Messalina: Devourer of Men

by Zetta Brown

  “You’re not as innocent and demure as you look, Evadne Cavell. And speaking of getting fucked, I’d say it’s about time that you were .”

  My belly laugh is not what she expects to hear and the stunned look on her face makes me laugh harder. I take her by the arm. “Come on, woman. I’ll buy us a coffee.” We walk across the street.

  “But this situation with Terry Hyde goes deeper than his yo-yo pants, you know that don’t you, Eva?”

  “It’s a show of political force, you mean?”

  “Exactly,” she says as she opens the coffee shop doors. Inside, the line is short and there are empty tables since we are ten minutes into the next class period. We place our order and I convince her to split an apple danish with me. We get a table in a corner by a window.

  “Terry Hyde is old school, Eva, and that doesn’t help him right now.”

  I purse my lips together. It’s something I don’t like to admit to friends and family, but Bellingham College is tilting more into right-wing fanaticism that’s been sweeping the nation for the last few decades. Three years ago, when Chancellor Justin McGivern retired after twenty-five years in the position, it was the end of an era. Since then, Bellingham College has been trying like crazy to catch up to the reactionary bandwagon—similar to the U.S. Supreme Court after it lost Thurgood Marshall and gained Clarence Thomas.

  Under the new auspices of Chancellor Howard Gaylord (Neil Hollister’s great-uncle), professors, tenured or not, who were left- of-center started feeling the squeeze of upper admin. Some retired, or opted for early retirement, because they could see the writing on the wall and couldn’t face the pending battle over intellectual freedom. Others were cut off in other ways: they were overlooked for promotion or had their budgets cut. Others were just told their services were no longer needed. In their place, Bellingham College retained and acquired those whose thinking was more in line with the new regime.

  For the past few years there has been a witch-hunt atmosphere on campus. When one of the grand dames of the “old school,” Professor Agnetha Saunders, who headed the History department had developed a cross-discipline program between the History and Sociology departments, a plan on the verge of being blessed by Chancellor McGivern, the program was dismissed by Chancellor Gaylord without a backward glance. Professor Saunders resigned, causing a mass protest by students, faculty, and staff.

  The New Order has succeeded in shaking the liberal tree and the rot’s set in. Now with Terry Hyde getting caught with his pants down, it’s another reason to rattle things up again and see what other fruit is ready to fall.

  “Hyde may be old school,” I say, “but there’s a thing called privacy, Glyn. There are co-eds in this place that I wouldn’t mind pumping.” The look of horror on her face almost makes me do a spit take, it’s that comical.

  “Seriously?” she asks once she can speak again.

  “Hell, yeah. Take Neil Hollister, for example.” I’m being a smart ass for even suggesting it, but I just want to get a bigger reaction out of her. I succeed.

  “Please tell me you’re joking, Evadne . . . please?”

  I give her my best poker face for about five seconds before grinning.

  “Eva, don’t you scare me like that!”

  “Why does that scare you? Hollister is a hottie.”

  She looks around to check for anyone listening. “That kid is trouble.”

  “Because the only reason he could even register at BC is because of dear Uncle Howie?”

  “Don’t play around with that one, Eva, that’s all I’m saying.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “There’s a group of snot-nosed brats who have devised a little game.” She tears a piece out of the Danish. “A kind of blackmail to menace or to get their way, and these little players are sharp. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Eva, but some of our esteemed faculty can get a bit careless.” She rolls her eyes and takes a sip of coffee.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “if they feel they have something on you and they target you, they give you a nickname like Oscar, or Emmy, or something, because you are now their prize booby. Get it?”

  I fall back against my seat and laugh. “Glynnis, do you really think I’d be so stupid?”

  “No, I’m just saying that sometimes it’s the lame dog that has the biggest teeth.”

  I stare at her. Glynnis has a talent for coming up with colorful, if not poetic, statements. But I’m not even going to ask her to explain that last one.

  * * * *

  Jared returns today at five o’clock. He called on Monday afternoon, but I missed it because of another damn staff meeting. Although I was thrilled to hear his voice, his message was far from romantic.

  “Hello, Eva. Just thought I’d call. Take care.”

  And that was it. Bastard.

  I don’t want to seem like a clingy female, but on Tuesday, I couldn’t resist mailing a card to his house of a black and white photo showing a nude couple spooning on a bed with white sheets wrapped around their lower bodies. The photo is shot from directly above. His hair is short and blonde, but hers is long and dark and fans out over the pillows. They are asleep and obviously spent after an active session in bed. Inside, the blank card I wrote:

  When you get lonely—call.

  E.

  Subtle enough, I thought. I’ll give him a few days’ breathing room, but he won’t need it. He’ll call me within twenty-four hours. I’ve been tempted to call him in Dallas, but I refuse to look that desperate.

  Now it’s Thursday and I’ve had trouble concentrating all day. It’s exactly one week since Jared “kidnapped” me to Texas. I have to pace myself. I can’t go rushing home and call him like some schoolgirl. No. I’ll give him time to get home, unpack, find my card—then I’ll call.

