Santa Monica

by Cassidy Lucas

  Zacarias shrugged. “Total apologies, man. Things get a little crazy on Halloween. We won’t take up any more of your night.” Lettie expected him to turn and carry Andres back down the stone path, but instead the two men locked into a stare. Her heart began to kick like a runaway donkey.

  Mr. Leyner spoke slowly, as if tasting his own words. “Typically, when property is damaged, the responsible party makes at least a gesture of offering some compensation.”

  “Come again?” said Zacarias, in his cowboy voice, and Lettie realized he was playing dumb. Making a little fun with Mr. Leyner. She hated when he did this to her, but now, it made her proud.

  Mr. Leyner sighed and pointed to the broken vase. “My wife got this vase in Italy. It’s one-of-a-kind Venetian artistry. I understand your son is young and disabled, but that doesn’t mean his parents shouldn’t take responsibility for the material loss.”

  Lettie braced herself for Zacarias to snap, He’s not my son!

  Instead she heard him say, “He’s not disabled, you douchebag. He’s a regular kid whose been reaching into containers for candy all night. Why you would leave some Italian vase on your front porch on freaking Halloween night is beyond my comprehension. Why should I take responsibility for your moronic mistake?”

  Lettie flinched; a tightness had taken over her brother’s voice. She thought about stepping forward, whispering to Zacarias, explaining this piece-of-garbage man was husband to one of her bosses.

  Mr. Leyner barked a laugh. “Wow. Just wow. This is a first. Getting insulted by a stranger on my own front doorstep. And in a Darth Vader mask to boot.”

  Zacarias set Andres down and nudged him toward Lettie. She pulled the boy against her and guided him a few steps back from the door.

  “Let’s go,” she called to her brother. The crowd moving past the house had slowed to stare. Attention was only a bad thing for a woman like her in this new America. She half expected to see an ICE van screeching down the street.

  “In a sec,” Zacarias said. His voice was hard. Like Manuel’s when Lettie said the wrong thing.

  She lifted Andres in her arms. She wanted to run, elbow her way through the mob of trick-or-treaters, hurry home and wash off his mustache, make him a cup of champurrado, the cinnamon-sprinkled hot chocolate her abuela made every year for Día de los Muertos. Hers would taste even better than the hot chocolate Mel had paid a caterer to make.

  But Lettie could not leave her brother, and she could not tell him to bite his tongue with his perfect teeth. Zacarias was defending little Andres in a way she could not. Showing this man that her Andres—their Andres—was just as important as the Leyner boy, that pale-skinned brat.

  Suddenly, it was night. The streets even more packed with zombies and vampires and witches.

  “Motherfucker,” Lettie heard Trey Leyner growl and turned to see Zacarias and Senor Ratface on the ground, a blur of thick arms and legs as they rolled across the green lawn, past the wooden no-picking-fruit sign meant only for people like Lettie. She could see that Mr. Leyner was losing, moving slower than her brother, a chubby brown bear to Zacarias’s sleek panther. Then Zacarias was on Mr. Leyner’s back, an arm around the man’s thick throat—squeezing, Lettie knew, because she could see the veins in her brother’s arm jumping out from his skin.

  Mr. Leyner’s Captain America mask slipped down, and Lettie saw his eyes were wild with fear.

  Thanks to God, the Darth Vader mask still covered Zacarias’s face.

  Andres screamed. As loud as he had the day of the accident.

  “No! Don’t hurt my tío!”

  Lettie pushed her son’s face against her chest to silence him. He was shaking, a little bird.

  “Stop hurting! Stop hurting!” Andres screamed, just as he had the last time Manuel had stood over Lettie as she lay on the kitchen floor, the hard toe of his work boot slamming into her side again and again.

  Mr. Leyner’s face was purple, his lips opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  She heard voices on the sidewalk behind them. Oh my God! Someone, do something! Then the word she feared most of all: Police. Call the police.

  She turned and was blinded by the light of a flashlight. Or was it a camera? A phone? She covered Andres’s face with one hand, felt his hot tears on her palm.

  “Ayúdame!” Lettie cried, not sure who she was asking for help. “Ayúdame, por favor!”

  Then she saw the twisted look of disgust on the white mommies’ faces. Saw them shielding their children’s eyes.

