Mrs. Fletcher

by Tom Perrotta

  Good for them, he thought.

  He slid his hand down Margo’s back, tracing the ravine of her spine all the way to the gentle swell at the bottom, the beginning of a different landscape. He tucked his thumb inside the waistband of her skirt, tugging down a little bit, a promise for later.

  “Mmmm,” she said, like something tasted good.

  He’d had only one bad moment the entire night, right when the music started up. Margo was normally a graceful person, with the physical control of an athlete, but you wouldn’t have known it from watching her on the dance floor. In motion, she seemed bigger and more masculine than she’d been on the couch, uncomfortable in her own body, not the person Dumell wanted her to be. It must have shown on his face, because she stopped and asked him what was wrong. She had a slightly spooky ability to read his expressions, to register every flicker of doubt or hesitation.

  “Nothing,” he told her. “ ’Cept you dance like a white girl.”

  Margo had laughed with relief, as if that were the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her. She loosened up after that and so did he. But he was still a little off-balance, unsettled by the knowledge that his feelings could—and sometimes did—turn on a dime, that he might not be able to follow through with what he’d started, that his courage would fail in the clutch the way it had so many times before, that he might hurt someone who’d trusted him. All he had to do was think himself outside of this room and this little group of people, to imagine the faces of his family, his ex-wife, his co-workers, the guys in his unit, some of them smirking, others shaking their heads, as if they had a right to judge. Who the fuck were they? They didn’t know Margo, or what she’d been through, or how she made him feel. Shit, most of them didn’t even know Dumell. Not really.

  He felt her stiffen in his arms. She tried to smile, but her face was pale and defenseless.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  The song was still playing, but they weren’t moving anymore. They were just standing there, looking at each other from across a very narrow divide.

  “It’s all good,” he said, right before he kissed her.

  * * *

  The only problem with hosting a successful party, Eve thought, was the letdown you felt at the end of it, when the music stopped and the lights came on and the guests started asking for their coats. Margo and Dumell were the first dominoes to fall. Eve hugged them goodbye with a smile that was the product of pure willpower.

  Amanda was already busy in the kitchen, rinsing dirty glasses and loading them into the dishwasher, preparing for her own departure. Hoping to postpone the inevitable, Eve asked her to mix one last batch of margaritas, only to be reminded, by her own employee, that they had to work in the morning.

  Eve winced. “Let’s not talk about work, okay? Work is sooo boring. All I ever do is work.”

  Amanda opened her mouth, but no words came out. She looked so cute in her polka-dot dress, her face all flushed and glistening.

  “You’re such a great dancer,” Eve told her. “Really sexy.”

  “So are you. I had no idea.”

  Eve waved off the compliment. “I’m out of practice. I have to get out more. I spend way too much time at home, staring at my computer screen. It’s not good. I need to live in my body, you know? Just get out of my head a little.”

  “We all do.” Amanda placed the last glass in the rack and closed the dishwasher door. “It was a great party. I think Margo really enjoyed it.”

  Eve agreed, but didn’t want to be diverted from her purpose.

  “Just one more drink. What’s the big deal?”

  Amanda exhaled a skeptical breath. “I’m gonna be pretty hung-over as it is.”

  “Call in sick. I won’t tell the boss.”

  Before Amanda could respond, Julian wandered in from the living room, phone in hand, his long hair tucked girlishly behind his ears.

  “What’s up?” he said, with just a hint of a slur. “You guys talkin’ about me again?”

  “I should drive you home,” Amanda told him. “You’re way too drunk to ride a skateboard.”

  “What?” Julian looked offended. “You’re drunker’n I am.”

  “Not even close, dude.”

  “Really?” He squinted at her. “You’re not drunk?”

  “Maybe a little,” Amanda conceded. “I would say I’m mildly inebriated.”

  Julian smirked. “Tell that to the breathalyzer.”

  “I live like five minutes away. I’m not gonna get pulled over.”

  Skateboards. Breathalyzers.

