Very Nice

by Marcy Dermansky

  Perfect. That, of course, was precisely what I was going to do. That was what we should have done all along. A swimming pool. I drank my lemonade down in two long sips. It was good. Tart.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Rachel smiled shyly. It was cute, adorable even. She seemed straight, but she was still young. She might not know. Maybe that was why she texted me. I watched as she went back into the deli and came out with two Ben & Jerry’s ice cream bars. It was a good move after how the day had gone down so far. She was okay, Rachel Klein. She’d picked me up from the train station. She’d made sure that I did not drown. She’d bought me lunch.

  “I should warn you,” Rachel said. “Things are a little bit messed up at my house.”

  I nodded.

  “Zahid,” I said.

  “You know him?” Rachel asked me, licking her ice cream bar, looking away from me as if she did not care.

  “Not well,” I said.

  “I think my mother has a thing for him,” Rachel said. “My dad is right to be worried.”

  I could tell Rachel about Jane, the way she had stared at Zahid’s shoes, but I certainly was not going to talk about Jane. And I knew about Zahid and Rachel, but I was not going to tell Rachel that, either. I could see no real reason to pursue a friendship with this girl. I wondered if maybe I should not want to go back to her house, swim in her pool. But I would. I had the day to get through.

  “That is troubling,” I agreed.

  “It is completely unacceptable,” Rachel said. She had chocolate smeared on her lips. Her cheeks were red from the sun. I took a napkin and cleaned her face.

  “Can I tell you something else?” she asked me.

  I put the napkin down and finished my ice cream bar. I did not answer. I wondered why I had cleaned her face. I did not want to know Rachel Klein’s secrets.

  “I have a gun,” she said.

  She looked down at her backpack as if to say, The gun is there. She was full of shit, of course, but I didn’t particularly like the joke.

  * * *

  —

  Zahid Azzam was in the swimming pool.

  He was wearing a pair of purple bathing trunks, the same purple as Rachel’s one-piece bathing suit. He was swimming laps. He did a flip turn at the deep end of the pool. I was surprised. For some reason, he had struck me as unathletic.

  Rachel’s mother was lying on a lounge chair wearing a purple bikini, again with the purple, reading a book. Zahid’s dog, the standard poodle, was lying on the deck next to Rachel’s mother. Rachel’s mother was a gorgeous woman. She was what I wanted to look like when I got older. I did not entirely understand the situation, but I recognized it for what it was. Fucked up.

  It was a very nice swimming pool.

  This, I realized, was why I worked in finance.

  Rachel

  I ended up taking Khloe back to the house. We were both hot, tired, burnt out from the sun. The summer guests were still there, of course, out by the pool. My professor and his apricot-colored standard poodle. They were squatters, really.

  Zahid was swimming laps. Posey was lying in the shade, her paws stretched out in front of her, one crossed on top of the other. I loved when she did that. At some point, I realized, she had become Posey to me. Princess was a terrible name. My writing professor was a terrible writer. He was the big joke. Not me.

  There was my mother, too, leaning forward on a pool chair, a book open on her lap, watching Zahid swim. She was wearing a purple bikini.

  We were all wearing purple bathing suits.

  I’d had no idea my mother had done that.

  Humiliation on top of humiliation.

  I, of course, should have been wearing the bikini. The feeling of fury—rage, even—that I had been holding back rose in the back of my throat. I could taste the bile.

  Khloe took her clothes off right away and dove straight into the water. No hellos. No introductions. She came back up, wet and gleaming, like an Amazon goddess. I still had no idea why she was here, why she even agreed to come. We were not friends. Soon, I would go back to college. I might even take a psychology class. Try to understand the human psyche.

  “Oooh, that feels good,” Khloe said.

  Khloe was wearing a white off-the-shoulder bathing suit, incredible against her creamy skin. Somehow I had not properly noticed it, or her, really, at the beach. I had watched her almost drown, curious to see how long she stayed under.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said to Zahid.

  Zahid’s mouth dropped open. He stopped in the middle of the pool, mid lap, noticing our arrival.

  “Khloe?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Crazy, right?” she said. “It’s me. Here in Connecticut.”

  My mother got up from her pool chair and walked over to me. I watched her from the corner of my eye. She tried to hug me, but she had come at me from the wrong angle. My shoulder pressed into her chest. I certainly wasn’t going to make it easy for her. She was brave to try. Stupid, even.

  I waited until she was done and then I sat down at the edge of the pool, my legs cradled around my backpack. I put my feet into the water. Khloe was right. The water did feel good.

  “We are all wearing purple bathing suits,” I said.

  There were so many things I could have said at that moment. I settled on this.

  “That’s really weird, Mom.”

  My mother nodded.

  I had hurt her feelings, I understood that, but it was nothing, nothing compared to what they had done to me. My feelings. If this was a contest, I was going to win.

  “They were on sale,” my mother said, as if that explained everything. “Who is your friend?” she asked.

  “Khloe,” Khloe said, without missing a beat. “With a K.”

  “Like Anne of Green Gables,” my mother said.

