Age of Consent

by Amanda Brainerd

  She knocked.

  Massimo opened the door in paint-stained overalls. He did not seem at all surprised to see her, and pressed her hand to his lips.

  “Was that you playing?” India asked.

  “It was. It calms me.”

  “I love Chopin.”

  “Anch’io.”

  The loft had a wall of high windows and arched brick ceilings. There were several canvas-draped easels, and a huge carved wooden table with books piled on one end. A grand piano yawned in front of the windows. It was like being in a Velasquez.

  “Something to drink?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Momento,” he said, and lumbered off.

  India sat at the piano and played the few bars of Clair de Lune she could remember. She moved to the window, pressing her forehead against the glass. Night was falling, not a soul knew she was here.

  Massimo returned with champagne and two glasses. He popped the cork and handed her one.

  “Salute.”

  The liquid slid down her throat. It was the first thing she’d had all day.

  “Is that the Susanna?” India pointed to an easel with a figure of a girl, as voluptuous as a Rubens, sketched in rough strokes. Sunlight sparkled on a forest pool and two bearded men peeked out from behind a tree. Several photographs were scattered on a chair next to the easel.

  “I don’t look like that girl at all.”

  Massimo spread his hands, champagne bottle in one, glass in the other. “It is she who will look like you, cara Mimi. You can change over there—” He pointed to a curtain in a corner. Massimo took India’s empty glass.

  India ducked behind the curtain, feeling the effects of the drink already. Making sure she had complete privacy, she took off her clothes and wrapped herself in the robe that hung from a hook. It was soft and warm. Slipping out of her sandals, India padded across the floor and perched on the edge of a burgundy velvet armchair. Massimo knelt beside her on enormous knees and handed her a refilled glass. His brown eyes held golden flecks.

  “Tell me about my mother.”

  “Ah, Kiki,” he said, with reverence. “She was an exquisite creature, with a very old soul. Beautiful hair, like yours,” Massimo said, reaching out to twirl a lock in his finger. “No. Yours is softer.” He gently pushed the robe from India’s shoulders. “I loved her, perhaps more than I have ever loved any woman.” Massimo traced India’s collarbone with a soft touch. She couldn’t move. “But Kiki did not love me.” Massimo stood and picked up a paintbrush.

  India suddenly felt cold. “How did you know?”

  He turned. “In the way a man always knows. Kiki was so sad, so remote. I tried. Oh, how I tried to reach her. Have you ever loved without being loved in return?” He shook his large head, reminding India of a big, sad lion. “No, of course not. I hope you never do.”

  Tears were close. Yes, India did remember trying to reach her mother, trying to help her, and failing. Massimo had loved her mother, and so had she, but Kiki had killed herself even so. Neither of them had mattered enough to change her mind.

  “Would you mind taking off the robe?” Massimo was respectful, India realized, and while painting he did not see her as a beautiful girl, nor even as the daughter of the beloved dead Kiki. India was inspiration for Massimo’s art. India downed her drink, set the glass on the floor, pulled off the robe, and let it fall. She put her arm across her breasts and sat down, staring at the paint splatters on the wood floor.

  Massimo began to paint.

  “Are you sure you want me as your model?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “That girl, she’s so voluptuous, and I’m so . . .”

  Massimo came closer and refilled her glass.

  “May I?” he asked, resting his hand on her knee. He gently parted her legs. “Prego.” He smiled, taking her hand gently from her breast and placing it on the arm of the chair.

  He returned to his easel.

  Despite the summer heat, India felt goose bumps spread across her skin. The light had faded to black outside. Traffic surged below on Broadway.

  The world didn’t matter.

  “I hope you’re making me look better than in real life,” she said after a few minutes.

  “Mimi, look at me.” He pointed to his massive chest. “Is this what Massimo is? Of course not. This is the flesh in which my soul is trapped. You, Mimi, you are a beautiful bird in a delicate cage and I am a wild animal in a grotesque one. I am painting the bird, not the cage.”

