The Paper Wasp

by Lauren Acampora

  I slapped the magazine closed, only to be confronted with the cover again: that pony, that vanity. His eyes bore into me in mocking challenge. I turned the magazine facedown on the table where you’d left it.

  We almost never talked about the media. It was better to pretend the media didn’t exist, you said, in order to stay sane. My own addiction to the magazines had waned, of course, since I came here. I saw only the sanctioned profiles that made it into the house, forwarded by Polly, your publicist, with laudatory sticky notes. You were dismissive of these. “Ugh. I always hate how I sound in interviews,” you said later that week, throwing a copy of InStyle onto the kitchen table. Your own face beamed from the cover, burnished with bronzer, a feathery pink collar at the neck. “And I look like a powder puff.”

  After you left for the day, I took InStyle in my hands and studied the cover, your airbrushed metallic skin, the outré saffron sweep at your eyelids, the horrid pink plumage. I’d been present at the photo shoot when they’d done all this, had watched you submit to the foolery. Now, I sat and read the interview alone, as in the old days.

  Tell us about your typical day. What’s life like with Rafael Solar?

  Oh, it’s pretty ordinary, actually. I mean, we’re just as busy and crazed as any other working couple and have to carve out special time for each other. On most days we’re both so tired we just crash in our pajamas and watch TV. I’m also incredibly lucky to have my best friend living with me. She came to visit four months ago, and I wouldn’t let her leave! I have a publicist and a stylist who make my world go round, but I couldn’t do a single thing without Abby. We’ve known each other since kindergarten. She knows things about me no one else does, not even my parents.

  How are things going with Rafael? Are we hearing wedding bells?

  We’re very happy. He’s a wonderful man. We’re taking it one day at a time.

  What about children? Do you hope to be a mother someday? What’s your philosophy about parenthood in Hollywood?

  To be honest, I’m horrified by the way mothers are expected to sacrifice themselves for their children. I have no intention of forfeiting my own career goals and life purpose. Ideally, I’d want to raise children in a secluded place, away from Los Angeles and all the pressures of celebrity, though I don’t know how realistic that is. I’m lucky to have grown up in the Midwest, but there’d be no chance for my own children to have a normal childhood here.

  Wow, sounds like you’ve really thought this through.

  Yeah, I guess I have. [Laughs.]

  I was nauseated when I finished reading. The way you’d referred to me as your best friend—as if you had any concept of friendship—was a farce. I impulsively brought the magazine to the kitchen trash can. As I was about to drop it in, I saw a collection of cigarette butts mixed in with a pile of fruit rinds.

  “Where did these come from?” I asked when you came home, my voice trembling with anger.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Your voice was silvery, girlish. “Maybe Flora dumped them there.”

  “Flora was here on Monday. Today’s Thursday. And I don’t think she smokes.”

  You looked at me and blinked, an infuriating little smile beginning at your mouth. “Oh, so what,” you said, turning away. “Our mothers did it. Lots of people do it, even if they say they don’t. If it’s not a lot, it doesn’t matter.”

  I dropped the butt I was holding back into the trash and let the lid close. Looking back, I realize I couldn’t have been cognizant of what I was doing, at that moment. As the words came to me, I was blindly heeding some instinctual cue. I spoke in a new, bright voice. “I saw your InStyle interview,” I said. “I liked what you said about raising children. Have you actually started to think about child care, for when the baby comes?”

  You were quiet for a moment. “Honestly, no. I’ve been too preoccupied with the wedding. I can’t even get my head around the rest of it yet.”

  “I meant to tell you something a while back,” I said evenly. “That time you took me to the Rhizome for my birthday, I had a tour of the daycare center. Did I ever mention that? I don’t think I did. While you were in the actors’ lounge after your session, I had a tour of the campus, and the woman who took me around happened to work in the daycare, so she showed it to me. It looked pretty great, actually.”

  “I’m sure it is,” you said.

