Garden of Lies

by Eileen Goudge

  She shook her head.

  “Never could hold your liquor.” Mason was grinning.

  She knew he was thinking about the time they’d sneaked a bottle of her father’s Château Petrús down to the breakwater by their houses in Palm Beach. And gotten shit-faced, though only she threw up. God, she’d puked so much she’d thought her stomach would turn inside out. And then Mason had teased her for weeks afterwards.

  “Stuff it,” she said sweetly.

  “You know, my father’s booked a suite. I’ve got something better than champagne up there. Ever try grass?”

  Marijuana? God, Mama would die. Then she remembered her [86] roommate Judy Denenburg rhapsodizing about how fantastic sex was when you were stoned.

  Rachel felt herself growing warm, her face hot, tight, as if she’d been lying in the sun too long. Was he thinking the same thing she was? God.

  “No,” she admitted. “But it’s your party. Wouldn’t you be missed?”

  Mason shrugged, grinning at the crowd all caught up in their partying. “Like a firecracker on the fifth of July.” His hand felt warm, moist as he took hers. “Come on, let’s split.”

  “Wait. My purse.” She spotted it at the table where she’d dropped it, after they’d begun dancing.

  “You can come back for it later.”

  “It’ll only take a second. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

  Taking a deep breath as the elevator rose, Rachel clamped her bag tightly under her arm.

  “What have you got in there that’s so important, anyway, the key to your safe deposit box?” Mason teased.

  Rachel smiled. “In a way.”

  Yes, this was going to be it. Mason would do as well as anyone. Better. They were old friends, after all, and they liked each other. Ironic, though. Mason no doubt thinking he was seducing her.

  In the suite, decorated like a Parisian apartment—gilded fleur-de-lis wall medallions, gilt-framed mirrors, ormolu-adorned furniture—Mason excused himself and disappeared. A minute later, he returned holding aloft a dripping Baggie.

  “I had it hidden in the toilet tank. Wouldn’t want my father to get busted if the maid happened to see it lying around.”

  “What if he comes up?”

  “He won’t. You couldn’t tear him away from a party to save his life. He was born wearing a lampshade.”

  Rachel thought of her father, how he would have another heart attack if he knew, and felt guilty.

  Mason hunkered down in front of the cocktail table, and shook a small quantity of crumbled brown leaves onto the flimsy cigarette paper. He rolled it slowly, carefully sealing the gummed side, then twisting the ends.

  Rachel watched him light it, take a deep drag, then hold in the smoke for the longest time. Then slowly he exhaled, [87] sweetish-pungent smoke drifting from his nostrils. He passed it to her, holding the joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Slow,” he gently instructed. “Take it in slow, and hold it in as long as you can. You’ll get a faster high that way.”

  Despite the trembling in her hands, and a sudden shortness of breath, Rachel managed to hold the joint to her lips and draw in some of the sweet thick smoke.

  She felt a sudden sharp, hot ache deep in her lungs. A springy sensation of light-headedness. She took another drag, and another. Then things began to change. Her face felt swollen, her head huge and weightless like a balloon suspended on a string. Mason, as if she were viewing him through a rotating camera lens, seemed to recede, while other things about the room grew razor sharp and clear. The colors and motif of the Persian carpet, now bright and magical, shifting from one shape to another as in a wondrous kaleidoscope. And the walls, the gold stripes in the wallpaper seemed to jump out at her, like something in a funhouse.

  “How do you feel?” Mason’s voice crashed into her head.

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve never felt this way. It’s weird, like I’m someone else, but I’m still me. And everything looks so strange. Like I never saw any of it before. I wonder if this is what it’s like for babies just after they’re born.”

  “You’re stoned.” Mason blew out a raspy chuckle on a stream of smoke.

  Rachel took another hit, dragging deeply, feeling like an old pro. “Maybe. Among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she hedged. “Lots of things.” Could she tell him what was on her mind? No, that might be like throwing cold water over him. Or, worse, he might laugh, and make some big joke out of it. “You know how my mother is. Well, she hates the idea of me becoming a doctor.”

