like to get married today?” he asked.

She said nothing.  Her stomach growled.

“Would you like to get breakfast today?” he asked.

Silence.  Not even a stomach growl, this time.

Eventually: “She gave me advice on how to tell you.  But . . .”  She sighed.  “This moment is supposed to be so beautiful.”  She just stared, flatly.  “I’m pregnant with our child.  Yours and mine.”

“That’s great.  It is beautiful.”

“I’ve been pregnant for at least four weeks, more than a month and a half, she thinks.  My periods have been irregular since I came to New York . . . I didn’t notice.”  She reached into the manila envelope and felt around.  She pulled out a large folded piece of paper.  “Here’s a note from my doctor.”

Reed chuckled, and she looked at him sharply.

He said, “You sound like a high school kid.  ‘Here’s a note from my doctor.’  I believe you, Courty.  You don’t need to show me any notes.”

“I want you to read it.”

“OK.”  He did.  It said pretty much what she just told him.  “So, when do we get married?”

She was silent.

“So, when do we get breakfast?”

Courtney pulled out a little booklet from the folder and handed it to him.  Reed’s good eyebrow shot up when he saw the title.

Courtney said, “I have gonorrhea and herpes simplex, type two.  I’m full of penicillin for the gonorrhea, but there’s no cure yet for herpes.  I want you to read that booklet very carefully.  There’s certain basic precautions we must take, so that I don’t give you herpes.”

“I’ve always wanted herpes!”

“Reed, be serious.”

“Are there any more surprises in that envelope?”

“Yes,” she said.

Silence.

“Well, let’s have it,” he said, with a smile, a tender kiss on her cheek, and a reassuring hug.

“The bill,” she said with a twitch of a smile.

“Whew.  For a minute there, I thought I was going to have to get AIDS too.”

“We won’t know about AIDS for a few more months.  Antibodies take awhile to develop.”

“Hey, this has really gotten you down, hasn’t it?”

She just sighed.

“Well, listen.  If you won’t let me order in a preacher, how about if I order up some food?  I’m starving.”

No response.

“Courty, talk to me.  What’s the matter?  We’re going to have a baby!  That’s great!  So you have a little harmless VD——so what?  Herpes just gives you a little itch once in awhile.  So what?”

“It’s not quite that harmless.”  Pause.  “Oh, I don’t know what’s the matter, Reed.  I just feel . . . I don’t know.”

“How can I help?”

“I don’t know.  Just be with me, I guess.”

“Well, being with you is one thing, being hungry with you is something else.  Do you want me to order up some food, or do you want to go out to eat?  Make a decision.”

She took a deep breath.  “Let me see what we’ve got here.”  She stood up.  “Read that booklet about herpes.”

She wandered into the kitchen, and rummaged around.  Reed followed her.  “Make it breakfast breakfast,” he said.

“Scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon and toast?” she asked.

“Perfect.  Four eggs.”  He sat down at the tiny kitchen table and watched her.  “What’s your position on marriage, now that you’re pregnant?  Why are you still hedging?”

“I don’t know.  I can’t think right now.  I really can’t.  My thoughts, they just don’t go anywhere.  They’re just a blur.”

“Are you in shock?”

She stopped her meal preparations, and looked at him.  “I must be.”  She frowned, thoughtfully.  “I must be.”  She sat down with him at the table.  “God, I’m fractured!”  She looked at Reed with horrified, wide eyes.  “I’m inches from a mental breakdown!”

“No, you’re not, You’re just completely blown away by what happened to you.  But it’s just temporary.  Hell, if I was kidnapped and raped, and shocked by cattle prods, and drugged, I’d be a basket case myself for a few days.”  The way she looked at him, forced him to add: “Yeah, I know.  I don’t know what I’m talking about.  I don’t know what it’s like.  I have no way of knowing.”  Pause.  “Why don’t you just get back to work?”

“Back to work?!” Courtney squeaked.

“Sure.  Lock yourself away with a typewriter, and do some words.  It’s what I’d do.  When I feel screwed up, I just go into the studio and sit down with a keyboard and a drum computer and GO.”

