Finally, Simon walked through the door. She could tell the moment she saw him that he was a pro. He arrived fully in character.
“Took me twenty minutes to find parking. I’m sorry but I don’t have much time. I have to pick up my son, Tom, at four.” He was remarkably good-looking. Movie star good-looking. Was he too attractive?
“Oh? And where does Tom go to school?” asked Ruth.
“Athenian. You’ve heard of it? In Danville?”
“It’s a very good private school,” said Ruth. “Almost on a par with Hillside.”
“So you have children?” he asked.
Ruth wasn’t about to give him any personal information. “How was your day?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Exhausting. I had three kids come in. A broken arm. A fractured ankle, and a shattered collarbone. They were freaked out.”
“That must be really intense. How do you deal with it?”
Simon smiled a soft, secret smile that said Even though my job is incredibly hard it’s so rewarding. “I sing to them.”
“You sing to them?”
“I wimoweh my way through ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight.’ It has a somnolent effect. They get sleepy. Some of them drift right off.”
“No kidding.”
“No kidding.”
Ruth sat back in the booth. “What’s the meaning of the word interstitial?”
“Spaces. What’s in between things. Could be literal, like a gap in your teeth, or metaphorical, like you’re in transition and haven’t landed yet.”
“So you’re an actor,” says Ruth.
“Yep. Theater mostly. The occasional commercial.”
“Anything I’d know?”
“Doubt it.”
“You’ve been doing that a long time?”
“Fifteen years.”
“You’re a pro then? Successful. And yet you answered my ad.”
“I’ve hit a dry patch.”
“How dry?”
Simon exhaled wearily. “I really am a single father. I really do have a son named Tom. I’m perfect for the job.”
“Mmm,” said Ruth. He was perfect.
“Is this a play you’re casting for? A commercial? A movie?”
“No, it’s something rather different. You may not be interested. You might find it—distasteful.”
“That depends. How much does it pay?”
Ruth was planning to pay big. Maybe $50K. She figured she’d have to pony up in order to convince somebody to take the job and buy their silence.
“Thirty thousand.” It was her opening bid. She expected him to negotiate, but he was so shocked by the number she’d thrown out that he just sat there. His hands gave his desperation away. His fingers clenched and unclenched.
“A month or two of work, tops. And the hours are great. Maybe two or three times a week.”
“Two or three times a week doing what? What’s the job?”
“You’ll meet a woman. Take her out. Make her fall in love with you. Then dump her.”
His eyes narrowed. “Clarify dump her.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not ordering a mob hit. Break up with her. Move on.”
“And who is this person?”
“She’s—my best friend.”
* * *
Simon joins her on the porch and closes the door behind him, his jaw clenched in anger at her gall—showing up unannounced. “What do you want?”
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
“You’re going to make me stand on the porch? It’s not safe. Somebody could drive by and shoot me.”
Simon crosses his arms. He’s got great guns, Ruth has to give him that.
“Guess you don’t make it off the hill and into the flatlands much, do you?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? Look, please, Simon, let me in. We have things to discuss.”
* * *
Simon’s apartment is tiny, maybe eight hundred square feet. A living room, kitchen, and what looks like two bedrooms down a hallway. It’s furnished sparsely but with style—a leather couch, two midcentury chairs draped with sheepskins. He’s neat, very neat. The kitchen counters gleam. The table, recently polished with beeswax. He’s done the best with what he has, but it’s clear he doesn’t have much. Tom goes to Athenian. He must be on full scholarship.
Ruth hears the unmistakable sound of a video game being played behind one of the closed bedroom doors. Shooting. Explosions.
“Tom?” she asks.
Simon glances at Tom’s bedroom door. “We should be good for fifteen minutes or so.”
“Does he know about our arrangement?”
Simon shakes his head. “When he plays he’s off in another world; he won’t even know you’ve been here if we make this snappy.” He gestures to the couch. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine standing.”
