by M A Gelsey
Except things weren’t the same, not exactly. Since Annabel’s return from New York, Rex had grown more possessive, and one time Annabel overheard him on the phone talking in hushed tones about his suspicions that she’d taken a younger lover. Annabel would have laughed aloud at the suggestion except that there was nothing funny about it. Even though outwardly he behaved much the same towards her, she could sense something had shifted during her brief absence. She debated coming clean with Rex about the article — he’d surely find out once it was published — but something stopped her, a cold, clenched sensation in her stomach as though an invisible hand had grabbed hold of her insides and twisted. She had no idea what his reaction might be, but she doubted it would be good. What could he do, really? she thought, trying to reassure herself. The answer came to her in an instant, accompanied by a chill running down her spine: Plenty.
Despite all this, Annabel tried her best to pretend that everything was fine. She recounted the story of how she and Ms. Durant had run into Veronica and Phineas at Logan Airport, omitting the information she’d acquired about her almost-trip to Tuscany. She prattled on about her art history class even though she’d lost interest, and every day the struggle to make herself keep studying intensified. It was during one such session on the deck, under a cloudless sky and a warm morning wind that Annabel realized there was only one thing she could do. The time had come to plot her escape.
This was easier thought than accomplished, however. Rex was in possession of all of her important documents, along with all of the money. The only way for her to access either of those things was through him. Of course, perhaps she could leave anyway. Perhaps she would. But no sooner had the defiance welled up in her than it began to ebb, replaced by doubt. You don’t know the first thing about the world, a sneering voice whispered in her head. You wouldn’t last a day on your own. And perhaps that was how Rex had always wanted it.
The reason behind Rex’s heightened level of possessiveness made itself known one evening at dinner. Rex had his tablet on the table when Annabel sat down; unusual but not unheard of since he sometimes needed to make himself available for work-related correspondence. Annabel took her seat. When Mrs. Lennox appeared in the doorway carrying a roast bluefish, Rex waved her away.
“Mrs. Lennox, a moment, if you please,” he said. Mrs. Lennox nodded and returned to the kitchen. Rex turned to Annabel with an unreadable expression on his face. “We need to talk, my love,” he said to her.
“What about?” Annabel asked, furrowing her brow, in the hopes that her confusion would mask her apprehension.
“You. Us. You are happy here, aren’t you? With me?”
Taken aback by the question, Annabel opened her mouth then closed it again without speaking. “I — of course I am.” Liar, whispered the voice in her head. Annabel felt herself flushing under the scrutiny of his gaze.
“I hope that’s true, my love. But lately I’ve been wondering . . . you don’t seem happy. Not like before.”
Annabel felt ice in her chest; she knew he meant when her original was still alive. Even studying the face of her husband, Annabel could not tell whether he was sad or angry. Perhaps a little of both. “Why do you say that?” she choked out.
His mouth tightened, and now Annabel did see traces of closely controlled anger.
“You don’t know? I find that difficult to believe,” he said in a soft and dangerous voice.
Annabel did the only thing she could think of: continue to feign ignorance. She left the question unspoken, and tried not to look too afraid. After a moment, Rex sighed, and the anger seemed to leave him, replaced by pain. He tapped his tablet then wordlessly spun it around for Annabel to read. It took her a moment to figure out what she was looking at, but when she did, she had to stifle a gasp. Rex had pulled her cell phone records, and the screen showed all of her calls to Arthur Blair, along with her GPS location for the weekend in New York. When she looked up at Rex again, stunned, he regarded her with raised eyebrows. She realized then what he suspected.
“It — it isn’t what you think,” she said. Her voice sounded croaky and strange. “Arthur Blair is a reporter. The reporter who was writing a feature on the first three clones. I was in New York for them to take photographs of the three of us together. That’s — that’s all it is.”
“That’s all? That’s all?! Are you telling me that after we discussed this reporter and I told you in no uncertain terms I did not want you speaking to him, you went behind my back and did so anyway?”
