Drift

by Victoria Patterson

  “Stable,” she said. “I felt safe.” It wasn’t the first time she’d told me this, and I questioned her version, since I remembered our struggles with the kids from toddlers to girls: late nights, flu and toothaches, emergency hospital visits, teaching them to comb their hair and brush their teeth, and how they’d had to share the sofa bed in the living room for a bedroom.

  She reminded me of when we’d stayed up late, finding the movie Jules and Jim by chance on television. Even though we had to get up early the next morning, we were mesmerized, and had watched the entire movie while lying beside our sleeping daughters—their legs entwined—on the sofa bed. She made me admit that I didn’t like her dogs, insisting I tell the truth, pleading, and after I did so, she was quiet for some time. I could only hear her breathing into the phone, and I thought about how when we’d lived together, I’d been responsible for her, like an older sister.

  “They bred them, the French,” she said, breaking the silence. “Bichon frisé. Lap dogs for the French royalty.”

  “Is that so?” I said, resentment stirring, remembering how I’d handled all the bills, and how I’d been forced to be the girls’ disciplinarian. But then I remembered how once, when I was driving my beat-up Volvo wagon, Melody in the passenger seat and the girls in the back, Melody had mooned a Porsche full of rowdy teenagers, making the girls laugh uncontrollably. Melody would dance with the girls, make faces, and it pleased me, knowing I’d never be able to teach my daughter spontaneity.

  “I’m supposed to be a lap dog,” she said, breaking my thoughts. I heard her take a sip and swallow, and it occurred to me that she might be drinking again, despite Dr. Frankel’s warning not to mix alcohol with her medication. I imagined her sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath her.

  “Henry’s lap dog,” she said in a quiet voice.

  I told her that Henry was a good man, that most marriages were passionless, and that she didn’t have to deal with him since he was rarely home, traveling as he did for business.

  “Have you heard him drink coffee?” She made slurping noises into the phone, but this time her imitation was halfhearted.

  “How sad,” she said, “that I’m only happy when he’s gone.”

  The flowery wallpaper in my apartment had faded to a disturbing brown, and as I looked around me, at my shabby couch and the frayed drapes, anger swelled inside my chest.

  “He loves you,” I said furiously. I wanted to tell her that she was loved as much as any woman in Newport Beach, and that she was lucky. What difference did it make—I wanted to demand—whether the words “I love you” came from his mouth or another man’s? She was loved. But I was too angry to say what I felt.

  “You’re wrong,” she said, but she spoke gently, as if understanding my anger.

  “You’re not supposed to drink on lithium,” I said, indignant. I wanted to tell her that the last time a man had said he loved me, he’d left me for a blond younger woman when I was five months’ pregnant. My herpes’ outbreaks—bubbly lumps on the lips of my vagina during stressful times—reminded me of his affection, and if that didn’t refresh my memory, my scheduled Pap smears every six months continued to come back level two. My vaginal canal was mildly unhealthy, probably the same gray pink color as Henry’s lungs, giving me a lifelong predisposition to cervical cancer. I was reconciled to the fact that my heart had hardened. At thirty-nine, I expected never to fall in love again. But Melody already knew all this.

  “He loves the idea of me,” she said, her voice adamant. “I’m his property. Like his brass sinks and crystal chandeliers, even the stairway and the pool. I’m furniture, something he’s purchased.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, a coldness spreading through my stomach, “but I don’t feel bad for you.”

  “Do you know how he got his money?” she asked.

  I admitted that I did not.

  “His father sold the government firing pins for M-16 rifles during Vietnam and made a shitload of money because the war kept going on and on.” When I didn’t answer, she said, “I’m profiting because of Vietnam, because of guns that shot and killed people.”

  I was stunned, but I said, “That was his dad. Henry sells those things that help erase computer memories.” I had no idea what he sold, only that large companies paid him thousands and thousands of dollars to install and maintain it.

