by Reiss, CD
I looked up the cliff again, the rain dropping in my eyes. It was a black edge, cutting the starry sky in half. Hopeless. Going down had been as easy as a running jump. Getting back up would be impossible. I tried to keep our heads above water, and failed, and tried again, and failed again.
A light.
Two lights.
A car parked right at the edge of the cliff. I tried to cry out, but I had nothing left. The noise of the ocean and the rain would have drowned out even the most powerful scream. All I had was my body and my last bits of strength. I swam toward the lights, pushing against the current, and saw that the driver had found a way to crawl down.
The driver was my father.
He wore the khaki trench coat I’d looked for at Sheila’s house. I’d wanted his keys so I could chase Rachel. I’d seen him out the window, going after her, and run out. That’s how he knew we were there. Thank God for him. I’d never been grateful for my father before. I looked at Rachel. She’d become a dead weight in my arms, but I pulled her up. A wave caught us. A lucky break. I smacked against the rocks, managing to put myself between them and Rachel. My father got thigh deep in the water, grabbed my collar, and pulled me onto the ledge. I climbed with him, pulling Rachel. Dad grabbed her and helped us up. I collapsed at the top.
“This is going to cost me, son.” My father’s voice. “It’s going to cost.”
The world swam as if I was riding the teacups at Disney. I opened my eyes. In front of me, so close I had no context but a few blades of grass, the dark, rainy night, and my own nausea, was Rachel’s face. She too had her cheek to the grass. Her eyes glazed over. Her mouth hung open. Her hair stuck to her face. She blinked, and a tear fell over the bridge of her nose.
She faded, like a movie going to black, and the sound of the rain in Echo Park replaced the sixteen-year-old remembrance. Monica breathed in my ear in the rhythms of sleep. Outside, I heard traffic, a bus on Echo Park Avenue, and the children playing in the Montessori school yard. I opened my eyes, as if waking not from a dream but a resurrected memory.
It was morning, and finally, Rachel was free.
Chapter 37.
MONICA
I wore one of the dresses he’d bought me in Vancouver, sleeveless black one with a skirt that fell half an inch from the floor. The neckline so low it required a special bra that had been hanging with it. He requested I wear it, and it was magnificent.
I covered the yellowing bruises with a little makeup, draping hair, and whatever accessories I could gather. I wouldn’t stand up to a forensics team, but at night, in a dark party, maybe I wouldn’t have to crack a joke or tell a lie.
I’d wanted to take my own car, but Jonathan insisted on letting Lil drive, so I waited on my porch for the Bentley. It was exactly on time. Lil let Jonathan out the back. He wore a navy suit and a tie of darkest pink. His shirt was white and pressed, and he was perfect. I started down the porch steps, and he held up his hand.
“Come on, Monica. Give a guy a chance to get you at the door.”
I stopped and waited. He opened the chain-link fence that seemed cheap and worn next to his cleanly pressed self. He walked up the short, cracked concrete that led to my broken wooden steps.
“Are you ready?” he asked, taking my hand.
“It’s just a party.”
“No, it’s going to be ugly.”
I kissed him once on the lips. “I’ve been to high school.”
“The stakes are higher.”
“I’m not staying home. I got all dressed up.”
“Ah, speaking of...” He removed a long, thin box from his pocket. I recognized the Harry Winston dark blue.
“Jesus, Jonathan, you’re going overboard.”
“Yes. I am. I don’t have a viola.” I took the box. Cursing him out while I was smiling would be hard. I undid the ribbon. He took it and rolled it around his fingers. When I looked at him quizzically, he said, “Might need this later.”
“If the ribbon is the real gift, you could save a ton of money by just getting me empty boxes.”
I lifted the top. Inside the box, a flat platinum chain curled around itself. I pulled it out. It wasn’t a loop connected at the end but a long strand. It had to be five feet long, with jewel-encrusted drops the size of blackberries. One sparkled with sapphires, the other, emeralds.
