After Her

by Amber Kay

  “Okay, maybe you’re right,” I say. “But you’ve overlooked one very important thing.”

  “What is that?”

  “I’m not attracted to older men.”

  She laughs once more.

  “That is a curable infliction,” she says. “Attraction has nothing to do with age, Cassandra.”

  “Attraction is subjective,” I say. “And like I said, I’m not attracted to older men.”

  “You sound so naïve.”

  “And you’re being irrational.” I fold my arms once more and puff out my chin, awaiting her countering remark.

  “You’re not even willing to negotiate about this?” she replies.

  I sigh and roll my eyes.

  “What will it take for you to see that this is wrong?”

  “Perhaps the same thing it’ll take to convince you how right it is,” she says. We stare each other down, each of us acknowledging the impasse. Vivian rings the tiny handheld bell sitting atop the table. A maid arrives to see what she wants. The young woman that enters, moves into the room with her head down and her eyes purposefully averting contact with both Vivian’s and mine.

  I'm beginning to wonder if all of her employees are required to behave this way. None of them has looked me in the eye. This girl is an extreme case. She walks with her shoulders squared, like a wooden plank is nailed to her spine. Her dark hair is bundled atop her head in a neat bun, no strand out of place.

  Her uniform is something a perv with a fetish would order her to wear—French maid attire with a lacy white apron to match. Polished black flats with tiny silver tassels atop them. She’s a walking caricature from some bad porno. Poor girl.

  “Amelia?” Vivian addresses the meek little maid.

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “This business meeting is proceeding a little longer than I thought it would,” Vivian says while staring at me. “We’ll have refreshments in here today.”

  Amelia nods. “Yes ma’am.”

  “I’ll have my usual honey tea with banana nut scones. What about you Cassandra?” Vivian looks to me. “Would you like anything?”

  “Water is fine,” I say while staring at Amelia. She is practically apart of the wallpaper at this point, more than just visibly frail. Her voice is barely above a timid whisper, so quiet that it’s nearly inaudible. If I couldn’t literally see her standing here, I’d never acknowledge her in a crowded room.

  “Nothing to eat?” Vivian asks me.

  I shake my head. She sighs at my impertinence.

  “Amelia, bring enough scones for both of us,” she says. “Miss Tate is bound to get hungry sooner or later.”

  Amelia nods and leaves the room, sliding the doors closed behind her.

  “What’s her deal?” I ask.

  Vivian shrugs nonchalantly.

  “Amelia has always been a very shy girl,” she replies. “But she’s a good employee, dutiful and loyal.”

  “Is loyalty a required attribute when you’re interviewing potential employees?”

  She fashions a smile, something almost devious and conspiratory.

  “I like for my employees to maintain a sense of privacy when they’re working for me,” she says with a smile widening like a carved pumpkin grin across her face. “I love an employee who can keep my secrets.”

  I note the lowering tone of her voice along with the impish look in her eye. That alone is enough to quell my usual curiosity. If I weren’t so convinced that I wouldn’t like the answer, I’d ask her to explain that.

  “If I marry Adrian, will I inherit the house servants too?” I joke, in an effort to liven the mood.

  “Certainly, of course you’ll be free to hire and fire whomever you choose.”

  “So…all of this could be mine?” I ask again, convinced that she’ll say otherwise, change her mind, or retract each of her previous promises.

  “Cassandra, are you trying to convince yourself that I'm not serious about this proposition?”

  “I'm trying to convince you that you’re not serious about this proposition.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” she sighs. “Do you think I made this decision easily? I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to find my husband a new wife. When I heard my prognosis, I wanted to die the moment I heard it. I even considered suicide.”

  “What about your friends?” I ask. “Your family? Your children? Someone has to have a problem with this.”

  “I don’t have many close friends,” she says. “My parents died long ago. I don’t have any siblings and I was never able to give Adrian children. We tried several times, but could never achieve a successful pregnancy. There were two miscarriages and one stillbirth. I can’t carry on the Lynch bloodline, but you can.”

  “What if I decide that I don’t want children?” I ask.

  “There is plenty of time for you to change your mind,” she says. “Adrian is only forty-three years old and I can attest to his virility and sexual prowess. You two will have plenty of time to make babies.”

  I shudder at the thought of “making babies.” I turn away so she doesn’t see the red in my cheeks.

  “Don’t tell me you’re shy around the subject of sex,” she says. My silence is enough to confirm that statement for her. “Cassandra, is there something I should know?”

  I shake my head, refusing to answer. My face is a canvas of secrets splashed in colorful words I can’t bring myself to say aloud. I feel her eyes on me. I can’t help thinking that she’s judging me with those eyes.

  “I encourage honesty,” she assures. “There is nothing you can say that will shock or dismay me. Forget about the proposition for a moment and think of me as a friend for now.” She takes my hand and entwines our fingers to convince me of her sincerity. I can’t look at her without feeling so inept.

  “Adrian probably wouldn’t enjoy sex with me,” I say.

  “Adrian enjoys sex in every form,” she replies. “I highly doubt that you’re an exception to that rule.”

