Age of Consent

by Amanda Brainerd

  Clay got to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his face.

  “D-don’t,” she chattered.

  “You shouldn’t have to see that. Nobody should.”

  “S’okay.” It wasn’t. That man was Clay’s father. Mr. Bradley, in taffeta, with a boy.

  “I need a long walk. I’ll put you in a cab.”

  “I can take the b-bus.”

  “It’s one in the morning! And you’re half naked!”

  She looked down to see her breasts, perfectly visible through her soda-soaked silk shirt. Justine quickly crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I’ll put you in a cab,” Clay repeated, heading toward the curb.

  “Wait!” she insisted, following him, shivering. She was freezing, even though it was at least ninety degrees. And tomorrow was her first day of work and she didn’t have cab fare home.

  Clay hailed one and it pulled over.

  Fine, she’d get off in a few blocks and walk. Let the muggers attack her. She’d tear their throats out with her clattering teeth.

  Clay held open the taxi door. “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

  She stared at him in confusion.

  “I’ve learned to think the worst,” he explained, “about everything. Now you know why. Fifty-fifth and Tenth,” he said to the driver. She got in, and he handed her a ten. She pushed it back but he folded her fingers around it.

  Clay closed the door. The cab started to move. She turned and watched him walk down Avenue A.

  FOUR

  A piercing chirp woke Justine, and she fumbled for the button of her alarm clock. Then she remembered last night and pushed her face into the pillow. Images appeared like flash cards. Mr. Bradley, his tongue jammed into that boy’s mouth. Clay’s tragic face. The hooker. Justine’s mouth was dry, her eyes gluey, and she realized with a jolt that today was her first day of work. She hauled herself off the futon and limped toward the shower to wash off the stench of sweat and cigarettes.

  Props for Today was on the ninth floor of a warehouse on Twenty-fourth Street and the Hudson River. Justine stepped off the freight elevator and stopped dead, gaping at the Piranesian scale of the room. Shafts of light streamed through factory windows, illuminating metal shelves stuffed with props: a green plumed headdress, a copper cauldron, a steamer trunk inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  In a corner was a small trailer with a droning air conditioner punched into its side. She threw her coffee cup in a garbage can as Gretchen Lermontov swept out of the trailer in a blast of arctic air.

  “Justine, darling!” she trilled, pressing the girl to her soft, capacious bosom. “You look exhausted. Are you getting enough sleep?”

  “It’s just so hot in our apartment,” Justine said.

  “No air-conditioning?”

  Justine shook her head.

  “I, for one, never believed in AC. We Europeans find it unhealthy.”

  Justine’s eyes strayed to the unit poking from the trailer.

  “Oh, that! The employees take breaks in there. It just gives me the grippe, it really does,” Gretchen said, rolling her r’s like a cat’s purr. “Come, I shall give you the grand tour.”

  The warehouse was piled with miles of shelves that towered to the ceiling. Objects Justine could not imagine anyone would ever need. A coat of armor, a pink Victorian telephone, a machine gun. It was hot and dusty, but, as Justine soon realized, meticulously cataloged and organized.

  “Each prop has my own system of numbers,” Gretchen was saying proudly, “and as with the Dewey Decimal System, those numbers correspond to a number in the card catalog.” Justine nodded. Her head ached. She wondered if Clay was at his desk, and how he was feeling this morning.

  “If a client calls . . . let’s say he’s directing the stage adaptation of The Seventh Seal. We did that last summer. Well, then, he’d want a scythe and a chess set. In which case, what would you do?”

  “Um, I’d look in the card catalog?”

  “Right, and what would you look under?”

  “Um, scythe?” Justine recalled seeing Stanley last night; what was he doing in the city?

  “Well, that would be a start. But our system is even better than that. Scythe would be cross-referenced under ‘Tools comma Harvest’ and also under ‘Symbols comma Political.’ Without a system as effective as mine, finding anything here would be a nightmare.”

  Justine did her best to look at once impressed and enthralled.

  “Let’s get started. See those boxes? They’re for Williamstown. The request is in the office, should be right on the desk. Find the props they want. By the time Seymour rolls in, he can show you how to pack them.”

  “Uh, Gretchen?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Could I use the phone? I just want to tell my roommate that I got here safely, I’m new to the city and she worries.”

  “How sweet! Of course, it’s in the office.”