  “Did you know that you can even leave a baby overnight? There’s always at least one person on hand for the night shift, so you don’t have to worry about babysitters. The baby can stay where it’s comfortable, with familiar people. Some people leave their children for weeks at a time. They think of it as enrichment.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard about that,” you said in your vacant, buttery way. “There’s a lot of flexibility.”

  “The woman who gave me the tour, though, she was so into the babies. I mean, I guess that’s the kind of enthusiasm you want, but still, it was kind of unnerving. She kept talking about how she couldn’t wait to have a baby of her own.”

  You shook your head. “So many women are like that, don’t you think? They can’t wait to have babies. It’s like they equate motherhood with some kind of feminine achievement. Any other ambition just goes out the window.”

  I leaned on the counter and nodded thoughtfully. “That’s especially true for the women back home, I think. When I saw Christy Peters at the reunion, she seemed so self-satisfied with being a mother. It’s too bad. She was so interesting when we were younger.” I paused. “But this woman at the Rhizome was different. The baby-wanting thing seemed kind of disturbing.”

  You looked at me, a fish circling bait. “Who was she? Did you get her name?”

  “Tasha.”

  “I don’t think I know her,” you said.

  I launched away from the counter, feeling the buzz an actress must feel when she knows she’s nailing her lines. I paused, considering what should come next. “I don’t understand it, myself,” I said with a little shrug. “Then again, I’m not good with babies. They kind of freak me out, to be honest.”

  You gave me a strange look. Maybe you were remembering my offer to help raise your child—but you’d never believed I was serious, of course.

  “Oh, Abby,” you gushed theatrically. “I’m sure you’d be great with your own baby, if you had one. It’s different when it’s yours. At least that’s what they say.” You came up behind me and put your hands on my shoulders. You squeezed them once, firmly, and I felt the pressure of your fingers on my muscles well after you’d taken them away.

  You’d been struck with morning sickness but still dragged yourself to lunch at trendy restaurants where you’d be available to the cameras. I tagged along in modest but presentable clothing, your homely but loyal companion, the best friend without whom you couldn’t do a single thing.

  “Polly says it’s important to stay on the radar during filming,” you said. “I don’t like it, though. I’m working all day on set, and I’d much rather go somewhere private. Publicity is so much easier when the movie’s finished. I wish I could just avoid everything now.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “It’s just not how it works. You have to feed the machine, or it’ll eat someone else.”

  I rolled my eyes. I didn’t care who saw. “But you don’t have to, do you? Does everyone do it?”

  “The men don’t have to, at least not as much. You notice Raf hardly ever goes out to lunch.” There was a note of contempt in your voice.

  I paused, thinking of the yellow Jaguar. “I’ve wondered what he does while we’re out.”

  “I don’t know what the hell he does,” you spat.

  We were in a spacious restaurant with high ceilings and white faux-leather booth seating—too vast for our dining neighbors to hear us. Sputnik-style light fixtures hung above, like sea urchins, each arm ending in a blinding bulb. You were in a striped cotton top that hung off one shoulder, exposing a bra strap. With your loose hair, you were a picture of easy style, the tens
ion visible only at close range, as you pushed a kale and chicken salad around in its bowl.

  At the other side of the restaurant was an actress whose name I didn’t know. She sat enthroned at the head of a table filled with handmaidens. When I commented on the arrangement, you scoffed. “So many actresses are like that. They love being worshipped and manipulating their worshipers. It’s like middle school. One girl comes into favor, and another gets rebuffed.”

  “You’re not like that,” I said sweetly. You didn’t need a group of subservients. Only one.

  “No, I think entourages are gross. And you know I don’t trust the women here. They all want something.” You blinked and simpered at me. “I’m so lucky I have you, Abby. I know I’ve been distracted lately, but I just want to tell you again how glad I am you came out here and stayed with me. I don’t know how I could cope with everything alone. I know we haven’t talked about it yet, but I’m hoping we can find someplace new for you to live, near the house, so you can pop over easily. Expenses paid, of course.”

  I stared. What you were saying was ridiculous. But you must have believed I was pathetic enough to shuttle between your house and my kennel like a little pet. You didn’t see that there was no place I could occupy with dignity anymore. I finished chewing my food. “I’m sure we’ll work something out,” I said. “I’ll look for an apartment while you’re on your honeymoon.”

