* * *
Venus worried about Angel too. It wasn’t like that street was one-way. She worried that Angel would never find a new love, or even some other kind of almost-love that a girl could use to move on and see life afresh. Maybe Venus was hiding this whole Staten Island situation from Angel because she knew she had broken the rules—at least two rules, if she had to think about it—but it was deeper than that. Venus didn’t know how to talk to Angel about her affection for men anymore because she was afraid of hurting Angel. She didn’t want to talk about a topic that she knew was slowly eating away at Angel. Angel pined for Hector, that much was apparent to everyone. Who could blame the girl? Hector was a suave-ass chulo whose death was enough to make even the hardest and coldest of queens cry. Not that Angel was hard or cold, but Venus knew that Angel’s heart was too warm, too open, and too sensitive to move past Hector. Forever, maybe. And it’s for that reason that Venus couldn’t tell Angel about the men from the streets she was feeling the hots and colds for. She couldn’t bear to see that look in Angel’s eyes—the one that pretended strength when, really, she wanted to collapse.
* * *
Charles had promised her many things. A semiprivate gym membership where she could watch him lifting weights and then venture into the sauna to sweat out whatever she wanted to sweat out. An in-ground swimming pool in his backyard, which she had never stuck a toe in, but she still liked the idea of it being there whenever she wanted to make use of it. Access to all the food in the fridge, especially the kiwis and cantaloupe and thin strips of beef brisket, all foods that seemed so exotic because they were never foods she could find at home. She spent two days out of the week there now. As she took off her shoes to let her toes glide against the pearly off-white shag rug, she couldn’t help but think that she was finally living the daydream she had always set for herself, the one where she was a princess sharing a suburban castle with her man.
But of course, this all came at a price. What he was able to give her with his money, she would have to give him with her body. She had no control over when he would want it, or where. It didn’t bother her because she always argued that shit like this didn’t make a woman into a whore, like people said. She always distrusted when society tried to tell her how she should feel. Because wasn’t it a double standard piece of bullshit that pretty young women could marry rich dudes and get these same luxuries? So where was the difference, she wanted to know.
The nice days were when they both wanted to fuck at the same time. She could lean back and run her fingers through the patch of hairs on his chest, growing out of his heart. But then there were the not-nice days, when she just wasn’t in the mood, or she was sore from the time before, but she still took him because she feared she couldn’t say no. If she said no, she thought he would just go back on the streets and find someone else who would say yes.
Just a week after her Saks venture with Angel, he had promised her a picnic with a strawberry dessert at the end. They were there, the strawberries were there, even the blanket was spread out on the grass in the backyard, but then his pager went off. Venus could already tell from the frown that something was up.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he told her as he zipped his pants and tightened his leather-braided belt. “I need to get this testimony. From a client’s witness. For a case. And fuck,” he said. “I’ll be back as soon as possible. I’ll practically fly through traffic to get back to you.”
She spent the two hours sprawled on the sofa downstairs eating purple and green grapes, filling the time with episodes of Guiding Light and The Price Is Right. She wished Angel were with her, sitting on that couch, so they could talk shit about the man who had been offered the showcase full of dining room furniture, when she could really tell he wanted the lavish getaway to Paris. Or she wished Juanito were there, feeding his sewing machine with the gobble-gobble sound filling the quiet room. Or Daniel, whose energy always felt calming and assured, even when she pinched his biceps and squealed in glee. She’d ask them all the important question of the hour: “Ladies,” she imagined herself saying, “how the hell is it possible for a microphone like the one that Bob Barker is holding to be so fuckin’ pencil-thin, but then I gotta watch my meals to keep my figure?”
* * *
She was taking a little disco nap in a pair of Charles’s roomy sweatpants and an XL white T-shirt. When the front door slammed, she startled awake. On the TV, General Hospital was running. She dragged her feet to the kitchen to wash the bowl of strawberries so they could cut them up and go outside to have their picnic date.