  She could tell I was bluffing because she answered, “How do you like them apples? Huh?” Then she said that her hairdresser had told her that Henry had fired his own brother six or seven years before, and that his brother had shot himself in the head soon after. “Parked in front of the fire station, with a towel at the side of his head. On the car seat next to him was that book, you know, Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.”

  “Sounds made up,” I said.

  “Yeah, well,” she said. “It should’ve been called How to Lose. But don’t bring it up with Henry. That’s a no-no.”

  She admitted that she was having an affair with a young heroin addict we knew named Lobo (I had no idea if that was his real name), having what she called “limp sex” because of his inability to perform due to drugs. He’d worked briefly at the Newport Beach Country Club as a locker room attendant, before getting fired for insubordination. He wore moccasins and chinos with his boxers pouched out the back, and he was studying for a master of fine arts that never seemed to end. Last I’d heard, he inspected beef for McDonald’s—working in a factory where thousands of pounds of beef ran down a conveyor belt, ready to be transformed into patties. Every hour or so, I imagined, he grabbed a handful in a gloved hand and ran it through a battery of tests.

  “Why him?” I asked, picturing him slouched over, talking with his chin tucked in at his chest.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He calls. Collect. When Henry answers, he hangs up.” She paused, and I heard her take another sip and swallow. “I give him money,” she said. I wondered if she was drinking from a crystal glass, and I found myself hoping that she was using a napkin or a coaster so that she wouldn’t mark the fine-grained mahogany of her side table. “I’m his only connection to the outside world,” she said, as if still trying to understand her attraction.

  There was silence, and I looked around my dim apartment and scratched my leg. I remembered how when Lobo had smiled at me, I’d sensed he was smiling at something going on inside him, rather than at me.

  I thought about how Cindy’s second husband had molested Melody when she was eleven until she ran away at thirteen. The molestation was often cited for her subsequent problems and promiscuity. Sometimes, I’d watch Melody staring in a melancholic awe at our girls’ prepubescent bodies in their wet bathing suits—their soft nipples, slim legs, and the delicate crease of their pubis area—and I’d wonder if she was thinking about her past.

  Cindy had divorced her abusive husband and there’d been an unsuccessful public trial, ending with a deadlocked jury. It was as if by going through the ordeal and coming out the other side, Cindy had become inseparable from Melody. When asked, Cindy would say that she was determined to make up for what had happened. “I might not have been the best mother,” I’d heard her say more than once, “but no one can accuse me of failing as a grandmother.”

  “After the French Revolution,” Melody said, “they could have died out, but they became street dogs. They’re tough, don’t you see?”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, even though I knew she was on the subject of bichons frisés again; I imagined Jules and Jim curled beside her—she was probably stroking their cottony fur.

  “They’re strong,” she said, “even if they’re beautiful. Like cotton balls, stupid little cotton balls with black eyes.”

  When I didn’t answer, she said, “Don’t tell The General about Lobo. God. She’ll kill me.”

  Melody and I didn’t come up with a plan; we never fleshed out details or talked in a pragmatic way. It was more as if an unconscious telepathy existed between us. An idea developed, unspoken, that
Henry had always liked me, that I had always liked Henry, and that if I could provide a distraction, take up some of the responsibility of entertaining him, it might give Melody much-needed autonomy; and I hoped it would enable her to end her relationship with Lobo and commit to four more years of matrimony, allowing for a worthwhile divorce settlement. Cindy was a problem. We couldn’t confide in her; really, we were both afraid of her.

  Henry came home for four days, and Cindy and I didn’t swim in the afternoons, lest Henry become weary of our using his pool. “We need,” Cindy had told Melody, “to make Henry feel like a king.” When Cindy and I did come over, there was a formality to our behavior, and we were careful not to make noise when Henry napped. Cindy became less opinionated and vocal. She had told us, many times, that all men were idiots, but with Henry she acted as if he was the one exception. Although I had always been fond of Henry, like Melody, I preferred when he was away on business: his home became less ours when he was there.

