Many of the women wept, dabbing their eyes discreetly so as not to disturb carefully applied makeup. But not Amanda—halfway through the procession, John saw her eyes darting from person to person, frowning. She was doing mental arithmetic. Later, in the car on the way to the reception, John discovered why.
“She’s got them all turned against me. I didn’t apologize, so she’s been recruiting for her side.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Janet is a second cousin. I’m a first cousin,” she said. “They didn’t even invite me to the shower! She must have had a shower. Of course she had a shower! I’m so stupid.”
John’s mental cogs chomped and masticated, finally spitting out a pellet of possible explanation. He glanced quickly at his wife. “You wanted to be a bridesmaid?”
“Of course not! No one wants to be a bridesmaid, but it would have been nice to be asked. I know exactly what happened,” she said, thumping her seat. “Mom told Aunt Agnes all about how I ignored her advice and abandoned her at the house and was ungrateful for all the crap she did and now nobody’s talking to me. But you can be sure they’re talking about me.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, stiffling a cry. “Oh my God. The sex toys. If she told them about the sex toys I’m going to die.”
John wished he could reassure her, but he’d been part of the family too long.
She spun to face him, eyes gleaming, fingers splayed on the seat. “Let’s ditch it.”
“What?” John gripped the wheel tightly and glanced over several times, trying to gauge her expression.
“The reception. Let’s ditch it and go home.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Nobody’s going to talk to us anyway. And how can I face all my relatives knowing what they know?”
“You don’t know what they know.”
“Oh, I think I do. Want to bet Aunt Agnes hands me a thank-you card to give to Mom?”
Again, John wanted to reassure her, but this very thing had happened two years before, when Amanda was apparently not grateful enough for some other “favor” provided by Fran.
“Let’s do it,” she said, growing increasingly animated. “Turn around here. Here!” She jabbed her finger at the window. “We’ll mail their gift.”
John was tempted by this proposition—so tempted, in fact, that it was hard to force the next words from his mouth. “We have to go. If you don’t, it will just give your mother more ammunition, and then it will be even longer before you two make up.”
When he looked over again, Amanda was staring fiercely out the windshield.
“I don’t want to make up,” she said.
“Yes, but you know you will eventually.”
Amanda dropped her head against the side window.
“Baby, if you really want to skip it, we’ll do it. But it’s not something you can take back, and I think you’ll regret it.”
She continued to lean on the window. She sighed wearily. “Okay. Fine. We’ll go. But I’m not apologizing.”
“I never said you should.”
“Fine.”
He glanced over at her, hoping that this wasn’t turning into an argument. They were both on edge: last night’s reunion was hardly what they’d hoped for, and John got the sense that Amanda was not very happy in L.A., although she hadn’t said anything specific. For John’s part, he was increasingly bitter about losing the ape story to Cat. Her reports about the ongoing investigation appeared regularly in the front section; meanwhile, John’s latest “Urban Warrior” assignment was to experience firsthand the city’s new efforts at flushing out vagrants, meth-heads, and other undesirables from the places they congregated by spraying them with skunk oil. He had been perfectly amenable to the idea of following along with police and city employees as they tested this technique, but Elizabeth decided that would be boring and predictable. Oh no, she said—how much more effective this would be if written from the perspective of a homeless man! And so John had gone undercover and been skunked out of a doorway earlier in the day. Three tins of tomato juice later, and the scent still lingered.
——
“Amanda! My dear! Lovely to see you,” said Uncle Ab, the proud father of the bride. He was in clear violation of orders, but drunk enough to be impervious to the look of searing reproach coming from his wife and her female relatives.
Fran sat stiffly at a table across the room, emanating silent fury beneath the flashing glint of a disco ball. Tim looked defeated, and played with his swizzle stick. The sound system belted out Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family” as people old enough to know better flung themselves around with drunken abandon. Arms flew into the air, stayed for a moment, and then were yanked back down as the owners realized they had no idea what to do with them.
Uncle Ab was weaving a little. He hugged Amanda and planted a wet one on her cheek. As she wiped her face with a cocktail napkin, he shook John’s hand. Ab’s nose crinkled in disgust and the corners of his lips turned down. “What’s that smell?” he said, bobbing his head from side to side and sniffing in the general vicinity of John.
“It’s skunk.”
“It’s what?”
“Skunk,” John said firmly.
“How the hell did you manage that?” asked Ab.
“Ariel looks wonderful,” said Amanda, sipping her drink. She gazed at the dance floor over the rim of her glass.
“She should look good,” replied her uncle. “Do you have any idea how much that cost? The nails, the makeup, the eyebrow waxing! Eyebrow waxing!” He wagged a finger for emphasis. Held his breath and nodded sagely. Leaned forward conspiratorially, floppy jowls reeking of cologne, pie hole reeking of Red Label.
“You know, I’ve always admired that about you, Amanda. You never felt the need to do any of that nonsense.”
Amanda’s eyebrows shot up. Her hand flew to cover them.
Rank lexical relation indeed, thought John, staring at the old man with pure, unadulterated hatred.
