My face began to burn. All wrong. She was on the wrong side and there was probably no turning back. Maybe I’d known that all along. “Ellen. Wait a minute. I didn’t tell a soul. What do you think I am?”
“You told your beloved mother. Didn’t you? And you didn’t even know what was happening. All you knew was that he’d taken her shopping for her birthday. After she’d told her parents to fuck off. Girls that age get crushes, Peter. They just lose it. They’re off on cloud nine, in a different world. Your mother should have known that, even if you were too fucking dumb.”
“Ellen, for Christ’s sake.”
“What did she do? God, you goyim.”
“Goyim? Goddamn it, you have a goy name yourself because your father was ashamed of his real one.” My hands were shaking, my thumbs twitching back and forth across my fingertips—pill rolling, someone had called it. A syndrome from my mother’s side of the family.
She turned her head from side to side slowly and tolerantly. “Okay, big surprise. So now we know what you really think about my family. Let’s get back to what your mother did with your … information. Something awful, wasn’t it?”
“What she did is beside the point, Ellen. I … did … not … betray … my … sister.”
“You really believe that, don’t you, you arrogant asshole? You just can’t see it, can you? That makes it even worse.” Her lips pulled back from her teeth, and her black eyes blazed.
I slammed my fist down as hard as I could on the table and watched her flinch and raise her hands as if she expected me to hit her. People at the other booths had stopped talking and were staring at us. It made me want to really give them their money’s worth.
“Take it back, Ellen. You can’t say that to me.”
“I can say anything I goddamn well want to anybody. But I sure as hell am not going to tell you any secrets.”
“Keep your fucking secrets. Now take it back, or I’ll do something I’ll really feel sorry about.” The thing was on rails now. The rubberneckers were not going to be disappointed.
“Hah! You? Feel sorry? When was the last time?”
“I’m sorry I ever told you that story. It was too important. You got it all wrong.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What does that mean, Peter? Can’t you stand to hear the truth?”
“Bullshit. I told you the truth. But you wouldn’t know it if it bit you on the ass. Somebody pays you and you write it up: Always Maxipads are the answer to your prayers.”
Her eyes and teeth were the last things I saw before the world went red. I yelled and tried to get to my feet, but a table corner caught my leg and then I was on the floor, hands to my face. Some liquid ran over my lips and I licked them involuntarily. Hot sake.
Someone poured a pitcher of cold water over my head, and I heard a Japanese voice telling me to open my eyes. Water poured into them when I did, and I screwed them closed again. Someone put a cold face towel on my forehead and mopped the rest of my face with another. There were murmuring voices all around.
Finally, the Japanese voice again. “You want 911, sir?”
“You tell me. Can hot sake hurt the eyes?”
“Not think so, sir.”
I slowly sat up and held out my hand. “Can you give me another face towel?”
When I felt it in my palm, I dabbed my eyes with it and tried opening them. Through a pink haze, I could see that indeed a number of rubberneckers were standing around, but Ellen was nowhere in view.
Another one down. I finished the sushi alone.
Fanning the Flames
Back in my loft on Crosby Street on the outskirts of Soho, I placed a call to my sister’s best friend Claire, recently divorced from her mountain-climbing husband and living in Livingston, Montana. I knew Claire from childhood. She’d been in my sister’s class in grade school and often came over to play. She was the prettiest of my sister’s buddies and had a childish crush on me that I found kind of flattering.
She’d called me after our mother was killed, but instead of ranting and raving about my alleged betrayal (assuming Wendy had told her by then), she said she was sorry for me and burst into tears.
Twelve years later, at our father’s funeral (he’d died of pancreatic cancer and Claire had come, as she put it, as Wendy’s “chaperone”), she talked my sister and me into a week of joint sessions with a shrink friend of hers in Jackson Hole, where she was then living as a newlywed.
Wendy was back on her feet by then. It might not have been I who betrayed her but I had to admit that, from the cold viewpoint of history, blowing the whistle on Reiger had not turned out too badly. Rockland State Psychiatric Hospital, where she was transferred from Briarcliffe, had been good for her. Her chief therapist this time around had been a no-nonsense woman, and she’d known where she stood at all times. In a few months she’d been re-accepted at her old school on the Potomac. She’d graduated with honors and spent a couple of years at the MIT film school. When our father died she was living in Encinitas, a beach town north of San Diego, making a start as a freelance sports photographer.
All she’d wanted from our father’s estate had been the Mercedes. She planned to start driving it west right after the funeral. It was early spring, still raw, just a tinge of green on some of the trees. After the coffin had been covered, the three of us—Claire, my sister, and I—found ourselves standing alone on green grass among gravestones, me in a dark blue suit, the girls identically dressed in black wool sheaths with sleeves. Claire’s blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, my sister’s brunette cropped exactly the way I’d cut it in the barn many years before. I’d seen her a few times since the blowout—a Christmas or two, and at our sick father’s bedside—but the time was never right for a “discussion.” I barely dared to look at her for fear she’d vanish in front of my eyes.
And what was I going to say? I knew she’d never believe me. Sometimes I didn’t even believe myself.