  We dined with him that first evening at the glass table next to the pool, the bay hazy with night, lights twinkling, and a soft breeze stirring the palm trees. Below us was Henry’s pier, and at the end of the dock, a Boston Whaler motorboat was tied in its slip and knocking gently against the dock bumpers. Melody had told me that the boat had belonged to Henry’s brother, and that he wouldn’t let her use it.

  Newport Harbor snaked around Balboa Island and Lido Island in the distance. I felt that my poverty had prepared me, especially, to appreciate the view. Jules and Jim huddled underneath the table, waiting for scraps. I found it difficult to eat, even though Melody had carefully planned the meal. I smiled in accord with their smiling faces, but I’d always been an awful actor.

  Melody and Cindy minded the way Henry lit one cigarette after another, the ashtray filling on the glass table. Secondhand smoke was a vicarious pleasure for me, having quit smoking many times myself. Cindy pretended, but her face gave her away, her lips pursing and her eyes narrowing.

  “Must you,” Melody said, slipping up the second night as Henry reached for his lighter. She’d just set his plate on the table, grilled swordfish with sautéed spinach, and I knew it was because she’d worked so hard on the meal: she didn’t want the flavor ruined with his smoke.

  “This is Henry’s house,” Cindy said, smiling pleasantly, answering for Henry, “and he can damn well do as he pleases.” She reminded me of myself, the way she tried to mask her doubts and fears in an ironic, detached manner.

  Henry was an unusually quiet man, and I liked him for his shyness. When he told a joke or spoke on any subject, it was evident that he had thought long and hard about the delivery, taking away from its success. His lips would lift into a half smile, pleased and genuinely surprised that someone had laughed.

  “Did you hear about the fish that went deaf?” he asked. No, none of us had. “He had to get a herring aid.”

  “What did the finger say to the thumb?” he asked. We didn’t know. “I’m in glove with you.”

  I found myself laughing more at Henry’s jokes than Cindy or Melody, even though the jokes weren’t that funny. My face had a tight feeling, not used to smiling and laughing so much. Cindy stared at me, but she approved, wanting Henry to feel liked.

  Melody had told me that Henry’s views were narrow and that he only read from the sports and business sections of the Orange County Register. She said that she found it difficult to talk to him, that he didn’t care about the world, and for the first time I began to agree with her assessment, based not only on his jokes, but also on the conversations he initiated. But I didn’t mind, believing that he was strong and effective in a different way.

  I followed him the second evening after dinner, emboldened by a look Melody gave me across the table. He was walking to his study, and I planned to ask about his business, convincing myself of my interest, and wanting, in turn, to convince him. Because I wore a white Donna Karan dress that highlighted my tan, I was more attractive, and thus more confident.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and he turned in the hallway and stared at me. He wore shorts and flip-flops, his feet pale and wrinkled. I listened to his heavy breathing and remembered Melody saying he might die from a heart attack, leaving her a wealthy widow. “That would be so much better,” she’d said, “because then no one would hate me.” She was talking about his grown children from his first and second marriages. She’d never been able to stomach when people disliked her, trying in her bumbling way to change their disposition, an endearing quality because she was doomed to be disliked even more.

  “What is it?” he asked, and his expression was so businesslike that I lost heart, knowing that Melody’s beauty had been her selling point, and that I could not compete.

  “Sorry,” I said, blood rushing to my face, and I turned and walked away.

  On his final evening dining home, Melody placed thin green candles on the glass table, but they wouldn’t stay lit because of the ocean breeze. The view was best at night, beside the darkened pool, listening to the quiet lapping of the bay, lights flickering and boats swaying, the Pavilion studded with white lights. We were eating an arugula salad with roasted almonds when the distant sound of the phone ringing came from inside the house.

  I slid my chair back, set my cloth napkin on the table. “I’ll go.”

  As I was walking toward the sliding glass doors, I heard Cindy telling Melody that she’d used too much vinegar in the dressing.

  When I answered, the operator said, “Collect call from”—a static pause, and then a male voice said, “Lobo.”

  “I accept,” I said, but Lobo hung up.