  “I'm a virgin,” I mutter, speaking as though it’s a confession of something much worst, as though I’ve just admitted to murder. “I’m not the right girl for Adrian.”

  She blinks twice and glances away as if I've embarrassed her with my confession. I want to run out of the room with a bag over my head. People always look at me like they feel sorry for me when I tell them, like virginity is an incurable disease.

  “I guess this ‘business meeting’ is officially over,” I say. When I try to leave, she grips my arm to stop me.

  “Your virginity isn’t a deal breaker,” she says. “It’s more of a technicality.”

  My eyes widen.

  “A technicality?”

  “Adrian has deflowered many virgins. I’ve witnessed a few of these acts myself.”

  My stomach feels like it’s just plummeted into my knees. “What kind of marriage do you people have?”

  Vivian laughs and releases my arm. As her expression becomes impassive, she clears her throat then looks at me like she’s about to drop a bombshell. I hate feeling like I'm about to be blindsided.

  “It’s time that I tell you more about us,” she says. “We haven’t always had the most conventional marriage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We weren’t always a monogamist couple. At some point, we agreed to a more open arrangement.”

  “You two were…swingers?” I ask, speaking as if the words are heavy in my throat, as if each one weighs a pound on my tongue. Vivian doesn’t blink. She doesn’t appear deterred.

  “Remember when I mentioned that I’d experimented with a few alternative lifestyles?”

  “Yeah,” I say, hesitant.

  “I should explain myself,” she says. “Cassandra, it’s time you learn all of our secrets.”

  9

  “Please sit,” Vivian says. Tentatively, I obey. My heart makes sounds no heart should make—taut and repetitive spurts of pitter-patter noises that resembles the sound rain makes upon hitting
the asphalt. Vivian allows her words to sink in and watches me intently in that familiar scrutinizing way.

  “What kind of secrets do you and Adrian have?” I ask, fearing what may be the most devastating answer.

  Amelia returns, carrying a platter of warm sconces and a pitcher of water. After placing Vivian’s tea mug onto the table along with the rest of the refreshments, she gives Vivian an affirming glance, seeking further instructions before being shooed away.

  I pour water to the brim of my cup then consume it all in one gulp. Air clogs my throat, stinging like an infected wound that won’t heal. Vivian stirs her tea with a tiny spoon then sips after swallowing a bite of her scone.

  “When I met Adrian, I was almost your age,” she says. “I was eighteen and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was such a silly little girl. A college dropout with no sense of real direction.”

  I swallow another mouthful of water to soothe my aching throat.

  “How did you two meet?”

  Vivian smiles as a memory fills her thoughts.

  “It was 1979,” she replies. “A couple of girlfriends and I were hitchhiking. You could call us groupies. We were determined to stalk The Rolling Stones cross-country to every city on their summer tour schedule. We were low on cash and needed to be in Baltimore by morning. Adrian picked us up. My friends weren’t comfortable accepting his offer, but he was so damn cute that I managed to talk them into it.”

  “You got inside the car of some random guy you didn’t know just because you thought he was cute?”

  “I never said that I wasn’t shallow,” she laughs. “What girl at that age isn’t shallow?”

  “Still, the man could have been a fucking axe murderer or something,” I mutter beneath my breath.

  “Adrian wouldn’t have hurt me…at least not at first he didn’t,” she says. “It took five years for that to happen. Our marriage began as most traditional marriages do. But it didn’t stay that way for long.” She sips her tea once more. Her hands quiver around the mug as she stares up at me on the verge of tears.

  “A part of me always knew he’d eventually get bored with me,” she says. “It’s just a phase every man experiences at some point. I was so naïve that I figured I was to blame for his…boredom.”

  “Adrian cheated on you, didn’t he?” I conclude from reading between the lines.

  She nods. “I caught them in the shower three weeks before our fifth anniversary. He just…looked at me…doe-eyed, like a guilty child caught stealing from his mother’s purse. Never tried to explain himself. I didn’t need an explanation. It was self-explanatory. To him, I was five years older and five pounds fatter.”

  She grits her teeth against these words, sucking back a mouthful of anger in sharp breaths. A cheekful of tea allows her to swallow them, but the anger remains. I see it in her face, twisting in her features. I feel like I should say something, anything to ease her fury.

  “Vivian, you look damn good for your age,” I say. “No one could ever call you fat.”

  With this, she allows herself a smile, but a scowl reappears.

  “I’d never been so heartbroken in my life,” she says. “That was the year I filed for our first divorce. We lived separate lives for many years after. I heard from friends that he quickly remarried. After his second wife died, he indulged in several affairs with other women before returning to California with a third wife.”

  “And you? Did you remarry?”

  “Yes, actually. I’d remarried. For the first time in a long while, I was actually happy.”

  “So what changed?” I ask. Vivian sips more tea, drowning words. Her eyes divert away. Her bony fingers shudder around the mug. The mention of this has clearly colored her mood something dark.

  “Adrian and I reconnected a few years after our first divorce,” she says. “The only problem was that we were still married to other people.”

  “Jesus Vivian, tell me you didn’t have an extramarital affair with Adrian,” I say, but she says nothing. Her silence answers my question regardless. I sigh exasperatedly. “Seriously?! After what you told me about your parents, I thought you’d have more respect for matrimony. You’re a complete hypocrite.”

