Backward-Facing Man

by Don Silver

  Lorraine continued to travel. She swam with dolphins in the Keys, she went to Whistler in British Columbia with the credit union ski club, and she took a bicycle trip in Spain. After getting a home computer, Lorraine began corresponding with people online; shortly thereafter, literature came in the mail describing the Great Barrier Reef, Mount Fuji, the Galapagos Islands. One August, Lorraine attended a New Age workshop in Washington, D.C. The following spring, she drove to a yoga retreat in Massachusetts. Just before Christmas, 1998, Lorraine bought polypropylene long johns and wraparound sunglasses. She ordered an aluminum contraption with ski boots and ropes and channels that she wrestled with each night until she was sweaty. While Stardust called strangers at dinnertime extolling the virtues of cheap long-distance carriers, Lorraine read how to melt snow for water and avoid hypothermia.

  In the spring, Lorraine began training more rigorously, stepping across their little patch of grass at dawn to stretch her calf and thigh muscles, adjusting her hair in the reflection of a car window, then jogging up the street with its matchbox row houses and their little squares of fenced-in yards. By then, Stardust had given up trying to make sense of her mother’s life—running, working, dating her boss, and tapping out e-mails to strangers. She was busy extricating herself from a nowhere romance with her boyfriend, Mick, an occasional auto mechanic and self-declared clairvoyant she’d known from the neighborhood, and the two of them would have long arguments late into the night on the phone.

  For a while, Stardust and Lorraine communicated in notes on little scraps of paper. “Mom. Does med. insurance cover b-control?” Stardust scribbled on the back of a ticket stub from a Prince concert. “Pls. pick up the dry cleaning before Friday,” Lorraine scratched out on a direct-mail postcard about vitamin supplements and colon cleansers. But underneath the irritation was affinity—the kind of bond between mother and daughter so deep it can be ignored for long periods of time.

  Over Thanksgiving, Lorraine’s training intensified. Instead of turkey, she and Stardust had protein shakes. On Black Friday, Lorraine went to the Y, and when she got home, she kept flexing little plastic hand springs while watching TV. The next morning, Stardust read, “Am planning a trip to Switzerland. Went for ice crampons. Back in an hour.” The following week, Stardust quit telemarketing and took a job selling memberships to a fitness club, working mostly nights and weekends on commission. Finally, after picking a fight with Mick, she decided not to see him again. In early December, Lorraine’s and Stardust’s schedules became completely opposite. On the back of a catalogue advertising vocational schools, Stardust wrote, “Mom—Carmine’s brother died. The funeral’s tomorrow. Do you have anything black?” On the back of a home pregnancy kit, Stardust wrote, “Went to Elizabeth’s for the weekend. Be back Monday.”

  Stardust found Lorraine’s itinerary on the dining room table a week before she left. She’d known for months that her mother was going away, but details of the trip kept slipping her mind. There was a flight to Zurich and a small group with an enthusiastic leader. There was a sponsoring organization that had something to do with friends of the earth. It turned out Lorraine would be gone for almost three weeks over the holidays with a group of people she’d met online in a specially arranged cyber-event—a pair of empty-nesters from Arizona, a philatelist from Connecticut, an Indian doctor, a young graduate student, and two middle-aged men taking a break from their jobs as commodities traders. Each of them was drawn to the expedition by the desire to cross over into the new millennium in an exotic and exciting place. Stardust read an e-mail to her mother describing the interior of the ski lodge where they’d gather, check their gear, and acclimate to the altitude. Lorraine responded that the details seemed perfect. She was completely absorbed. “You realize that my trip ends after New Year’s, which means I’ll be away for Christmas,” Lorraine told Stardust one Sunday night.