  “Why don’t you just sleep here?” Eve said. “There’s three bedrooms upstairs. I have spare toothbrushes if you need them. My dentist gives them out free with every checkup.”

  “Mine too!” Julian was excited by the coincidence. “You go to Dr. Halawi?”

  * * *

  The bed in the guest room was perfectly comfortable. There were more than enough blankets, the windows weren’t drafty, and the shades blocked out the moonlight much more effectively than the flimsy curtains in Amanda’s own bedroom. The pajamas Eve had loaned her were soft and fit reasonably well, despite the difference in their body types. There really was no good reason why she couldn’t fall asleep, especially after all the tequila she’d drunk.

  It was just nerves, the by-product of a long and sometimes stressful night—the lecture, the party, new people, more dancing than she’d done in a long time. She was all wound up, her senses on high alert. It didn’t help that she was also super-horny, a condition that afflicted her whenever she slept in a strange place—a hotel, her grandmother’s house, a friend’s apartment in the city, a bare-bones Airbnb, a tent in the woods, even a sleeper car on a train, which was something she’d experienced exactly once in her life. Being in a bed that wasn’t her own instantly flooded her brain with thoughts of sex.

  Or, in this case, the absence of sex.

  She’d really believed that something was going to happen with Eve. They’d been flirting all night, lots of meaningful glances and not-quite-accidental contact on the dance floor. And then Eve had convinced her to sleep over, encouraging her to get even more drunk than she already was, and to go ahead and play hooky from work in the morning. It had felt like a pretty straightforward seduction, one person pressing, the other resisting, then wobbling, then giving in.

  And then . . . Nothing.

  Why’d you make me stay if you weren’t going to do anything?

  They’d had their opportunity. Right after Amanda had brushed her teeth, Eve had knocked on the guest room door and presented her with a little bedtime care package—a bath towel, a pair of clean pajamas, a bottle of Tylenol. Eve had already changed into her sleeping clothes, sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt that said, Haddington Youth Lacrosse. It felt so intimate seeing her boss in that context, her face tired and sweet, softer without makeup. I thought you might need a few things. Julian was in the bathroom—they could hear the water running—so it would have been easy for Eve to slip into the room and stay for as long as she wanted. But for some reason, she lingered shyly in the doorway.

  Sleep tight, Eve told her. I’ll see you in the morning.

  Right now, though, the morning felt like an eternity away, and Amanda was dreading the thought of it. It would be so awkward, waking up hungover in Eve’s house, heading downstairs with bad breath and a splitting headache, dressed in yesterday’s clothes. A walk of shame, but without any shameful fun to make it worth the embarrassment. And then what were they gonna do? Eat breakfast together?

  I can’t, she thought. I just can’t.

  Better to just slip out now, leave a note on the kitchen table so Eve wouldn’t worry. She wondered if she should knock on Julian’s door on the way out, see if he was awake and wanted a ride home as well.

  He was a sweet kid. He’d really opened up to her on the way back from the liquor store, telling her about his clinical depression, his hatred of high school, his fears of going away to college, the diffic
ulty he had talking to girls his own age.

  She knew exactly what was weighing him down: that helpless feeling that you were wasting your precious youth and it was your own damn fault. It was something you never quite recovered from, and it usually led to some stupid mistakes down the road, many of which were worse than a few regrettable tattoos. She wished she could climb into a time machine and make herself twenty again, just so she could be his girlfriend for a while, let him know how great he was, build up his confidence for the future. It sounded like a good idea for a TV show, a modern-day feminist superhero:

  Amanda Olney, Agent of Sexual Justice.