  He started painting again. Tears ran down India’s face. Her mother, passionately loved by this romantic man, dearly loved by her only daughter, and still she had wanted to die.

  Massimo put his brush down and came to India. He knelt before her and pushed her hair off her face.

  “You are lovelier than you can ever know,” he said, “a beautiful and exquisite girl.” She took his hand and pressed it to her wet cheek. His touch was soothing, she could feel the tenderness in it. He pulled her body toward his, and she wrapped her arms around his huge shoulders. Massimo leaned in and kissed her. His warm mouth covered her whole face. He lifted her tiny body off the chair and carried her to the table. He laid her down gently, his bulk pressing the air from her lungs.

  India closed her eyes in bliss as she sank below the surface of the waves.

  TWELVE

  Clay moved in with Bruce. Justine swore she would never go over there, not even when Bruce was out. A week went by.

  The irony was that if she went over to their apartment, she might finally get to tear the boy’s clothes off. Imagining their two sweaty bodies sliding over each other’s was a fantasy she indulged in as she trekked up and down the aisles at the prop warehouse. With Bruce she had been blinded by his beauty, flattered. That hadn’t been love, this was.

  On a Thursday night, Justine lay on the floor of India’s apartment. She could hardly move for the blaze of heat throbbing through the apartment. It hadn’t rained in ages, and the reek of garbage wafted up the four flights. Tonight Dino had lit flowery incense, but it was almost worse, making the apartment smell like kitty litter. The Cat Club.

  That first day at the smoker; how long ago it felt now.

  Dino was primping in front of the mirror. Justine lay there, smoking and watching him. She heard the front door open and close.

  “You look gorgeous,” said Raymond, wearing shorts and a seersucker shirt. Dino admired his own reflection and went back to adjusting the veil on the pillbox hat. He had made it so greasy that India had given it to him.

  “Going somewhere?” Justine said.

  “Dancing,” Raymond replied, “after a little pick-me-up.” He waved a small bag of coke.

  Justine imagined them, lights sweeping across their chests, bass pounding out their pulse.

  She stood up and moved to the garment rack, fingering a brocade gown. It would be so fun to dress up and go dancing, but Dino and Raymond were probably going somewhere that was boys only. She tried on a floppy felt hat. It fell over her eyes and cheekbones. She would stay under there forever.

  Replacing the hat on the shelf, Justine turned around.

  Dino had gone back to fixing his coiffure and Raymond was bent over the coffee table cutting lines.

  Raymond offered her the rolled bill.

  She shook her head. Justine wished India were here. India had been out most evenings lately, without explanation, and she’d stopped smoking pot for some reason. Nonetheless she seemed as calmly beatific as ever.

  Justine went into the kitchen and stared at the phone. Even if she didn’t go over to Bruce’s apartment, she could call just to check. If someone answered, she could always hang up. Taking a breath, she dialed. It rang, but there was no reply.

  Dino and Raymond were noisily sucking cocaine up their nostrils in the living room.

  Justine wait
ed a minute and dialed again. Still no answer. Where was he? It was almost midnight and Clay had work tomorrow.

  “Ciao.” Dino waved as he and Raymond left, slamming the front door.

  A car alarm bleated outside.

  Justine’s head filled with nightmarish images, Clay’s wound infected, his body tossing with fever. Or he had lost his keys and was sleeping on the stoop. She grabbed her cigarettes, a few bills, and left.

  * * *

  —

  It was still oppressively humid and threatening to storm. Justine looked up at the olive green of the gathering clouds. Maybe Bruce had answered the phone and had been playing with her?

  The whole city reeked like one huge human urinal. As a child Justine had been fascinated by glimpses into public men’s rooms, the line of men with their backs to the door, trousers loose, heads bent as though they were in prayer. This stench was the piss of men, dogs, and countless vermin.

