Fight No More

by Lydia Millet

  He thought the words a solemn dignity. Like a bolt from the blue. Inspiration.

  He would be dignified from now on. His earlier, midday self, first jacking off, then flaunting it, was hereby dismissed. That was the old him. This was the new. A solemn dignity.

  A second cousin of his with Down syndrome had gotten baptized as an adult, if you could call her that when her mind was eight years old till death. Point was she’d wanted to be a Catholic, though her whole family was regular WASPs, because she liked the saints, the stained-glass windows and, as his mother said, “gruesome depictions of the Crucifixion.” So she worked hard to learn the lines or whatever, and the parents sent out fancy invitations with gold letters stamped on them, and he had to go. His mother made him wear a suit.

  At the time he’d been pissed before they went, because if the cousin hadn’t had Down syndrome, he could have stayed at home. Nobody would have given a crap. Baptism? Teenage whim, they would have said. You could bet on it.

  But she did have Down syndrome, so on went the tie that felt like it was choking him and the gay shoes that pinched.

  In the church she was dressed in a snow-white robe and smiled without end. She beamed. His whole life, he could swear, he’d never seen anyone look that happy.

  Do you renounce Satan, the author and prince of sin?

  I do.

  “I renounce him,” he muttered under his breath, exiting the kitchen with the soda can in his grip.

  “What, sweetie?”

  “Nothing.”

  And all his works?

  I do.

  BIRD-HEAD MONSTER

  The people who owned the house had an art collection. Actually it was just a bachelor, the real-estate lady said, not even a couple. The place was big. He owned a lot of modern paintings, which to her looked like some kid had brought them home from pre-K. He also had forgeries of Old Masters. The real-estate lady showed her a whole room devoted to the fakes, done by a famous forger. Some looked pretty good, like portraits of queens or stuff. “But Flemish is his specialty,” the lady told her as they walked past. She had no idea what Flemish meant. Was it a country or an art style? “Belgian,” the lady said.

  Like the fluffy waffles. A carb nightmare.

  Most buyers didn’t look at the art much, because it wasn’t included, the lady went on. But touring this house was like a visit to an art museum. “And free of charge!” she added, smiling.

  Not much of a bargain if you didn’t like the crap. Rand sometimes bought blue-chip stuff, when the art advisor said he should, but this—who knew if it was even bankable. He wanted her to get a sense of whether the place’s floors and ceilings were level, whether its lines were flush and clean or old and rough and handmade-looking. You couldn’t see those things online. Check out the sunken baths, he said. Am I going to have to rip them out right away? Can I even have guests over with that shit? Or can I wait? Because the renovation budget, for this tax year, shouldn’t go above a million.

  “Mint,” said the real-estate agent in the kitchen. “All-new appliances. He wasn’t planning to move. The fridge is a Sub-Zero . . .”

  “Rand’s over the whole brushed-stainless deal,” she told her, shrugging. “He wants slate. We’d have to replace it all. And he hates white-marble countertops. He says they’re too nineties.”

  “I see,” said the lady, cocking her head. “Hmm. Well, I could see that if it were granite, but this is a really fine Italian—”

  “He likes this place mostly for the location.” It was six minutes from here to his brand-new office. And that was at rush hour.

  “If you did go the kitchen remodel route, you could resell. This range? It hasn’t even been used and it retails near a hundred thousand.”

  “Mmm,” she said. As if they’d go around hawking secondhand appliances. Should she be insulted? She didn’t look like someone who should be insulted. Everything she wore was couture. Surely she couldn’t be mistaken for a hawker of used goods. She felt a spark of contempt for the woman—probably didn’t know real Dolce from Chinese knockoffs. Although, maybe she was just doing her job. Due diligence. That was a thing. They’d already been through four real-estate agents, none of them up to Rand’s standards. This one, at least, seemed to have a basic grasp. Though possibly Rand had picked her for her tits. Perky and round at the same time. They couldn’t be real.