When she turned on the sink water, she heard a pile of papers fall to the ground behind her. Venus spun around and saw a woman standing in the doorway that connected the dining room to the cocina. “Oh, Jesus Lord and Mary,” the woman said. She was wearing a work-suit combo: khaki-colored blazer and matching skirt paired with navy tights that made Venus want to say, No, honey.
Venus grabbed the short knife from the counter. She had planned to chop up the strawberries with it, but now she was going to handle the situation in front of her. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” Venus said.
“Your house?” the woman said.
Venus held the knife out in front of her and this woman looked at it, rolled her eyes, and leaned down to grab the last of the fallen papers. In any other situation, Venus would’ve complimented her on the fabulous shade of red on her nails, but this woman was creeping up on her territory, so there would be no room or time for compliments.
“Oh Jesus, Charles,” the woman said, rolling her eyes. “I see he hasn’t learned a thing.”
“Excuse you, he has learned many things,” Venus said. “But it would not be proper to discuss the formalities of such learned things with you, so excuse me, bitch, can you kindly walk your khaki skirt and navy tight combo out of this goddamn kitchen before I find the strength to slash you for trespassing.”
The woman laughed. “Trespassing? Oh, give me a break,” she said. “God, this is so fucked I don’t even know whether to laugh or cry. Un-be-lie-va-ble.” She walked over to the phone and dialed a number. “Hi—yes hi, this is Linda,” she spoke into the receiver. “Could you please tell Charles to get home, it’s urgent—no, it’s absolutely urgent. Okay, wonderful, thank you.”
Venus put the knife down and turned the water off.
“Put down the knife,” Linda said.
“I’m not even holding it?”
“We’ll get this whole mess sorted out once Charles gets back.” She walked over to the sink and grabbed a strawberry by the grassy stem area. Venus wasn’t wearing her heels, so when Linda stood next to her near the sink, Linda had a few inches on her. Venus looked up at Linda’s gaze.
“God,” Linda said. Venus was so close, she could see the globs of mascara at the tips of Linda’s short eyelashes. “Do I even want to know how old you are?” she asked. She bit into the strawberry. “No, don’t tell me,” Linda said. “I don’t want to know.”
Venus had no idea what the fuck was going on and she was feeling a whirlwind of feelings. They stood on either side of the kitchen’s island in total silence, staring at each other as if they could both use laser beams to turn the other into a puddle of ashes.
“So,” Venus said, “you come prancing all up in here and you’re still not going to introduce your rude ass to me.”
“Oh, hello, my name is Linda,” she said, overly chipper. “That’s L-i-n-d-a. Did Charles ever mention Linda to you before? Does the name Linda ring a bell?”
Venus traced the fronts of her teeth with her tongue. She shook her head, like, obviously he hadn’t. She hadn’t asked for a serving of sarcasm.
“No? Of course not. How about the word ex-wife, does that ring a bell?” Linda said. “Soon-to-be, I should clarify. We still have to sign on the dotted line.”
“How was I supposed to know?” Venus said. Her first instinct was to say sorry, but then she figured fuck it. She wasn’t at fault, so she wasn’t going to apolog
ize for something that wasn’t her doing.
“You let him fuck you?” Linda said. “No, wait. I don’t even want to know.” She walked past Venus to the living room. She rummaged through her purse, then patted the pockets of her blazer. She asked if Venus had seen her cigarettes.
“Yeah, I let him fuck me,” Venus said. “And no, I didn’t see your ciggies.”
“You better be using prophylactics,” Linda said.
“The fuck does that mean?”
“Condoms,” Linda said. “Rubbers. I watch the news. I see what’s happening.”
“Fuck you,” Venus said. “I don’t got the virus.”
They had been using condoms, most of the time, but that wasn’t any of Linda’s business so she could back that truck up. Venus turned around and grabbed the strawberries by the handful and laid them on the counter. She wondered when was the last time Linda and Charles had fucked. She wondered if Linda were the type of woman to use the phrase make love.
