“How’s your brother?” Mia finally asks.
Helen turns her head and looks her squarely in the eye. “Impotent,” she says. They can’t help it. They each bluster out a laugh.
“How’s Finn doing?” Helen asks, sounding more at ease.
Mia’s feet go still. “Honestly? I have no idea.” She’s only slightly ashamed to admit this. But Helen understands; she has a teenager at home. Mia would like to tell her about Finn’s hand lying on one of their recliners, how she sometimes imagines a wall circling her heart, her promise to Finn not to worry…
“What about Frankie?” she asks. “How was her math?”
“Seventy-eight. With a tutor. She’s going out with Eli now.” Helen hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “I just dropped her off. She’s got two hours and we’re dragging her up to the cottage.”
Last summer they probably would have been hauling Finn up there, too. “Eli’s a good kid,” Mia says, her voice a little stiff.
“My husband doesn’t think so.”
Her husband. Mia’s seen his signature scrawled on the bottom of so many damning documents. She watches the swans gliding downstream, those elegant, idiot creatures, heads so small their brains can’t be bigger than lima beans. As if alert to her thoughts, they charge back upriver, hissing loudly, suddenly on the attack. Mia is about to scramble up, but Helen kicks water at the birds and shoos them away from the dock. Heads held high, red eyes arrogant and stupid, they gaze haughtily down their beaks, expecting what? To be admired? Fed? Driven to extinction?
Swimming in short zigzags, the swans do what they will to hold the women’s attention. Growing impatient, one of the pair finally lets loose a raw, clown-horn honk.
“Apparently those things mate for life.” Helen kicks more water at them.
“We should let them get close and wring their furry necks.”
“Put them out of their misery,” she says, and again the two women laugh.
Helen tips her head to Mia’s shoulder, lets it rest, years of friendship fit into a second of contact, another second to recognize love, and then she bobs back up, restoring the careful distance between them, everything that’s lost.
—
I KNEW THEY were going out. Still, it’s surprising to see Frankie kiss Eli when she comes into the kitchen. Like full on. Like tongues are involved.
Frankie laughs when she finally comes up for air. What are you staring at, Finn?
I don’t even bother answering. Don, Eli’s dad—hammered because it’s Friday, hammered because he’s alive—shoves blender drinks into our hands and then pulls a pile of steaks out of the fridge. Tells us—wink, wink—that Eli’s mom stayed behind in Costa Rica to make sure the pool boy was doing his job. But not to worry, he’s working the grill, and Jess, Jess is making a salad.
She knows where everything is. The oil and the garlic, the lemon juice, the container of Parmesan cheese. I’m just leaning against the counter, drinking, watching her knowing where, like, everything is. The salad spinner in the cupboard by the sink, the tinfoil that Don asks for. The big bag of croutons.
And then I notice Frankie staring at me with this weird look on her face and Eli’s staring at me, so I take a long, brain-freeze swallow of my drink and pretend I wasn’t watching Jess and that I didn’t see Frankie and Eli watching me and only once when Frankie’s out on the deck setting the table and Don’s at the barbecue and Eli’s in the bathroom does Jess come over to my side of the kitchen. Stretches up onto her toes. Reaches into the cupboard behind me and rests her hand really lightly on my stomach—for balance, I guess.
Her palm just under my ribs. Her fingers trailing down my stomach. A force field of heat coming off her body, and I can’t even touch her because I have a drink in my hand. I just stand there, pretending we didn’t have an intense afternoon in the Caddy, that we don’t fuck in my bedroom pretty much every night, that my heart doesn’t throb every time it hears her name. When she bumps me in the head with the salad bowl, she says, Sorry, and it’s just her handprint then, like a hot tattoo sunk through my T-shirt and onto my skin. Sorry, and she’s back on the other side of the kitchen tossing lettuce into a bowl.
—
DON SLAPS A bloody steak onto my plate. I stab it with my fork and drop it back onto the platter. I don’t eat red meat, I say, and Don’s bleary eyes practically fall out of his head.
Since when? Eli says. Since lunchtime?
I concentrate on getting a baked potato out of the bowl, scooping up salad with one spoon.