“A lariat,” I said. “My God, it’s beautiful. Can you put it on me?”
He looped the strand around my neck once, draping it so the jeweled drops fell just below my breasts. “Green emeralds for sea. Blue sapphires for sky.”
“Thank you.” I kissed him. “It’s perfect.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“You’re going to make it tough for me at Christmas.”
“We’ll figure out some kind of trade.”
“And don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.” I pulled the strand on one side, looped it around my neck a second time, and pulled tight. The smooth, flat links clicked against one another, easily tightening around my throat. “Makes a lovely collar.”
He laughed. Taking the blue drop, he unlooped it and rearranged the necklace until it was loose. “Let’s not rush.” He took my hand, and we went to the car.
Chapter 38.
MONICA
He got a call on the way. He mumbled a few syllables and relaxed visibly. When he hung up, he squeezed my hand.
“What?” I asked.
“My mother isn’t feeling well,” he said, the last two words emphasized as if it was some sort of code. “We may actually have a good time if I keep you away from the harpies.”
“I can handle harpies and your family.”
“I’m not keeping any secrets about my parents that you don’t already know. But I’d like you to be unsullied as long as possible.”
“I won’t think less of you because of them.”
“Give me some time.”
He didn’t try to fuck me on the way, though our lips met so often that I had to reapply lipstick when we arrived. We stood in the parking lot as Lil drove away. Other sleek cars discharged people in expensive shoes and suits. The lights glared as I used the valet window as a mirror, lipstick hovering. Jonathan snapped the tube from my hand before it touched my face and kissed me again.
“‘Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.’” He kissed me, then put his mouth to my cheek, and back to my ear. “Except when wax and pigment come between them.”
“Barrett Browning?”
“Percy Shelley.”
“And the second part?”
He turned my lipstick tube until the brand was visible. “Lancome, apparently.” He fondled the emerald end of my lariat as if it was part of my body. “I can’t wait for this circus to be over.” He shifted closer and whispered, “I’m taking you home, and I’m going to tie your wrists to the banister. I’m going to blindfold you, then I’m going to undress you slowly. I’ll put my lips all over you until you beg me to take you, which I may or may not do.”
“Jonathan,” I whispered, his name a white flag of surrender.
“Did you just shudder, or is it cold in this parking lot?”
“Was there anyone before you?”
“You might have thought so at the time.”
“I feel like no one’s ever loved me before.”
“I’m sure they did their best, but you always belonged to me.”
The parking lot’s lights were fluorescent and cold, but his gaze was more than warm—it was hot and fixed. I did indeed feel as though I’d never been loved before. At least not correctly. Not with purpose.
He broke our connection to glance over my shoulder, then back to my face. “Vipers descending.”
I looked back. Jessica, wearing purple and cream, walked with a crowd, her hand clutching the arm of a man with an athletic build. I nodded at her. She did not nod back. She looked away to make conversation with a ruddy-cheeked man rather than engage me at all. A face I knew stood out from the crowd.
“Gerald
ine,” I said. “Wow. Hi.”
Trompe l’oeil street artist Geraldine Stark looked at me, then Jonathan, and smiled. She’d let her curly brown hair go wild and wove sparkled strands through it. Her dress was a macramé shift of a thousand colors over a black satin slip. She gave me a Los Angeles hug, but I felt her eyes on Jonathan, who kept his hand on my back.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Did you hear about Kevin?”
“No, I—”
To my side, Jonathan greeted Mr. Athletic. They shared words I couldn’t concentrate on. As the crowd moved toward the elevators, I heard Jessica laugh behind me. Her voice was caught in the lilt of small talk and joyful greetings.
“He’s stuck in Boise,” Geraldine hissed. “Three years.”
“What? Why?”
“His parole is real strict. He gets actual jail time. They’re pissed. So…” She glanced at Jonathan, then back at me as we stepped into the elevator. She thought I didn’t know she’d been with him. She thought she would surprise me for dramatic effect. She thought wrong. Looking meaningfully at me, then at Jonathan, who spoke to the blond guy, she muttered, “Have you heard about your date? It’s all over town.”