  Lettie turned back to the two men. “Zacarias, we must go!”

  Her brother sat atop Mr. Leyner, who lay in the grass like a fat rag doll, his red costume torn at the side, a pale slice of skin showing. The big man’s body shuddered with every punch Zacarias plowed into the man’s face. Thud, thud. Like the sound of a butcher knife chopping a slab of pig meat at the carnicería.

  “Enough!” Lettie yelled, and finally, Zacarias jumped off Mr. Leyner. He looked at Lettie and made a slicing motion with his hand, telling her to go. To take Andres and run. Lettie lifted Andres into her arms. The boy was shaking and whimpering. “It’s okay, it’s okay, you are safe,” she whispered, stepping across the grass, stumbling a little under Andres’s weight. She was ashamed that she’d let her boy see so much of an ugly fight. Though, in her heart, she was glad that Zacarias had pounded Senor Ratface. Let the man suffer a little, the way Lettie had for so long. This was the only way to survive, she thought as she moved away from the Leyner house, fast as she could under Andres’s weight, rejoining the streaming crowd of ghouls and devils, her breath ragged and hot in her mask. A person had to fight.

  She had been stupid that one day she’d stolen some cards she’d hoped would make her little boy happy. One day was all it took to ruin a life in this new America. She wouldn’t be stupid again. She knew better than to trust anyone in Trump’s country, even the rich white people who called themselves liberal, as if they were revolutionaries, even sweet Melissa who had already given her and Andres so much. Trust no one, she had told Andres as his torn body mended in the hospital. No one. Not your uncle who you love very much—where was he when you needed him? Not the white people, even those who say they want to help. Not the brown people who will stand on your head in a stampede to grab one last gasp of air.

  As she ran down the sidewalk, Andres gone limp and heavy in her arms, shoving people aside (even children) with her wide hips, the sound of her ragged breath bouncing off the plastic insides of her mask, Zacarias behind her urging run, run, she feared the day she’d have to tell her son that she, his mama, could not be trusted either.

  Friday, November 9, 2018

  20

  Mel

  MEL SPED HER MINI COOPER AROUND THE CURVES OF HER THERAPIST Janet’s neighborhood, squinting into the air turned hazy and thick from the Woolsey Fire, blazing just fifteen miles away. She knew Adam was already waiting for her at their couples’ session, which he’d had “no choice” but to push from their usual evening slot to one P.M., due to a “dinner thing” with some studio exec. An excuse Mel now assumed was code for a date with his sexting slut. But Mel hadn’t batted an eye when he’d requested the time change and apologized for having to miss their usual after-therapy dinner. Let him cancel their date night to meet up with whoever-the-fuck-she-was. Let him complain about Mel being five minutes late for therapy, in his signature passive-aggressive style. I know Mel doesn’t think her time is more valuable than everyone else’s. But then why is she always holding us hostage with her lateness?

  Today, Adam could be as holier-than-thou as he liked. Because today, in Janet’s back house, which doubled as an office, Mel was going to incinerate his claim to the title of As Good as a Man Gets. In less than an hour, Adam’s reputation, and their marriage, Mel thought with stomach-flipping finality, would be as burnt as the Malibu mansions that had been swallowed by flames.

  The Woolsey Fire had sparked in the Simi Valley, Mel had read, then jumped the Ventura Freew
ay to devour the chaparral-covered canyons of the Santa Monica Mountains. The fire was uncontained, and now devouring countless estates belonging to the richest and most famous. As Mel stepped on the gas, the local radio station was going on and on about the Kardashians having to flee their compound. As if, Mel thought, those were the victims they should be most concerned about. God, sometimes she truly hated LA. She considered texting Zack—knowing he’d agree with her—and nearly reached for her phone before commanding herself, No. Focus. She could not allow herself to think of anything but the task ahead, on Janet’s cat-hair-covered sofa. The task she’d been waiting for what felt like forever to complete.

