Animal

by Lisa Taddeo

  She didn’t reply for hours and then asked me if I’d ever been to the Santa Monica Pier and I said that I hadn’t. By bringing me to that place—thick with the tourists, their lips stained in Slurpee, their rotten children running wild—I knew it meant she was going to leave me for good. I didn’t know exactly why, but I was sure of it all the same.

  We ate chili dogs and drank lime rickeys and headed for the Ferris wheel. She led me up the steel stairs of the ride, treating me like I was a dog and my arm was the leash. She was much taller than I, and even though she was slender, her bones took up a lot of space. Her hips were like my mother’s. I can’t be sure because it’s been so long, but my memory is that my mother’s hips were very wide. I pictured Alice on my father’s arm, not as his daughter but as his lover.

  I reveled in that feeling of her holding my arm. I hadn’t loved a woman’s touch that much since my mother. I worried that when Alice left me, I would go looking for her forever.

  Once I followed Big Sky. I waited outside of his office building on Wall Street for an hour until he finally emerged, laughing, with a well-dressed woman. Was he fucking her? No, probably not. But from afar it appeared they had that flirtation, the one we’d had at the magical start. I followed them to the nicest lunch spot in the area. I watched from the window as they ate. Frisée. Bald black olives. They each drank a glass of red.

  Vic had followed me like that, probably more times than I could even imagine. In his too-large suits, his teeth gritted behind his thin lips.

  Alice and I sat across from each other inside one of the cups of the wheel. The steel clanked with a risky noise as the wheel began to turn.

  —I miss you, Alice said, but it didn’t sound genuine.

  —Eleanor is going to leave soon.

  —Good.

  I wanted to know why it bothered her so much, why I wasn’t enough on my own, even with this barnacle on my back. Hadn’t we hit it off perfectly? Didn’t she realize our bond was deeper than a new friendship?

  —She’s much younger-looking than I expected, and built like a circus strongman.

  —She’s a little girl, I said.

  —Joan, you don’t need to take care of her. Tell her you’re going on a trip. Tell her you’re going to see your parents.

  —She knows I don’t have any, I said, thinking how strange it was that Eleanor knew my secret and Alice did not.

  —Well, for God’s sake. You two sit up talking all night? You don’t think this is a bit fucked?

  —Her father just killed himself, I said. Her mother is shattered. She had a brother with Down’s.

  —You didn’t tell me that, she said.

  —I thought I did, what does it matter?

  —It matters a lot. That’s a big thing.

  —Why?

  —What do you mean, why? Did Vic agree to have a child with Down, I wonder?

  —I don’t think he did.

  —She kept it from him?

  —She knew there was a one-in-three chance or something, and yes, she kept that from him.

  —Let me ask you something. Can you imagine what it was like for the child, growing up as the only child her father could love? I have a second cousin with Down syndrome. In Maremma. It’s better there. Roman Catholics are more about the heart and less about the way something should look. I’m not religious, you know, but if both parents are the type to love whatever form something takes, then fine. Then you take the kid to the market and you don’t give a flying fuck who looks at him three times. But if you are a man like your Vic, who is upwardly mobile, who is more intelligent than the family he came from, than his wife who he married too soon, who got a taste of a woman like you, can you imagine the rage you’d feel? And now his daughter there—she knows that you were the reason her father stopped trying to get it up for his family. He met you and became even more withdrawn. Jesus Christ, it’s more than just her father cheated and now she wants to kill the slut who fucked her dad. It’s she wants to kill the slut who made her family seem like a pile of garbage. It’s not your fault, Joan, but this is worse than I thought. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the boy. That girl will never leave you.

  I told her it was worse than that. I told her the boy was dead and about the way it happened. Alice looked at me like I was the one who’d killed the child.

  —Almost all of them, Joan. Someone else’s men.

  —Fuck you.

  —It’s weird.

  —You don’t get me.

  —You’re a fucking trope. There’s nothing more to get.

  I felt my cheeks sinking, my mouth parting. She could barely look at me because she knew how much she was hurting me.