“Yes.” Annabel whispered, bracing herself for the explosion.
It never came. Instead, Rex buried his face in his hands, running them backwards and forwards, roughly gripping at the skin and pulling it taut with each pass. When he looked back up at her, his hair was standing on end, his eyes wild.
“How can I trust you?” he asked her. “How can I, when you’ve proven your disloyalty. My Annabel would never, never have gone behind my back like this, she’d never have done it.” He slammed a hand onto the table, making Annabel jump. “I don’t understand. You’re supposed to be just like her. I don’t understand.” He trailed off, gazing around like a man whose whole world had been demolished in a single moment.
“I’m sorry. I’ll try harder,” Annabel said. She tried to sound as conciliatory as possible, feeling unaccountably guilty. It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t love Rex as her original had. Nonetheless, she felt responsible, defective. Will he cast you aside now that he knows you’re worthless? Or continue on as if this conversation never happened? Annabel did not know the answer.
Rex didn’t acknowledge that he heard her apology, feeble as it was. He appeared adrift, and when Mrs. Lennox reappeared with their dinner, there was no indication that he even noticed. Annabel served both Rex and herself some of the white wine roasted fish, mashed garnet yams, and sauteed brussels sprouts.
She picked up her fork and began to eat, but Rex didn’t so much as react to the food in front of him. After a moment, Annabel laid down her utensils and placed a hand on his shoulder. He jumped at her touch, but seemed to find it comforting.
“Have some dinner,” Annabel said gently, rubbing his arm. “Please.”
He did as she bid, and even though they did not speak for the rest of the meal, his body language was more relaxed, calmer. It was as though she’d unintentionally managed to reassure him that perhaps things could work between them after all. If only she believed it herself.
46: JAVI
“You realize you’re fucking a married woman old enough to be your mother?” Herman said. He lay on his back in their usual spot in the park under the weeping willow tree, inhaling a joint before passing it to Fred.
“Nah, she’s not that old,” Javi said. His back was to the tree and he gazed around at the park’s other occupants in the distance.
“Dude, do the math,” Fred said. “She could totally be your mother.”
“Fuck you,” Javi said lazily.
“D’you know what’s a funny word? Foliage,” Herman said, gesturing up towards the leaves. “Fo-li-age. It sounds kind of dirty.”
Javi snorted. “Only to perverts like you.”
Fred and Herman both laughed at that.
“What’s the foliage like on your married paramour?” Herman asked.
Javi rolled his eyes. “Why the fuck do you care?”
Herman gave him a mock-pained look. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the only one here who isn’t getting laid. Throw me a fucking bone and let me live vicariously.”
“But why d’you want to know about her — her foliage?” Javi whispered the word, feeling vaguely guilty for talking about it even though Imogen would never know.
“Peak foliage? Bare foliage? Something in between?” Herman continued, his eyes as bloodshot as Javi had ever seen them and a silly grin plastered across his face.
“I dunno, kind of medium foliage. You happy?” Javi said. “Why the fuck don’t you ask Fred about Violet instead?”
“Violet isn’t a married woman,” Herman replied, as though that settled the matter.
“D’you have some kind of old woman fetish?” Fred teased. “I’m sure there are plenty of cougars out there who’d fuck you.”
“Fuck, I’d be down,” Herman said. “Pretty much down for anything with tits at this point.”
“Guess you’d fuck Mr. Melcher then,” Javi said. Mr. Melcher was their gym teacher, a man with skinny arms and legs, a huge beer-belly and the biggest man-boobs any of them had ever seen. Both Fred and Herman cracked up at that.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Herman shot back.
Javi grinned and shook his head. He took the joint from Fred and took a long draw. Then three people crossed into his field of vision and he dropped the joint in his lap.
“Fuck,” Javi exclaimed, snatching up the joint again, but not before the lit end had begun to burn a hole in his jeans. At his yell, Bryony Shaw turned and noticed him sitting there. She tugged on her father’s arm and pointed. Javi’s first impulse was to hide, but of course that was impossible since he’d already been spotted. He did try to hide the joint, stubbing it out in the grass beside him.