When they got home, Amanda tossed her beaded purse onto the hall table and rushed into the bathroom. A moment later she wailed.
“What’s the matter?” John asked. He was headfirst in the fridge, getting a beer.
“He’s right!”
John closed the refrigerator door. “Who’s right?” He went into the bathroom and stood behind her. She bent forward until her face was inches from the glass, holding her hair back with one hand and using the other to point at the space between her eyebrows.
“Look.”
John leaned in close, scrutinizing the area. “There’s nothing there.”
“There are hairs. Uncle Ab saw them.”
“That is not what he said.”
“It was between the lines. He said I was hairy and unkempt.”
“No, he didn’t. And anyway, since when do you take fashion advice from a man who wears Old Spice?” John wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “You’re sexy. And so are your eyebrows.”
“You mean my eyebrow,” she said, twisting free.
He followed her into the living room, where she flopped onto the couch.
“Why are you letting this get to you?” he said. “It’s Uncle Ab, for Christ’s sake.”
Amanda leaned forward and cupped her face in her hands. “Something happened last week.”
John sat next to her, trying to contain his alarm. “What?”
She shook her head.
“Amanda, what is it?”
She sighed, and closed her eyes. It felt like ages before she spoke. “The NBC execs took Sean and me to the Ivy for lunch. It’s full of celebrities. Paparazzi everywhere.”
John watched, waiting.
“So I ordered quiche.”
After a long silence, John said, “I don’t get it.”
“Apparently women in Hollywood don’t order quiche. They order undressed salads, or plates of strawberries.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“So at first nobody said anything, but
it was like someone had passed gas. The atmosphere got very weird. Then the executive producer finally piped up and told me how refreshingly different I am from the average Hollywood woman.”
John paused. “You are. That’s a good thing.”
“No. Apparently it’s not. One of his eyebrows was raised. What he really meant was that I’m not enough like the average Hollywood woman.”
John didn’t know what to say. She started to cry and he pulled her to him.
——
The next morning Amanda went to her regular hair salon and returned with a different head. The stylist cut her hair and blew it straight before passing her along to an aesthetician, who shaped her eyebrows and gave her a lesson in the application of makeup. When Amanda came home, she had smoky eyes, cupid-bow lips, and flawless skin. She was also clutching glossy pink bags with gilt lettering and slick rope handles.
“He said he’d always wanted to blow my hair out,” Amanda said sheepishly when John did a double-take. The difference was astonishing, and he felt an unexpected rush of pleasure, for which he immediately felt guilty, because it was the newness, the difference, he found exciting.
“It’ll go back to the way it was, won’t it?” he said, running his fingers through her hair. Its texture was completely different, like silk, or water.
She laughed. “Yes. Next time I wash it, unfortunately.”
John poked through the layers of pale green tissue that puffed from the tops of the bags and discovered mysterious elixirs in boxes sealed with gold stickers.
“How much did all this cost?”
“You don’t want to know,” she said. She shot him a guilty glance, and added, “I needed the haircut anyway, and the eyebrows cost fifteen bucks. But now that they’re done I can maintain them myself. And the makeup will last at least a year.”
“Huh,” John said, admiring the dexterity with which she had avoided revealing the grand total.
She ran her hand through her hair. “Since I’m having a good hair day that will only last until my next shower, do you want to take me to dinner?”
“If I do, can I have my wicked way with you later?” he said.
“Absolutely. And I promise not to mention procreation.”
She apparently didn’t realize that by mentioning it now, she had doomed John to thinking about it later. He had already been thinking about it—a lot, actually. He had always supposed they’d eventually have children, but given their current circumstances he was having trouble believing this was the right time.
They went to their favorite sushi restaurant. It was a splurge, but Amanda was returning to L.A. the next morning and it was very possible they might not see each other for another three weeks. Amanda wore the dress she’d bought for Ariel’s wedding, along with new shoes. To John’s right was the fully stocked bar, which was illuminated from behind by lights that changed color every fifteen seconds.
“You okay?” said Amanda. “You seem kind of quiet.”
John realized he had been twirling his sake cup. “I’m sorry. I just can’t stand the thought of you going back. I miss you.” He paused, looked quickly up and back down, then added, “And I hate my job.”
She looked stricken. “Oh, honey—”
“It’s true. I used to love reporting. I used to feel I was making a difference. The ape series was groundbreaking on so many levels—language, comprehension, culture. Evolution, a fundamental redefinition of the way we view other animals, extremists on both sides, but reasonable people in between. I felt like I was contributing to an important discussion.” He heaved a deep sigh. “Do you know what my next ‘Urban Warrior’ assignment is?”
She shook her head.
“I’m doing a piece on stay-at-home moms who double as hookers. They turn tricks while their kids are taking afternoon naps.”
Amanda’s mouth fell open.
“Yeah,” said John. “I have an appointment with one on Wednesday. Candy is her name. Supposedly. She didn’t believe me when I said my name was John. Said that’s what they all say.”
“They probably do,” Amanda said.