Christ, Don says, hovering over the platter of meat, the pool shimmering behind him, the cabana. What’s the world coming to? This is fucking filet mignon. He points his big barbecue fork at me. His cheeks and nose are a deep, ruptured red, wormed with tiny veins. Is that why you’re so goddamn skinny?
Dad, Eli says. Just drop it.
What? Don stares from face to face. What? No one meeting his eye.
He drains his glass, plunks it down on the table. You should have told me, he says gruffly. I could have made you some chicken.
—
SO YOU AND ERIC have gone out since what? Frankie glances across the table at Jess. Since grade nine?
Ten, Jess says.
Wow. She cuts into her steak and the juices run. So, you’ve been together for, like, six years?
Almost, Jess says. She’s sitting across from me and one seat over, but she’s not looking my way.
You guys must talk about getting married.
Jess just shakes her head and I keep stuffing salad into my mouth.
Seriously? Frankie says. After six years, I think you’d talk about it.
Jess Kelly, Eli says. Not bad. Jess Kelly.
And I’m not a violent person, but I want to kick him in the fucking head.
—
DID YOU HEAR? Don says. Wednesday, I’ve got myself a new personal assistant. A gorgeous one, too. He slams a bottle of wine onto the table and gives Jess’s shoulder a squeeze.
Wednesday. She reaches up and pats his hand.
Don lumbers to the head of the table and drops into his chair.
You’re going to work for Don? I ask, trying to keep it casual, trying not to choke up my mouthful of salad.
Yeah, Jess says. Just for the summer.
Doing what?
Office work. Filing and stuff. Running errands.
I thought you were going to work at the hospital. So you’d have experience when you graduate.
That was her mother’s idea, Don says. No money in nursing. Cleaning up after people. All those bedpans and shit.
Yeah, nurses are useless. Until you need one.
Don looks confused for a second, but then he decides to ignore me. Don’t worry, he says, reaching across the table and grabbing Jess’s hand. We won’t work you too hard, Princess. He tries to give her hand a kiss, but she’s still holding her knife and he practically pokes out his own eye.
—
LISTEN, JESS SAYS, scraping off the last plate. I’ve got to go.
But, darlin’! Don throws his arms wide. The night is young.
I’m going out with friends. She puts the plate in the dishwasher, throws in a cube of soap, flips the door closed with one foot, presses a button.
Girl friends, I hope.
Yes, Don. Girl friends. There’s a low hum from the dishwasher, a gush of water.
Wouldn’t want to have to put in a call to Eric.
Don’t worry. I’ll be good.
Come back later. He gives his hips a shake. We’ll have our own little hula party.
I think they hula in Hawaii, Don. My mom’s from Indonesia.
Well what kind of dancing do they do there?
I’m not sure. I’ve never been. She gives him a smile that looks about as fake as his hair. My mom left when she was seventeen so she wouldn’t have to marry this old guy who offered her father a herd of goats for her.
I’m not sure if she’s joking. I don’t think Don is either.
; Jess says a quick goodbye. Her eyes don’t land on me a second longer than they do on him.
—
MIA IS UPSTAIRS in the walk-in closet stuffing a worn pair of cowboy boots into a garbage bag when Michael leans up against the door frame and crosses his arms.
“Your rodeo days over?”
Mia gives the dark plastic a stiff jerk. Caught on the lip of the bag, the boot drops onto a half-dozen pairs of old shoes. “Don’t worry,” she says, “I haven’t touched anything of yours. I know you want to hold on to everything.” His jeans and khakis and casual shirts jam the lower rack. His suits and dress shirts are above, and the shelf overhead is stacked with sweatshirts and sweaters.
Michael rattles the empty hangers on her side of the closet. “We don’t exactly have the money for new wardrobes right now.”
“I don’t want a new wardrobe.” Mia reaches up and quiets the hangers. “I don’t want anything at all.” She yanks a blouse from a hanger. The heat from the ceiling light, a bare bulb with a cheap pull chain they’ve never gotten round to replacing, beats down on her like a vindictive sun. A trickle of sweat slides between her breasts, and she is suddenly, desperately hot.
“You don’t want to want anything, but you do.”