“What the fuck —” Herman began, but the rest of his sentence died in his throat as he noticed the little girl ducking under the willow branches to greet Javi.
“Hi, Javi,” she said, looking curiously at his companions, both of whom were watching Javi with bemused expressions on their faces. By this time Poppy had arrived, hand in hand with her father.
Theo Shaw was tall with sandy hair, broad shoulders and the beginnings of a belly. He crouched down and peered at his daughter through the willow branches. “Who’s this, Bryony?”
She turned to look at him, and Javi had to stifle a groan. “Daddy, this is Javi. Javi, this is my dad.”
Javi noticed the recognition flare in Theo’s eyes, followed by confusion. “And how do you know Javi, honey?” Theo asked Bryony.
It was Poppy who answered. “He’s friends with Mommy,” she said in her little high voice.
“Is that right?” Theo said, studying Javi for a reaction. Javi could feel his face burning up.
“I —” he began, but luckily Theo cut him off because he didn’t have the faintest idea what he’d been about to say.
“Come on girls,” Theo said. “Say goodbye to Javi. If we don’t leave now we’ll miss our movie.”
“Bye, Javi!” Bryony chirped, echoed by Poppy. Theo spared him one last glare before straightening up and leading his daughters away. Under the tree, there was stunned silence for a good minute after Theo disappeared.
“Was that the husband?” Herman asked in hushed tones.
Numbly, Javi nodded.
“Does he know, d’you think?” Fred asked.
“Dunno,” Javi muttered, feeling sick to his stomach. “Fuck.” He sucked in a deep breath.
Later that night, Javi got a text from Imogen, informing him that Theo had asked how their daughters knew Javi, and she told him about the coffee shop and him stopping by for lemonade afterwards. With difficulty he refrained from texting back, thinking it was likely Theo was there. Javi felt little relief from what she’d told him. Further questions plagued him, and it took Javi hours to fall asleep that night. Once he did, his dreams were a confused jumble of images: masturbating and being walked in on by Theo; running through empty streets naked and shunned by his parents, his friends, and Imogen; Annabel, looking sad and beautiful and disappointed, as she judged him from a high rock overlooking the sea. When he woke up sweating he remembered nothing, but could not shake the overwhelming feeling of guilt that enveloped him like a suffocating cloud of gnats, buzzing in his ears and sucking away at his blood until his entire body was covered with their tiny, irritating bites.
47: MIRA
Mira was nearly late for the meeting. She’d risked ducking into a bathroom stall in the public library to open the small briefcase she’d been given. It had been surreal to find it stuffed with cash, as though she’d suddenly found herself in an old gangster movie from the 1950s. Ideally she’d have taken it to headquarters to have the bills tagged, but there wasn’t time. She did wonder why Harlow didn’t simply wire the money to whoever it was she’d be meeting; it seemed unnecessarily risky and inefficient to resort to physical bills. Maybe the man had insisted.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was surprisingly crowded for a weekday. Mira made her way to the bench in front of Pollack’s Autumn Rhythm (No. 30), and set the briefcase down next to her. She pretended to be immersed in the clusterfuck depicted on the massive canvas in front of her in paint splotches of black, white, and beige. Mira didn’t know much about art, but she preferred it when a painting actually looked like something. This resembled the artistic efforts of her three year old niece. After a few moments, a man approached and sat down on the bench next to her. He was thin and angular, with sharp features, mousy brown hair and cold gray eyes; the sort of nondescript man who would be easy to forget. It was hard to tell exactly how old he was; Mira would guess thirties but she knew she could be off by as much as a decade on either side.
The man bent down and made a show of re-tying his shoelaces; he wore faded, scuffed brown work boots that somehow seemed at odds with the studied refinement of the museum. She noticed with some amusement that he used the bunny ear technique favored by small children to tie his laces, but did not comment. When he was nearly done, he muttered, “You tell Harlow he’d better make good on the other half.”