“Sit,” he orders her, and she perches obediently on the arm of the couch. Wait a minute, he’s her employee, not the other way around.
“You’ve failed at your job,” she says.
“Yes,” he agrees. “I don’t want to do it anymore. I quit.”
“But I already paid you,” says Ruth, the cords in her neck growing taut. One of the downsides of being so thin, a ropy throat.
“Right.”
“Right what?”
“You paid me and the job is over now. I’m done.”
“But, you didn’t finish,” Ruth sputters. “We had a contract.”
“I don’t remember signing anything. Want some coffee? I made it this morning, so it might be a little stale, but I can heat it up in the microwave if you want.”
“What I want is for you to break up with Gemma. That is what I paid you for.”
“Not gonna happen.”
Ruth feels her eyes bulging.
“Let me ask you something. You say you’re her best friend and she means everything to you. And yet you hired me to hurt her. Why?”
Ruth can’t believe the turn this conversation has taken. He’s interrogating her. She has to remain calm. She’s the director of this show, not him.
“I want to protect her. I want the best for her.”
“And that best is you?” he scoffs.
Tears spring to Ruth’s eyes. Why must everything be so hard?
“Jesus,” mutters Simon, turning away, but not before she sees her tears have moved him. He opens the fridge door then shuts it again.
“Look, I like Gemma more than I’ve liked anybody in a long time and I can’t lie to her any longer. I have no intention of stiffing you. I’ve spent the thirty K already, but I’ll pay you back in installments. A little each month. How would that be?”
That would be very, very unsatisfactory.
Suddenly Tom’s bedroom door is flung open and Tom appears in the hallway, his arm covering his nose and mouth. “What’s that smell?” he asks.
“Goddammit,” says Simon.
Tom walks into the living room. He sees Ruth sitting there. “It’s you.” He points his finger accusingly at her.
Tom is even taller than Simon, but so skinny. His Levi’s ride low on his hips.
“It’s okay, Tom,” says Simon. “I’d like you to meet Ruth Thorne.” He struggles to get out the words, “My friend.”
“You didn’t tell me a stranger was coming,” says Tom. “Who smells like”—he crinkles up his nose in distaste—“coconuts.”
“Can you wash off your perfume?” asks Simon.
Ruth spritzed her hair with Angel this morning, just like she does every morning. She can’t just wash it out.
“No. And it’s not coconut. It’s caramel.”
Tom snorts skeptically and sniffs the air. “Coconut, cotton candy.”
“He’s got a good nose. He’s probably right,” says Simon.
“Well, there’s caramel in there, too. It’s one of the base notes. And it’s really very pleasant if you give it a moment,” she says, insulted.
Tom flicks his chin at her. Once.
Twice. Three times.
“Is he allergic to perfume?” asks Ruth.
“He’s got some sensory issues. Bright lights, loud noises. Overpowering smells are the worst for him,” Simon explains.
Ruth’s perfume is not overpowering! She always puts it on with a light hand. Oh, no, has she become immune to the smell? Has she been walking around all these years reeking like a department store perfume aisle?
Simon puts his arm around Tom. “I’ll make lunch in a little bit, okay, buddy?”
“It’s Friday. Baked beans and toast,” Tom says.
“Right. Now, do you want to get back to your game? My friend Ruth is only going to be here for a few more minutes.”
Tom looks sideways at Ruth. “You’re very tall. And your hair’s very yellow, like a princess. But you’re not a princess, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” says Ruth.
“Then you shouldn’t have that fake yellow hair.”
Simon tries unsuccessfully to mask his smile. “Now, that’s not very nice, Tom.”
Tom goes back to his room.
* * *
“He’s an amazing kid,” says Simon. “He’s super into history, especially battles. Ask him anything about the Civil War. What kind of bayonets were used. The type of bullets. The uniforms. He can also tell the make of a car by the sound of its engine.”