She crumples the blouse into a ball, pressing back the knowledge that it’s her Anne Fontaine, purchased a few summers ago on Rue Saint-Honoré, her favourite street in Paris. Marching bridal-like up long, elegant cuffs, the shirt’s small pearl buttons feel like nuggets of treasure within the crush of silky cotton.
Michael nudges one of her Fly London sandals with his foot. “What’s the rent on your studio these days?”
Her eyes jump to his. “I’ll give blowjobs down on York Street before I get rid of my studio,” she says, cramming the blouse into the bag.
“Is that where they’re giving blowjobs these days?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll find out.” If she laughs right now, if she even smiles, she can end this. Michael’s tone is lighter than hers. She can give him a break. Give herself a break. Get out of the inferno of a closet. He had dinner waiting when she got home, a store-bought rotisserie chicken, Greek salad, a fresh baguette. They’d eaten out on the deck under the trellis, threaded with white Christmas lights and heavy with wisteria, the pale purple blooms dangling over them like God-lit chandeliers. They’d shared a bottle of wine, avoiding any discussion of missed lawyer’s meetings or where she’d disappeared to all day. She can’t even remember how she ended up in the closet. She’d come upstairs for something…been drawn in by the half-empty garbage bag.
Michael hasn’t moved from the doorway. He’s wearing a retro CBC T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts low on his hips. Like the rest of the family, he’s lost weight over the last four months. His stomach is firm, his jawline sharp, and there’s a new definition to his arms—no doubt from all the baseball. To look at him, handsome and fit and almost smirking, no one would guess there was anything wrong in his life.
Mia stares down at the jumble of shoes on his side of the closet and, despite all the purging, on hers. “You know we’re almost eighteen thousand into our line of credit.”
“Shit. That’s a lot of blowjobs.”
“Ha, ha,” Mia says flatly. Between them, they must have sixty pairs. Tennis shoes. Golf shoes. Running shoes. A pair of silver heels Mia wore to Michael’s Christmas party one year—she’d borrowed a shimmery bag from Helen to match. Two pairs of Fluevogs, from a weekend trip to Montreal. Football cleats Michael’s had since high school, decades-old dirt still caked around the spikes. All of it excess. All of it weighing them down.
“David bought a two-bedroom at the Soho.” She knows he’s familiar with the building: Conrad manages it. Eighteen floors of luxury crowned by a rooftop pool. Michael negotiated the deal. “He asked me to do the interior. Which is good because I’ll be making some money.” Mia gives him a curt smile and reaches for another blouse, but Michael catches her, his fingers light around her wrist.
“Where were you this afternoon?”
“Where were you this morning?” She’d pull her hand away but she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “David and I had lunch.” She doesn’t mention meeting up with Helen, which somehow seems the greater betrayal.
“I know,” Michael says. “I called his office.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“It was a long lunch.”
He steps over the garbage bag, steps up close, so they’re only a couple of inches apart. “You go over to his place? Check out his new bedroom?”
“Michael, grow up.” Her disdain leaves no opening for the truth, that she’d considered, if only for a second, David’s offer to “cheer her up” that afternoon. “Can you let go of me, please? I don’t like being touched when I’m hot.”
Michael uses his body, his bulk, the confines of the space, to march her farther into the closet. Empty shirtsleeves slap at her shoulder before he pins her against the wall. The buckle of a belt rests cool against her neck. His bathrobe lumpy behind her. The fingers of her free hand clutch at a silky dangle of ties.
He leans heavily into her. His chest against her chest, his forehead against her forehead, their breathing fast and uncertain in the glare of the naked bulb.
“Are you fucking him, Mia? Because you sure aren’t fucking me.” Michael sucks on her earlobe, draws it into his mouth, flicks it with his tongue, before he bites down hard. A gasp, her breath caught, all circuitry lineated to the pain, she whimpers as Michael lets go of her ear and snaps a tie from the rack. Works one end around her wrist. Steps back. He needs two hands to secure the knot.
Mia watches her husband bind her wrist. If she struggled, if she pushed…she lets him do it. She wills herself to be only here, no life beyond the closet. When he reaches for a belt, she offers her other hand willingly, an inverted fantasy, the opposite of walking away, a crueller escape from love.