  * * *

  Brendan’s room was a jock shrine. Trophies from a lifetime of athletic excellence—Little League baseball (All-Star!), Pop Warner football (County Champs!), middle school swimming (2nd Place, Backstroke!), Haddington Youth Lacrosse (Most Valuable Player!)—were crowded on top of the dresser, right below a framed photo collage that must have been assembled by Brendan’s ridiculously hot cheerleader girlfriend, Becca DiIulio, since it included two different images of Becca looking fine in a bikini (one orange, one pink), the latter of which was actually autographed in silver marker, as if she were a fucking movie star: Luv ya, Becca xxxooo! There were three pics of Brendan with sunglasses and no shirt. He was the kind of dick who made muscleman poses for the camera and wasn’t being ironic about it. Just to rub it in, he had a roll of LifeStyles condoms stashed in his sock drawer—Julian couldn’t help taking a peek—eighteen in all, because you never knew when the whole cheerleading squad might show up and beg to be fucked, one right after the other.

  Eighteen condoms. A little whimper of defeat leaked from Julian’s throat. He hadn’t bought eighteen condoms in his entire life. For a minute, he thought about searching for a sharp object—a safety pin or some nail scissors—and poking a few strategic holes in Brendan’s lifestyle, but he quickly detected the flaw in this plan: all it would do was populate the world with more little Brendans, which would not be doing the world a favor.

  It would be doubly weird if Brendan had a kid, because that would make Eve a grandma, and Eve didn’t look like anyone’s grandma. Julian had been lusting after her all night—she was wearing a snug gray pullover, just a hint of cleavage, and a fuzzy light blue skirt that he badly wanted to touch. She and Amanda were so into each other on the dance floor that Julian had expected them to start making out, though they never actually did, which was too bad.

  After he finished his depressing inspection of the room, Julian turned off the light and climbed into bed. Eve had assured him that the sheets were clean, but even so, it was kind of disturbing—this was Brendan Fletcher’s mattress and Brendan Fletcher’s pillow, the soft place where Brendan Fletcher rested his empty head and dreamed his vapid dreams. Julian wasn’t sure whether to feel disgusted or triumphant. It had to count as a small victory just to be here, to have penetrated so deeply into enemy territory.

  Did it qualify as revenge to jerk off in Brendan’s bed while fantasizing about his mother? At the very least, it was fun to imagine Brendan’s reaction to the news.

  Hey Brendan, your mom is sucking my dick.

  Hey Brendan, your mom’s got amazing boobs.

  Hey Brendan, your mom’s a really nice person.

  No, wait . . .

  Hey Brendan, your mom likes it doggie style.

  Hey Brendan, I’m going down on your mom.

  That was the one he settled on. He was going down on Eve, and she was totally into it, doing the whole porn star moaning thing, like the whole world needed to know how good he was making her feel. He imagined that she was shaved down there, though he had no idea.

  Hey Brendan, your mom tastes like strawberries.

  There was a soft knock at the door.

  Oh shit.

  He let go of his dick just as the door creaked open.

  “Hey Julian,” Amanda whispered. “You asleep?”

  * * *

  Eve woke with a vague sense of unease. She held her breath and listened. There was something unfamiliar—even slightly alarming—about the silence that surrounded her.

  Calm down . . .

  She had these night frights every now and then—the panicky suspicion that an intruder had broken into the house—and they were always false alarms.

  It’s probably nothing . . .

  And then it came back to her, a tiny explosion of relief.

  She had company.

  Thank God.

  Maybe Amanda needed a glass of water. Maybe Julian was sick. They’d all had too much to drink, never a recipe for a good night’s sleep, though Eve herself had managed to doze off without too much trouble.

  It was nice to have guests in the house. Comforting, and also validating—this was exactly what she’d hoped for after Brendan left for college, during those first melancholy and disorienting days in the empty nest. She’d made a vow to create a new life for herself, to meet some interesting people, to make some new friends and have a little fun. And the miracle was, she’d actually done all these things, and it hadn’t even taken that much time or effort. She’d signed up for one class. She’d accepted an invitation. She’d thrown a party. She’d opened her heart, and the world had responded.

  How often does that happen?