  But she was way too sensitive, she knew. Rand said it too—she had delicate sensibilities. A sign of refinement, but also, she had to work on hiding it. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Rand liked to remind her. “I’m not a dog,” she always said. Then Rand pretended to pet her, asked if she’d beg him for a treat. Ruff-ruff. She smiled. Their little secret.

  The lady was leading her out of the kitchen. They passed again through the fake-paintings room, big and almost empty. Just a sofa against a wall, that was it. And paintings everywhere. A big painting caught her eye, lots of different colors. Three panels hinged together. Little animals and weird creatures all over it.

  “They say that’s the finest Bosch forgery in the world,” said the woman. “The side panels represent heaven and hell.”

  The right side was hideous. So ugly. She bent in, looking closer. A monster sat in a highchair, eating a person whose butt and legs stuck out of his ugly beak. The person’s ass was naked, and out of it flew black birds. The monster had a bird’s head too.

  “Disgusting!” she exclaimed.

  “Well,” said the woman, “I guess that’s hell for you.”

  She never understood why painters made ugly things. A, who wanted them in their house? This guy, obviously . . . who had no taste, or anyway was stuck in the nineties. And 2, it seemed like showing off. Like, hey, this is ugly! In your face.

  People were rude and called it art.

  Well, the place was big enough. Rand liked the square footage. A good footprint to work with, he had said. She was ready to call him in. She screened the properties for him; the ones that made it past her were only the serious contenders.

  “I’m going to call Rand,” she told the real-estate lady. “OK? I think he’ll come, if I tell him to.”

  “Sure,” said the lady, after a moment’s hesitation. “I do have another appointment, but I can push it back.”

  He said he’d be there in half an hour. She’d have to do the tour again with him, so meantime she’d play Jelly Jump. It got the adrenaline flowing. She walked onto the terrace, found a lounge chair. Her top score was 56; she’d beat it today, she resolved. Time flew when she was playing Jelly Jump, though once the real-estate agent came out and interrupted her. She didn’t stop playing but her concentration was ruined and her jelly drowned in black goo. She tried not to snap. No, she didn’t want a glass of ice water. What if the lady brought her tap? No thanks. Jesus.

  Because of that interruption, probably, she was only at 49 when he arrived, way later than he’d said.

  Rand wasn’t punctual, but she’d gotten used to it.

  He was doing a call on his headset and didn’t greet the real-estate woman when she opened the door for him, just flapped a hand to show she shouldn’t talk and nodded to show they should start walking. The three of them toured the house in silence except for his half of the call. He was in commodities, the words he said an unbreakable code.

  But it felt a little weird, going through rooms without the real-estate agent saying anything. Once or twice he would lean in to look at something, shoot the agent a question she didn’t have the answer to but said she would research. Rand didn’t acknowledge her when she said that; it probably confirmed his opinion that she, like almost everyone, was not as smart as him. People were always confirming his opinions.

  Although she did catch him resting his eyes on the real-estate woman’s ass. Bottom. Well, anyone would. The skirt was too tight, frankly. And off the rack, but that went without saying . . . He kept the woman walking ahead of him, she noticed. He obviously liked the view. But the woman was older than she was, probably had over a decade on he
r. Though still younger than Rand. But not younger enough. Right? And not as pretty, not by far. Anyone would agree. She had crow’s-feet, and lines on her forehead when she made an expression. No Botox, obviously. Botox was a slam-dunk, but no one had clued her in.

  “This one,” said Rand. Surprising; his call must have ended without him telling them. They were stopped in front of the ugly Flemish forgery again. It seemed to attract you. Like a magnet.

  “It’s a fake,” she said, before the real-estate agent could be the one to tell him.

  “No shit,” said Rand, with a punishing frown. “It’s the goddamn Garden of Earthly Delights, for Chrissake. The original’s been in the Prado since 1939.” His tone hurt her feelings. Don’t be so sensitive. Rand was always blunt, but it was just his style.

  He turned to the agent. “If he throws this piece in, I’ll pay the asking. Cash. Tomorrow.”

  “I don’t . . . well, technically it’s not for sale,” the lady stumbled.