  “Exactly,” Khloe said. “One of my few literary references.”

  I splashed my feet in the water.

  Splish splash.

  We could be on our own TV show. It was all starting to seem silly to me, all of this drama. Emotion.

  “She works for Dad,” I said.

  “Really?” My mother looked confused. “Your friend works for Jonathan? And how do you know Zahid?”

  “Khloe,” Zahid repeated, like he was stuck back in time, thirty seconds ago. It was rude the way he did not let Khloe answer my mother’s question. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Khloe had begun to grin. She seemed to like the pool, to like the situation, even.

  “Zahid,” she said. “Dude. What the fuck are you still doing here?”

  “I came for my dog,” he said. “You know that.”

  “Yeah,” Khloe said, laughing. “That was more than a month ago.”

  “I never left,” Zahid said to Khloe.

  “That works for me,” Khloe said.

  I looked at Zahid’s chest. His brown skin. His small dark nipples. His swoopy hair was wet, slicked back. I used to go to his class and stare and stare at him. I barely listened to his lectures or the other students in workshop, always kissing up to him. It felt almost like a miracle, that he was here, half naked in my swimming pool, and then I remembered, as if for the first time, that he did not want me. It was like a slap in the face, every time, every single night that he did not come into my room. And I wanted him still.

  There was something wrong with me.

  “Kristi told me you’re moving to Iowa,” Khloe said.

  “She told you that?” Zahid said.

  Zahid looked at my mother. I did not exist for him anymore, that much was clear. And clearly, he had been lying to her. It seemed like she actually wanted him to stay, to keep living here, in my house. She had chosen him.

  “Uh-huh,” Khloe said. “Kristi told me that you got a job
at her college and that I could keep your apartment.”

  Zahid shook his head. “She shouldn’t have told you that. I can’t believe her. Sometimes, I swear, I want to kill her.”

  “You’re going?” my mother said. Her eyes were wide. “You told me you turned down the job. You told me you were going to stay. With me.”

  “I turned down the job, Becca,” Zahid said. “I turned it down. I told you. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  This made me want to laugh. He had been lying to her all summer. Every day, from day one, when he neglected to tell her what we had done together.

  “You aren’t going?” my mother said.

  Her relief was palpable. It was totally nuts. It was as if she actually loved him. My poor mother had fallen in love with my writing professor.

  “Not until you kick me out,” Zahid said to my mother.

  They stared at each other, as if they were the only two people at the pool. Only yesterday, I would have done anything to have him look at me like that.

  It was as if they had forgotten all about me.

  “He can’t stay here,” I said.

  “Rachel,” my mother said.

  “This is my house,” I said. “He can’t stay here.”

  “Honey,” my mother said. “This is my house.”

  “No.” A new voice entered the conversation. I turned to look. My father had appeared, as if out of nowhere. He had a suitcase, his travel bag. Maybe that was it, then, no more pilot, no more Mandy, with her little-girl haircut, but he appeared to be too late. “This is my house.”

  Khloe laughed.

  Thank God for Khloe.

  “Whose house is it?” she said.

  “This is my house,” my father repeated. “And I want that man out.”

  “Yes,” I said, relieved. Game over. It was simple. It was not too late. “Out. Now. He has to leave.”

  My mother looked like she was going to turn the same shade of purple as her bikini.

  “Wait a second,” she said. “Wait. Stop this.”

  Posey emitted a low growl. She was still lying down, but her tail wagged, slow and steady, thumping on the ground.

  “You need to leave,” my mother said to my father. “And take this woman with you, too. She works for you, apparently. You can go together.”

  “Khloe?” my father said. “Now, this is a surprise. How did you come to be here?”

  “Rachel invited me.”

  “I did,” I said. “Khloe is my guest. She doesn’t have to leave.”

  “Fine.” My mother closed her eyes and then she opened them. “Of course, Khloe with a K is welcome.”

  Khloe nodded.

  Nobody moved. Nobody left.

  “He has to leave,” my father said, pointing at Zahid. “The writer.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” Zahid said.

  It was unbelievable. He said that.

  “You are fucking my wife,” Jonathan said. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

  Khloe gasped. My mother’s hands balled up into fists. She did not deny it.

  “No, Dad,” I said. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  He looked at me.

  “Rachel,” my mother said.

  “Zahid is fucking me,” I said.

  There. I’d said it. I stood up. I looked at my mother, ridiculous in her purple bikini. It was almost sad. Did she believe that Zahid actually wanted her? For herself?

  “Is this true?” my mother said to Zahid. “Zahid? Are you fucking my daughter?”

  Posey got up and started to bark.

  “No,” Zahid said. “That isn’t true. It’s not true. Let me explain.”

  “Seriously?” I said.

  My professor had lied.

  About me. In front of me.

  He had lied about making love to me. Denied it. I was supposed to be okay with this? It was not okay. I had already asked him to go. I pulled the gun from my backpack and I pointed it at my writing professor.

  My mother screamed. Khloe put her hand over her mouth.