“All right, you guys,” we heard Claire say. “This has been going on long enough, don’t you think? And don’t you dare ask what I’m talking about.”
My sister and I just stood there looking at all the familiar family names on the gravestones. Our parents were having their final party, and as usual we weren’t invited.
“Peter here has just turned thirty,” Claire told Wendy. “A new decade has just gotten under way. Your loving parents are now history. I suggest you swing through Jackson on your drive west and meet your brother on neutral territory. Just for five days. An hour together in the morning with a very capable friend of mine, then an afternoon of mountain climbing with yours truly, if you can keep up. What do you say?”
“All right,” Wendy said conversationally, not looking at me. “If the car makes it.”
“Peter?”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded.
The sessions were a disaster: we only made it through three of them, and the issue of my “betrayal” never even came up. We never got beyond our mother and how differently we saw her. Like before, my old protective shutters clanged down, but my sister would only talk in generalities anyway. What exactly had been done to her? She wouldn’t say. Of course, there were things I wouldn’t talk about either.
The shrink’s office had a big picture window with a breathtaking view of the Tetons, but our mother came in and took it over. Made it hers, like the eight-hundred-pound gorilla.
After that, Claire and I stayed in touch with a couple of phone calls a year, and I knew she was still in close touch with my sister, but the info she doled out was strictly bare bones, just enough to let me know my sister was still alive. She’d forward my letters and email, but wouldn’t give out addresses. God knows, I tried.
“Haven’t heard from you in a while,” Claire said coolly and a little indistinctly. “What’s up?” It was dinnertime in Livingston, and I could imagine her chewing on a tofu and bean sprout sandwich.
“Just got rid of another girlfriend. We got to arguing about Wendy, and she threw a
cup of hot sake in my face. It’s lucky I can still see.”
Claire giggled. “You’ll be okay. Did you love her?”
“God, no. Probably all for the best.”
“What was the argument?”
“Oh, you know. The usual. I went over what had happened at Briarcliffe and she said I betrayed her. Isn’t that what everyone thinks?”
A long silence. “You mean, isn’t that what I think? Peter, I’m not going to touch that with a ten-foot pole. That isn’t why you called, is it, I hope? What else is new?”
I was that close to hanging up, and actually counted to ten before I answered. Amazingly, it worked. “Well, Wendy’s book just hit the stands here, among other things. Have you seen it?”
“Amazon’s still listing it as not out yet, and the local bookshop won’t have it in for weeks. But I did hear about the Kirkus review. So what do you think, big bro?” The words “big bro” had a nicely calibrated ironic edge. Claire had always been good at that.
“I think I’d like to go and cane the reviewer. Except they’re too chickenshit to sign them. The book is brilliant, of course.”
“Of course,” Claire said, still chewing. “Why don’t you drop her a line and tell her?”
“I thought I would. Is she still in Encinitas?”
“Actually, she’s in Mexico for a while. But she’ll come back sooner or later, and when she does, your letter will be waiting for her.”
Mexico! My God, so she finally made it. Without me. I suddenly felt close to tears, as if I were a child again. Peter and Wendy! How far do people ever get from their childhoods, anyway?
We weren’t children anymore, but she’d held on to the dream we’d shared … a flight to Neverland that I’d bollixed because I couldn’t deal with what she was trying to tell me. Well, now she’d gotten there. She’d kept the faith.
And what had she found? Was it as amazing as we’d imagined it would be? Or did she need me to complete the picture?
Of course, Claire knew about our long-ago escapade, but she didn’t mention it. I didn’t want to dredge it up and all that went with it, so I kept my voice as even as possible. “She never answers my letters. I’m not sure she even reads them.”
“Oh, she reads them, Peter. Of that you can be sure.”
“What does she say about them?”
“Peter, I don’t want to get into this. Just write her the letter. Who knows, maybe it’ll do some good. The book is really important to her.”
If it was so important to her (trying to keep it casual), why was she in Mexico just when it was coming out? No book signings? No author tours? Claire didn’t know, or didn’t want to say. Since the Jackson Hole sessions, my conversations with her were all kind of the same, a friendly but rueful sparring. “Have you heard from her at all?”
“I did get an email a few days ago.” I could hear the clattering of dishes in the sink. “A bit worrisome, I have to say.”
One of the few times she’d let her guard down. “What was worrisome about it?” I knew I sounded too eager.
“Peter, forget I said that, okay? I wasn’t thinking.”
“Listen, can you forward it to me? You don’t have to say anything more, just push a button. You can erase the address.”
A short silence. “I’m really sorry, Peter.” She sighed. “But you know her. If she found out, she’d never forgive me.”
We listened to each other breathing. “So do you think she’ll ever forgive me, Claire? For something I didn’t do?” Not a new question, but there did seem to be an opening.
“I love your sister, Peter. She’s one of my best friends in all the world. Maybe time will take care of the problem.”
“Jesus.” I giggled compulsively. “That’s what she used to say about our mother.”
I could hear her sigh.