  “It’s all right, Mom,” Stardust said. “It’s not like we had plans.” The Nadias had little extended family, and Lorraine had long given up visiting her cousins. In retrospect, Stardust was sorry she didn’t question her mother’s preoccupation with winter camping or her determination to get in shape, to hike and cross-country ski, or to sleep outside in the cold, but at the time, she had such a sad, heavy feeling about her own life—her stuckness, her peripatetic work history, her inability to cross into the realm of mature adulthood where accomplishments and careers and long-term alliances marked a person’s progress toward achieving her dreams—that she almost preferred being alone.

  Lorraine, who had never been waifish, was cut, buff, and lean as her trip approached. The week before she left, she said things to her daughter like “I feel like I’m finally in my body” and “I’m living my highest choice.” The morning she left, mother and daughter met briefly in the hallway. Lorraine had just showered and was humming quietly. Her skin had developed a rosy sheen from the conditioning, and her face glowed in anticipation. A bluish mist enveloped her. Stardust stumbled sleepily toward the bathroom, smiling as she passed. Lorraine looked more like a spirit guide than her mother. A few minutes later, while Stardust hung between sleep and wakefulness, Lorraine sat down on her bed, smelling like patchouli oil and shampoo. She brushed her lips against her daughter’s forehead and nuzzled her. “You know I love you, honey,” she said softly. “Godspeed.” That was her last word. Godspeed.

  When Stardust woke, she set a radio on the sink and ran the shower hot, looking at herself until the mirror clouded over. There were tiny cracks in the skin in the corners of her mouth. In her eyes, which were deep brown, she could see little spears of yellow. Wisps of shoulder-length hair, streaked blonde, framed her face, which was round until it came to a soft point at her chin. She moved her lips, forming a seductive pout. The overall impression she gave was one of balance, proportion, and intelligence. Yet approaching thirty, she felt disconnected from the person she wanted to be. It was almost the end of the millennium, and she felt stuck in somebody else’s life.

  Exiting the house, she walked down Medley Street, past the reindeer statues, the frost-covered patches of lawn and the wrought-iron-fence outlines, the nativity scenes and mailboxes in the shape of barns, children on their way to parochial school. She followed Appleberry, past Atomic Tires, and across Street Road, where she entered the 7-Eleven, put a dollar on the counter, and took a paper from the stack. Back home, she made coffee and sat down with a fresh sheet of paper and a pen at the breakfast table until she’d made a list of her achievements; trying to make the last few jobs sound better than they were. Retail clerk became “senior merchandiser,” taxi dispatcher became “logistics engineer,” and psychic hotline operator became “customer satisfaction rep.” It was not what anyone would consider a power résumé, but it was enough to justify quitting her job. She was good at quitting things.

  That afternoon, with the help of a guy at the copy shop, she entered her achievements into a preset format and printed her résumé on fancy white bond. There were about a dozen administrative ads in the Inquirer with the words Center City buried in the copy. By the following Thursday, seven days after her mother had left for Switzerland, Stardust had submitted fourteen résumés, had received callbacks from four human resource managers, and had two invitations for interviews.

  She dressed carefully in one of her mother’s dark suits and took the train into town. The first was an insurance company near Independence Mall. The second was a radio station near Rittenhouse Square, in one of several high-rises that faced the park. On her way back to the train, a chiseled boy in a sentry uniform, white gloves, and a fitted maroon jacket in front of the Ritz-Carlton smiled and held open the door. The lobby was splendid—its understated opulence, its openness, the huge bouquets of fresh flowers set on marble tables. On a whim, she asked a desk clerk with an Australian accent whom she might talk to about employment and then took a seat in the atrium to fill in the application.

  It was just a few days before Christmas, and the storefronts and sidewalks were jammed wit
h men and women exuding that curious blend of holiday hope and distress. To celebrate her first real job interviews, Stardust ordered a drink. The sun had long ago set behind the skyscrapers, and the lights in the lobby had a warm glow. A middle-aged man in his forties wearing a dark suit and expensive loafers came over and sat down at a table next to hers. He arranged a leather pouch and cell phone in front of him and ordered a drink for himself. He asked how her holiday shopping was going. He explained that he was in Philadelphia helping a client complete a merger before the New Year. They agreed enthusiastically that the holidays could be dismal, and that there was little point in working so hard for money if one had no time or energy to spend it. They had another round. Stardust confessed to not having dinner plans. A couple hours later, she agreed to a nightcap in his room.

