A Special Place for Women

by Laura Hankin

  “You’re not into each other?” a voice said from behind us, and I turned to see Vy, standing very close, her face unreadable, wearing a canvas jumpsuit and work boots just like she’d wear to anything else, holding a napkin full of shrimp. Miles, Raf, and I startled.

  “No!” I said. “No, it’s a stupid joke.”

  “I was teasing,” Miles said. “Because they’re so clearly smitten.”

  Vy picked a piece of shrimp out of her teeth, staring at us.

  “You know, when you really like someone,” I said, “and so you’re like, Oh, I can’t stand him?”

  “No,” Vy said.

  “Like,” Raf said, “Um, I hate her so much that I think about her all day.”

  “Right,” I said, looking at Raf, putting my hand on his cheek, “Like, Ugh, your stupid mouth is so disgusting that I just want to kiss it all the time.”

  “You can kiss,” Vy said, dead-faced. “I won’t be offended.”

  “Oh,” I said, “No, I didn’t mean, like, now. In public—”

  “All right, well, I should—” Miles began.

  “No one cares,” Vy said, not looking away from our faces as she began to chew one of the shrimp from her napkin. “So why not?”

  I let out an awkward laugh as Raf shifted uncomfortably beside me. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said after a beat of silence, when I realized she was actually expecting an answer. The wheels in her head were probably turning now—first my comment during the tarot reading about how I hadn’t gotten laid in so long, now this.

  “Then go ahead and do it if you want to,” she said, almost a dare.

  “Um. Okay,” I said, panicking. I turned to Raf and tried to telegraph a Be cool, man message with my eyes as I put my hand back on his warm cheek. I leaned forward and brushed my lips against his. At first he was rigid, and then he put his hand on my neck and kissed me back, tangling his fingers in my hair. I forgot about our strange circumstances, the people watching us, for a moment. The only immediate thing was the unexpected, lovely feel of Raf’s mouth on mine.

  We broke apart slowly, and I came back to myself. Raf’s ears were pink. Miles had a strange expression on his face.

  “Okay,” Vy said.

  Miles cleared his throat. “Well, thank you for the interesting quotes. Enjoy the rest of the gala.” He gave a small salute and sauntered off, right as Margot appeared, resplendent in a diaphanous, dark green gown, looking like an ancient Greek goddess.

  She noticed us and made her way to our side. Margot moved through the room, through all rooms, as if she were floating on a rowboat, trailing her fingers through the water while someone else did all the paddling.

  “What an incredible event,” she said as she hugged each of us in turn. Then she pulled me aside as Vy began to talk to Raf. “So the New York Times, huh? I’m glad you said yes to our little writing assignment.”

  “I’m glad I did too,” I said. “It’s wild.”

  She faced out, surveying the crowd, and we both concentrated on drinking our champagne, not looking directly at each other. “I’ve been talking to Caroline about what we discussed,” she said. “I made the case for you.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “There’s limited space, though.” Her eyes flickered over to Caroline, who had somehow ended up talking to Libby again. “And she has someone else in mind.” Libby leaned in to Caroline like a flower bending toward the sun. The two of them laughed so heartily it was like they’d gone into slow motion, heads thrown back, eyes closing. I’d never seen Caroline so at ease. Maybe Libby’s constant adulation filled some need inside of her, proved that someone could be drawn more to her than to Margot.

  Margot bit her lip. “She gets final say on this one. I owe her, and she won’t let me forget that.” A stormy expression passed over her face, a note of agitation in her voice. “I want it to be you and I’m still trying, but if there’s anything you can do to convince her yourself, do it tonight.” She put her now-empty champagne flute on the tray of a passing waiter. “Good to see you.” She kissed my cheek, then turned and tapped Vy on the shoulder. “Shall we?” Together, the two of them waded into the crowd while Raf and I stared after them, silent for a moment.

  “This night is very weird,” Raf said.

  “Sorry about the kiss and all of that. That was so stupid of Miles—”

  “Yeah, what was that dude’s deal?”

  “I don’t even . . . He’s going through some stuff.” I shook my head. “How was your conversation with Vy?”