  It had been surprisingly easy to avoid Adam as she waited for their couples’ therapy session to arrive. Adam was a morning person; Mel a night owl. Adam was working long hours on a new project—an adaptation of some YA novel about blah blah blah, which was all she heard when his mouth opened these days. She was at the gym nearly every day now, taking classes, the majority taught by Zack. Her new life, that of Mel 2.0, had been largely Adam-free, and she’d felt better than ever. Ready for the next step. The purge of Adam. The punishment of Adam. Justice for Mel, all versions. It had been exhausting to hold all that rage inside, wait for the right moment to unleash it all. She’d spent the last few weeks fantasizing about revenge. She’d considered printing out the texts and tucking them like cue cards inside Adam’s wallet, so it was the first thing he saw when he paid for his espresso in the morning. Surprise! Or sending Sloane on a sleepover, and papering Adam’s home office with a thousand copies of the texts, so many that it would take him hours to tear them down. Ha! She’d even contemplated the very worst thing, a marriage-breaker for sure—calling Adam’s mother and revealing to Marti Goldberg just how repulsive her baby boy truly was.

  Her phone pinged with a text, and although she’d sworn to stop looking at her phone while driving, she couldn’t help herself.

  Adam, of course. Right on cue.

  Not okay that you are late. Again.

  She stopped herself from sending the middle finger emoji.

  She was still wearing her sweaty gym clothes, her thighs beginning to chafe in the leggings Regina had given her, though they actually fit pretty well now. She’d bought a couple other new pairs, too, and tossed the ones she’d torn in the van with Zack into a dumpster in the alley behind her house. The memory of that night—Zack’s hands all over her, then his tongue between her legs—made her shift in her seat, narrowly missing a landscaper lugging a bag of soil across the road. The worker was wearing a white mask and Mel felt a jab of guilt that he had to labor in the smoky air, flakes of ash falling like black snow, while she was sealed in the clean air of her A/C-chilled car, racing to therapy, where she was prepared to accuse her husband of the very sin she too had committed.

  Hypocrite was one of precocious Sloane’s new favorite words and, those past few weeks, each time Mel heard her daughter use it, Mel’s dedication to her cause—Mel 2.0—wavered. Then, all she had to do was think of the texts she’d found on Adam’s phone. She had a printout of the texts now, carefully folded in her purse, ready to show to both Adam and Janet. Proof.

  And anyway, she told herself, the thing in the van had been a one-time dalliance. A redemptive whirl to reestablish balance in her and Adam’s marriage. Tit for tat, Even Steven, an eye for an eye, and all that. She’d felt righteous emerging from the Color Theory van into the cool night air. Mortified that Regina had caught them, sure. But also a little triumphant. She, the fat girl, desired by the drop-dead-gorgeous younger man both she and Regina, and every other woman who’d ever lain eyes on him, had pined for. Talk about fairness, why don’t you, dear Adam? Fair was an aesthetically forgettable woman like herself being treated like she was a bona fide Victoria’s Secret angel.

  While she knew she’d never do it again, each time Mel had taken one of Zack’s classes those past few weeks, the way he looked at her reminded her she could have him again, if she wanted. Not that she did, but the option made her feel a kind of justice was being served. For all the girls hiding flab under layers of control-top tanks, compression leggings, Spanx. All the invisible middle-aged women not willing to torture themselves in gyms every single day, not willing to spend $1,000 a month on creams and injections and laser treatments to look a few years younger. Mel 2.0 was the heroine in a rom-com Hollywood would never make, because, apparently, she thought, parking in front of Janet’s sprawling but unkempt Craftsman, fat women weren’t allowed to fall in love, or feel desire, or have a big fat orgasm (or two) in the back of a van.

  Still, Mel had a conscience (unlike Adam, she thought) and she’d been worried luring Adam into what Sloane would call a sneak attack via confrontation on the therapy couch was unethical. But confronting Adam in front of Janet felt like the safest choice. It was hard for a woman to feel safe these days. Of course, Mel knew she didn’t have the kind of problems poor Lettie had to deal with but, still, her radar was on red alert, especially now that she was reading a dozen op-eds a week decrying the pernicious harassment of women in every industry, specifically Adam’s starlet-stuffed Hollywood. Could good-as-a-man-gets Adam be one of those very same predators?

  She smoothed her frizzed bangs in the rearview mirror. She was ready to rumble.