  “Jesus. You’ve got it backwards.” He was squinting at her, eyes bloodshot, through a haze of smoke. “Jewish princesses are supposed to marry doctors.”

  She glared at him. “Okay, wise guy, it might sound corny, but I have this crazy idea about helping people, making a difference in this world.”

  “Sure, why not? You and Dr. Kildare.”

  [88] She stared at him, fascinated by the green and gold specks swimming in his irises. “When did you turn so cynical?”

  Mason shrugged, a somber expression taking place of the wise-guy grin.

  “A lot’s changed since we were kids. I’ve been hearing rumors, and the ROTC on campus is out there in full force like Yale is West Point all of a sudden. Friend of Pop’s in the State Department says they’re going to start drafting guys to fight in Indochina pretty soon. Jesus, I just hope I’m not one of them.”

  “You won’t be. Not if you’re in law school.”

  His grin was back. “You remembered.”

  “Sure. Me and Doctor Kildare. You and Perry Mason.”

  “Yeah, that’s me, truth, justice, and the American way.”

  “I think that was Superman.”

  “Well, him too. Say, you ever wonder how come he and Lois Lane never did the trick? I mean, come on, what were they waiting for?”

  This was it, he was making the first move. Her heart began pounding, and she had to fight to stay cool.

  “Well, maybe Lois was frigid, or maybe it was true what they said about him. You know, faster than a speeding bullet.” The words just popped out, and she sat back, both horrified and amused at herself. God, I am stoned.

  Then she began to giggle, softly but helplessly, and she knew that if she didn’t get to the bathroom fast she’d wet her pants.

  Rachel kicked off her shoes and lurched to her feet, grabbing her purse as she stumbled toward the bathroom.

  Alone in the salmon-tiled bathroom, she fumbled for the diaphragm. Now, she thought, got to do it now, before I lose my nerve. Through her stoned haze, she struggled to remember precisely how she was supposed to insert it. First the sperm jelly. Yes, that was it. Enough to knock those pesky little buggers out in the first round. Okay, now bend it in half. ...

  She was holding it that way, folded over like a taco when it slipped from her grasp, and went flying, bouncing against the shower door and landing on the floor with a wet plop. Staring down at it, lying on the pink marble at her feet like some dead sea urchin, she felt as if she had lost all touch with reality, as if any second now, [89] Rod Serling might step out from the shower and announce, “Rachel Rosenthal is about to enter ... the Twilight Zone.”

  God, how can I go through with this? I feel about as sexy as this rubber thing I’m putting inside me.

  Stop carrying on, she told herself. Just do it, for God’s sake.

  Emerging from the bathroom, Rachel felt the giggles bubble up inside her seeing Mason gape at her. It was as if she had stepped out of the Twilight Zone.

  “Rachel, my God. Is that you?

  “Of course it’s me. Who do you think?”

  “You’re ...”

  “Naked. Right.”

  She nodded sagely, her head, too large, bobbing weightlessly on the string of her neck. It did feel a little funny, standing there without any clothes on, but she wasn’t embarrassed. She thought of their going skinny-dipping as kids some of tho
se hot evenings in Florida. It felt that way now, the air swirling about her body, thick and warm as heated pool water.

  Rachel went over, and sat down cross-legged beside him. “Listen, you don’t have to do anything about it. I mean, I know you’re not in love with me or anything. I just thought it might be a good idea.”

  Mason continued to gape at her with a glassy expression, mouth drooping open. Then he winced as if in pain, and Rachel saw that the joint had burned down to his fingers. He dropped it into the ashtray, and brought his hand to his mouth, sucking his singed finger. He looked back up at Rachel, his zombie expression gone. He was grinning now, foolishly, as if he still didn’t quite believe it.

  “Are you kidding? Because, Jesus H. Fucking Christ, this wouldn’t be very funny if you were.”

  “Look, I’m perfectly serious. But if you’d rather just sit and talk about it, I’ll put my clothes back on.”

  “Jesus, Rachel. I’ve heard about grass having this effect on some people, but I never thought ... oh Christ.” He was a tangle of movement now, throwing off his jacket, ripping at his tie, fumbling with the tiny pearl studs on his tuxedo shirt, now bending over. “Damn, my shoelace is all in knots. How does Clark Kent make this look so easy?”

