by Lamb, Wally
“Oh, yeah. Sounds very Shakespearean.” I give her a look. “Okay, I’m sorry. I get sarcastic when I’m nervous. You know that. Then what happened?”
“He was . . . he was sitting there, smiling and watching us and . . . touching himself. Under his shirt, between his legs. Then he got up and got naked and the three of us were dancing. He started getting a little free with his hands, but it wasn’t over the top or anything. But then he . . .”
“He what?”
“Went into the bedroom. Said he had to call California and ask his agent something. And I was like, his agent, so I was trying to listen to what he was saying. But the only thing I could make out was him going, ‘Are you shitting me, Jenny? Then fuck Universal! And grow a dick while you’re at it!’ And after he hung up, he was in there for another ten minutes and we were just sitting there, waiting for him. And when I asked Ebony what was going on, she was like, ‘Shh.’ . . . I don’t know, Bree. I think maybe his agent gave him bad news about something. Or that maybe he took something else while he was in there. Because when he came back out again, he looked wild-eyed and was acting all pissed off at us. He goes, ‘Come on, let’s go!’ like we were the ones who’d been keeping him waiting. It was like Jekyll and Hyde, you know? He started getting rough. Grabbing at us, bumping up against us. He reached over and pinched my nipple and I was like, ‘Ow!’ Ebony told him to cool it, and he said he hadn’t paid her for a fucking lecture. So she got down on her knees to . . . you know. But he batted her head away and said he was calling the shots. And she said, no, she was—that they’d already agreed on the terms. He went ballistic! Started screaming that she and her ‘slant-eyed sidekick’ had better do what he wants or else. Then he starts walking around the suite and has this . . . tantrum. Pushes over the table where the champagne and sushi were. Picks up a chair and smashes it against the wall. He was like, ‘Do you bitches know who I am? Do you think I’m giving you a grand for fucking amateur hour?’ ”
Bree flinches. “God, you must have been so scared.”
“I was. And I was like, okay, let’s just give him his money back and get out of here. He had paid Ebony in cash, okay? And I could see the bills sticking out of her bag. So I grabbed the money and held it out to him. And when I did that, he got so mad that . . . He grabs the money out of my hand and throws it on the floor. Then he gets all up in my face and . . . starts screaming at me. I kept backing up, you know? Until I was against the wall. Ebony kept saying, ‘Come on, baby. Come over here so I can make you feel good.’ Except he wouldn’t back away from me. There was this big vein popping out on his forehead, and his face was all red and contorted. His spit’s flying out at me. Then he starts . . . he makes a fist and starts . . .”
Bree covers her mouth with her hand.
“Punching me! In my face, my stomach. At first I was like dazed. Doubled over, you know? I felt like I was going to throw up. And when I looked up again, I saw him forcing Ebony facedown on the arm of the sofa. She was struggling to get up, but he had his hand on the small of her back and he wouldn’t let her. And she was like, ‘Use a condom, please just use a condom.’ And he goes, ‘Fuck condoms. I want it back door.’ ”
Bree’s blinking back tears. “This is a nightmare. What did you do?”
“Got behind him and tried pulling him off of her. But he swiveled around and shoved me so hard that I fell backward. Onto the floor. One of the champagne bottles was right there. And I thought maybe if I hit him over the head with it. . . . But I was scared that, if it didn’t knock him out, it would make him even crazier. So I figured, okay, I’ll get help. Grabbed my clothes. Got dressed as fast as I could. But when I was almost to the door, I was like, ‘Oh, shit! My purse!’ I went back to grab it, but he saw me and yanked it away. Started whacking it, over and over, against the wall. And everything went flying out. My wallet, my phone. While he was busy beating the shit out of my bag, Ebony grabs her clothes and points at the door, like come on, let’s go. But what was I supposed to do? Leave without my phone? My credit cards? Only, when I went to pick them up, he tackled me. Got on top of me and . . . Oh god, it’s . . . it’s like I’m back there again.”
“No, you’re not,” Bree says. “Look around. You’re here with me in your apartment. You’re safe.”
“Look what that son of a bitch did to me!” I pull back my hair so she can see the bruise on my neck. Pull up my shirt and show her his teeth marks on my stomach.
“He bit you?”