  “That’s the offer,” said Rand. “He can take it or leave it.”

  Certain, unwavering. A challenge—that was Rand. Though, would she have to live with this painting? Seriously? Maybe she could get him to hang it at the office.

  “It’s so ugly,” she protested weakly. She had to, after she’d said that to the woman.

  He shot her a glance that could only be called withering.

  “Guy’s being extradited,” he said shortly. “Did my homework.”

  Was that like audited? Rand hated the IRS. They were a “band of thieves.” If this guy was being audited, it was all over for him. Auditing was the only thing Rand was really afraid of. Plus the SEC.

  “I can certainly bring it to him,” said the agent.

  “Call him now,” said Rand, and tapped on his own phone. He was done. That was his final word.

  The lady left the room to make her call.

  “Rand,” she said in her kitten voice, “weren’t you a teensy bit mean to me?” She sidled up to him and put her hand on his pants. He wasn’t usually like that to her in front of people.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, not looking up from his tapping, “there’s a time and a place for ignorance. Don’t put it on display.”

  She dropped her hand.

  “You need to learn to keep your mouth shut,” he said. “When you’re out of your depth, remember. Silence is golden.”

  He was in one of his moods. She left him to his tapping. She could tap too. She could shut him out just as easily. In her case it was Jelly Jump, not commodities, but shut was shut. She would not go down on him tonight. He would be lucky if he got anything.

  That wasn’t how you talked to your future wife. If she already had the ring, she wouldn’t stand for it.

  She went to the nearest bathroom, locked the door and let the tears come, holding a hand towel up to her face so that he couldn’t hear. Sometimes when she cried her sobs made a hoarse scratching noise. Hiccupping . . . blunt talk can hurt, but didn’t it improve you in the end? Rand said it did. Strong medicine. That was all. He had to be honest with her, or else he couldn’t be anything.

  And yet . . . there was a glass bowl of seashells on the sink counter. She picked one up, stared at its parallel lines. Furrows. Straight ones that fanned out to the top, curving edge, perfectly spaced. Could it be actual nature? Or was it made in a factory?

  Almost six months since she moved in with him, and still no proposal. She should have stayed at the store. She’d been fine there. She’d had a tidy routine. And Stuart had been a good guy. Not in Rand’s league, but way nicer. Always nice. Stuart had never said a single mean thing. Then Rand had made a joke out of him. He started to look ridiculous. The guy who walks like a hippo? Lumbering? The one with the sloping shoulders? Womanish? That’s your boyfriend? She’d had no choice but to ditch him. And be with Rand. She hadn’t been able to think of him in the same way anymore. That was a bell you couldn’t unring.

  But Rand made her small too. At home it felt more like kidding—her ways of making up with him worked better when they were home. This had been scornful. The only difference between her and Stuart, if she was being honest, was she was hot and did things for Rand no guy could do.

  Rand loved her, right? “Love you, babe.” He said it all the time. But where was the evidence? It was two months ago he’d taken her to Tiffany’s and she’d clearly said, clearly expressed her preference for the cushion-cut 11.22-karat set in platinum. Surrounded by other, tiny diamonds. He’d asked her opinion. But where was it? She held up her left hand. The finger was naked.

  Her right hand bore a ring from him, he’d given her a band with rubies near the beginning. She liked it. But it didn’t mean anything.

  She wished she had someone to dole out advice. Her friends had slipped away after she started with him. He’d looked down on them like they were cheap. The couple of times they’d gone out and met up with her friends, like Cheryl and Buni, he ignored them and afterward made slighting remarks about the way they talked, their outfits. She didn’t like to see them through his eyes. According to Rand, no one but him was good enough for her. It was a vote of confidence. At first she’d thought it made her amazing.

  Still, she went out with them sometimes while he was busy with work. That tapered off after the time when Buni said “Rand this, Rand that, Jesus, is it Rand sitting here with us? Or is it you?”

  Cheryl had looked at her sympathetically when Buni said that, but didn’t stand up for her. Well, Cheryl had had a soft spot for Stuart. Afterward she said no to a couple of girls’ nights out, kind of to teach them a lesson, but they just stopped calling.