  [90] “Here, let me help.” She was conscious of her breast grazing his arm as she bent to help unlace his shoe. An odd sensation, not necessarily sexy, but nice. “Okay. I got it. Hey, it’s still there, that bump where you broke your toe waterskiing. Does it hurt?”

  “Come here.” Tugging off his undershirt and shorts, he drew her down beside him on the carpet and kissed her on the mouth. Wet, soft, that same skinny-dipping feeling, as if she were diving underwater now. Deep warm water.

  “Uh, Mason, I think there’s something you should know.” She pulled back a bit, and tried to bring his blurred face into focus. “I’m a virgin.”

  “A what?”

  “A virgin. But I don’t see why that should make a difference, do you?”

  “I don’t get it. Why me?” Mason looked at her, his face a damp flushed pink, both happy and bewildered, as if he’d just realized he’d won a million dollar lottery, and didn’t quite believe it.

  “I don’t know. Maybe because you didn’t expect anything.”

  Now she felt something against her leg, a hot pressure. She looked down, and a small shock rippled through her.

  “It got bigger,” she said, staring down at his thing. It was no longer the size of a two-cent roll of bubble gum. More like a Rocket Pop now.

  Mason laughed, cupping a breast. “You too. I can’t call you Mosquito Bites anymore.”

  Rachel snuggled closer as he drew her to him, shivering, trying not to think about the thick, sour marijuana taste in her mouth. Or the itchy stubble of the carpet against her backside. Mason seemed good at this, practiced, not clumsy or rough. He was gently, tenderly stroking her thigh, her breasts, kissing her nipples. And now wasn’t she supposed to start feeling turned on? Even a little bit? Everyone said you didn’t have to be in love for that, for heaven’s sake.

  But the harder she tried to will herself to be excited, the worse it got. Like trying to start a car, she thought, frantically pumping on the gas pedal after the engine’s been flooded. She began to feel irritated, distracted by little things, the coldness of his fingers between her legs, his beard rough against her breasts, little gobbling noises he was making in his throat.

  [91] A fine kickoff, folks, but wait ... the ball has been intercepted. ...

  Now he was getting up, pulling a pair of jeans out of the closet, groping in the pocket. For what? Then she saw. A rubber. Well, of course. A virgin wasn’t supposed to come prepared.

  She watched him kneel, red-faced, tearing impatiently at the foil packet. The irony of it struck her, and the giggles forced their way up her throat.

  It’s all over now, she told herself, stomach hurting, tears running down her cheeks, you’ve blown it again.

  But Mason didn’t seem to be getting angry like Gil. My God, he was laughing too. There was something funny about all this. And she wasn’t the only one who saw it.

  “Never could get one of these damn things on without looking like an idiot,” he said.

  “Never mind,” she told him, “just come here.”

  And then it was happening, actually happening. A pain, not terrible, and he was inside. Moving gently. And she didn’t mind it. It wasn’t so bad. In fact it was almost ... nice.

  Mason was moaning, pumping his hips.

  She began to feel warm down there, like warm water lapping between her thighs. But there was supposed to be more, wasn’t there? She felt as if she were swimming toward something, and though she was straining hard, she couldn’t quite reach it.

  Mason gave one long gagging moan, and shuddered to a halt.

  Then Mason’s mouth, damp and hot against her ear, whispering something.

  “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  No, not hurt. She felt stiff, awkward, a block of wood in Mason’s arms. It stung a little down there, but she knew she wouldn’t die from it.

  What counted was what she didn’t feel.

  She’d felt none of the dizzying things she’d read about in novels, or heard her friends whisper. No music. No rockets exploding. No soaring ecstasy.

  What Rachel felt was ... cold. As if she had been pulled out of a warm pool, and plopped wet and shivering on this rug.

  It’s true then. You’re frigid. If this doesn’t prove it to you nothing ever will.

  [92] “I’m okay,” she whispered, “just a little shaky. Am I bleeding much?”

  He looked down. “A little. Not bad. Don’t worry, it’s the same color as the carpet.”