“Do you think ten years is a long enough time?” I went on. “Frankly, I’ve just about given up. You gave it your best shot, and I’m eternally grateful, but those sessions were a complete rat-fuck, you’ll have to admit. I’ll never forget her face when we went our separate ways … Talk about stone. Hey, remember that time I tracked her down in Encinitas and she called the cops?”
“Reported you as a stalker? Yeah, I remember.” A long silence, then almost in a whisper. “Don’t give up, Peter. Last year was the millennium, don’t forget. It’s a whole new century.”
Claire always thought in macro terms. It was kind of endearing. After I hung up, I rubbed my ear, which felt tender from the pressure of the phone.
Because It’s His Nature
From the little yard of her palapa she could hear the dance music continuing across the valley. The sky looked like pinholed black velvet with an inconceivable source of light on the other side. Every once in a while, a pickup would clatter up the hill, radio blasting norteño, and fade away into the desert. Dogs barked, some near, some far. Her skin felt thinner and more sensitive; even the light breeze gave her goose bumps. There was night jasmine blooming not too far away.
She went inside, lit the kerosene lamp, took her notebook off the shelf, and lay on the bed, propping the notebook on her thighs. Her first entry since she got here. What was the date? Mid-June would have to do.
Every morning a gimlet-sharp laser of white-hot sunlight penetrates a chink in the palo de arco siding of my house facing the street, bouncing off my coffee cup and setting dust motes dancing. One morning the light goes out. I tiptoe over and peer through to see why: there’s an eye peering back at me.
Whose eye was it? Was it our mother’s? Was it the eye of God? I looked into this eye until I felt myself disappearing. It never blinked. I’ve never felt so … naked … as I do now. And of course there’s a man involved. A dangerous man. The eye was probably his.
How that excites me!
The clattering of yet another pickup faded out on the street near the palapa, and a cab door opened and slammed closed. Footsteps scrunching up the sandy walk, a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” She kept her voice flat, knowing the answer. I dare you.
“It’s me.” The door opened, and a white-shirted figure glimmered. “How are you doing? Are you okay?”
“I’ll survive, thanks. No broken bones.”
He closed the door quietly and moved into the room, face still in shadow. “Those dances can get rowdy.”
“They can indeed. Are they always like that?”
“Felipe’s amazing. He must dance all the time.”
“Takes two. Not many girls here can really waltz. None of them can.”
“So where did he learn?”
“Not here. He’s from the mainland somewhere. Where did you learn?”
“Back in Philadelphia. Miss Potter’s dancing class. My mother made me go.”
He tossed his head and pouted. “Nobody ever made me go to dancing class.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Bullshit.”
“Well, it’s not hard.” She got up from the bed and went through the step. “Back-side-together. Front-side-together. One-two-three. One-two-three. Volver, volver, volver…” Holding out her hands. “Come on, try it.”
“Nah. I’m not a dancer.”
“Then why did you go to the dance?”
He shrugged.
“Don’t tell me you’re only a mechanic. I might start feeling sorry for you.”
He didn’t say anything.
“So,” she said after a while. “How was the trip to La Paz? Did you get my poor old engine block to the shop all right?”
He took a step closer and reached out his hand. She took it, he pulled her in and set his closed teeth on the side of her neck under her hair. Opened them slightly and took a fold of her skin between them. When she pulled away, he put his other hand around her jaw and tilted it up. He was only a couple of inches taller and not much heavier.
She crossed her free arm so that the forearm was against his own neck and pushed. He raised his hand with hers in it high over their heads, moved his other hand from her jaw to her hip, and horsed her into a twirl. She finished the twirl with a light karate kick but he caught her ankle and threw her off-balance onto the bed, her white dress around her thighs, arms bent, hands open, palms up on either side of her body.
She watched as he unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and dropped them. No underwear … that would have spoiled it. When he moved on top of her, bracing himself with his hands on her forearms, she raised a knee toward his crotch and held it till the weight of his body pushed it flat. Do your worst.
They were lying face to face, chest to chest, groin to groin, knee to knee. His breath on her forehead, his hands tight on her forearms. He pushed his upper body up and away and she could see the lantern-light flicker on his expressionless face, eyes in shadow.
Was it play? She clamped her knees together with all her strength but felt his knee working its way between them. She set her teeth in his right forearm, looked up into his face, and began to bite down.
As her legs opened, her teeth closed. That was how this worked. Blood pounding in her veins and blood seeping between her lips into her mouth. Her teeth breaking through the skin as her legs spread wider and wider.
He pushed easily inside her as her body melted and her strong, sharp teeth sank into him. When he could go no deeper, he stopped and she stopped too, swallowing blood and watching him smile. Right on the edge.
Then a slow, startling thrust forced her mouth open. She twisted back, hands still pinioned. His lips came down and his long tongue filled her mouth. She locked her legs around him, closed her eyes, and strained against it. Each thrust pushed her farther down. She was breathing blood, dissolving, and then suddenly she was gone in an echo of his laugh.
Hey, Peter, remember when I got my period that time in the car? My second? I’ve had two hundred and sixty-four more since then. Never missed one. A girl has to keep count, right?
And now that your name has come up, can I ask you a question? Do you think our mother killed herself?