  She knew the answer anyway. She didn’t need them to tell her. Suck it up. For the moment. When she was Mrs. she’d stand up for herself. She fixed her face.

  When she came out of the bathroom, she could hear him talking in the kitchen. Was it a conference call again? She’d lurk, for now. Had to collect herself perfectly. She was almost there.

  No, not a call, because the real-estate agent was talking to him.

  “Of course,” she said. “We can close very quickly.”

  Oh good! She could go in. She was so ready for this! Exciting! She’d finally done it—after weeks and weeks of seeing house after house, she’d finally found the one for them. And he was so picky.

  “I’d like my fiancée to see it,” said Rand, in a hushed, rushed voice.

  That made no sense.

  “Your fiancée?” asked the real-estate agent.

  “I’ll bring her by tomorrow, 10 a.m. To get her sign-off. Just between us,” he said, still rushed and low.

  “. . . OK,” said the lady. “Uh, yes. Sure. I can be here then.”

  Then, in a louder voice, Rand was talking about title companies. She didn’t hear it for the rushing in her ears. Rushing like water. A waterfall of sound. Or was it blood? Blood rushing? Her knees were like water too.

  The human body is 60 percent water. She learned that once. In grade school, maybe. Or even high school. Why did they teach you such dumb things? They should teach you how to read minds. At least, lie-detecting. Spies could do it, or shrinks, couldn’t they? Poker players?

  That’s what they should teach you. Not stupid words but how to see past them.

  Was there a chair?

  There: the sofa. She sat on the edge of it, pulse pounding.

  She couldn’t have heard right. Impossible.

  My fiancée. But not her. She’d already seen the house. She was right here.

  She’d been right here. He’d made her keep the apartment, sure, he’d paid the rent, but she only went there to get her mail.

  She wouldn’t live in this house. It wasn’t for her at all. None of them had been, none of the houses had ever been for her.

  Just like a slap. A slap numbed you. Right now her face was numb. But later it would start hurting.

  Somewhere a door slammed shut.

  She was still sitting on the sofa when the real-estate agent appeared again.

&
nbsp; “He said he had to get back to work,” said the lady.

  She nodded and felt her mouth stretching. Like rubber or a clown. She couldn’t help it.

  It wasn’t fair. Not fair.

  “Hey there, oh, it’s OK,” said the lady gently.

  And sat down right beside her. An arm was around her shoulders. She must be crying again. Embarrassing. The hiccups started up. But she couldn’t even care.

  “Here’s a tissue. Hey. It’ll be OK. Not yet. I know. A shock. I know. But someday it will.”

  “He made me pick out a ring,” she said, when she had breath again. “A cushion . . .”

  She had to stop. The crying.

  Had the ring been for the other one? Had she been basically just his personal shopper? A personal shopper and sex doll? But no, even him, he wouldn’t have dared. Would he? Dog-eat-dog world. Maybe he’d planned it to be a surprise. Some guys presented the ring with their proposal, like at a restaurant. Tacky. A trashy idea of something fancy, like helicopter rides and single red roses on The Bachelor. She hoped he had put the ring in a champagne flute. He always said that when it came to clothes, accessories, and jewels she had excellent taste. Of course she would, since he’d found her at Barneys.

  “Men like that . . . ,” said the real-estate agent. She was different now, like a comforting aunt. “I’ve seen them before. Trust me. You wouldn’t want to be her. Listen. She doesn’t know about you, either. You wouldn’t want to live like that, would you? You’re dodging a bullet.”

  After a while the lady got up and came back with a glass of water. Cubes tinkling. She drank it gratefully.

  Only after she drank it, she remembered the parasites. Rand said there were parasites in tap water. Poor people drank it and it gave them stomach worms; the worms ate all their food and made them lazy, so then they had to ask for government handouts. He always had Mercedes stock the fridge with dozens of single-serving bottles of glacier water. Glacier water didn’t have parasites, because it came from ice and parasites didn’t enjoy ice.