  “Mason, I ...” She wanted to tell him she was sorry for dragging him into this. It had been a dumb idea after all. But there was a tightness in her throat, choking off the words.

  Then Mason was holding her tight, rocking her back and forth on the stubbly carpet. “I know,” he murmured, “you don’t have to say it. It was great for me too. The best. You’re really something, you know that, Rachel?”

  Something, her mind echoed. Yes, I am something.

  The question is what?

  Caught between tears and helpless laughter, Rachel began to hiccup.

  Chapter 3

  BROOKLYN, 1968

  “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

  The old priest’s words echoed in the empty church. Rose watched Father Donahue, like an aged leprechaun in his green and white vestments, extend a trembling hand to dip a silver ladle in the marble baptismal font, then trickle the holy water over the crown of fuzz poking from the blanket in his arms.

  A lusty, outraged cry broke the hushed stillness.

  Rose, standing a few feet away near the wrought-iron gates that enclosed the small baptismal vestibule, felt a tug in her chest, wanting to hold her baby nephew.

  He’s right to cry. Who wouldn’t, if someone woke you up by pouring cold water over your head?

  Original Sin. How unfair! Every newborn tainted through no fault of its own, because thousands of years ago Adam had taken a bite from Eve’s apple. Marked down like a factory second on a sale table.

  The way she had been branded by the sin of her mother. And punished, not just once but her whole life. Worse now since Nonnie had gotten sick. These last months a living hell.

  God, I don’t know how much more I can take.

  Quickly, Rose pushed the thought away, feeling guilty. How dare she stand here feeling sorry for herself? It was Marie who deserved her sympathy. Poor Marie, she could barely manage her two little ones at home, and now this one.

  She looked at Marie, hollow-eyed, puffy ankles showing beneath the uneven hem of a hideous black maternity dress. As if this were a funeral, not a christening.

  Beside her Pete, scrawny and pathetic in a plaid jacket that was [94] too small, looking vaguely bewildered, as if some fast-talking salesman had conned
him into a bad deal before he knew what was happening.

  Pete’s family had moved to Detroit, so there was no one else. Just she and Clare, Sister Benedicta now. Rose glanced at Clare, standing next to her, her round face serene under its bracket of starched white. Clare reminded her of a gray pigeon in her habit and wimple, a handful of fluff over slender hollow bones. Rose felt a coal of resentment glowing in her chest.

  What good is it, all that religion of yours, if your hands are too busy praying to do any real work? she silently accused her sister. Where are you when I’m breaking my back to lift Nonnie into her wheelchair? When I’m feeding her and cleaning her?

  Sudden, crashing silence jerked Rose from her thoughts. The baby had stopped wailing.

  Marie was holding him now, quieting him, not with a cuddle, but an ugly brown pacifier. Sallow light from the peaked amber windows—this side vestibule still had the old leaded ones—caught her sister’s face and turned it the color of old piano keys. She looked more than just tired, she looked old. An old woman at twenty-nine. Rose noticed with a tiny shock that Marie now bore a startling resemblance to their grandmother.

  Rose stepped forward, her snow boots squeaking over the mosaic of cracked floor tiles.

  “May I hold him?” she whispered to Marie.

  Marie shrugged, handing her a cloud of blankets, which for a heart-stopping instant seemed to contain nothing but air. Then Rose felt the solid, reassuring pressure of a tiny bottom no bigger than her palm, and a round face was gazing up at her, cheeks fat as muffins. Suddenly, miraculously, the pacifier slid from his toothless gums with a tiny wet pop, and he smiled.

  “Look!” Rose cried, delighted.

  Marie peered into the blanket. “It’s only gas. Bobby didn’t smile until he was three months.” She gave a rueful bark of a laugh. “I’m not surprised. He didn’t pick it up watchin’ me, that’s for sure. Not a whole lot to smile about, two babies and Pete out of work back then, not to mention the landlady yelling for the rent money every other minute. And now I had to go and get knocked up again.”

  [95] Rose realized, her heart sinking, that today would not be a good time to talk to her sister, as she’d planned, about Nonnie.