  “I am my father’s daughter,” she mutters dispassionately. “That man was a cold bastard, but I’d rather be what he was opposed to what my mother was. For twenty years, she put up with being the other woman. She allowed my father to have a wife and a whore. I’d rather be the sinner than the cuckold.”She sips her tea again then adds, “So I’m not a very good person, Cassandra. Guess you could say I’ve gotten what I deserved with all of this.”

  “Vivian, no one deserves cancer,” I say.

  She smirks at my reply as if she refuses to believe it.

  “Not just with the cancer, but also with Adrian. When we remarried the second time, things began as they did the first time,” she says. “He was building his business. Around the end of 1998, the local newspapers were calling him a self-made millionaire. We moved into this house. He carried me over threshold. I felt like a newlywed again, but…Adrian still couldn’t keep his damn hands to himself.”

  I sip water as Vivian reaches for her cigarette carton. After lighting one, she takes a deep breath and releases it into an even heavier sigh. Smoke billows from her nostrils in plumes of clouds that linger in the space around her head.

  “Adrian developed different tastes,” she says. “He became restless with the vanilla side of our sex life. That’s when he introduced me to the fine people of the Carnal Chapel. It was an exclusive adult club with high-society members. The people there favored some particularly unusual kinks. It was the first time I have ever been around such lascivious company. It was repulsive to me…at first.”

  “I was a ‘good’ girl. I went to Sunday school faithfully. Said my ‘Hail Marys’ every night before dinner and bed. Attended an all-girls boarding school where they believed that a young woman’s virtue was her most prized possession. I even waited until marriage to fornicate. Until Adrian, I was…innocent,” she says.

  I know I’ll regret my next question, but I ask it regardless. “What changed?”

  “The men at the Carnal Chapel wanted me,” she says. “I was desirable. They looked at me in ways that Adrian didn’t. It was nice to feel wanted. Adrian didn’t want me anymore. He wanted something I couldn’t be. Younger. Prettier. Smarter. Fuck, I even got breast implants for that man!”

  I glance at the scoop of her dress. The plunging neckline exposes a small peek of her augmented cleavage. Upon catching a glimpse at those knockers, I practically wilt in my chair, rolling my eyes at my own cleavage. My genes have dispersed in the oddest way. I guess I have my Mother to thank for that. I barely clear 5'3 and have mosquito bites for a chest, rather than noticeable boobs.

  “He was insatiable!” Vivian says. “All I really wanted was for him to notice me again.

  No matter what I did, I could never be enough. Never be what he wanted because there was always some other woman who had something I couldn’t attain.”

  “So what’d you do?” I ask.

  She exhales a mouthful of smoke and her nostrils flare, releasing columns of smoke like an old exhaust vent. I note the stench and gag on the taste of it when it clings to my throat, cutting off my airwaves. Vivian doesn’t notice or care regardless. When she lights one of those things up, no else in the room matters.

  “I chose one of the men at the Chapel and made Adrian watch while I danced for him,” she replies. “I had his full attention.”

  I imagine the scene as if it’s happening in front of me. I hear the ambient music. I see the hungry crowd, watching Vivian’s titillating performance. I turn away to discard these filthy thoughts, now ashamed of the anticipation I feel.

  “How did Adrian react?” I ask to distract myself from the secret sensation stirring in the pit of my stomach.

  “It wasn’t what I expected,” she says. “You see, Adrian isn’t the jealous type. He wanted to me to go fu
rther.”

  I gape incredulously at her.

  “You had sex with some random stranger because Adrian told you to?”

  She sighs. This is a question she doesn’t want to answer.

  “I was a pathetic mess of a woman,” she says. “It wasn’t my finest hour, but certainly not the worst thing I’ve ever done to please Adrian.”

  I glance into my water and stare at the fretful reflection staring up at me, somehow unable to look Vivian in the eye.

  “We were members of the Chapel for ten years until I decided I’d had enough,” she says. “I told Adrian that I was quitting. None of it was making me happy. He was the only one receiving any pleasure from it.”

  “Was that truly the end of it?” I ask.

  “I thought it was,” she says. “I prayed that it would be until I remembered that when Adrian wants something, no one can tell him that he can’t have it. He kept going to the club behind my back and even brought a few of the women home while I was asleep.”

  “If you were asleep, how did you know that he had them in the house?”

  She finishes her cigarette and downs the rest of her tea.

  “Because I was the one that discovered the body.”

  “W-What?” I murmur in a shaky, wisp voice. Her eyes dart downward. Her eyelashes hood their color in a strategic sort of way, like a bandit’s mask shielding the identity of the person behind it.

  While pouring herself another cup of tea, Vivian says, “A woman died in our house. Adrian was responsible for it.”

  10

  I clear my throat until it aches.

  As I gape at Vivian and she stares back, casually sipping her tea as if she didn’t say what she just said, I have to resist every urge in my body demanding that I run from the room toward the nearest exit from this house.

  “Let me get this straight,” I say to ensure I haven’t imagined this entire conversation. “Adrian murdered someone?”