  Thunder rumbled as she reached Tenth Street. The sidewalks of the East Village were full of people. Punks huddled in groups, reminding her of the kids at the smoker. A drunken couple burst from a restaurant, the man guffawing. The woman’s head kicked back into a laugh, a flash of lightning illuminating her fillings.

  Justine climbed the steps of the brownstone and rang the buzzer.

  After a minute, Bruce opened the door, bare-chested with a can in his hand.

  “Look who the cat dragged in,” he said, blocking the entrance. He smelled beery with a slight tang of sweat.

  “Can I come up?”

  May I, she could hear Cressida say.

  “He’s out.”

  She frowned at him in disbelief.

  “Don’t worry, momma bear, he’ll be back.” Bruce stood aside, but just. She squeezed past him, trying not to brush against his skin.

  “What floor?”

  “You’ve never been here?” He laughed.

  She climbed the stairs, imagining finding a kitchen knife and plunging it into his chest.

  “Your ass actually looks good in those jeans,” he said.

  Actually.

  The door opened directly into the kitchen. In the center of the table lay a half-eaten pizza, cigarette butts studding its surface.

  “Got any beer?”

  “Just drank the last one.”

  She followed him into the narrow living room. Between the windows hung Barbara’s painting of the naked man pierced by arrows. There was a wooden coffee table and a torn plaid sofa.

  Kicking off his flip-flops, Bruce reclined on the sofa, taking up the whole thing.

  They regarded each other.

  “Could you please move your feet?”

  Bruce bent his knees very slightly so that she could wedge herself in. Justine tried not to be aware of his toes touching her thigh.

  The door to a bedroom opened and a girl with reddish hair poked her head out. She had a pug nose and slitty eyes.

  “Give me a sec!” Bruce ordered.

  The girl closed the door.

  They sat in silence. Justine wanted a cigarette but she didn’t want to move.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Bruce said.

  “Fuck off.”

  Bruce jabbed his toe into her thigh, hard.

  “OW!” She stood up, rubbing her leg.

  “I have a guest.”

  “Don’t let me keep you.” Justine stood, walked to the wall, and pretended to examine Barbara’s painting.

  Bruce came up close behind her, so close she could feel the heat of his body, his breath on her neck. She trembled without wanting to. He put an arm around her and pulled her close. She could feel every part of him, could smell him, and felt a sickening wave of desire. Her body caved into his. His lips were on her sweaty neck . . .

  “What’s going on?” Clay said. Bruce let her go. She turned around.

  “Just having a little fun with your girlfriend. She’s so hot tonight.” Bruce headed into his bedroom and closed the door.

  “What are you doing here?” Clay asked. “Is everything okay?”

  There was a cry from the bedroom.

  “I wanted to find out what was going on.”

  Clay flopped onto the sofa. “Sorry, I’ve been so busy.” He patted a patch of stained fabric.

  There was a smack and a grunt from the bedroom.

  Justine imagined what Bruce was doing to that girl.

  “I don’t get it.” She gestured around. “How can you live with him?” She tried to erase the feeling of Bruce against her. She sat beside Clay and put her hand on his knee.

  Clay fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

  A moan drifted up from behind the wall. Clay looked at Bruce’s door.

  What was she doing here? Clay had moved in and moved on. It was over, no question. But she couldn’t stop. It was like picking at a scab. She moved her hand farther up his thigh.

  “Do you actually like me anymore?” Actually.

  “You know I do. And you also know better than to worry about Bruce.” Clay looked terribly tired.

  Justine glanced around the apartment, searching for something to change the subject.

  “Can I check out your room?”

  “Yeah. It’s not much.”

  She stood up and stepped over his outstretched legs, moving toward the door. A simple futon, an open window, bare floors. She lay down and gazed up at the ceiling. A contractor’s light bulb hung from a ring on the ceiling where a chandelier might have been, a long orange cord snaked into an outlet. It was cool, in an unfinished, industrial kind of way. This is where I should have spent every night this summer.