  To keep my mind occupied, I arrange to meet Ana and our friend Tony Lobos at Marlowe’s on the 16 th Street Mall for dinner.

  Tony Lobos is a Renaissance man when it comes to business. He’s a bisexual Latin lover, and, in my opinion, a poor man’s version of Chayanne, as far as his looks is concerned. After working for fifteen years in public relations and advertising, he and his cousin, Encarnaçion “Carnie” DeLuna, bought the small company Tony worked for when the owners retired. Now, Howling Moon Publications produces and promotes periodicals focusing on the Latin community. He also has real estate investments and interests in several businesses, like DeGaulle’s Restaurant and the Te Amo Café. All these connections make him a social maven. Carnie, on the other hand, is a big “Mama Cass slash Mother Earth”-figure and absorbs everyone into her sphere, Tony included. She’s also the kindest woman I know.

  While we may not resemble a likely group of friends, the three of us met years ago at the University of Colorado in Boulder while Ana and I studied for our bachelor’s degrees and Tony was a grad student.

  Tonight we sit upstairs looking down at the sidewalk and commenting on the pedestrians.

  “Will you look at this one coming up,” Ana says. “Why must women wear white sneakers and white socks for their power walks?”

  “That’s my number one fashion pet peeve,” Tony says before taking a sip of his rum and Coke.

  “Aw, it doesn’t bother me,” I say and steal a piece of calamari off his plate. “But I think how some offices that mandate hosiery is sexist.”

  Ana and Tony stare at me.

  “Evie,” Ana says, “you’ve never classified anything as sexist before. You must be serious.”

  “Damn straight.”

&nbs
p; “Don’t say ‘straight’, darling, say ‘forward.’”

  “Sorry, Tony.”

  Ana gives me a sidelong glance as she prepares to sip her martini. “Tony, has Eva told you whom she’s been seeing?”

  “No, she hasn’t.” He gives me a hurt look, and his hazel eyes take on a puppy-dog sadness, but I’m not buying it.

  “Hey, I’ve tried! Why don’t you clear out your voice mailbox sometime?”

  Tony turns a deaf ear on me and faces our mutual friend. “Who’s she messing with, Ana?”

  “Jared Delaney.”

  Tony stares at me agape and I know I’ve done something big because he is speechless. Finally, he gains his composure. “No way. Our Little Eva’s seeing Mr. Libido ? Girl, I salute you.”

  “Uh, hold up. What’s this ‘Mr. Libido’ shit?”

  “Have you fucked him yet?”

  “Why must you know?” I arch an eyebrow at him.

  Tony grins. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Don’t be getting testy, girlfriend.” He pats my hand. “It’s just that he’s well known in circles.”

  This doesn’t relieve my apprehension and I think my face registers it.

  “Does he swish, Tony?” Ana asks, once again making up for my lack of speed.

  “Oh, no. He’s strictly hetero as far as I know, damn it.” He smiles wickedly. “But one hears stories.”

  “I hope they’re amusing.” I say, trying to sound casual.

  “All I’m going to say is that he’s been active.”

  I look down at my plate. My appetite is gone but I cut into my chicken anyway.

  “So what do you know?” Ana’s inquiring mind wanted to know. I would’ve asked but I’ve crammed my mouth full.

  “I don’t mean to say he’s a dog, but talk about a small world.” Tony makes himself comfortable in his seat, preparing to dish the dirt. “I have reliable sources. You womenfolk will tell a gay or bi man anything.”

  “Such as?” Ana squeals and her eagerness makes me look at her. This is how she reacts when she’s ready to hear normal gossip, but this is about me —and I’m sitting inches away! I may as well be invisible as they carry on the conversation without me.

  “I know Sarah Radcliff.” Tony crosses his legs and shoots his cuffs.

  “Who’s that?” she asks.

  “Jared’s girlfriend.”

  Another forkful of chicken gets crammed into my mouth to keep me from screaming, but it doesn’t prevent me from choking. Tony slaps my back and when I think I can do so, I speak.

  “And who is Sarah Radcliff when she’s not busy being Jared’s girlfriend?”

  Tony gives my shoulder a squeeze then takes my hand.

  “She’s an actress here in town.”

  “Oh, really? What has she done lately?”

  “She’s playing Nora in A Doll’s House . Don’t you remember? I introduced you.”

  I let my mind take me back several weeks to the opening night of the play. For once, a majority of the Denver critics agreed at the caliber of the production. I remember how the woman playing Nora captured the essence of the character: coquettish, naive, childish, but finally showing strength in the end. Then I get the vision of Sarah in my mind. She’s a lithe, pale creature with long blonde hair.

  Sarah is what you’d call a “twirler.” A man could pick her up, impale her on his prick, and spin her around if he wanted—she’s that tiny. The man playing the husband, Lars, could sweep her up into the air effortlessly.

  Yes, Sarah Radcliff has talent and beauty to spare.