Surprised that there was a second half, Mira just said, “I will.” The man straightened up and grabbed the briefcase, then stood and walked off without a backwards glance. He left Mira there to ponder with foreboding what it was he’d been hired to do that would command such a fee.
The next morning, Mira woke up to the sound of her phone ringing. Without thinking, she answered it, but regretted her haste as soon as she heard the voice on the other end of the line.
“Mira!” her mother squawked at her. “You’ve been avoiding my calls.”
Next to her, Jack rolled over and groaned. He looked at her curiously, and she mouthed, “my mother” at him. He grinned, and got up to use the bathroom.
“Hi, Ma,” grumbled Mira, distracted by the sight of Jack’s broad, muscular back and perfectly sculpted ass.
“I hope you weren’t still sleeping, Mira, you’re a grown woman not some college student. It’s three hours earlier in here, and I’ve already done my gardening and cooked breakfast for the whole family.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Mira lied. “I just had something caught in my throat.” She reached over to the nightstand and took a swig of lukewarm water from the half-full glass she’d left there.
Her mother clucked her tongue, and Mira rolled her eyes even though she knew her mother couldn’t see.
“I bought you a ticket to come home for Memorial Day Weekend. Sylvia’s nephew is getting married, and we’re all invited.”
Mira stifled a groan. While she was happy to see her family, she knew this was part of a scheme her mother had cooked up with her Mahjong friends to set Mira up with some likely suitor.
“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get time off for Memorial Day,” Mira tried.
“Nonsense. You work for the government, it’s a national holiday. They have to give you Memorial Day. If they don’t, maybe I’ll have to call your office myself and have a word with your supervisor.”
“Ma...”
“I’m only joking, no need to sound so exasperated.”
Jack came out of the bathroom, and crawled back into bed next to her. Mira held a finger to her lips, and he grinned again, much more amused by the situation than she was.
“Now, I want you to be openminded at the wedding,” her mother was saying. “Sylvia’s gorgeous single son will be there —”
“I’ve already told you I’m not interested —”
“If you just put in a bit of effort — a nice outfit, some makeup, consider gr
owing your hair out —”
“Oh, so you’re saying he won’t be interested if I don’t dress up like someone else?” Jack raised an eyebrow at her, and Mira shook her head in irritation.
“Don’t twist my words, Mira. I only said that it would be nice if you put some effort into your appearance for once. Your sisters were all so cooperative, why do you have to fight me on every little thing?”
“Of course, my perfect sisters. You’d think six grandchildren would be enough for you.”
“Oh, Mira. Now you’re just being silly.”
“I have to go. I have a work meeting in a couple hours and I need to prepare for it.
“They work you too hard at that job. Maybe that’s why you aren’t married yet.”
“Goodbye, Ma.”
“I’ll be sure to pick up some new clothes in your size, for when you come. That way you’ll have something nice to wear when you meet Sylvia’s son.”
“Please don’t.”
“You know it’s pointless to argue with me about this. If you don’t like the clothes when you get here, I’ll return them.”
Mira sighed. “Fine. Thank you, I guess. I have to go.”
“Be safe.” Her mother always ended her calls with that. Mira had tried explaining that what she did wasn’t that dangerous, but her mother was always watching crime dramas on TV and assumed it was all busting down doors and tracking serial killers.
“I will.” Mira hung up.
Jack looked over at her. “I like the way you dress.”
Mira elbowed him in the ribs. He caught her arm and pulled her closer. They lay there spooning for a few minutes, and Mira nearly drifted back to sleep. When Jack spoke again, his breath tickled her ear.
“I mean it, you know. I wouldn’t change anything about you.”
Mira rolled over to give him an incredulous look.
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
Mira snorted, and turned away from him again. She didn’t want him to see her blush, but of course he noticed anyway; she could feel his smile against the back of her shoulder.