I nod. “Ebony ran out of there. And when he heard the door, he jumped up. Started to go after her and . . . that gave me enough time to get up and get to the bathroom. Lock the door. But then he starts slamming himself against it. I was down on my knees on the floor, watching it push in like that movie where Jack Nicholson goes crazy. Except it wasn’t a movie. It was really happening, Bree. I’ve never been so scared in my whole life. I thought . . . I thought, now he’s going to bust in here and kill me.”
A shiver passes through her. “Did he get in?” she asks. I shake my head. “Then how did you get out of there?”
“When Ebony got out in the hall, she saw this room service guy. He called security and they came right up. He wouldn’t answer the door, but they had a pass key, Ebony said. And some tool to push back the bar that secures the extra lock. When they got in, I could hear them out there like, ‘Okay, Mr. McCabe, let’s calm down before this turns into an incident. Why don’t you put your clothes back on? It’s not worth it, is it? If we have to notify the police and they come up here and see . . . what is that over there? Cocaine? You don’t want the media to get a hold of something like this, do you?’
“After they got him under control, they told me to come out. And when I did, I couldn’t even look at him. I just glanced at the security guys. They looked like ex-military or something. I grabbed my stuff and went to leave. I just wanted to get out of there, you know? But they said they needed to talk to me and my friend out in the hall. One of them stayed in the suite with Tristan and the other one had Ebony and me go with him down to some office on a different floor. He asked us a bunch of embarrassing questions and wrote down our answers. Wanted our contact information. He asked for mine first, and like an idiot, I gave him my real name and phone number. Ebony just made up a name and number. She did most of the talking. She was like, ‘Look, we’re not going to call the cops or anything. We just made a mistake. There wasn’t any money exchanged. Can we please just get out of here?’ And I was thinking like, oh, no, there wasn’t any money exchanged. It was just all over the floor. But the guy said okay, they were willing to overlook what happened—that they’d contact us if they needed to. But that from now on, we were banned from the Mondrian.”
“Oh, you’re banned, but Mr. Celebrity isn’t? They probably apologized to the pig and sent up a fruit basket because of the inconvenience. So then what did you do? Go to the emergency room, I hope.”
I shake my head. “It’s not like I needed stitches. He beat my purse up worse than he did me. We just . . . just left. Got into one of the cabs waiting outside the hotel. Neither of us said much. I just sat there with my hands over my face, trying to stop shaking. It took forever to get across town. Obama was in the city and the traffic was horrible. The driver dropped me off first, and when I got back up here, I locked and bolted the door. I just kept walking around in here, trying not to see it all over again. Bree, I can’t eat, can’t sleep. All day yesterday, I was too scared to leave the apartment or even answer the phone. You’re the first person I’ve talked to since it happened.”
“Did you call your therapist at least?”
“Sandie? No! She’s already on my case about my risky behavior.”
“Then maybe you ought to start listening to her. Jesus, Marissa, you are so fucking lucky.”
“I know, I know. But now what am I supposed to do?”
“Get yourself as tetanus shot for one thing,” she says. “And if I were you, I’d go to the police and press charges.”
“And
tell them why we were up in his room? Get arrested for . . . ?”
“Solicitation,” she says.
“Oh yeah, that would look good on my résumé, wouldn’t it? Never mind the cops. I don’t even want to talk to Ebony. She’s called and texted me like five or six times since it happened, but I haven’t answered any of them.”
“Good,” she says. “You shouldn’t. Your friend is a hooker.”
“No, she’s not. She’s just . . . Bree, look at my face. I’ve got my mother’s wedding next weekend. And I was planning to see my father at the Cape first. Surprise him. My sister’s going to be there and—”
“Okay, calm down. The swelling should go down by then.”
“Yeah, and these bruises he gave me are going to turn all purple and yellow. I can’t just show up and have them ask me about them.”
Bree says she’s more concerned about the bite mark. Do I want her to go with me to a clinic and get that tetanus shot?
I shake my head. “Those places are always jam-packed on weekends. I don’t want to have to sit in some waiting room and have everyone look at me. I’ll get one tomorrow.”
“Have you been cleaning it at least?” she asks.
“Yeah, with peroxide.”
“Well, we should get you some antibacterial cream to put on it. And some gauze and tape. You need to cover that wound before it gets infected.”
“I’m more worried about my face,” I say. “I can’t let my father or my sister find out what happened.”