  The smoke-filled air from the distant fire clawed at Mel’s throat as soon as she stepped out of the car. The clouds above matched the moment: apocalyptic. Thick and heavy with deep purple and ochre and burnt orange, colors she might have once used for a dramatic wedding invitation printed on her letterpress but that now only made her think of bruises on a battered body. She marched up the cracked driveway, the thin layer of ash whispering like East Coast autumn leaves under her sneakers. She was a crusader charging into battle, ready to confront that cheating bastard on her own turf. Last week, during her individual session with Janet, Mel had briefed her on the situation (minus the Zack part), and they’d agreed Mel would confront Adam today, with Janet there to mediate.

  Mel hurried through the overgrown backyard, stopping outside the half-open door of the carriage house Janet used as an office, catching the smell of potpourri incense. Mel gulped a breath and stepped inside.

  Adam, as she’d correctly guessed, sat upright, perched on the edge of the sofa. Mel avoided his eyes and focused instead on the familiar objects around the room that had become a comfort. Heavy symbols that Brooklyn Mel would have disdained—long-necked African fertility statues made of smooth black stone, and bowls of crystals that Janet had once, to Mel’s horror, suggested Mel hold and rub during their session.

  “Melissa,” Janet said cheerily from a wicker armchair in the center of the cluttered and dim-lit room, her feathered blond hair tied up in a poufy, girlish ponytail, though she was well over sixty.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Mel said.

  “Well,” Adam said dryly, “we certainly weren’t expecting you any earlier.”

  So that’s how this was going to go, Mel thought. Oh, just you wait, Mr. Punctuality.

  She took her place next to Adam on the sofa, making sure to leave as much distance as possible, a tasseled pillow behind her so her feet reached the ground.

  “Adam and I were just discussing the fires,” Janet said, turning to Mel. “Devastating. Some of my former clients have had to evacuate.”

  “The LA Times videos are heartbreaking.” Mel nodded.

  “I’m sure you ran into traffic on the way here. It’s been awful.”

  “Yeah. Sorry again for being late.”

  “That’s funny,” Adam said, “I didn’t hit any traffic. And I came all the way from Burbank.”

  The fight switch in Mel flicked on.

  “Seriously, Adam? You’re going to criticize me—here?”

  “Oh-kay,” Janet said. “Shall we have a do-over?” She laughed quietly and patted the wisps of blond hair around her narrow face. “That’s what I used to say when my kids were young. We all deserve a do-over now and then.”

  Mel tri
ed not show her annoyance, knowing Adam felt the same, reminding herself how wonderful Janet was, once you got past the New Agey tchotchkes all over the room, the You Control Your Destiny plaque on the wall (in a machine-printed cursive that offended Mel’s typography-trained eyes), and Janet’s tendency to speak like a kindergarten teacher. Many of Mel’s individual sessions with Janet over the past year had ended with Mel in tears over a new revelation or insight. She’d been making good progress as a human. Then Adam had (literally) fucked it all up.

  “So, here we are,” Janet said with a shake of her ponytail.

  “Oh-kay,” Mel mumbled. “Guess we’re honing right in.”

  “Homing,” Adam said. “I think you mean ‘homing right in.’”

  “See?” Mel looked to Janet. “Why do I bother? I can’t say a sentence without him criticizing me.”

  Adam looked down at his hands, tucked between his knees. “Sorry.”

  “We’ve talked about criticism quite a bit in previous sessions,” said Janet gently. “And we can continue talking about it now, if that’s what you think is helpful, Mel. But just make sure you’re not avoiding your real intention here today.”

  Mel felt Adam stiffen next to her—the sofa cushion slid back as he leaned forward.

  “Intention?” he said. “What’s going on? You two are scaring me.”

  The room fell silent. Just say it, Mel commanded herself. But she was unable to speak. Instead, she stared pleadingly at Janet.

  Janet took the cue. “Why don’t I help us get started? Melissa, has, unwittingly, discovered something she’d like to address with you, Adam. A very hurtful and disorienting revelation. Melissa?” She looked at Mel expectantly.

  “Discovered something.” Adam nodded slowly. “You mean, as in, realized something here, during one of your solo sessions?”

  Mel’s eyes found the once-loathsome plaque hanging on the wall behind Janet’s head. You Control Your Own Destiny.