  She said she should be getting home and I tried to say I would take a taxi but I wanted to be right beside her at the cost of my dignity. I thought of Eleanor at home. She’d be waiting for me with her crab pincers, just as her father had.

  Alice and I made up, sort of. She apologized. On the way back up the canyon she told me she was thinking of going on a yoga retreat to a place called Feathered Pipe. That she needed to get out of Los Angeles. August in Los Angeles was for the birds, she said, as though I weren’t going to be there. Several weeks earlier, we might have been going away together. It wasn’t until I was about to get out of the car that I asked her where the retreat was.

  She picked up her big cat-eye sunglasses from the dirty console and put them on. She smiled in a way I would never forget.

  —Montana, she said. Then she winked and pulled away before I’d even closed the door.

  Killing becomes something that isn’t outlandish. When you’ve seen what I have, a number of awful things become practical.

  27

  I GOT ELEANOR A JOB at the café working half my hours so that when she was gone, I was at home and vice versa. She wasn’t exactly happy with the arrangement, but at the same time she knew she had to contribute. It’d been over three weeks by that point. I spent my evenings cooking for the two of us, like we were a married couple. I increased her dose of Xanax to a full milligram so that she would fall asleep early. I laid a blanket over her body on the couch. She didn’t shower every day so sometimes she smelled of onions and I did a load of laundry nightly while she observed me from the couch or watched mindless television, reruns of old shows about high schoolers. I folded her clothes like I was her mother.

  One night we sat on the couch together and watched an old film my mother used to love, The Major and the Minor. I took in only art that wouldn’t fell me. I watched only romantic comedies and read books only about subjects that didn’t mirror anything in my own life.

  On the coffee table my phone began to buzz.

  Nobody called anymore. I reached for the phone, hoping it might be Alice. Even Big Sky, though that was a ludicrous idea. I prayed to my parents for it to be the man I thought I loved. But before I could pick up the phone, the ringing stopped and a message came through.

  Is my daughter there? TELL ME IF SHE IS TELL ME Her name is ELEANOR

  I showed the message to Eleanor, who looked utterly nonplussed.

  —Don’t you think you should call her? I asked.

  —She’s lucky I don’t call the police, she said.

  —I understand. But. She’s been through a lot.

  —It’s her fucking fault. All of it. Will you please block her number?

  I blocked the number and we sat on the couch and drank our tea and took our drugs and Eleanor passed out and I watched the movie straight through to the end.

  * * *

  ONCE IT HAD REACHED THE one-month mark, I thought about killing her. It got to the point that there was nobody I didn’t want to kill. I was finally showing, and even though I tried to cover it up with loose dresses, I could see Eleanor staring at my belly, co-opting it with her eyes. I felt bonded to my child. I didn’t need anyone anymore.

  I was throwing up every morning. I would do it outside like an animal to avoid Eleanor waking too soon and stealing my morning hours. I w
anted to kill everyone.

  One day River came by, acting as though we’d never fucked. I opened the door to his knock and shut it quickly behind me so that he wouldn’t see Eleanor inside. She was having one of her spells during which she cried and shook on the floor. The same as the ones I’d had. I watched her during these spells. From several feet away I said comforting things. I never touched her, even though I knew how badly she wanted me to.

  River stood in a white tee and cargo shorts, his blond hair catching the sunlight. Kurt was with him. The day was bright but not hot. They were going on a hike and River asked if I wanted to come. I pictured us high up on the mountain on one of those dry trails, fucking amid the monkey flower, my back getting scratched by the ragweed. I imagined it would turn him on to know I was pregnant. It turned me on. It also made me feel hopeful that I might pretend the child inside of me was River’s and not the man in Marfa’s.

  I was about to say yes, I was about to say I would just run inside and get my boots, when the door opened. There stood Eleanor, her face a mess.

  —Oh, River said, you have company.

  —This is Eleanor, I said, about to cry.

  —Oh hey, he said, extending his strong arm.

  She looked jealous. She lightly took my arm. I felt her pulling me inside. I felt the threat and the pain in her touch.