He ties her wrists to the clothes rods. On his side of the closet, her hand is hidden in a thicket of suit jackets. On her side, empty hangers offer no camouflage for the green-and-red plaid of a Christmas tie, a gift from her son, one V’d end hanging long above a clutter of shoes.
“Turn off the light,” she says, although the voice is not her own.
“Shht.”
Standing in the middle of the closet, Michael studies her. She’s fully clothed, in the white blouse and orange skirt she wore to David’s office, but still she has to force herself to meet her husband’s eye. Stretched out and strung up, her arms ache. Sweat beads down her back. She is wet between her thighs.
Michael steps forward. Mia is ready for his fingers gripping her hair, his palm pressing her cheek to the wall, the full weight of his body upon her, but instead, starting from the top, button by button, Michael undoes her blouse. Runs a slow knuckle along the swell of each breast, tracing the line of her bra. Hooks a finger into her clavicle, gives a little tug.
“You like me anymore?” His eyes slide up to meet hers. “You like me even a little?” He slips her bra strap off her shoulder: a silky slither along her arm. Reaches in and cups her breast.
“Can I kiss you? Mia. Can I kiss you?”
This, this is not what she wanted. His body shadowing hers, charged inches between them, his thumb grazing her nipple.
They’d been on his dorm bed the first time it happened. The pure, hot bursting joy of it, cries of unexpected love between afternoon classes.
Michael kneels in front of her and lifts her skirt. Runs both hands up her thighs, catches hold of her underwear, runs his hands back down. A drag of wet cotton, one foot lifted, legs spread and his tongue between her lips, sliding inside her dark mouth, he kisses her gently, her little tongue, he kisses her.
—
YO, FINN! Eli yells up from the basement. Come on down.
Jess is gone. And Frankie’s gone. Her parents took her to the cottage, away from Eli. Who’ll want to keep drinking. Who’ll want to get high.
I have to take a
leak, I say, although I don’t.
And I step out onto the deck.
The backyard’s dark, except for the pool, glowing like a tropical night light in the middle of the lawn. I head for the shed, the scent of flame-broiled meat. I’m almost past the barbecue when I see the chunk of steak Don left on the grill—fucking filet mignon!—a fatty slice of bacon wrapped around the edge. When I pick it up a watery trickle runs warm down my arm. I lick it off before it reaches my sleeve, taste the salt and the juices.
Behind the cabana, I slurp the bacon into my mouth.
The first chunk of steak catches in my throat. I tell myself to slow down, but I’m half-starved. I am always half-starved. I’m seventeen and living on fucking finger food, salad and potatoes for dinner. I tear into the meat, tear and chew and swallow, tear and chew and swallow, Jess knows where the croutons are in her boyfriend’s fucking kitchen, tear and chew and swallow, meat and blood and salt, crouched behind the shed, hiding, panting, idiot tears mixing with the juices that drip from my chin. I forget and rub it all away, messy and stupid, the empty cuff of my shirt, panting, the last mouthful of meat gone. Just gone.
Fuck! I hate being wimpy. I hate being weak. I force myself to stop crying, just fucking stop. I smack myself in the head a couple times. Order myself to smarten up! Force myself to lie down and assume the position. I move around until it feels close to what I remember.
Tonight, the stars are pale weak things. And the trees are just trees, hanging along the back fence, blowing in the wind every once in a while. Summer instead of winter, grass instead of snow, cool on my neck and arms. Prickly. The pool pump kicks on in the shed. A whiff of chlorine. Some guy laughing one yard over. Nothing dangerous. Nothing special.
I lift my arm and the plaid cuff falls back. Even in the flickering light of the pool, it’s ugly. My brutal souvenir. A useless, clubby stump, scarred and red and ugly. I hate the way the bones stick out at the wrist. Hate the snake of stitches. The pocket of empty space, the phantom fist of nothingness ghosting the hacked-off end. The place my hand should be, my fingers, fingernails. The scar by my thumb where I cut myself one time when I used an X-Acto knife to sharpen a pencil.
We All Love the Beautiful Girls Page 13