  You shifted in the booth toward me and gave me an awkward hug. There was no bulge yet at your abdomen, but I thought I could feel the vibrating life inside.

  “I’m sick to my stomach again,” you said as you pulled away.

  We sat in silence after that. I kept my eyes on my plate, carefully cutting my crepe and glancing up furtively. You didn’t look sick. The turquoise earrings against your hair were bewitching. You knew this. You’d been using color to your advantage since childhood. I remembered the ribbons you’d threaded through your braids in fourth grade, turning yourself into a May Queen, and how all the girls had gone home after school to find ribbons for themselves. I was the only one who hadn’t, the only one who’d never tried to imitate you.

  You paid the bill, and we came out into the blaring sun. The cameras were waiting. They snapped and swarmed, and I felt the physical effort it took for you to turn around to face them before getting into the car, to dig deep and pull out a heart-stopping smile.

  That night, I dreamed of waking in my bed. I heard voices. I got out of bed, quietly opened the door of my room, and listened. The voices were coming from down the hall, from your dream room with the hanging orbs. I stepped silently into the corridor and heard a murmur and laughter. The door to the orb room was ajar, pushed inward. Rafael’s voice came from inside, saying, “Yes, like that.” I pushed the door in.

  It took a moment to interpret the scene. The orbs were gone, and there were several figures on the floor. I looked at the one nearest the door, and understood before my mind could fill in the details. The nude woman turned her head to me from where she knelt on all fours. There was a saddle on her back, strapped and buckled. It would have been an almost comical sight, were it not for the bridle fastened to her face. There was a horse bit, tight as a ball gag, pulling at the sides of her mouth. My eyes darted around the room, found several other nude women in horse tack. I looked back to the first woman, and her eyes met mine with a look of pained endurance. I recognized her, then, as the French actress Mireille Sauvage. A necklace of yellow gemstones hung incongruously at her clavicle.

  Finally, I spotted Rafael against the far wall, the only one fully dressed, in his black shirt and jeans. “Hello,” he said. “I was hoping you’d come. Would you like to join?”

  I stood still in the doorway as he came nearer, holding a small bucket.

  “This is the last touch,” he said, raising the bucket. “You can just watch, if you like, but I’d love it if you joined us.” He dipped a hand into the bucket. “Look,” he said, pulling something out. He looked straight into my eyes and—again—there was the sharp voltage. I knew that it was really him. He was really there, sharing the dream. “It reminds me a little bit of your other dream,” he said. “The one you wouldn’t tell me. The oozing and sliding.”

  He went to the French actress, and I watched him place a small dark object on her haunch. It adhered, then began to creep along her skin, leaving a wet trail. “Oh God, so slow,” he said in a low, raspy voice. The woman’s hip twitched, jostling the saddle. She closed her eyes. “Perfect,” Rafael told her. “Keep still, just like that.”

  I stood watching as the slug moved over the woman’s body, from hip to torso, sliding under her rib cage, disappearing beneath a hanging breast. Her eyes remained closed, as if she were forcefully meditating. Rafael moved to the next woman and placed a slug on each cheek of her buttocks. He turned to me and said, “I’m getting so hard.” He moved his hand to the front of his jeans and rubbed himself slowly. “Are you sure you don’t want to try?”

  I took a step toward him in the dream, and he laughed.

  “No, Abby, not you. It was only a joke.”

  The woman laughed, too, through the horse bit. I fell backward through the door and swept through the hallway into my room. When I looked down at my feet, I saw that they were a few inches above the floor. I went into the bathroom, fastened the lock, and sat on the toilet seat. The room was black, with only a thin line of light in the mirror from the crack beneath the door.

  Filming ended, at last. I opted to stay in the house rather than attend the wrap party with you and Rafael. I didn’t even want to look at him. Every time his eyes met mine, it was in an intolerably viscid, furtive way that stroked at our secret. I didn’t want to be near either of you.