  The following day and the day after that, she took the train into Center City for more interviews, and by late afternoon she had planted herself in the lobby of the Warwick or the Four Seasons with a slender black folder and a small purse. Stardust drew the attention of business travelers—articulate, well-groomed married men who wore after-shave lotion, held doors open, and invited her, albeit briefly, into their worlds. She understood the effect of fetching looks, clever banter, and sarcasm—of sighs, swallows, and looking up at just the right angle. It was extravagant, provocative, and fun—a wonderful contrast to hanging out at the garage with Mick or working retail—and a fitting finish to a day dropping off résumés, taking typing tests, and answering questions from people who weren’t really listening.

  As the evenings progressed, she came to understand how important undressing slowly was, how delicate the relationship between mystery and money, a man’s nearness to orgasm and his moral weakening. Whether she had a good time or not was less about the men—most of whom were polite, boring, and self-centered—and more about what she was learning: how powerful men could feel so trapped in their lives as to risk everything for one honest moment, the quickening from the touching of fingers, the mysterious calculation between sips of wine and banter when they’d ask for the check, escort her to the elevators, and take the long, slow ride upstairs. She tingled with nervous energy as they straightened their rooms, closed their laptops, poured cocktails from the minibar, and whispered Daddy loves you into the bathroom phone. She experimented with back rubs, adoring looks, sharp words, and glancing blows, playing the predator, hungry for risk. By the end of her second week of job hunting, she was bored.

  On Christmas Day, Stardust stayed home, made an omelet, and watched a parade on TV. On the kitchen table, she came across a brochure Lorraine had left behind. During their time in the Alps, it said, the group would spend only four days indoors. There were tips for staying warm and advice on clothing to bring—wool and polypropylene, not cotton. Stardust leafed through a book about ice climbing, which looked perilous and unforgiving. She marveled at her mother’s nerve.

  New Year’s Eve day was unseasonably warm. Late in the afternoon, she put on a low-cut red-sequined top, black stockings, and a tight black skirt with a black belt around her waist. On her way to the door, she grabbed a lightweight leather jacket, which she carried to the train. Downtown, she passed the antique stores along Arch Street, the galleries on Second and Third, the Middle Eastern restaurant on Race. She spent a few minutes surveying the line in front of the Troc, but the crowd looked too Goth, so she walked a few blocks to one of the martini bars she’d read about.

  The men there were local, a little older than Stardust, but for the most part polite, clean, and well off. Conversation, which was abbreviated on account of the loud music, was limited to acknowledgments—yes or no to certain predictable questions—amazing place, cool lighting, great night. After a few failed pickup attempts, Stardust joined a well-heeled man in a fancy suit at his table. It was just before midnight, and she was pleased to have settled with someone to her liking.

  He wore a gray designer suit and a thin red tie that, when she let her eyes unfocus, looked like a gash of blood dripping down his chest. He put two cell phones and a pager on the table, all of which lit up right away. Covering the mouthpiece, he explained that he ran a transportation business from a nearby high-rise, complaining he was so busy he’d had little time for romance. He alternated between looking at her blouse and checking his watch. As Stardust drank, she relaxed, tossing her head back, laughing, happy to be engaged and socially comfortable on New Year’s Eve—the millennium—such a momentous night. She let her second and third drinks run their course and smiled when the man in the gray suit asked her if she’d ever been laid in a limousine. She was curious, and he was very attractive.

  He led her out of the bar toward a long white stretch limousine that was parked across the street. On her way, Stardust felt queasy, perhaps from the drinks, or maybe the boldness of his suggestion. Before she had a chance to change her mind, he opened the rear door of the car and pressed against her with his body. She fell across a fold-up table and onto a bench seat, bracing herself with her forearms.

