Something Wild

by Hanna Halperin

  There’s a knock on the door. It’s Patrick McConnell, a hotshot defense attorney. “Tanya,” he says. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Me too,” she says.

  He comes over and gives her a quick but warm hug, and Tanya can smell his shampoo and the coffee on his breath, his expensive cologne.

  He steps back. “I had no idea your mom was sick.”

  “She wasn’t,” Tanya says. “Her husband killed her.”

  Patrick looks positively shocked and Tanya is relieved. Before long, everyone will know and maybe they’ll leave her alone about it.

  “Jesus Christ,” he says thickly. “I don’t know what to say. That’s fucking awful, Tanya. That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah,” Tanya says. “I know. You don’t have to say anything.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with people?” He shakes his head.

  It’s ironic, of course. Patrick defends people like Jesse all the time—though mostly people with a lot more money than Jesse. It’s how Patrick affords his cologne, his neat, pressed suit, his twenty-four-hour doorman apartment in Murray Hill, complete with a roof deck and an elevator that opens right up into his living room. He hosted the holiday party that December.

  “People are monsters,” Tanya says.

  Patrick kneels down and looks straight at Tanya with huge, fearless eyes. “Tell me what I can do,” he says. “And I’ll do it.” Patrick’s confidence radiates off him, as strong and expensive as his cologne. If she ever murdered someone and needed an attorney, Patrick McConnell would be the first person she’d call.

  “Thanks, Patrick. I wish there was something.”

  “You think of something, and you call me, okay?”

  Tanya nods. Up close she notices that his lashes are long and dark, almost feminine. “Okay,” she says. “I will.”

  * * *

  —

  AMANDA DOESN’T FEEL the need to fill the silences the way other hairdressers do, asking Tanya about what she’s up to that weekend and is she planning any vacations soon, whether she’s seen any good movies lately.

  She is pretty and plump with milk-white skin and colorful tattoos curling out from the cuffs of her sleeves and the neckline of her top. Every time Tanya comes in, her hair is different—one month stick straight and burgundy red, another month a dark, severe bob. The last time it had been long and flowing, like a mermaid’s, down her back.

  When she comes to retrieve Tanya from the front waiting area of Graze later that evening, Amanda is wearing a stretchy black dress that hugs her impossibly huge belly. Her hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, a few loose tendrils framing her face. Tanya is stunned by how pretty she looks.

  “Wow,” she says, standing. “Congratulations. You look beautiful.”

  Amanda smiles, and they hug as best they can with Amanda’s stomach between them. “I don’t feel it,” Amanda says. “I’m one big walking bladder.”

  Tanya laughs. “When are you due?”

  “June fifteenth on the dot,” Amanda says. “I’m scheduled for a C-section.” She grazes her hands over her stomach. “Little squish is ready to come out. I can feel it.”

  Amanda leads Tanya through the salon, past rows of chairs and mirrors, where people are seated in various stages of getting their hair done. The room is loud with the whir of hair dryers and, underneath it, indistinguishable pop music.

  Tanya sits at Amanda’s station and Amanda wraps a black smock around her, fastening it in the back. She pulls Tanya’s hair out and splays it over her shoulders. “It’s gotten long,” she comments, running her fingers through it.

  It feels good, Amanda’s hands in her hair, the expert way she gently unknots the ends with her fingers.

  It occurs to Tanya that the hair on her head is the same hair that was there when she’d last seen her mother. That by cutting it, she’ll be ridding herself of that forever. The thought makes her tremble.

  “So what are we doing today?” Amanda asks.

  “Maybe something different,” Tanya says, her voice so steady it surprises her. “What do you think would look good?”

  Amanda takes a step back and cocks her head, examining Tanya’s reflection. “How would you feel about going shorter?” she asks. “Not too short, a little above your shoulders, long enough to pull back still. We could do angles, some piece-y layers framing your face. Add some volume. It would really make those big eyes pop.”

  “Okay,” Tanya says. “I trust you.”