  —Maybe some other time, he said, smiling as though he’d seen something untoward, something a little gross.

  I nodded and smiled and told him to have fun and closed the door.

  —That’s the guy who lives in the circus tent?

  —The yurt, I said, feeling faint.

  She asked me if we could go for a walk, just the two of us. She was crying. I began to cry, too.

  * * *

  FOLLOWING OUR DAY AT THE pier, I heard from Alice even more sparingly. Twice a week at most. I considered going to one of her classes, but shame stopped me. I missed her like I hadn’t missed anyone since Gosia. I understood I’d become a seedy figure to her, but I couldn’t accept that Eleanor’s presence was the end of Alice and me.

  Then one afternoon, one of those perfect days that can make you feel lonely, I heard the light engine of a car, but it never came up the hill. It parked at the bottom, almost inside the start of the trail, under a tree that would scrape its hood. The car was Alice’s Prius. My heart leaped.

  Thankfully, Eleanor was at work. I watched out my window and saw Alice’s long legs in a pair of tiny spandex yoga shorts, climbing the hill, crossing the big ravine, until she was out of my eyeline. From the window I couldn’t see the door of River’s yurt. When I found the courage to step outside, I saw no one. She hadn’t come for me.

  Back inside I waited, trembling, for several hours. I thought to leave the house, but I needed to see her, to confirm where she’d been. At dusk, when I saw her finally descend the hill, I noticed that her previously ponytailed hair was undone.

  I left to pick up Eleanor from work. Alice’s car was now at the studio. She taught a seven p.m. Ashtanga class.

  Over the next two weeks, as my stomach grew and Eleanor’s need expanded throughout the house, stifling me more than the heat ever could, I observed Alice come to River’s yurt six times in total. There may have been more visits while I was at work. The first time she stayed overnight, I vomited into the toilet of the tiny bathroom, where the smell of Eleanor’s menstrual blood filled the air. I’d bought her dog waste bags and told her to triple-bag her large, thick pads but, like the child that she was, she forgot.

  I was devastated, jealous on many levels. For one, the fact that they seemed to never go on dates, leave the house, like all each wanted and needed was the other’s young and perfect body. I couldn’t get it out of my head that it could have been me in there with him had Eleanor not blocked me that time he came to my door. That, even though he was immature, his body and his energy were a great salve. But, more than anything, I was crushed that Alice had left me so cruelly and substituted this boy for me. The feeling of wanting to be her, of wanting to possess her body and her strength—but mostly her past—intensified to a point where I couldn’t bear it. I felt again the urge to kill her, to kill myself. I knew I was going to kill something.

  What had begun to torture me most was the idea that she didn’t care that I saw her. Yes, she parked down below, hidden partly by trees. But it was a half-assed gesture.

  The fifth week of Eleanor’s stay and Alice’s withdrawal from my life, I made a decision. I returned home from work and cut Lenny off at the pass as he approached. He asked about Eleanor and I told him she had a bad cold. I told him I was feeling ill, too, and I didn’t want to give him something that might lead to pneumonia. He asked me if I hated him. There is no need to tell people you hate them. No need to confront them. I would advise you to lie in wait until you take your revenge.

  But he placed his hand on my arm softly. The expression on his face was plaintive.

  —Joan, he said, I have been waiting to finish my story.

  I noticed he was wearing the watch. I tried not to look at it. I told him to wait a moment, then I went inside to get a carafe of water. I told Eleanor to stay. She hated it when I did that. She hated to feel separate from me.

  I returned to Lenny. It served me to know more.

  —Thank you, Joan. There isn’t anyone else.

  It was a role I was used to. Last woman standing. Lenny poured himself some more vodka. I placed my hand over my glass with fanned fingers, as my mother used to do. Lenny placed the vodka down.

  —Go on. I remember where you left off. I was appalled.