  Tiny lights illuminated the perimeter. Inside, on the seats facing her, were two men in their late fifties who smelled of cologne and high-quality weed. One of them lifted a carafe of champagne and poured her a glass. “Nice,” he said to the man in the suit, who pulled the door shut. “Well, well,” the other one said, holding his chin against his chest and arching his eyebrows as he inhaled. The limo accelerated.

  “Hey, guys,” Stardust said, suddenly sober. She understood that she had only a few seconds to establish an alternative agenda before she became their entertainment for the evening. “Can I have a hit?” she said, motioning to the reefer. One of the guys—heavyset, straight black hair, bushy mustache—laughed and extended the joint. She took it between her fingers and made a sucking sound. “How about we go someplace where we can get comfortable?” she said, letting her breath out in an exaggerated squeeze. The man in the suit pressed a button on the console as Stardust passed the joint to a wiry, nervous-looking man with bad skin. The limo headed south and then turned right onto Market. The man in the gray suit pressed another button, and Dean Martin began singing. Stardust dropped to her knees and swung her arms in time with the music to avoid being groped. When the reefer came around again, she turned to face the man in the gray suit who was whispering in his cell phone. Behind her, the men filled their glasses and passed the joint back and forth. One of them kept turning the music up. She continued her dance, trying to see whether the door handles were reachable. The smoke thickened, and one of the men behind her opened his pants while the other tried to help her out of her jacket. The man in the gray suit folded his cell phone shut and smiled. Something strange passed behind his eyes.

  As they circled City Hall, Stardust felt a hand lift her shirt from behind. The heavyset man who’d opened his pants was pressing against her back. He gathered her hair in his fist and began turning her, forcing her around. As much to slow things down as to ease the pain, she took him in her hand. The limo made a sharper-than-expected turn, and she squeezed him hard as all three of them slid sideways. The others laughed as he yelped in pain. “Easy,” the man in the suit called out to the driver. The car turned left and then stopped in the middle of a block. Knowing she was in deep trouble, Stardust leaned forward and whispered to the man who’d brought her here. “Let’s go inside, where we can do this right.”

  The man nodded and unlocked the door, pushing it open with his foot. Stardust calculated. If she let him get out first, the three of them would overtake her, forcing her inside. At the very least, she’d be dragged upstairs, knocked around, and fucked, at least once, if not all night. She fought an impulse to beg for mercy and then, planting her right foot, pushed herself forward, giving the men behind her an eyeful of ass and kissing the man in the gray suit full on the mouth. As he yielded, she bit his lip as hard as she could and stuck her leg outside the car. The man in the gray suit covered his face. Stardust twisted her body around and swung her purse as hard as she could at him. As she stood, she f
ound herself staring at a handgun. A long, whooping groan rose in her chest in volume and pitch until it became a scream and stayed there, while her mouth and her eyes froze open. A silver-haired man swung a large pistol around toward the men emerging from the limousine. What should have had a calming effect on Stardust, didn’t. The pistol prevented any of the men from moving or doing anything else—good or bad—but stare.

  “FBI,” the silver-haired man finally said, flashing a badge. “Put your hands on the car.”

  The man in the gray suit was holding a white handkerchief to his lip. Stardust stumbled from the limo to the curb, where she vomited, then touched the hood of the taxi that was idling behind them, indicating to the driver to let her in. As they drove away, she watched the man with the silver hair pin the three men against the limo. It reminded her of something she’d seen on TV.

  Back home, in the shower, Stardust wondered if the episode was a harbinger of the new year—or worse, the new millennium—and whether his bloody lip resulted in an exchange of fluids. Had she given anything to the man in the gray suit that was traceable—her name, her phone number? She stood for a long time under the hot water, which was probably why she didn’t hear the phone ringing. When she got out, she ran the towel over her forearms, which were bruised where she’d banged the table, and examined her body in the light. There were red blotches on her neck, big circles under her eyes. She wrapped herself in her mother’s robe.