“Anyway, she asked me to park around the block and go through her backyard so her neighbors don’t see me—oh, and get this, this is the best part, she lives two blocks from my parents—and then I’m supposed to look through the window to see if the kid’s still up. He watches Sesame Street and has a snack right before he goes down, so if the high chair is empty I’m supposed to just let myself in the back door.”
“Oh my God. I want to cry,” said Amanda, and for a moment she looked as though she might. “She doesn’t know you’re a reporter?” she eventually added.
“No, she thinks I’m a john.”
“Do you think she’ll talk to you when she finds out?”
“I hope so. Otherwise I have to find another one and start over.”
Amanda swirled her miso, which had separated, and then stared at the vortex of seaweed and tofu.
He reached for her hand. “Amanda, you haven’t said much about L.A. except for that asshole at the Ivy—is everything okay? How are things going?”
“Meh,” she said, shrugging. “The work is okay. Except the executives keep changing the script, which is hugely annoying when you’re trying to build threads.”
“Have you made any friends?”
“Sometimes I go out with Sean.” She registered John’s alarmed look and added, “Don’t worry. He’s gay.”
“Oh. Good.”
She scooped her purse from the padded bench and got up. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Sure,” said John. As soon as she passed behind him, he slugged his tiny cup of sake. What he really wanted was a Valium.
Amanda’s landlord had required her to sign a six-month lease, so they were committed to paying the mortgage as well as rent on the L.A. apartment for at least that long. They had lived on ramen noodles before, and could do it again. He just wanted to feel that this move had actually made her happy, and so far that didn’t seem to be the case.
“Ohhhhhhh, look at you!” a familiar voice squealed. John turned to see Li, their usual waitress, standing behind the bar. Her face was glowing, her eyes and mouth wide in an exaggerated smile. John whipped around and saw Amanda returning from the washroom.
Amanda stopped and checked over each shoulder to see if she was the one being addressed. Having apparently decided she wasn’t, she continued walking.
“You look so good!” sang Li. “I didn’t recognize you!”
Amanda realized Li was indeed talking to her. She paused, her face frozen into a mask of horror. After a moment she said, “Thank you,” and walked stiffly back to the table. When she sat, she leaned toward John, her eyes bright with hurt. “You know, I have to believe she meant that as a compliment, but I don’t think there’s any good way to take it.”
“It didn’t come out very well,” said John. “But I’m sure—”
“Oh my God!” said Li, appearing directly beside them. “I still can’t believe this!” She clapped her hands in delight and slid onto the bench beside Amanda. She waggled a finger at John. “You’re going to have to be very careful tonight because all the men will be looking at your beautiful wife!” She turned to Amanda. “You know, we have a saying in Chinese: there are no ugly women, only lazy women. And after seeing you, I totally believe it! Look at you! The makeup! The hair! And all dressed up!”
John looked with dismay from his wife to Li, his fractured mind trying to process why the waitress in their favorite Japanese restaurant was quoting Chinese sayings, and how on earth he was going to glue Amanda back together at the end of it all.
Amanda stared at her chopsticks. “I got my hair cut.”
“And straightened!” Li reached out and fondled it, letting it slip through her fingers. “And you’re wearing makeup! You’re going to have to keep this up, you know, now that he knows what you really look like …”
“Li!” the manager barked from behind the bar. He motioned tow
ard some customers who had just walked in.
Li called over to him. “Look at Amanda! Look how good she looks! Can you believe it?”
“Li!” yelled the manager.
“Got to go. See you!” Li leaned in for a one-shoulder hug and floated off.
For a long time, Amanda didn’t look up. “Okay,” she finally said. “Okay.” She was nodding rapidly. She picked her napkin up from the table and smoothed it on her lap, all without looking up. “That’s good to know. I’m not ugly. Just lazy.”
13
Celia arrived with a backpack and duffel bag.
“Good God. Look at you,” she said, pausing in front of Isabel. Then she turned and tossed her bags on the floor. She leaned over and began rummaging through them, removing shoes, wadded-up clothes, and plastic bags of toiletries, which soon littered the carpet around her. A portion of her back showed above her cargo pants, displaying a tattoo in Asian characters that ran up her spine and disappeared under her shirt. “So I thought you weren’t talking to me. They turned me away at the hospital.”
“That wasn’t me,” said Isabel. “I think it’s because you’d been arrested.” She watched Celia carefully, feeling the nagging seeds of doubt. Had she just invited an ELL member into her home?
“Not arrested—detained. And what kind of bullshit was that? I could have gotten killed too. Not that anyone got killed, but you know what I mean. I was there minutes before it happened. No, apparently my crime is that I’m a vegetarian and I volunteer at an animal shelter. My God—they took in people simply for belonging to the Humane Society. Hey, you’re a vegetarian. Why didn’t they arrest you?” She walked over to the fish tank and stared into it. She crinkled her nose and drew back. “Eww. What happened here?”
“Don’t ask.”
Celia went to the kitchen and returned with a tablespoon, with which she removed Stuart’s body. She cupped a hand around the spoon and said, “Don’t look,” as she passed Isabel on the way to the bathroom. Moments later, the toilet flushed.
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