  “Well, she said she couldn’t stay long because she had to feed Anais, and I asked if that was her dog, but no. It’s her emotional support snake,” Raf said. “And then she showed me five pictures of the snake.”

  “What? What kind of snake is it?”

  “I don’t know. Big. And then she looked at me for a long time and told me I smelled like I had an honest heart. And then . . .”

  “And then?”

  Raf gave a funny little cough. “That was pretty much all she said.”

  “Really—” I began. But I didn’t have time to prod him on that because Caroline excused herself from Libby and headed toward the bathroom, and I knew it was my shot to catch her alone.

  “Be back in just a minute,” I said to Raf.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I was standing in the bathroom, redoing my lipstick in the mirror, when Caroline emerged from behind the floor-to-ceiling door of her stall.

  “Oh, hey, girl!” I said, too enthusiastically. I reined myself in. “Great gala so far.”

  “Thank you,” she said, pulling an oil-removing wipe out of her purse and dabbing at her face with small, sharp movements. “Yes, it’s a fun night, but it’s really all about the funds we can raise to help female candidates.”

  “Of course,” I said. The New York Times was the best chance I had of impressing her. “God, you must have been so busy today. Did you even have a chance to look at the news?”

  “Hardly,” she said, and threw the wipe away. She gave her cheeks a little slap, for energy or for color, maybe, and then looked toward the door. “Well, once more unto the breach!”

  “The Times picked up my thread on Judge Melton!” I blurted as she began to leave. Caroline froze, then turned around and stared at me as I continued, in a lower voice, “So it’s a good day for women in general—” In another stall, the toilet flushed. I froze too.

  Caroline grabbed my arm, her tiny fingers digging in, her manicured nails sharp against my skin. “Come here,” she hissed, and dragged me out of the bathroom to a small alcove down the hall leading to the kitchen. A few members of the waitstaff passed by us, but Caroline didn’t care about them as she rounded on me.

  “Why the hell would you bring that up like that?”

  “I am so sorry, I didn’t realize anyone else was in there—”

  “That was careless, Jillian,” she said, pointing her finger at me. “Don’t do it again.” She tossed her head, finished with the conversation, and I knew it was my final chance.

  “I won’t,” I said. “I did something stupid, because I was trying to impress you.” Caroline was a negotiator, so I threw my shoulders back, praying I was making the right move. “I should have just asked you straight out for what I want, like we’ve said that women should do.” I lowered my voice and looked her straight in the eye. “I know that you’re picking someone new for the inner circle.” Caroline stiffened, pursing her lips, as I went on. “I could be helpful to you in it. I’m asking you to choose me.”

  Caroline let my words hang in the air for a moment. Then she sighed. “I appreciate your candor, Jillian.” She shook her head. “But the inner circle is serious. I’ve made my decision. I need someone I can trust. Someone steady who puts the group ahead of themselves, like I do, or like Libby.”

  “Like Libby,” I repeated, a roaring noise beginning in
my ears. They were going to pick Libby, who would weep with gratitude for it.

  “Yes. She’s so dedicated to us. For her, we’re her family.”

  The words bubbled up and overflowed before I could stop them. “Are you sure of that?”

  Caroline furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

  An image appeared in my mind: Libby, with her bright and trusting eyes, in her lonely apartment modeled after TV shows, cradling her sweet rat dog in her arms. She was so close to getting what she’d wanted, to knowing there was a place where she belonged. And she deserved that. She was a good person, who’d been nothing but generous since the moment we met, who’d snuck her way into my heart and invited me, with no hesitation, to fucking Thanksgiving. Libby would fight for me if they ever had another opening, but when would another opening arise? Sometime long after the women of Nevertheless had inflicted more damage on their enemies, long after Miles’s performance review, after I’d ruined my chance to write for the Standard or anywhere else of repute. I could keep up with the lies only so much longer. Soon, I’d have to leave the club and the apartment it had given me. Libby would put in a good word for me after the ax had fallen on my neck, and that good word would be useless.

  Libby was only one person. The information I would find in the back room could help so many more. I didn’t have a choice, but I would make it up to her. I’d make sure that she got in too, eventually. I just needed it first. “Just that . . .” As if in a dream, I watched myself say, “Well, she’s going home for Thanksgiving.”

