Twixtujons

LTs at the Movies Schools are family. Like parents, we teach and protect students. Like children, students rebel and show affection for anyone guiding them. I once informed my college-hitchhiking buddy and old friend Jerry Ahern, who found his daughters’ rebellion at home exasperating, that his children like many others often begin sentences at school with “My dad went…,” “My mom said …, and “My dad and mom are….” At many Forum and yearbook meetings, I listened to my editors play “dueling parents.” “Really? You know what I hear at home?” In a struggling high voice, Jerry mimicked his daughters. “My teacher said this. My teacher is so funny. My teacher is the best.” Students move back and forth between home and school with the expectation that life will hold no surprises. Parents act this way, and teachers act that way. When students see teachers outside school, they’re either shy about the encounter or ecstatic about two separate worlds coinciding. Life is magical. In 1981, after I had moved to my school’s town, twenty miles north of New York City, “Lenspotting”—seeing me around town—became public revelation at the beginning of class Monday morning. “Hey, Len, you drink wine with dinner?” And “Why does a skinny man like you drink skim milk?” Seeing me—and my wife, Mary Jo Bellafortuna, whom they had never met—became the holy grail for Lenspotters. As far as LTs were concerned, there was a new member in our school family. “What does Mrs. Leonard look like?” “She’s a beautiful brunette with dark eyes, and has excellent taste in clothes—and husbands—Thomas. And she’s not Mrs. Leonard. Her name is Bellafortuna; she kept her maiden name.” “Do we call her Mrs. Bellafortuna?” “Call her Bellafortuna…. Like Cher.” “Does Bellafortuna sing?” “No, she cheers. In high school, Bellafortuna was captain of the cheerleading squad. Now she’s my cheerleader.” “Does she ever play nurse, Len?” “This is the reason you’ll never meet Bellafortuna, Thomas. You can’t control your feral impulses.” “Come on, Lenny. I’m kidding. Bring her to the play this weekend. I’m in it.” “Yeah. Me, too. Bring Bellafortuna… What does she wear when she cheers, Len?” “Last weekend, scarves and mittens. We went to one of those upstate Christmas tree farms. I sawed; she cheered: Leonard! Leonard! He’s my man! If he can’t do it, —nobody can!” “I bet you cut down a big tree, Len.” “I bet his tree is bigger than the one at Rockefeller Center. He’s Bellafortuna’s quarterback.” “That’s a good bet, Matt.” “Hey, Len, it must’ve been freezing up there.” Looking at Tara, Matt shivered and hugged himself. “No, Matt. Bellafortuna knows how to keep her man warm.” Seated, Tara did a fitful hula-hula. “That’s very attractive, Tara. Actually her pantyhose kept me warm.” For several moments, the classroom became a lawn of statues. One. Two. Three. “Her pantyhose? You wore her pantyhose?” “Best thing for a cold day. Ask a professional football player. Broadway Joe Namath swears by them.” “You must like big women, Lenny.” “They stretch, Tara…. And he has no idea he’s going to meet you.” “Who?” “Your future husband. He has no idea that his life will change forever. For all he knows, life is one long party after another. He’s probably going to a party tonight. He’s smiling. Maybe he has a girlfriend. A nice girl. Probably pretty. He’s in a good mood; life is good. All that will change, Tara.” “He’s a lucky man if he’s going to meet me.” “He has no idea… Okay, folks, pass up the Wharton homework. And thanks for coming.” Conversations like these at the beginning and end of classes elevated Bellafortuna to mythical heights. When my wife and I saw Body Heat at the movie theater on our new street, my meeting Dana and Suzanne at the refreshment counter became a potentially historic event for the two eleventh grade Lenspotters. “Mr. Leonard, what are you doing here? You’re seeing this movie?” “I wanted popcorn.” “But isn’t this a bit sexy for you?” Dana tilted her head to soften the revelation. Suzanne nodded in maternal agreement. “My wife gave me permission.” “Your wife! Bellafortuna’s here? Where’s Bellafortuna?” They had hit the jackpot and dropped the cat-and-mouse chit chat. “Really? Bellafortuna’s here? Where?” “She’s watching our seats.” “Can we say hello?” A Saturday night movie was never this good. A Lenspot—and a spouse. “No. You’ll scare her.” “What’s Bellafortuna wearing? We’ll find her!” They had the power and loved it, but since we sat in the balcony—and they sat downstairs—they never found us. I’ve always loved balconies. In the golden days of movie palaces, we cigarette smokers climbed the steep steps to our seats beneath the twinkling lights of the 72nd Street “Low ese,” where we legally puffed our smoke into the galaxy. When I gave up my Luckies in the sixties, I no longer sat in the balcony; but I still looked up to admire the stars through the clouds of smoke. This night, my wife and I were sitting high above several hundred sold-out seats. Leaning into each other, we sat in the middle of a row of strangers, and the huge ceiling fans moved the heat against our faces; there were no stars above us here, no galactic space to cool us—just two teenage girls looking up to the balcony for me and Bellafortuna. During the first adulterous scene in the movie, William Hurt looks through a window to see Kathleen Turner, who’s standing inside her home. With her left hand on her hip, she slowly moves the flared fingers of her right hand down her thigh, directing his eyes across her red skirt. Hurt breaks a glass door with a chair to reach her. Turner gasps. With my wife pressing against me, I saw Turner’s wedding ring, scene after scene, but I didn’t wonder about her husband. I wondered about the audience. Did they approve? Turner unbuttons and opens his shirt just wide enough to kiss his chest and neck. She turns her back to him, and he slides his right hand down her skirt and his left across her breast. She slowly turns back to him. Beneath a warm starless ceiling, I watched him tug her red skirt up and up and up until her panties appeared, and he was able to slip his hand beneath the elastic and squeeze. And I blinked. My students and I were watching this together. Turner lies back on the rug. While the fan in the background of the frame cuts through the humid air behind them, Hurt removes her white panties; his dropping them casually behind them on the red rug fills the frame. I remembered that the juniors and I had discussed the theme of corruption and the red-and-white symbolism in Gatsby. Did they remember? William Hurt says to Kathleen Turner, “It’s not right.” I agreed, but she’s more convincing, “Please do it.” She convinced me—and reminded me—that Dana, Suzanne, and I were listening to the language of seduction and passion. After several torrid scenes on silk sheets, Hurt whines, “Give me a break here,” but Turner doesn’t and he surrenders. Dana and Suzanne gave me a break, though; after the movie they weren’t waiting for me in the lobby—or the street. There were, however, no breaks Monday morning in class. “Mr. Leonard, what did you think of William Hurt breaking the glass door?” “Didn’t see it.” “How could you not see it?” “My wife covered my eyes.” “She probably thinks you’re too delicate.” Suzanne pursed her lips. “No, she was worried about later. She was afraid her quarterback would break through the bedroom door.” Dana fell across Suzanne’s desk, and Suzanne fell over Dana, two squealing tag-team wrestlers. We were family, and certain teachers were fair game. On the other hand, families come together during difficult times. There were no references to Bellafortuna—or my divorce—the following year.