  When Tony introduced us at the cast party, Sarah responded the way I expect a big fish in a small pond would. For being shorter than me, she still managed to look down her nose at me.

  I frown and Tony strokes my hand lovingly. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to sound like a catty gossip.” He shoots a pointed look at Ana and they giggle. “But seriously, chica, don’t be upset. I can put two and two together.”

  I give him a questioning look but he laughs.

  “Listen, dearie, the director told me that all during rehearsal, Sarah griped how she and Jared had been at odds. Then suddenly,” he says and snaps his fingers, “it stopped. She stopped talking about him altogether and was decidedly less bitchy. More pleasant to work with too.”

  Tony releases my hand to digs into his meal. “I assumed they patched things up, but if you’re seeing him, hats off!”

  My lips turn up in a weak smile. I remember the greeting card and my heart skips a beat. But I continue to eat, hoping maybe it will keep me from being sick all over the table.

  “So how’s old Jared these days?” Tony asks.

  I shrug. “I haven’t had a chance to speak to him since last weekend.” But I quickly add, “He did call and leave a message on Monday.”

  “After he took her to Dallas,” Ana supplies. Tony’s jaw hits the floor again.

  “Stop it, Tony.” I point my fork at him. “You’ll be catching flies in a minute.”

  “I thought you just met,” he says.

  “They did,” Ana says, “last week.”

  “Yes, thank you, Ana-Marie. Tony, I’ll let our friend give you the details, but he comes home tonight. I’ll talk to him later.”

  I look up to see Ana and Tony watching me in that knowing, but extremely indelicate way, as if I’m the new girl in the bordello.

  “What?” I ask, impatiently and they only smile. “Oh, shut up.”

  * * * *

  I get home at eight o’clock and, despite their behavior, Ana and Tony are always a good time.

  After parking in my reserved space, I wave to Hank, the security guard, and rush to the elevators. The journey to the fifth floor seems slower than usual and by the way I shift from foot to foot, anyone would think I had to go pee.

  The only thing I want is to hear Jared’s voice. My self-restraint can take a vacation along with my sense of decorum. I close my eyes, wrapping my arms around myself, remembering the way Jared’s body covered mine, blocking any means of escape.

  The bell signaling my floor wakes me from my dream and I rush to my apartment. Grabbing the wireless extension, I make myself comfortable on the couch, grinning like an imp. I’m about to talk to my man. Someone who can make me act out the Divinyl’s song “I Touch Myself” without shame. I press the button—already programmed with Jared’s home number—and wait to reconnect with him.

  On the fourth ring, I panic, but I let it ring two more times.

  “Hello?”

  The drowsy, yet curt female voice on the other end makes my insides churn. I swallow. Maybe I programmed the wrong number. Or the man gave me wrong number. The fucking bastard! I take a deep breath before saying, “Ahh . . . hello? Is Jared home?”

  “He is asleep right now. May I take a message?”

  Asleep? At eight o’clock at night? Texas time is only an hour ahead of Colorado. His reaction to jet lag must be strong—and contagious. This is a woman who was not expecting a wake-up call and certainly not from another female. Meanwhile, I can feel the ice travel through the phone line and I hope I sound composed in return.

  “Sure. Could you please tell him Evadne called? And you are?”

  “I’m Sarah. His girlfriend,” she says and there’s no mistaking her agitation. “Anything e
lse?”

  “Nope. I think that’s all I have to say.”

  Immediately, the connection ends and a dial tone fills my ear.

  Coldness washes over me. It starts in my fingers, travels up my arms, spreads down my torso and to my legs until it finally envelops my feet, freezing me in place. The dial tone is now that obnoxious siren sound. I turn off the phone and let it drop on the sofa.

  “He played you, Eva. Played you like the stupid, gullible— cunt —you are!”

  I feel a stitch in my side and looking down, I catch a glimpse of the bandage covering my tattoo.

  “Fuck!”

  At least I didn’t tell Tony and Ana about the tattoo. I don’t think I could ever live down the shame right now. If humiliation were a physical feeling, it would be deep, like a knife carving inside the gut.

  Or a multitude of sharp, painful pinpricks from a tattoo gun.

  I can even taste the blood coming up from the wound—but it’s really just from me biting my lip to keep from crying, screaming, or throwing up. I look down and see the newspaper lying on the coffee table

  I wonder what’s playing at The DeLuxe.

  * * * *

  “Plan to live the lush life, Eva?”

  Ana stands in my doorway with the requisite bottles of Jack Daniel’s and Absolut.

  “I would’ve gone to the movies, but I’m too late for the last showing. Where’s Tony?”

  “He had a date, remember?” She steps through the door and closes it behind her. “Went to it after dinner.”

  “What about Frankie?”

  “Hell, he can fend for himself. He’s not helpless.” She brushes past me and goes to the kitchen to deposit the bottles. “It’s a good thing I’m off tomorrow or we’d have to cut this party short.” She gives me a hard look. “Damn, woman, you look horrible.”