  Caroline’s nose twitched. “No. Sadly, she’s had to reject her family. Their actions and beliefs—particularly about women—are toxic. We’ve talked all about it.”

  I hung my head and said, quietly, “She reached back out to them the other day. She just told me. She even invited me to come along.”

  “Well, that’s . . .” Caroline said, and then trailed off, leaning against the wall.

  “I love Libby. I do. And yes, she is so passionate about everything you represent,” I continued, as the roaring in my ears got louder. “She’s also going through a rebellious phase. And sometimes those phases last. But sometimes they don’t, and if she goes back to them . . . I don’t want to betray her trust. But I also don’t want you all to open yourselves up to something that could hurt you if, after you let her see all the inner workings, she decides that her true place is with the people fighting against you.”

  “This is all a very interesting story, Jillian, but why should I believe you?” Caroline asked, straightening back up and blinking rapidly. Were her eyes turning just the slightest bit red?

  “Here,” I said. My stomach starting to churn, I pulled out my phone and typed up a text to Libby. Thanks for inviting me to Thanksgiving. In case it wasn’t clear, I’m really excited for you, and I hope you and your dad get to make some peace.

  I sent the text and we waited, silent, our heads bowed over my screen as the three dots that meant Libby was typing appeared. Part of me hoped that she wouldn’t be stupid enough to trust me.

  But then the words came through: Thanks lady, fingers crossed!

  Caroline clenched her entire body—her jaw, her fists. Then she gave a little sniff out of her nose, turned on her sensible heels, and walked back into the main gala space. I followed her out, watching as she glad-handed and checked in with her invited guests, all the while making her way toward Libby, who was standing at the bar, trying to figure out how to insert herself into the conversations that various groups were having around her. As Caroline approached, Libby lit up, waving. I grabbed another glass of champagne from a nearby tray and tucked myself into a corner close enough to hear their conversation.

  “Whew,” Caroline said. “What a night.”

  “Everyone is having the best time!” Libby said.

  “Honestly, I’ll be relieved when it’s over. I’ve been so consumed with planning that I’ve barely thought about anything else, and now Thanksgiving is just around the corner.”

  “I know!”

  “Will you be spending the holiday in New York?” Caroline asked innocently, tilting her head to the side.

  Libby paused, for just a second, and then said, “Hmm, I think so? I’ve been dying to see the parade in person, ever since I was little. I always thought it would be so fun to perform with one of the marching bands! I actually used to play the tuba, and I’d—”

  “Interesting,” Caroline said, her tone grown cold. “Excuse me, I need to announce dinner.” She walked away and Libby stared after her, befuddled by the abrupt shift in energy. Caroline passed by me on her way to the dining room and shot me a glance. You win, it seemed to say, but it gave me no pleasure. I felt only a chill, as if all the blood pulsing inside my body had been sucked out and replaced with ice, as Caroline approached a microphone and announced that dinner was served.

  * * *

  • • •

  The rest of the gala, I sat through the food and the speeches, through the auction where the attendees pledged hundreds of thousands of dollars for the cause. (And yet people pledged much less than they had the year before, now that there was no Nicole to pin their hopes on.)

  That invisible string unspooled and connected me to Miles. Whenever I turned to look over at the press table where he was sitting, he was looking back. At one point, my phone buzzed in my purse and I pulled it out to see a text from him: Dammit, Beckley. I’m an ass. Forgive me?

  But other strings tugged on me too, from so many directions—Margot and Caroline, conferring in a corner. Raf, next to me, his leg brushing against mine under the table, sending aftershocks of our kiss rippling through me. And always, Libby, who chatted with the elderly couple seated next to her with only a fraction of her usual animation, sensing that something, somehow, had gone amiss.

  As Raf and I were waiting in line to get our coats at the end of the evening, Margot passed by, touching my shoulder lightly.

  “Whatever you did worked,” she said to me, and a brief, unguarded smile—full of joy or maybe triumph—flashed across her face. “Will you be sleeping at your apartment the next few nights?” I nodded mutely.

  “Good,” she said. “Make sure you’re alone.”