  My father was standing to my other side. I couldn’t see his expression. Zahid had started to shake.

  “Rachel,” my father said. “Honey. Put that gun down. Put the gun down. Where on earth did you get a gun? Put the gun down, sweetheart.”

  I did not put the gun down.

  I was done being ignored, denied, treated like dog shit on the bottom of someone’s shoe.

  “Tell them, Zahid,” I said. “Tell the truth. Don’t deny it. Don’t you dare. I thought you were better than that.”

  I looked down at the gun, metallic gray. Funny. I had been furious with Ian for giving it to me, and here I was, brandishing it like a crazy person.

  “It was only once,” Zahid said. He crossed his arms over his chest. This was not a declaration of love. “It was only that one time. Before I knew you, Becca. Just once.”

  I was pointing a gun at him, a loaded gun, and he was looking at my mother. I waited. I had the gun. I could shoot Zahid Azzam’s brains out, they would splatter into the swimming pool, chunks of his flesh. I was not going to do that. I loved this swimming pool. I would not go to jail for him. I would not ruin my life for this man. It felt good, knowing that. Already, I felt better.

  “It was only once,” Zahid repeated. “It was nice, Rachel. Very nice. I really like you, Rachel. I like and respect you. Just please, please don’t shoot me.”

  He had said please. And very. And really. And just. If I wanted to, I could give him shit about his poorly chosen use of language. I knew that it was wrong, but I was actually starting to enjoy myself.

  “It’s okay, everyone,” my father said. “You can put the gun down, Rachel, because I’m going to kill him for you. I promise you. Put the gun down and everything is going to be all right.”

  Posey was still barking.

  “Shhh,” my mother said. “Good girl.”

  She looked at the dog, as if she wanted to go to her but was afraid to move.

  “Forget about the dog,” I said.

  There was something so incredibly wrong with her, my mother, worrying about the dog instead of me. She was constantly making the wrong choice. Zahid, at least, was still shaking.

  “Hey, Rachel,” Khloe said. “Put the gun down. Honestly, none of these clowns are worth it.”

  “Rachel, honey,” my mother said.

  Tears were streaming down her cheeks. I felt bad for her. She had gone through this before, after all. Those fucking Thorntons, that’s what she had said.

  “Please,” my mother begged me.

  I kept the gun fixed on Zahid. I was tempted to put the gun down, but it felt wrong to stop now.

  “Zahid will leave,” my mother said.

  An announcement.

  I nodded. Finally.

  “Okay?” my mother said, wiping the tears off of her face. “Zahid,” she said. “You have to leave. Right now. This second. Don’t stop to get dressed or get your things. You just have to go.”

  “Becca,” Zahid said.

  “Now,” my mother said.

  “Get this joker out of our house,” my father said, his voice triumphant. “Time to go, asshole.”

  “You, too.” My mother turned to my father. “This is not the right time for your opinion. This is about Rachel. You are not welcome here. You left me. You left us. You can’t come and go whenever you please.”

  I shook my head.

  I was making the decisions.

  I kept the gun trained on Zahid.

  “He’s my dad,” I said. “You don’t get to decide. This is his house, too.”

  “He left us,” my mother said.

  I wished she could have told me, from the start, how upset she was. I could have helped her. I
don’t know how, but I could have tried.

  “Only him,” I said. “Zahid.”

  “I’m sorry, Rachel,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “You didn’t hurt me,” I said.

  I sighed.

  He was being so dramatic.

  I was pointing a gun at him, which I understood might make me seem off-balance, but I did not feel worried about myself. I was making things happen. I would have called Ian to thank him, to thank him for the gun, for the sex in the bathroom, for everything, but I didn’t have his phone number.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I don’t know why you thought it was okay to move into my house and fuck my mother. You sick motherfucker.”

  Khloe let out a loud laugh. Then she covered her mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really sorry. That was funny, though. You have to admit.”

  I smiled.

  It was. Funny. I could see the humor in the situation. But it wasn’t over yet. He was still here. It was as if he was daring me to shoot him.

  “Zahid,” my mother said. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. Right now, you have to leave. Get out of the swimming pool. Go.”

  “Leave,” my father said.

  Now Zahid was crying. He was blinking away tears.

  “Please,” my mother said.

  “I don’t want to go,” Zahid said, like a little boy, but at last he had started to move, making his way to the end of the pool, taking the steps at the shallow end. At this point, I think we all wanted to cheer.

  Zahid reached for a folded towel on the bottom of a chair and wrapped it over his scrawny shoulders. I had agonized over him? It was hard to believe. He was going much too slowly, as if he thought somehow that if he moved slowly enough, I would change my mind.

  “I’m serious,” I said, rotating my body, my arms tired but still steady, the gun cocked. “I know how to shoot.”

  “Since when?” my dad said.

  “Since Ian Thornton,” my mother said to my father.

  “Jesus,” my father said. “Those fucking Thorntons. Haven’t they done enough?”

  I liked this, my parents together again, thinking the same thoughts. The fucking Thorntons. They had no idea.