  You came home alone from the party before midnight, your skin pallid, and went right to sleep. The next day we had lunch in Topanga. You said that you were sick of the hot spots, that you wanted to get away for a minute, just be in a different place. The wedding was in a week, and your mind was already in Argentina—the dress was finished, the guest rooms booked, the honeymoon scheduled—but for now, Topanga was the closest thing to leaving. Climbing up the canyon road, slowing around the curves, we passed the public art wall with its masks and relief sculptures. It was darker here, secretive. The road narrowed and snaked, and at one point you were forced to brake hard to avoid a head-on collision. This mountain was a reckless place, for reckless people. The houses were built on slopes prone to mudslides, in a game of chicken with nature. I didn’t know where Paul’s cabin was in this network of harebrained roads, but I knew it was close. I could sense it like a mountain lion breathing in the woods.

  At the restaurant, we took an outdoor table beside a stream. The chairs were wooden and rickety, and there was a mason jar of white and purple larkspur on the table. A bearded waiter came to our table and took our orders. You asked for herbal tea; I ordered champagne.

  You looked better today, as if you’d slept well. Your hair was tied back and your face was fresh without makeup. You wore no jewelry, not even earrings, and your natural radiance—the beauty of an adored child—shone through. You picked up the paper menu, then put it down. “I honestly don’t think I can eat,” you said. “I’m just too upset.”

  “What is it?” I asked, though I’d felt an instant spark of knowledge, as if I’d touched a socket. It had to be Rafael. Your engagement was over, or beginning its terminal throes. You’d discovered his infidelities. My dream had been accurate.

  “Perren invited me to audition.” You gazed darkly at me. “And Abby, his new film sounds incredible. It all takes place in the ocean, and he wants me to audition as a siren. Not a beautiful one, but a feathery bird-woman with wings and scaly legs, like how the Greeks first imagined them.”

  My chair rocked and threatened to tip. I held the edge of the table to steady myself.

  “I don’t know if it’s a big part or not,” you said. “But it doesn’t matter. I can’t do it. How can I do it? I’d have to tell him I’m pregnant. It’ll be o
bvious soon. And then he can’t use me.”

  Our drinks arrived, and I gripped my champagne flute. “You should do it anyway,” I heard myself say. “If he wants to cast you, maybe you can work something out.”

  You smiled faintly and closed your eyes. When you opened them again, they locked on mine, bright and vapid. There was nothing in them. You hadn’t been filled, over all these years, but had been left carefully hollow. This, I imagined, was why actresses cracked so easily with age, like glass vases—why they were so swiftly and thoroughly ruined.

  I drank the champagne fast, and as you sipped your tea, I ordered another glass. You glanced disapprovingly, but I said nothing. The sound of Perren’s name had lit something in me. You weren’t the one who mattered. I was. I was the one who was filled to bursting, the one who deserved feathered wings.

  “You’re right,” you said finally. “I should do it.”

  There were, ludicrously, tears in your eyes.

  XIV.

  THE SOUTH American sky was inverted. The day was blue and clear, but through my sunglasses, everything was dimmed as through a tinted window. I drank sangria and restlessly ate olives from a little bowl on the café table as I observed the church across the street. It was a stone chapel with an arched door and ruffled steeple, one of the oldest in Buenos Aires. I’d already been watching the church for over an hour, feeling the adrenaline swirl inside me. The photographers had been staked out since morning, resting their equipment on the ground, taking desultory pictures of the facade. I’d had vague instructions to divert them, but it was useless. They knew the location was correct.

  It was my first time outside the country. My expedited passport had arrived forty-eight hours before, and I’d boarded a jet with you and Rafael and a few select companions. Now, sitting on la calle Bolívar on this Wednesday in January, I thought of Meijer, thousands of miles away, where I would have been in that other life. At this very moment, the magazine distributors would be rotating the weeklies, refreshing the racks at the checkout aisles. The customers would be pausing with their carts to drink in the new scandals and spectacles. I would have been one of them, in that other life, searching for you like a lovesick girl.