“The thing about Kevin is terrible. Honestly.” The news shook me. I didn’t care if she’d fucked Jonathan a couple of nights back when I didn’t know he existed. I didn’t care if she wanted to rub my face in it for fun. Jesus Christ, I knew the guy wasn’t a virgin. A hundred women in the city could commiserate on my lover’s prowess if I were the commiserating type. Which I wasn’t. I was the type who got upset when her ex-boyfriend went to jail. “It’s awful.”
Geraldine looked away. I hoped she was ashamed.
“We incorporated light into the design,” Jessica said to someone I couldn’t see. “The right temperature of light was the hardest to achieve. We wound up finding old tungsten bulbs in a warehouse in Torrance.”
The doors opened onto the patio at L.A. Mod, which had been decked out in hanging lanterns and silver streamers. The effect was beautiful, incandescent, as if a few dozen artists had collaborated on the décor.
“Five minutes,” Jonathan said in my ear as the crowd filed out. “Stay in my sight.”
Geraldine’s date pulled her with the tide out toward the patio, but not before she grabbed my hand and said “Do it...” She laughed as she disappeared into the throng.
Photographers and reporters waited, and the flashing lights made me wince. I waved to her quickly to say good-bye, and she waved back. I wished she’d stayed, even to talk about sex or prison time, because I was alone. Jonathan was ten feet away by a serving stand, talking in serious tones to the light-haired guy. Jessica was surrounded by a gaggle of people, all laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Jonathan and the big guy looked as though they were going to come to blows. He glanced at me and held out his hand in a slight gesture that meant “stay away.”
The elevator doors slid open and another group got out. I heard the phrase again, though Geraldine was far from me.
Do it...
It sounded recorded. I looked behind me. Two girls stared at a phone, the light glowing on their faces.
Do it...
One pocketed the phone when they stepped onto the patio, giggling.
Jonathan’s conversation wasn’t going well. I couldn’t stand there. I just couldn’t. I walked over.
“Hi,” I said. Jonathan slipped his hand over my shoulder. “I’m Monica.” I held out my hand. The blond guy didn’t take it.
“You stole something from my house.”
Jonathan pulled me closer. I felt his body inching between the other man and me. “This conversation is over.”
“It hasn’t started. I’ve got a lawyer.”
He seemed aggressive and off-kilter. As big as he was, he was so non-threatening, I couldn’t be scared. He was handsome and looked fine in his tuxedo, but he wasn’t wearing it...it was wearing him. He had no presence, no voice, no significance. Then I realized who he was. Erik. The man Jessica left Jonathan for.
That woman needed a cunt transplant.
“All these phones look alike,” I said. “It was dark. I thought it was mine.” I pursed my lips, trying to keep my mouth in some kind of line that didn’t resemble a smile. But I failed on some level. He didn’t believe me. A four-year-old wouldn’t have believed me.
“You know what he did?” Erik said. “To her?” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of where Jessica may have been standing.
“I hear she was asking for it.” The elevator dinged behind me.
“You’re both sick,” Erik said.
“O’Drassen!” A voice came from behind us, at the elevator. Jonathan turned me around and led me toward Eddie. He wore a white jacket and black tie, his hair combed into a pompadour.
“Ed,” Jonathan said, “take care of her.” He pushed me toward the guy he’d objected to taking me to the event in the first place.
“No problem,” Eddie replied. “And I’m doing great, by the way. Thanks for asking.”
“I mean it. Not out of your sight.”
Some guy thing happened between them, because Eddie stuck out his hand and Jonathan shook it, taking him by the bicep. Then he kissed me. “Be good.” He turned back to Erik, who had been joined by a man with darker hair and ruddy cheeks.
“I feel like I’m stranded in Manland,” I said to Eddie.
“You are.”
As we went into the throng of photographers, I glanced back to find Jonathan and Erik talking heatedly as if I hadn’t even interrupted.