  —After that day, he continued, I was filled with self-recrimination. The rage had cooled, and in its place an awesome guilt took root. Lenore had grown despondent over the most recent failed conception. I refused to take responsibility. I didn’t say a word. Like a child, I sulked. It was the summer, with nothing to do. I reread Goodbye, Columbus in the café where you work. I ate anchovy filets from the can. That day at Sandstone I’d been as ugly as I think anyone can be. I’d taken the love of this beautiful woman and just—

  He made a crushing motion with both hands.

  —Several times I walked onto the beach at night toward the rolling ocean. I never believed in God, but I asked the ocean, the universe, to take me. To swallow me whole. I laid myself down at the shoreline. But it turned out the ocean didn’t want me.

  —The white man’s burden, I said.

  —I’m sorry?

  —You’re a white, wealthy male. Once you were a young, white, wealthy entitled piece of shit. Now you are old and you have the diseases you should have.

  He nodded. He appeared suddenly chastened.

  —Yes, I know, Joan. I understand. And I’m telling you this terrible thing I did. Not to absolve myself. But to sacrifice the last thing I can.

  I nodded, but my rage was so intense at that moment I imagined it issuing from me in a bear-shaped vapor and killing the man. It was the female rage that builds for decades. I thought of the day I watched two skinny teenage boys playing Ping-Pong in the rec room of the hotel where I cleaned. I watched as another cleaning woman, Anna, heavy, with four children and a broken back, vacuumed the floor. The Ping-Pong ball jumped off the table and rolled into the mouth of Anna’s industrial vacuum. I saw how she hadn’t gone for the ball, but neither did she veer away from it, and the ball was swallowed by the vac and the young boys swore. She turned the vacuum off just in time to hear one boy cry out, Fuck! The fuckin ball! The other said, Give it back! And Anna sneered. Your little ball is gone, she said. And she turned the vacuum back on, a poltergeist of light and noise. Anna needed that job but she would have lost it that day if she had to.

  —The facts, Leonard said obediently. I took Lenore back to Sandstone. To punish myself. It was late August, and there was a party at the ranch. I bought her a dress that was nothing but a swath of purple silk, and she tied it like a toga over one shoulder. She had long thick legs, like a Clydesdale. I wore a tuxedo. Most peop
le were clothed that night; some, of course, were not. There was a band playing on a strange little stage in the main room. Doctor Johnson.

  —Oh, I said, and Leonard nodded at me.

  —And we watched them and danced. Lenore was easily the most gorgeous woman in the room. The lead singer of the band was eyeing her. He was, effectively, singing to her and her alone. Halfway through a dance someone came up to us, a bearded man, oily and tanned, and he handed us both a pill. Back then we called it a mickey. Within thirty minutes Lenore and I were both reeling.

  She went to the bathroom and I thought to accompany her, but then some red-haired bimbo came and intercepted me. She had tassels on her tits. I’ll never forget the way they swirled. And in my brain the drug was dancing. The red-haired woman sat me down on a couch and sat on my lap, just staring into my eyes and kissing my eyelids every so often. It was a divine feeling. I felt helpless and delicious. Finally I found the strength to get up. I pushed her off of me and went to look for Lenore. The band was not playing and this struck me as ominous. I passed many rooms where people fucked, groups of four and five. One room was just a chain of cunnilingus, woman on woman on woman, and at the head was one man fucking one woman. I stopped and watched several rooms until finally I saw a sight that shot me down. Lenore’s purple swath of silk on the floor. This was in the doorway of a large room and the door was open because that was the rule at Sandstone. Open doors, open hearts, whatever nonsense. Lenore was on the bed, naked. Beside her was the lead singer of the band, the man you must have met already, stroking her side, kissing her nipples. Many times I’ve thought to kill him. But I’m a goddamned coward. He was much younger than me, than both of us, about twenty years. My head was spinning. I had no words. He looked at me, he said, Hello, my friend.

  Lenore fluttered her eyes as he entered her. She looked at me and held out her hand and I took it. I was shaking, crying. But she smiled at me as though it were me entering her. It went on for ten minutes, but God knows it felt like a century, with me watching and sobbing like a child, getting all that I deserved. He kept going until he orgasmed. And she came along with him; I’d never seen her climax so hard. Afterward they lay there, the two of them, spent.