  “Oh, goody.” Amanda smiles. “This is exciting.”

  As Amanda washes Tanya’s hair, Tanya closes her eyes, focusing on the hot water on her scalp, the feeling of Amanda’s fingers as she scrubs shampoo through her hair, the pressure of the sink basin against the back of her neck. She’s not crying, but she’s close, and it’s the enormity of Amanda’s belly that keeps her from breaking down. She wonders if the babies can sense each other, each warm and safe in its own womb, but only a few feet apart.

  Amanda wraps a plush towel around Tanya’s head and leads her back to the chair.

  “I’m pregnant, too,” Tanya blurts out, as Amanda starts to rub her hair dry with the towel.

  “Oh my God!” Amanda’s face lights up and she leans down and hugs Tanya. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “That’s incredible. How far along are you?”

  “Only two months,” Tanya says, nodding toward Amanda’s belly. “I’ve got a long way to go.”

  “Two months,” Amanda muses. “Are your boobs killing you?”

  “Not really. They’re too puny, I think,” she says. “I’ve been having terrible morning sickness, though.”

  “That’s the worst,” Amanda says. “You gotta eat. Just a little something bland like crackers. It’s much worse on an empty stomach.”

  “Thanks,” says Tanya. “So do you know if you’re having a girl or a boy?”

  “A girl.” Amanda beams. “We’re naming her Rosie, after Curt’s mom.”

  “Rosie. That’s pretty.”

  “Rose Elizabeth Campbell.”

  Then Amanda starts snipping and Tanya watches as her hair falls to the ground in dark, wet clumps. She tries to push away the thought that she’s doing something wrong, something violent, and she turns her attention to the mirror and concentrates on Amanda’s reflection, the beach ball of Amanda’s stomach.

  “Is Curt excited?” Tanya asks.

  Amanda nods. “Over the moon. He’ll be the best daddy. But poor little girl, he’s going to be so overprotective.”

  “Yeah?” Tanya asks.

  “He’s already said she’s not allowed to date ’til she’s eighteen. Look up for me a little?”

  Tanya tilts her chin up.

  “What about your beau?” Amanda asks. “What kind of daddy’s he going to be?”

  “Eitan will be a softie. If anyone’s going to be the bad cop, it’ll be me.”

  Amanda smiles. “He must be a nice guy.”

  “He is,” Tanya says.

  “Excuse me for one sec, honey, okay? I’m going to grab some leave-in conditioner.”

  “Sure,” Tanya says, and Amanda waddles off.

  Tanya looks down at all her wet hair scattered on the floor. Across the room there’s a woman with a broom, sweeping hair into a dustpan. Quickly, Tanya steps down from the chair and kneels, grabbing fistfuls of her hair from the floor. It’s wet and sticks to her fingers, but she empties palmfuls of it into her purse, brushing it off so it lands in clumps on her wallet and keys and lipstick.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” she whispers, like a crazy woman.

  When Amanda returns, Tanya is back in the chair, the snippets of hair safe inside her purse.

  “Do you want a boy or a girl?” Amanda asks as she rubs the conditioner into Tanya’s damp hair.

  Tanya pauses. She’s supposed to want a girl, she knows. B
ut the truth is, she’s terrified of bringing a girl into a world where Donald Trump is president, where men like Jesse and Dan exist.

  “A boy,” she answers honestly, and Tanya is relieved when Amanda doesn’t look surprised or ask why.

  For the rest of the cut, Tanya closes her eyes and she and Amanda settle into their familiar quiet.

  “What do you think?” Amanda says, a little while later.

  Tanya opens her eyes and stares at her reflection. She looks pretty—her hair especially—and terribly sad. “I love it,” she tells Amanda. “Thank you. It’s really great.” She forces herself to smile.

  “It’s fun, isn’t it?” Amanda says, fluffing Tanya’s hair a little with her hands.

  “It is,” Tanya agrees.