Bree says she’s heard about some homeopathic stuff that’s supposed to be good for bruises. “Arnica or something. It acts like an antiinflammatory. And my friend Karen? The one who works the cosmetics counter at Bloomingdale’s? She says there’s this great cover-up they sell there. Karen said some model she recognized came in last week wearing sunglasses and a kerchief. She told Karen her boyfriend had roughed her up, and she had a shoot the next day. Karen says she fixed her up so that you couldn’t even notice. She’s working today. Why don’t we go uptown and—”
“I can’t! I don’t want to leave the apartment. Not yet anyway.”
She gives me this look like I’m pathetic. Which I am. “Okay,” she says. “Then why don’t I go get it for you. I’m sure it’s expensive, but maybe Karen can use her employee discount. And while I’m out, I’ll pick up the other stuff, too—the Arnica and some Neosporin or something. Okay?”
I tell her I don’t want her to leave yet.
She says okay, she’ll stay for a while longer, but I have to promise her I’ll get that tetanus shot. “All right, I promise,” I tell her, but I already know I won’t. It’s not like he was a rabid dog. Not in that way.
When she asks me if I’ve eaten anything today, I shake my head. “Then let me go over to that place across the street and get you something. Some soup, maybe, or a sandwich.”
“No,” I tell her. “But on second thought, can I have that Xanax? That one of Allegra’s I took was the last one she had.”
Bree nods, reaches into her purse. “Want some water with it?”
“No. Some wine, maybe. There’s some chablis in the fridge. Pour yourself some, too. Let’s get drunk.”
And so we do. Or I do, anyway. I lose track of how much Bree has drunk, but she’s taken a Xanax, too, because she says just hearing about what happened has made her so anxious, she needs to even herself out.
After the wine and drug kick in, I don’t feel so scared anymore. Wasted, we start complaining about our lives, our respective careers. “Why is it that in corporate America, the ones who wield the most power are the biggest douche bags?” Bree asks.
“Kate Hudson,” I say. “She does movies, commercials. Gets herself on Leno and Letterman, Access Hollywood. Why her? Why not me?”
“Because your mother’s not Goldie Hawn.”
“No, my mother’s an artiste.” I say it as much to myself as to Bree. “An edgy lesbian artiste. Next weekend, I’m going to be in my mother’s lesbian wedding.” For some reason, this makes me laugh. I picture Mama working in her studio, surrounded by all that scary art she makes that rich people pay insane prices for. Like that piece she made out of ruined bridal gowns. How much did Gaga pay for that thing? And I can’t even get acting work that pays scale?
I ask Bree if she wants to see the bridesmaid’s dress I’m wearing to the wedding—the black strapless Stella McCartney that Viveca bought me when the two of us went shopping. But Bree just looks over at me vacantly, like she’s deaf or something. So yeah, she is wasted. Maybe if I showed her.
I go into my bedroom. Take the dress out of my closet and hold it up against myself in front of the mirror. I slip out of my shirt and jeans and put it on. Look in the mirror at the girl in the chic black dress with the black-and-blue face, one side puffed up like a fucking baseball glove. . . . Maybe if I were my mother, I could rip the dress, stain it, and sell it as art. But I’m not Mama. I’m an out-of-work actor so desperate for a connection that I sold myself. Could have gotten myself killed. Then I’d be famous: Tristan McCabe’s victim. I’d be like that blond girl who got killed in the Caribbean on her school vacation—the one whose mother is on TV every two seconds. I can’t get work, but that dead girl’s mother has turned herself into a celebrity? . . . Maybe I’m not cut out for this meat grinder of a business. Or maybe I am. Maybe if I stick it out, my big break will happen next month, or even next week. . . .
When I walk out of my bedroom wearing the dress, I see that Bree has fallen asleep. I pour myself the last of the chablis. Sit down next to Bree. I see him again, his face contorted with anger, screaming at me the way my mother used to scream at my brother. . . . I hope he dies. Gets hit by a car or shot by some crazy fan. Gets killed in a plane crash on his way back to Hollywood. It would serve him right. I sip my wine. Rest my head on Bree’s shoulder. I’m getting drowsy now, too. . . .