Venus took the largest butcher knife in the wooden knife block and started slicing them like she was trying to slice a finger off a body.
“Careful, bitch,” Linda said, “you will scratch the counter that way.”
Venus grabbed the knife with both hands like it was an ax. She sliced the strawberries into the tiniest pieces she could do. Cut in half, then half again, then half again. Until all the little halves and their seeds were swimming on top of their own red juice.
“Oh, who the hell am I kidding?” Linda said. “He’s keeping the house, so you could take a machete to the walls and I’d stand here next to you and offer a hand.”
Who the fuck did this Linda woman think she was, coming into this house and being so sassy with her? Venus couldn’t tell if they were on the same team or not. She couldn’t tell who it was that should be blamed. If Linda wasn’t the ex-wife, Venus probably would’ve taken to her. When the front door opened and slammed shut, both their heads turned toward the front of the house.
Linda spotted her box of Virginias on the kitchen counter near the microwave. She lit a long, slim cigarette and stood at the edge of the living room, where the off-white carpet met the off-white kitchen tile.
Venus turned around with the butcher knife in her hand. A little half-half of a strawberry slid down the edge of the blade, onto the floor. The kitchen counter had knife marks that looked like she was keeping tally.
Charles appeared in the hallway right in the middle of them. “Oh god,” he said when he saw them both. “This was not supposed to happen.”
Linda dragged on her slim cigarette and gave him a look like, No shit, Sherlock. She crossed her nonsmoking arm across her chest and scrunched her face into a sarcastic smile. “Not like it’s the first time,” she said, then exhaled the rest of the smoke she had been keeping in. “You just can’t keep it in your pants, can you, you piece of shit?”
“Could you please not smoke in the house?” Charles said. “You know I don’t like it when people smoke in the house.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, you selfish son-of-a-bitch bastard,” Linda said, and god, did Venus want to put that knife down and clap her hands. Maybe they could tag team and take him down together.
“No, Linda,” he said, “I’m not fucking kidding you. I don’t like cigarette smoke—”
“And I don’t like it when you bring low-class whores into our house,” Linda said. “Because until we sign those papers, this house is still partly mine.”
“Hey now, bitch,” Venus said. It felt like everyone was turning on everyone now. There was no way she’d take a liking to this bitch now. “Who’re you calling low-class?”
Linda shot a look at Venus, then at Charles. “Really, Charles? Really?”
Charles shook his head and looked down at the tile. “I’m so sorry that this happened,” he said, “to the both of you.”
“If you’re going to waste the money,” Linda said, “you couldn’t even get a nice-looking one?”
Venus slammed the knife in the sink. Who did this bitch think she was? “Bitch,” Venus said, “you’re wearing rhinestone earrings during the day and you’re gonna call me ugly?”
“Charles,” Linda said. “Can you please get your plaything out of my kitchen?”
“Linda—” Charles said.
“Don’t Linda me,” Linda said. “I’m going outside to get some air, and when I come back, I want him out of here.”
“Don’t him me,” Venus said, “with your misshapen face and crow’s-feet. At least I look like more of a woman than you.”
As Linda walked past Venus to go outside, Venus rolled her neck. Her hair flipped back behind her shoulders.
“Venus,” Charles said. It was just the two of them now and the way that Charles had said her name made her want to take the knife and stab herself in the tummy. His tone wasn’t exactly like he was talking to a child, and it wasn’t a scolding tone either, but he stretched out the vowels like something bad was gonna come. “I’m sorry, we had this whole picnic planned, but—”
“It happens,” Venus said, waving her right hand in the air and letting her wrist go limp. “This too shall pass, isn’t that what they say?”
“Well, Venus—” Charles said.
“I don’t like when you say my name like that,” she said. “Like all sad and shit.”
“I need you to go home,” he said. “We can’t have our picnic. I’m sorry.”