  “You think your husband will like it?” Amanda asks, and Tanya is surprised to realize that the person she was thinking about liking it was Patrick McConnell from work.

  “He’ll love it. I can’t wait to see his face. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, honey.”

  Amanda takes off the black smock and Tanya stands, brushing a few stray strands from her lap.

  * * *

  —

  SHE LEAVES AMANDA a ridiculous tip—almost forty percent—and walks out of the salon into the May evening. It’s practically luscious outside—the air warm and fragrant with late spring, the sky mottled with pinks and oranges and blues, like something tropical and sugary. Her head feels light. She can smell her own hair the way you might catch a whiff of someone else’s—as something separate and distinct and a little bit exciting.

  She stands there on the sidewalk, panicked—the familiar feeling that now comes over her whenever she doesn’t have a specific task at hand, when she’s alone, or when she sees something beautiful, like the city and the sky. Her body seizes up, the same way it did the night when she got that call from the police. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to shake it—the feeling that the unthinkable has happened, that it can never be undone.

  Tanya heads in the direction of Central Park, not wanting to go home to her empty apartment. She walks east down Seventy-Sixth Street, then turns left, making her way up Central Park West, through families and groups of vendors and tourists. She watches as people pour out of the Museum of Natural History onto the stone steps, holding up their phones to take pictures of the sky. The trees lining the park are dark and full of sun, like syrup, dripping through the leaves, dappling the sidewalk with light and shadow.

  She envies these people; the pleasure they’re getting from the sky, from their jaunt through the museum. It seems impossible to Tanya that something as simple and perfect as a sunset in the city will ever bring her joy again.

  Tanya pulls out her phone and calls Eitan at work.

  “What are you up to?” she asks when he picks up.

  “Things got really busy here,” he says. “Are you just leaving?”

  “I left a while ago,” she says. “I’m on Central Park West across from the museum.”

  “How was it being back?”

  “It was okay,” she says. “Do you want to meet me here? Maybe we can get dinner?”

  “I wish, babe,” Eitan says. “It’s going to be a few hours before I can leave.”

  “No problem,” Tanya says.

  They hang up and Tanya scrolls through her phone. She pauses at Patrick McConnell’s name and stares at it, trying to imagine what it would feel like to press it.

  Probably she would get his voice mail.

  His voice has been going through her head all day. “Tell me what I can do,” he’d said, “and I’ll do it.” He’d sounded so certain, as though there was an answer, as though there was something to be done.

  With an abandon that’s entirely foreign, Tanya presses his name and holds her phone up to her ear. It rings, once, twice, three times, until the sound of Patrick’s voice mail comes through: You’ve reached Patrick McConnell. I’m unable to . . .

  Relieved, and slightly breathless, she hangs up.

  Several moments later, her phone vibrates in her hand, and when she looks down, it’s Patrick, calling back.

  “Hi!” she answers, her voice emerging stupidly animated, and she actually winces at the sound of it.

  “Tanya. I missed your call.” His voice is deeper and more serious over the phone.

  She considers playing dumb, blaming it on a butt dial. But all she says is, “Yeah.”

  “How are you?” he asks, and there’s softness in his question.

  “I’m fine,” she says, trailing off.

  “Where are you?”

  “Upper West Side,” she answers. “Across the street from the Museum of Natural History.” She pauses. “I could use a drink. But I’m not drinking these days.”

  “Funny,” he says. “Neither am I. How about a walk through the park, then, before it gets dark? A pretzel?”

  “Alright,” she says.

  “Give me ten minutes. I just need to send this email and then I’m jumping in a cab.”

  “I’m not interrupting you?” Tanya asks.

  “Not at all,” he says. “Be there soon.”

  * * *

  —

  TANYA WAITS FOR PATRICK on a bench near the entrance of the park. She knows what she’s doing is foolish and potentially irreversible, but she also seems to have entered some sort of fugue state. Whatever comes next, she feels, is not entirely up to her. Besides, she tells herself, there’s nothing wrong with calling a friend and taking a walk through the park. Though he’s not really a friend.