When I wake up, Bree is standing over me, taking the empty wineglass out of my hand. She smiles, I smile back. Then I remember what happened on Friday. “I have to go,” she says. “I’ll get you some of that cover-up and the other stuff. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
I stand. Teeter a little and follow her to the door. Watch her while she waits for the elevator. When it dings and she gets in, I close my door and lock it. Slide the bolt back in place. Put the chain on. My roommate’s not coming back from Mexico until when? Wednesday? Thursday? . . .
I see the rage in his eyes, feel his blasts of breath, his spit hitting my face. My heart is pounding and I start to shake again. My head aches. My face is still sore to the touch. The bite mark on my stomach hurts like a motherfucker.
Chapter Thirteen
Ariane Oh
Oh god, I feel so sick, and of course they’ve assigned me the middle seat. Mr. Businessman is on the aisle, where I wish I was in case I have to run to the lavatory. He’s a big man, and his legs are spread wide. One of his knees is out in the aisle and the other’s trespassing into my space. The Holy Roller woman’s got the window seat. When she was coming down the aisle during boarding, I read her sweatshirt: GOD IS GREAT. Where’s that sickness bag, just in case? There’s everything but in this seat pocket. How long is this flight?
Click click. “Good morning, folks. This is Captain Tom Moynihan. Wanted to let you know that we’ve reached our flying altitude. We’re expecting smooth air on our way to Boston this morning, so I’m going to go ahead and turn off the seat belt sign. But while you’re seated, we’d like you to . . .”
All right already. Blah blah blah. My stomach’s rolling and I’m shaking. If he doesn’t stop talking, I’m not going to make it to the bathroom.
“Our super duper flight attendants will be starting the beverage service in just a few minutes, and—”
Shit! I’ve just retched and had to swallow back my own vomit. Mr. Aisle Seat turns away from me. Well, tough. It’s not like I can help it. “You okay?” the Jesus woman asks. I nod rather than say anything. I don’t want her to have to smell puke breath. My thr
oat is burning. My stomach’s gurgling. This is horrible.
“On behalf of my wing man, First Officer Bill Brazicki, and our entire Chicago-based flight crew, I’d like to tell you how glad we are to have you aboard today. And now we invite you to sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.” Finally! I unbuckle, stand up too fast, and clunk my head.
“Excuse me! Excuse me, please!” Mr. Business unbuckles and stands, looking annoyed. “Thanks,” I say, accidentally stepping on his foot. “Sorry.” Hurrying toward the bathroom, I push past another woman to get there first.
“Well, pardon me,” she says in this bitchy voice.
“It’s an emergency!” I call over my shoulder. “I’m pregnant!”
When I reach the lav, I step in, slam the door, and slide the “occupied” bolt. Holding back my hair, I bend my head low and regurgitate some more. It’s just bile, mostly. I’ve been vomiting ever since my alarm went off at five this morning: at home, on the way to the airport, twice in the bathroom during the layover. Dr. Rosinsky said the sickness should subside in another month. “I hope she’s right for your sake,” Cicely told me. “With Sha’Quandria, I was only sick for the first trimester, but DeShawn had me upchucking the whole nine months. Then to top it off, he breeched and I had to get a C-section.” DeShawn is a senior in high school. I guess it’s not true what everyone says: that once you see the baby, you forget all about the pain and the inconvenience.
I go to flush but can’t find the button. Well, I guess I’d better try to pee as long as I’m here, although I don’t really have to. I pull down my pants and suspend my rear over the bowl. Manage a little bit of dribble, find the flush button, pull up my pants. I could have held off a while on buying these pregnancy jeans, but I’m glad I didn’t. My sister would probably be mortified by the elastic waistband. I can just hear her: You’re twenty-seven years old and you’re already wearing old lady pants? Well, so what? They’re comfortable. Those old ladies have the right idea. I turn and face the sink. Look at myself in the mirror, which is a mistake. Bags under my eyes, chapped lips, pasty complexion. I cup my hands beneath the faucet, swish, and spit. Do it again. And again. I wish I had a mint to suck. Ow! I just whacked my elbow. What did Axel tell me they call it when people have sex in these cramped little bathrooms? I forget. God, why would anyone want to do that? It’s got to be horribly uncomfortable, plus it’s gross, especially for the poor people who have to use it afterward. You go in there to pee and walk out with an STD. . . . I’m pregnant, I announced on my way in here. Haven’t even told my parents yet, but now a bunch of strangers on a plane know. How weird is that?