  Walking back to the table, I fingered the thick curtain that hung all the way to the ground in the living room, near the mahogany side table, appreciating the velvety smooth material. The room was kept dark because sunlight might damage the furniture. Again, I believed that my life had singled me out to value Melody’s home in a way that no one else could.

  We ate pappardelle pasta—fat noodles that slid off my fork—with salmon. Jules slept under the table and Jim waited for a dropped scrap, eyes alert.

  “Who was it?” Henry asked, reaching for his pack of Benson & Hedges Lights.

  “Wrong number,” I said.

  “We’ve been getting a lot of those,” Henry said, slowly extracting and lighting a cigarette, but the way his eyes were downcast, I could tell that he was simply stating a fact. There was grease at the corner of his mouth from the pasta, and I looked away.

  “Maybe you should change your phone number,” Cindy said, “so that your phone bill doesn’t add up.”

  My eyes were on a curled lemon slice, garnishing my meal, but I knew Cindy was staring at me. The atmosphere became heavy, all at once, and when I looked up from my plate, Cindy was no longer watching me, but Melody was.

  We drank Vouvray from wide-bottomed wineglasses. When I chewed, took a drink, or lifted my fork, it was awkward. Conversation drifted from one subject to the next, as if we were reciting lines from a script, but everything sounded freighted with hidden meaning. Jules whimpered under the table, and when I looked beneath, his hind leg was jerking in dream. He growled, his gum black, marbled in pink.

  “Leave them,” Henry said, breathing heavily, a wheeze in his chest. Melody uncrossed her legs, the material of her silk wrap dress sliding open, and her hand reached under the table to soothe Jules anyhow.

  “Now you’ll have to wash your hands,” Cindy said.

  Melody didn’t answer—leaned over, petting Jules—her gaze on me, complicit; although it was a cumulative reaction, something about her private look made it undeniable: she’d been looking out for me all along, and while I’d been pining for her husband and her good looks, bitterness eating my insides because of my own fate, I hadn’t acknowledged that she loved me more than anyone ever had. I was ashamed, knowing that love, however and whenever it appeared, should not be taken lightly. And then I thought about our girls: closer than best friends, having been raised together. I want
ed them to look out for each other and depend on each other, like sisters. I stared back at Melody, trying to convey my emotions, hiding nothing from my expression, and she smiled sadly, her eyes filling up with her smile, slightly questioning.

  “You okay, Kat?” she said, no longer petting Jules, sitting back in her chair and breaking from the script. I knew that Henry and Cindy were staring at me as well.

  “I’m good,” I said, smiling benevolently around the table, ignoring the sickness in my stomach. Cindy’s gaze was firm on me, her eyes the same color as Melody’s, with matching gold flecks—but they gave away nothing, reminding me of water; and I wanted to separate myself from her, considering we’d not had her daughter’s best interest at heart: Henry would never appreciate Melody the way she deserved.

  Later, when Melody and I were clearing the table for dessert, tears came sliding down my cheeks, and I told her, “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry.”

  “Shut up,” she said, and she put her hand on my forearm and gently squeezed. “Okay, Kat.” Her eyes were swimming with emotion, and I realized that she’d forgiven me long before I’d grasped what I’d done.

  We continued to clear the table, and for the first time, Melody’s home, her possessions, the dress she’d bought me and that I now wore, all of it was tainted and repulsive. When the doorbell rang, Melody’s body tensed, and I knew that it was Lobo, and that I needed to get rid of him.

  I set the teak salad bowl I was carrying next to the sink. Melody stopped me on my way out of the kitchen. “Hold on,” she said, and she began flipping through her Julia Child cookbook where she kept crisp hundred-dollar bills. The doorbell rang and rang.

  “Here,” she said, pulling me close, sweat at her lip. “Careful,” she whispered, and she tucked two hundred-dollar bills in my fist. Cindy and Henry sat at the glass table, waiting for blueberry cheesecake; Henry was smoking his cigarette, and I saw the pale flash of Cindy’s face looking toward the sliding glass doors.