Simon’s tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek. “He’s on the spectrum. He’s pretty filterless, but I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. He has executive functioning impairments so schedules are really important for us. Meal times, game time, bed time. The same thing every day. That keeps him stable. He goes to Jupiter Academy in Berkeley, a school for neurodiverse kids. He’s made great progress there.”
“And he doesn’t have a free ride,” Ruth extrapolates. This gives her leverage. He needs money, and she has money. Would $5K be enough to convince Simon to fulfill his contract?
“No, he doesn’t.”
“His mother doesn’t help?”
“His mother is out of the picture. She has been ever since he was diagnosed at three.”
“So where was Tom at Thanksgiving?”
“We have a wonderful babysitter, Clyde. He’s been helping us out since Tom was young. He’s like an uncle. He looks after Tom when I’m not here. When I’m out on a job.”
“Right. And Thanksgiving was a job,” says Ruth.
Simon looks guiltily into his lap. “I should have told you about Tom. He’s the reason I took your gig.”
“Yes, you should have. And I’ll give you another two K to finish it.”
Simon’s eyes grow wide.
“Five K.”
His eyes narrow to slits.
“Fine, ten K and that’s my final offer.”
“I don’t want your money. I told you that. It’s not about the money anymore.”
“You don’t even have to see her. You can just ghost her.”
Simon’s face becomes so blank that for a moment Ruth thinks he’s had a stroke. Then she remembers he’s an actor.
“You are the most despicable human being I’ve ever met,” he says.
Ruth walks to the door. “Fine. I’ll tell her you made a pass at me.”
“She won’t believe you.”
“Then I’ll tell her everything. I’ll expose you for the fake you are.”
“Then I’ll expose you, too.”
He straightens his spine, rising to his full height. “Now get the hell out of my house.”
MARLEY
Once again, her mother comes home empty-handed from another supposed shopping trip. She’s in an awful mood. She bangs the teakettle down on the stove so hard, water sloshes out of the spout. “There better be some turmeric ginger tea left,” she snaps.
“Is everything okay?”
Her mother scowls and stares her down. “Have you weighed yourself lately?” Spittle sprays out of her mouth and onto a bowl of apples.
Marley actually feels her body contract upon itself. Her arms and legs shrink back into her torso. She looks down at her belly. Even through two layers of clothes she can see her rolls of fat. She feels like a blood-bloated tick. She doesn’t binge at night anymore, instead she binges during the day. She sneaks off campus and takes an Uber to Rockridge. She buys a Tres Leche cake at Market Hall and asks for Happy Birthday, Sophia! to be written on the cake, so people won’t suspect it’s for her. She likes the idea of having a friend named Sophia. It’s a popular girl’s name, which would mean she’s popular, too, if she’s spending thirty dollars on a cake for her bessie. Then she sits on a concrete wall beneath the BART station and gobbles the entire thing up.
When her mother’s in one of her moods the wise thing to do is play dead until it blows over. The teakettle whistles and Marley returns to scrolling through Bee’s Insta.
Marley’s not big into IG. She has an account but only four followers. Lewis follows her and hearts everything she posts. Why can’t she be nicer to him? Because he likes her without reservation. Nobody has ever liked her like that and so it repels her.
“What are you doing?” her mother asks.
Marley’s too fragile to lie. “Looking at Bee’s Instagram.”
Her mother brings her tea and sits down next to Marley on the couch. She peers over her shoulder.
“How many followers does she have?”
Marley points to the screen and her mother huffs. “She doesn’t know one thousand two hundred forty-two people.”
“It’s because she has a public account. Most of them are bots. Or maybe she bought some.”
“Bought some?” Her mother’s eyes widen in faux shock. “With what money?”
What, did she think Bee and Gemma were paupers? Pauper—such an old-fashioned and underused word. It just pops off your tongue.
“Well, that’s cheating, isn’t it? Bee’s a little cheater,” her mother sneers.