  “Like it?” Clay called.

  “Not all alone,” she said.

  He leaned against the door frame. She beckoned with her finger.

  A giggle came from next door. The walls must be made of cardboard.

  Clay lay down beside her and looked up at the ceiling, his pinkie just touching hers. Like brother and sister, she thought, as hot tears started. She forced them to recede.

  Justine propped herself up and leaned over Clay. Lightning lit up his pale face. One Mississippi. She started kissing him. Two Mississippi. She moved her hand to his belt. Three Mississippi. He tasted like beer, and she thought she could detect cigarettes lingering on the back of his tongue. She unbuckled his belt. He pushed her hand away.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, jumping up.

  She waited a moment, wondering if he was telling Bruce to be quiet. The toilet flushed and Clay was back, wiping his hands on his jeans. Now she could hear both Bruce and the girl. Clay lay down beside her and they started to kiss, and there was something more purposeful in it this time. He pushed her shirt up, she unbuckled his pants.

  Within moments they were both undressed. Clay’s eyes were closed, kissing her. He was on top, and she could tell that he needed some guidance. She helped, and after a few awkward fumblings, things were working. Finally, Justine kept thinking, watching him moving, finally this was happening. Justine wanted this to last forever, after all this time they had real potential.

  Bruce gave a victorious holler and all went quiet at last.

  The ceiling cracks smiled over Clay’s shoulder. Justine closed her eyes and held on to him. His skin was warm on hers, her hands were in his hair. She had waited so long for this, she wrapped her legs tighter around him, moved with him. When it was over, she asked, “Are you a virgin?”

  “I was.”

  They laughed.

  He hopped up and pulled on his pants to get some tissues.

  When he came back they kissed for a long time. Clay sat up on one arm and looked at her body. He ran a finger down her chest. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  She thought she already knew. This was the moment I will remember forever, the one where he s
ays . . .

  “I’m not going back to Griswold.”

  “What?” she cried. “Where are you going?”

  “Dalton. It’s a school in the . . .”

  “I know! When were you going to tell me?” Tears of shock erupted, and she could not force them back.

  “I just got in. Please don’t cry!”

  As if on cue, the sky released its pent-up rain in a clatter, like stones pounding onto the street.

  “I don’t even have the money to visit!” she sobbed into his shoulder. “How’d you get into Dalton at the end of August?”

  “India’s grandfather was a trustee . . .” Calendars didn’t apply to Clay and India, Justine supposed.

  India had helped him leave her? Did Eve know? Of course she did. Justine sat up.

  “Sweetie, this has nothing to do with you.” Clay had never called her sweetie before.

  He stood up and leaned on the windowsill, looking out at the deluge. She wanted to claw his back, tear him to shreds. She had thought Clay was different from Gerald, but no, he was just another guy she followed around. Losing his virginity . . . had it even been special for him?

  Justine got up, pulled on her shirt and underwear, and took a step toward Clay. She imagined diving out of the window, ending it all. Looking down at her crumpled body, maybe he’d feel remorse. She could see raindrops bouncing off the open window’s sill, onto his bare arms, his bare chest.

  “I’ve disappointed you, disappointed everyone,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m useless.”

  Everyone had betrayed her, even Bruce behind the wall.

  “You’re in love with him,” she cried. “You’ve always been!”

  He turned to her, stricken. “Oh God, Justine. How can you say that when you and I just . . .”

  Just did it, she wanted to say, when you couldn’t avoid it any longer.

  “He’s more to you than I am.”

  “No, he isn’t. You don’t understand, you never have!” Clay collapsed on the futon, sobbing.

  Justine sat beside him, stroking his back. Just like his summer job, just like his friendship with Bruce, like everything else in his life, he had had sex with her out of a sense of duty. Did he have real feelings at all? He was a stranger.