  Across the street, a taxi pulls over on the museum side of Central Park West, and Tanya watches Patrick emerge. There’s something almost presidential about the way he unfolds out of the car, sunglasses on, surveying his surroundings. He crosses the street in wide, lean strides and when he sees her, he removes his sunglasses and raises his hand in greeting.

  “I’m glad you called,” he says, as he approaches. “I’ve been wondering all day how you’re doing.”

  They embrace, which feels strange, the second embrace that day, but this one they linger in a little longer.

  “You got your hair done,” he observes, stepping back.

  She tucks her hair behind her ears.

  “I like it. It suits you.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “Should we see about that pretzel?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Together they walk toward the entrance of the park. Tanya wonders then about Patrick’s girlfriend. She’s met her, Selena, a handful of times, but only in passing and briefly at the holiday party Patrick hosted. Blond and trim, she’s an attractive woman, in the same wealthy way Patrick is: a body that’s professionally trained, skin that shines with good health and diet, never a hair out of place. They have the look of people who can afford to take cabs everywhere; never any sweating or weather involved.

  “How long have you been sober?” Patrick asks.

  Tanya looks at him, surprised. “What?”

  “You said you don’t drink anymore.”

  “Oh,” Tanya says. “Well, I—”

  “No need to answer if it’s personal. Next month I’ll be two years clean.”

  “That’s great, Patrick,” Tanya says, sincerely, though she’s taken aback. “I’m not. Well. I don’t have a problem with alcohol. I’m just not drinking.”

  “Gotcha,” says Patrick. “I was going to say, you didn’t seem the type.”

  “The alcoholic type?”

  Patrick smiles. “You’re very measured.”

  “Am I?”

  “I mean it as a compliment. Cool as a cucumber.” Patrick points toward a food stand advertising pretzels and ice cream. “Shall we?”

  They walk toward the stand. “I’m not always so cool, you know.”

  He looks at her, interested.r />
  “I do impulsive things. I make mistakes.”

  “Well, you are human after all.”

  “I am,” Tanya concedes.

  “What’s the most impulsive thing you’ve ever done?”

  Tanya glances at him. He’s not flirting with her, she doesn’t think. He seems to genuinely want to know.

  She wonders if Patrick has been to rehab, if he goes to AA meetings. It’s hard to imagine Patrick McConnell in a church basement, sitting on one of those metal folding chairs, listening to a circle of people share their stories. Still, there’s vulnerability in admitting this to her, and she realizes that he must trust her, at least enough to keep his admission confidential.

  She thinks about kissing Patrick, what it would be like. There was something impulsive, something stupid. It would be fun, kissing Patrick, who was handsome and confident, who might whisk her away to an alternate reality. Afterward would be torture, though. Telling Eitan, or not telling Eitan. Either way.

  “Calling you was impulsive,” she says. “Not the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done.” She smiles wryly. “I’m not that dull. But, well, I didn’t put much thought into it. I felt the urge to reach out—to you. And I did.”

  “I was surprised to see your name on my phone,” Patrick says.

  They’ve reached the food stand.

  “I’d like a pretzel, please,” Tanya says to the vendor, the presence of a third party a relief. “With mustard.”

  “Make that two,” says Patrick, and the man pulls down two massive pretzels and hands them over along with little tubs of yellow mustard. Patrick insists on paying and they walk over to a bench down the path. The trees are all in bloom, and when they sit, Tanya looks up at the light green buds against the candy-colored sky.

  “You know I’ve never eaten a New York pretzel?” Tanya says.

  “Never?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “It’s good,” Tanya says. “Salty. Better than I imagined.” She glances down at her hands, holding the pretzel, the sparkle of sun glinting off her wedding band and engagement ring, and then over at Patrick’s hands—bare. He seems to notice her staring and he puts the pretzel down in his lap and turns slightly to face her. “So why’d you have the urge to call me?”