“I thought you meant modeling.  Anybody else would have meant modeling.”

“Or modeling.  Work and play are backwards with me.  Work is play, and play is work.  Work is what’s fun, and play is a drag.  Work is challenging, it’s usually a struggle, a fight, and sometimes it can be a bitch, sometimes it can be Total Hell, but it’s still preferable to just screwing around.  As far as I’m concerned.  I mean, play’s only good for setting you up so you can do some more work; but usually, if you’re sharp, you can set things up so that you’ve got different types of things that you have to work at, and one kind of work can be recreation for another type of work.  So, I can work for——years, I guess, without a real vacation, ’cause I’m always getting a rest from one thing by doing something else.  I mean, producing is so radically different from composing, that my mind is going: ‘Whew, am I glad I don’t have to be figuring out melodies right now.’”

Courtney smiled.  “I’ve heard of a work ethic, but that’s ridiculous.”

Silence.  This time Reed’s stomach growled.

Reed went over to the fixings, and looked at them with trepidation.  “I’ve seen people do this in movies,” he said, picking up two eggs and smashing them together over the skillet.  “Oh.  Eggshells are good for your teeth and bones,” he said by way of explanation.

Courtney watched him turn on the wrong heating element on the electric range, and then dig into the drawers with his goopy fingers.  “Reed, what are you doing with the ice cream scoop?”

He had scooped some of the drippy eggs into it and was flipping the gear-driven handle back and forth.  “I’m making scrambled eggs.”

Courtney broke into laughter.  “Reed . . . Reed . . .”  The dunce was perfectly serious.  She got up and went over to him, and gaped.  “Reed, that’s a pastry wheel.”

“I’m cutting the bacon, don’t give me a hard time.”

Courty put her arms around his stomach from behind, peeking around his body to watch.  “You don’t need to cut the bacon, just peel it off in strips.”

“Oh,” he said, noticing that the back heating element was glowing instead of the front one.  “OK.  I got it figured out now.”  He turned control knobs, turning the back left one not OFF, but onto LO, and the front left element not to 3, where it should be, but HI.  Of course, he should have used the front right heating element because it was the right size for the frying pan.  Reed opened the drawer again and . . .

“Reed, that’s a meat mallet!”

“So?”

Courtney giggled, watching Reed pound a potato to mush.

The skillet began to crackle and pop.  Good thing it was Teflon: at least he couldn’t . . .

Oh, now he’s trying to get scientific.  She watched him balance a meat thermometer on the edge of the skillet, prong end into the eggs.

Reed pulled out another preparation utensil, and Courtney watched him scooch the sizzling bacon around with spaghetti tongs.

“Reeeeeed!”

He grabbed the timer.  “Three minute eggs, right?”  Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick . . .

Gawwwd.  The ‘eggs’ were part-scrambled, part-sunnyside, half-burnt, half-room temperature, and part-eggshells.  The bacon was all thrown together like a pig orgy.

“This is easy,” Reed told her confidently.  “Just like making rock-’n’-roll.”

“What?  Is this how you make rock music?”

“Pretty much.  I just grab whatever music toy is handy and make it do what I want.”  He smiled charmingly, around at her.

“God help the soul of Rock-’N’-Roll,” Courtney said. 

Reed sniffed, as burning eggs singed his nose.  “Smells a bit sharp.”  He looked around.  He pulled out a sugar scoop to mess the eggs around, and make space for the destroyed potato.

Courtney stared.  “I don’t believe it.  Only Byron Reed could use a cookie cutter to make breakfast.”  She chuckled.

“Hey, don’t give me shit.  It’s a nice touch, don’t you think?  I love you.”  He kissed around at her, catching a forehead.

The ‘hash browns’ was a smoking spud-mush pancake——heart shaped.

Reed’s eyes lit up as he spotted a new toy; he started playing with it, pulling the handles back and forth.  “Hey, this looks like fun.  What’s this for?”

“Give it up, Reed.  That’s a garlic press.”

“OK, let’s get serious, where’s the toaster?”

“ST-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-P!”

COURTNEY, Chapter 37
 

Copyright 2005 Area 47