“You ready to be Carnival’s newest face?” asked Eddie.
“Unless you try to put me in a leather mask.”
“Yeah, well that’s off the table. Coulda made a lot of money. This new idea’s a clunker.”
“You could drop me.”
“And let some douchebag from Vintage pick you up? Hell, no.”
The flashing lights were blinding. Between the women in sequins and the men wearing black, it was a high-contrast world. I heard laughter and chirpy voices. I heard clearly one phrase had caught on. It was whispered and shouted and giggled over.
Do it...
I had my customer service smile ready. My hand was on Eddie’s arm, but I kept my body far from his. I didn’t want to embarrass Jonathan, and I didn’t want to appear weak and needy. Those pictures would end up in music and art trades. If I acted like a piece of arm candy for a record executive, I’d have to explain, then prove that I wasn’t.
The cocktail hour was a whirlwind of drinks, cameras, and questions. Who was I? Why was I there? I talked about the B.C. Mod show with Unnamed Trio, which brought Kevin to mind. I tried not to think about him. I talked about my gigs at Frontage, the possibility of a contract, and my education. There were no softball questions about music. The reporters were from art trades, so there was no talk of art itself, only the business of art. I brushed shoulders with Jessica once. We glanced at each other and moved on. It was business.
Eddie and I milled with the guests outside a huge pair of wooden doors. A woman in a red jacket had come by with a man behind her. He carried a silver tray filled with metal lapel pins. Gold, silver, and rhinestone. She asked our names, then selected a gold pin from her assistant’s tray and gave it to Eddie. She gave me a rhinestone. I had no idea what it meant. Glancing around, I could easily tell the artists from the collectors. They were different from their postures to the make of the clothing. The colors, accessories, shoes, all spoke to social class. I caught Geraldine Stark’s eye. She wore a silver lapel pin. My eyes found Jessica. She looked nervous and unhappy, tucking her hair behind her ear. She also wore a silver pin. Artists must get silver, except I had rhinestone.
A couple behind me said, “Do it...” together before giggling.
“We’re sitting down in five,” Eddie muttered. “I’ll pass you back to your date.”
“Thanks. That was fun.”
“Get used to it.”
“I thou
ght we were all going to go broke because I didn’t want to carry a riding crop.”
“Not quite broke.” He smirked at me and patted my arm.
The doors opened, and the crowd flowed into a huge room overlooking Los Angeles on three sides. Tables had been set in rows with white tablecloths and shining silverware. A longer table sat in front, by the window, Jonathan wasn’t there. Chairs scraped. Voices bounced off the high ceiling. I could sit and start a conversation, but he’d been gone too long. Way too long.
Eddie and I held an animated conversation about the future of streaming with two men he introduced as website developers. I saw Erik talking to Jessica. I scanned the room. No sign of Jonathan. Between his hair and his height, he was a hard guy to miss. Seats were being taken, and the wait staff came out with water pitchers and wine. I slipped away from Eddie as he was making a point about subscription rates on internet radio, and I went out the big wooden doors back to the patio.
The staff had already started breaking down, and the area looked inelegant at best. The floodlights had been removed from the photographers’ area already, making it appear flat and littered. Jonathan was nowhere to be found. The cameras had missed him entirely. I wondered if that was his plan from the beginning.
A man walked toward me with intention. He was tall, maybe six-four, and wore a black cashmere coat and scarf. He was in his sixties but well-worn, taut in the neck and jaw. He had sparkling turquoise eyes and white hair. “Have they gone in?”
“Yeah. The ladies in the red jackets give you your seat. You get one of these pins.” I indicated my rhinestone, and he looked at it appreciatively.
“God forbid we should walk around without a status symbol,” he said.
“Yeah. It’s like a nametag but not as personal.”
“Like you’re only as good as the money you spend.”
His voice sounded eerily like Jonathan’s but wasn’t. I must have looked worried because he put his hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t an uncomfortable touch, just comforting. “Are you all right?”