She’s really got it out for Bee. Marley can’t believe she told Bee to shut up yesterday. At Thanksgiving dinner! And they were invited guests! She was mortified. She hopes Bee doesn’t hate her for what her mother said.
Her mother grabs the remote off the coffee table. “Let’s watch Cheers.”
It’s one of her mother’s favorite shows that she turns to when she needs comforting. That and Golden Girls.
“I have to finish my English paper.”
“Sit with me, please.”
“It’s due on Monday. I’ve barely started.”
Her mother grabs Marley’s arm and holds it tight. Her fingers are like pincers. It’s not a request, it’s a demand. Marley will be watching Cheers with her mother all day.
BEE
The day after Thanksgiving, her mother has to work but doesn’t want to leave her at home alone.
“What are the girls doing?” she asks as she buzzes around the kitchen, putting her lunch into a Tupperware. A few slices of ham, a splotch of mashed potatoes, roasted carrots, and a Parker roll. She retrieves Simon’s pecan pie from the fridge, frowns, and shoves it back in.
The girls are taking BART into the city to go to the Westfield Mall. They invited her but Bee can’t even imagine getting out of her pajamas, never mind showering. It would require so much work.
Could you just shut the fuck up, Bee?
Bee’s insides feel like a Brillo pad. Scratchy, rusty, smelling of iron. She should shut the fuck up. She has nothing of any worth to say. She’s so embarrassed of the way she blabbed on at dinner, filling the space with empty words about French class and boys complimenting her (a lie) and body wash (omg did she really talk about body wash?).
“Bee, did you hear what I asked?”
“Not much. Everybody’s hanging out with their families.”
“Oh,” says her mother, tucking her Tupperware into a canvas KQED bag. “Everybody?”
“Pretty much.”
Bee can tell by her mother’s slumping shoulders that she feels both guilty and envious. What did happy families do on the
day after a holiday? Drive to Point Reyes, stop at Cowgirl Creamery and get a slab of Red Hawk cheese and a fresh baguette and then go to Limantour Beach and have a picnic. Bee thinks she saw a spread in her mother’s Sunset magazine that depicted exactly this. Or maybe, when her father was alive, this really happened. They did this, the three of them.
“Why don’t you come into work with me today? I could use some help. I’ll pay you for an hour or two. Then if you get bored you can go get a smoothie or a macchiato. You’ll probably run into some kids from school. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Bee would rather shave her eyebrows off than be seen in Starbucks the day after Thanksgiving drinking a stupid macchiato by herself.
“I’m good, Mom. I ate so much yesterday I just wanna lie around.” She puffs out her stomach and pats her food baby.
Her mother’s eye twitches. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Each of them is intentionally not bringing up what Ruth said, but can you just shut the fuck up dangles between them, like an umbilical cord.
* * *
Marls are you there?
Ya
Wattcha doing?
What do you think? Binge-watching Cheers
With your mom?
Exploding head face. Weary cat face.
Why is Marley spelling out her emojis? Is that a new thing everybody’s doing that somehow Bee missed out on? Often Marley is way ahead of the curve, so far ahead she’s uncool.
So that would be a yes?
Face with sticking-out tongue with noose around the neck. Are you ok?
Not really
I’m sorry. My mom sucks
You don’t have to apologize for her
She was drunk if that’s any consolation. I think she feels really bad. What are you doing today?
Nothing. Lounging around the house. Mom at work
Want some company?
Bee’s taken aback at Marley’s unexpected offer. Does she want Marley to come over? She aches for that closeness, that intimacy. But she wants the old Marley and the old Bee, back when they knew each other’s secrets and protected each other—when they were inseparable as sisters. Bee’s afraid that version of Marley and Bee is unresurrectable and at the moment she’s not feeling strong enough to test that hypothesis. Not today anyway.
Did I Say You Could Go Page 16