  Not very often, she knew, which was why she hadn’t pushed her luck with Amanda, though she’d very badly wanted to. New friends were rare and valuable, worth a lot more than a fleeting sexual adventure that would only cause pain and confusion down the road. She could tell that Amanda was disappointed—she’d looked so bereft, standing in the guest room doorway—but Eve knew she’d made the right decision—the adult decision—the one that would be best for both of them in the long run. Someday they’d have to talk about it, when they weren’t drunk and sleeping under the same roof. She was sure that Amanda would understand.

  There was that noise again. It wasn’t loud, but it was followed a second later by a groan of distress that sounded like it had come from Brendan’s room. Eve threw off the covers. It was a familiar feeling, padding down the hallway in the darkness. Standing outside her son’s door, straining her ears for the sound of slow, steady breathing that would let her know that everything was okay. But that wasn’t what she heard.

  “Ooooh fuck! You’re amazing!”

  “Shhhh.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Shhhh.”

  You’ve got to be kidding me . . .

  The last time this happened, Eve had retreated in horror. But that was her son, not her friends. This time she opened the door—just a crack—and peered inside.

  It was dark, but she could see pretty well.

  Amanda was on top of Julian, her polka-dot dress unbuttoned to the waist. Her breasts were shockingly large, her tattoo a blotchy shadow. She turned and looked at Eve. She seemed oddly calm, not the least bit embarrassed.

  “Sorry,” she said. “We didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Eve opened the door a little wider. “I’m a light sleeper.”

  Amanda continued her gentle rocking. It was beautiful to watch, and weirdly familiar, like a memory from a dream or a video. Eve took a step forward.

  “Is this okay?” Julian asked.

  “It’s okay with me,” Amanda said.

  Eve moved closer. Her foot landed on something strange, a snakelike object that turned out to be a roll of condoms. She was glad to know they were being safe.

  Amanda reached for Eve’s hand.

  “Ursula,” she said, as their fingers intertwined.

  Eve bent down and kissed her; this time there was no confusion, no rejection, no need to apologize. It was a long, slow, welcoming kiss, and it didn’t stop until Julian lifted his hand and placed it, very tentatively, on Eve’s breast.

  “Is this okay?” he asked again, gazing up at her with a worried expression.

  Eve thought for a second.

  “I hope so,” she said.

  Julian looked reli
eved.

  “You’re a really nice person,” he told her.

  * * *

  I was going out of my mind, drinking alone in my room, scrolling through my useless contacts. I left two messages for my dad, but I guess he’d already gone to bed, and my mom didn’t pick up, either. Becca ignored my invitation to Skype. Wade had a midterm he needed to study for, and Troy’s phone was running out of juice. Will and Rico had dropped some acid, and they weren’t making any sense. Dylan’s phone went straight to voicemail, so I finally tried Sanjay, because I couldn’t think of anyone else, and he picked up right away.

  “What are you doing right now?” I asked him.

  “Just working.”

  “Let’s go get some pizza or something.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Please? Just one fucking slice.”

  “Brendan, are you okay?”

  “No, dude.” I tried to laugh, but it came out weird. “I am not okay.”

  He told me I should find my RA, or maybe go to Health Services. He said it might help if I talked to someone. But I didn’t feel like talking to anyone.

  “I hate this fucking place. I just want to go home.”

  It felt good to say it out loud, but then I started to cry. It took me a while to get it under control.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m a fucking mess.”

  *

  Ten minutes later we were in Student Lot C, buckling ourselves into his sister’s Subaru wagon, which wasn’t really his sister’s. It belonged to their parents and Sanjay had his own set of keys.

  “You really don’t have to do this,” I told him.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I know how it feels. I get homesick all the time.”

  The highway was pretty clear at that time of night, mostly big trucks barreling along in the right lane. Sanjay was a decent driver, not as timid as I thought he’d be. He was also pretty easy to talk to, and knew a lot more about sports and music than I’d thought he would, which was a relief, since it was a long way to Haddington. Talking helped pass the time and kept my mind off the fact that I was a Huge Disappointment.