The downside of Andrew Beck’s commendable candor was that he often went around brooding and depressed. Desie blamed herself for what happened next. She had persuaded Andrew to see a psychologist, who urged him to seek an outlet for releasing his inner fountain of angst. Andrew chose body piercing and embarked on a zealous program of self-mutilation. He began with three small holes in each earlobe and advanced quickly to the eyebrows, one cheek and both nostrils. And he didn’t stop there. He wore studs and pegs made only of the finest silver, and before long he bristled from so many man-made orifices that commercial air travel became impractical, due to delays caused by the metal detectors. With each new attachment Andrew’s visage became more grotesque, although it didn’t seem to bother his politician clients; Andrew’s professional services were in greater demand than ever. Desie, on the other hand, could hardly bear to look at him. She held out hope that it was just a phase, even after Andrew got his tongue pierced to accommodate a size 4/0. Desie appreciated the symbolism but not the tactile effect. In fact, sex with Andrew had already become too much of an obstacle course, body ornaments snagging and jabbing her at the most inopportune moments.
But she cared for him so she kept trying, until the evening he showed up with a tiny fourteen-karat Cupid’s arrow pinned through the folds of his scrotum. It was then Desie realized there was no saving the relationship, and she moved home with her folks. She hung on to the engagement ring not for sentimental reasons, but because she feared Andrew Beck might otherwise put it to some perversely self-decorative use.
Less than a week later, Desie got a phone call from Palmer Stoat. She had met him only once, during an editing session at Andrew’s studio. Andrew had been videotaping trial campaign spots for a man named Dick Artemus, who was planning to run for the governorship of Florida. Palmer Stoat had accompanied Artemus to Atlanta, and sat beside him while the “Vote for Dick” commercials were screened. Desie was there to prevent Andrew from offending Artemus (whom he abhorred) and thereby pissing away a $175,000 production contract.
In the studio Stoat began flirting with Desie, until she made it plain she was spoken for. Stoat apologized convincingly and didn’t say another word, although he hardly took his eyes off her all afternoon. Desie never did figure out how he learned so quickly of her breakup with Andrew Beck, but Palmer wasted no time with phone calls, flowers and first-class plane tickets. Initially Desie put him off but in the end he wore her down with his slick enthusiasm—she had always been a sucker for pampering and flattery, and Palmer was a virtuoso. Desie’s parents seemed to adore him (which should have been a warning signal) and urged her to give the nice young gentleman a fair chance. Only later, when she’d married Palmer and moved away to Fort Lauderdale, did it occur to Desie that her folks had been trying to nudge her out of the house. (Two days after the wedding, her father brought in a team of carpenters to convert her bedroom into a gym.)
She couldn’t deny that Stoat treated her well: the Beemer, the canal-front house off Las Olas, all the shopping she could stand. And while the physical relationship between Desie and her husband wasn’t acrobatic or fiery, it was mostly pleasurable. Morphologically, Palmer was a bit doughy for Desie’s taste, but at least he didn’t look like a damn Christmas tree when he took off his clothes. Not one of Palmer’s pallid body parts was pierced, pinned or spangled, which was a treat for his new bride. It was nice, if not exactly rapturous, to make love without fear of puncture or abrasion.
Desie felt so liberated that on their honeymoon night in Tortola she was able to remain aroused—and not dissolve into giggles—when Palmer panted into her ear: “Come on, baby, light my candle.”
“Fire,” she whispered gently.
“What?”
“It’s ‘fire,’ honey. The song goes, ‘Come on, baby, light my fire.’ ”
“No way. I saw that fella do a show down at Dinner Key before he croaked—”