  THIRTY

  The night after the gala, worn out by stress and shame, I fell asleep earlier than I had in weeks, at the entirely reasonable hour of eleven p.m. Who was I, a retiree?

  I dreamed of Margot, underwater, her toes just barely kissing the sand beneath her, her cloud of hair rising up above her head as she beckoned me. I was underwater too, trying to get to her, a humming, groaning noise all around us, everything greenish, brackish, and somehow, despite the water, I could smell her. I blinked, and she flickered, and then she wasn’t Margot anymore but my mother. She reached out an arm toward me, and her arm was healthy, not stick thin like it had gotten over the years of chemo. I tried to swim to her but I couldn’t breathe, and I woke to find that I couldn’t breathe because a hand was covering my nose and mouth.

  There were people in my apartment.

  Before I could consciously make sense of anything, a yell from some primal, terrified place tore through my throat. But the calloused hand over my mouth muffled it, and I knew that nobody would come to help me, that I was finally in that moment so many women experience, the moment when our luck runs out.

  Then, the familiar jasmine scent of Margot’s hair, and her voice in my ear. “We’ve come for you.” In the faint light from the traffic outside my window, the dark figures around me came into focus, their faces hidden by hoods. Maybe six or seven of them? I saw them only for a second before one of the figures tied a cloth over my eyes, and then I couldn’t see anything at all.

  Someone slid a pair of shoes onto my feet. Then, mute, efficient, the figures led me out of my apartment and into the back of a vehicle. The seat was rough under the thin leggings I’d worn to bed. One of the women closed the door after
me, sliding it instead of slamming it. So we were in a van, one that smelled faintly of paint and sweat. Maybe the sweat smell was coming from me.

  The engine roared to life, and we began to move. From outside came the nighttime noises of New York: the honks of warring taxis, people coming home from the bars, others rowdily heading to a second location. But inside the van, all was silent except for some faint rustling, shifting of the bodies around me. “I’ve gotta say, I give this Uber points for good driving, but the ‘fun conversation’ is a little lacking,” I joked. Nobody answered. Nobody laughed. (Which, given the quality of the joke, was fair.)

  It’s only Margot and the rest of them, I told myself. Once we’d gotten to the inner sanctum, they’d tear off my blindfold and hand me some champagne and show me their diagrams of all the people they wanted to take down and how they were going to do it.

  Maybe it would be like a dimly lit club with cigars and snifters of brandy, or maybe it would be more like a classroom, or maybe it would look exactly like a meeting room in the White House where politicians gathered to decide on matters of life and death. All of these options flashed through my mind as the women pulled me out of the van and into an elevator, as I put myself into their hands and let them move me where they wanted. I heard a door open—this was it, we were going behind the door!—and we stopped. I braced myself for them to remove the blindfold. But then we entered another elevator, not smooth and quiet like the clubhouse one, but old and creaking. A freight elevator. When the doors opened with a grinding sound, the women pushed me out into someplace colder, ripe with the rich, loamy scent of earth, plus something smoky. A hand pulled the blindfold from my eyes, and what lay before me was something I hadn’t prepared myself for at all.

  I was standing in a forest. No, I saw, as I got my bearings. Not an actual forest. But we were surrounded by trees in planters, tall ones arcing up from their pots, spreading their branches, amid trellises covered in ivy. And the floor was actual dirt, dirt that they must have trucked in from somewhere. In the center of the trees stood a circle of small stones with wood arranged inside, ready to be lit. That had to be a fire code violation, right? Did this room come equipped with sprinklers? I looked up to the ceiling to check, and saw sky. We weren’t in a room at all, but on the rooftop under the stars, or at least as much of the stars as could be seen in the smog of New York, arranged around the glowing orb of a nearly full moon. The ivy-covered trellises closed us in, so that a casual observer looking over from the window of a nearby building wouldn’t be able to see anything but a beautiful rooftop garden. Besides, there weren’t many nearby buildings this tall anyway—most were at least a floor or two shorter. I looked back down again and saw, at the edge of the stone circle, a dark wooden chest with drawers, standing at about waist height. I narrowed my eyes to bring it into focus in the sage-smoke rising around me. On the chest sat candles, bundles of herbs, and a large, sheathed knife. Almost like an altar? But that couldn’t be right.