“If it’s because I overcut the strawberries, I totally get you,” she said. “I cut them up too small. I mean, look at them.” She grabbed a handful of the teeny-tiny strawberry bits. “I got carried away, whoopsies, you know? I’ll just run to the supermarket and get another batch. I’ll use a smaller knife next time.”
Charles sighed. “I’ll give you some money so that you can take a cab home, okay?” He stepped toward her, but she was already leaning against the counter. She couldn’t go back anymore without hitting a wall. She wished that she could take it all back. If she could, she would Krazy Glue all the strawberries back into whole pieces.
She looked at his face and knew that it was over. She took the pieces that remained in her hands and threw them at him. The strawberry came undone midair, then plopped on the tile floor. Even her throw couldn’t reach him.
He took out all the cash in his wallet, balled it together with a rubber band he pulled from his pocket, and held it out to her.
At first she didn’t believe it was there. She slowly reached out to take hold, as if too fast a move would trigger it to come alive and bite her. “Am I gonna see you again?” she said. She was scared to say it, so the words came out slowly.
His laugh sounded pained. “Damn, Venus,” he said. “Is that your way of asking for more money?”
She wanted to say no. She just wanted to keep seeing him and she was confused about what was happening. If she could, she would tell him that she really liked him, liked spending time with him, that he wasn’t like the other guys, that she felt safer with him, but she was too scared. So she just looked at his lips, closed her eyes, and said yes.
“Wow,” he said. “You’re all the same. Get out. You have enough to take a cab and last you a week.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I don’t see how else you could’ve meant it,” he said.
He slumped down in a chair at the kitchen table and held his head in his hands so that she couldn’t even get a final glimpse of his face as she walked down the hallway, to the front door. When she stepped outside, Linda was on the front steps smoking another cigarette. Linda stared at her. She asked Linda where she could get a cab.
“You know,” Linda said, “we have a daughter.”
“And the cab?”
“The fuck do I know?” Linda said. “I drive everywhere.”
ANGEL
When the day finally came, she didn’t want to leave anything up to chance. Chance could be more fickle than the sale price of a gallon of gas during hard times. When she woke up, she had a choice
to make: dress conservatively or go all out. She walked to the closet door where she had two outfit choices on hangers that she selected the night before. On the left, the pink one-piece jumpsuit. Low back, exposed sternum. She could pair it with a large gold chain. On the right, gray wide-leg suit pants with a power-executive blazer. Very Annie Hall with those shoulder pads, looking like a Latina version of Diane Keaton. The two choices couldn’t be more opposite.
She turned to the right and chose the more conservative option. The suit. Well, it was more like a suit as seen through the lens of a woman who had an inner wild side, someone who could deal with the fact that pants that flared weren’t just for the dance floor. And no, she told herself, she wouldn’t second-guess her choice. She knew all about the power of first impressions. She knew that the judges would look at her and, in the span of five seconds, their minds would be made up. There would be nothing she could say that could add or subtract from an already made-up mind. She didn’t want to run the risk of—por ejemplo—wearing the pink one-piece jumpsuit. She’d walk up to them and they’d see her as a Latina first. And then the jumpsuit? If they were all white, they’d never take her serious. She knew that she had to work a hundred times harder just to get a normal ounce of respect. That’s because as a proud Boricua, she had to work ten times harder. As a gay person, five times harder. And then double all of that shit because she was a pre-op transsexual woman. And because of math, that there is a hundred.
She got naked and shaved again—even though she shaved the night before, she couldn’t take any risks. She taped it all back. She put on her makeup. She did her hair right. She just wanted to make sure that the outfit was a proper representation of who she was as a person. That’s why she didn’t want to go all out, dressed like a pendeja or some shit. When the suit was finally on, she turned in front of the mirror and mouthed the words, “You got this, mama.”
All she wanted was for that outfit to scream in subtle tones: refined, elegant, woman.
The House of Impossible Beauties Page 24