  * * *

  —

  It was at least thirty below in the trailer. Papers were everywhere, on the carpeted floor, on the metal desk, on an old brown filing cabinet. Justine picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Hello?”

  “Eve! Thank God you’re not at work!”

  “Galleries don’t open till eleven. Maybe I can come over after work?”

  Justine desperately wanted to tell her about last night. She wondered if she’d have the guts to do so. “Only if you can hang out with no air-conditioning and pot smoke,” she said.

  “Always. Ciao for now.”

  * * *

  —

  After an hour of hunting down props by combing the aisles, riffling through the card catalog, and staring at the instructions, Justine was covered with sweat and dirt. She consulted the next item on the list. “Oil lamp,” and then “Whips, large.” Wiping her face on her T-shirt made it look like the Shroud of Turin. Where would that be filed? “Textiles, biblical”?

  Flipping through the card catalog, she found the listing for oil lamp, jotted down the number, and trudged over to grab an Aladdin-esque one off the shelf.

  Gretchen’s head popped around the corner.

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “An oil lamp?”

  “Heavens no, it’s a Chekhov play. Look under kerosene.”

  * * *

  —

  Later, Justine was at the card catalog when she heard Gretchen’s voice ring out over the shelves.

  “Aisle P, as in Pierre!”

  The sound seemed to be coming from a stuffed grizzly at the end of the row. She found Gretchen standing behind it with an ancient, stooped man.

  “Goodness, I’ve been calling and calling! Justine Rubin, Seymour Oliphant.”

  Seymour must have been over ninety, with watery pale eyes and a gash of a mouth set in a tired face. She shook his veiny hand and watched a crooked smile suddenly illuminate his features.

  Gretchen put her arm around his little shoulders. “Seymour is our majordomo, anything you need, he’s your man. Rats! That blasted phone.”

  Seymour shuffled closer to her, taking her wrist in his fingers with surprising strength. “I have a theory that Gretchen hears the phone when she wants to escape. But, then, I’m a little deaf.”

  “I didn’t hear it either.”

  He smiled and let her wrist drop. “It’s just ten. What’s she got you doing at this ungodly hour?”

  “I’ve been here since eight!” she said.

  “That will have to change. We all need our beauty sleep.”

  She wondered how Clay looked today. If only they could have woken up together. If only none of last night had happened. If only the whole horrible thing could bring them closer. If only she wasn’t convinced it would push them apart. He’d been so eager to be alone, to ship her home.

  “Wh
at did Madame Tsarina assign you?”

  “Williamstown.”

  “What do those cretins need now?” Seymour grumbled.

  “All these weapons—guns, rifles, shotguns. And they’re all over the place.”

  Seymour shuffled closer to her. A whiff of mothballs hit her nostrils.

  “Smart girl. The place could be completely reorganized. I’ve been thinking that for years. In fact”—he reached into his pocket—“I’ve been keeping this notebook with my observations.”

  “Justine, darling,” Gretchen called, striding over, “Williamstown asked for a whip. You put a riding crop aside?”

  Justine admitted that she had passed the crop on the shelf when she was looking for the decanter.

  “We must always look things up. There are great subtleties in props. Oh no, the phone again!” and Gretchen was off.

  * * *

  —

  Justine walked up Tenth Avenue toward home. She’d finished work at six, having finally found the proper Chekhovian lamp, escaping after Seymour had shown Gretchen his pocket watch and cleared his throat meaningfully. She was sweaty, dusty, and needed a shower. She hoped the bathroom didn’t reek of Dino’s Paco Rabanne cologne.

  Eve was coming over this evening, and there was nothing to eat in the house. Justine dug in her pocket. After paying eight of Clay’s ten dollars to the taxi driver, she had two dollars left. Passing a McDonald’s as she continued north, she went inside. The woman behind the cash register had vicious glue-on fingernails. Justine ordered a Big Mac and fries, skipping the soda to save money. As she continued home, she devoured the fries from the bag.

  India was not home, neither was Dino. Justine set the McDonald’s bag on the counter and picked up the phone. She dialed the Bradley house. The answering machine. She headed into her room, tearing off her damp T-shirt. The buzzer rang. Justine grabbed another shirt and chucked the keys out the window.

  Eve arrived and Justine admired her shoulder pads and narrow skirt. She seemed older all of a sudden. They were both growing up, but Eve, glamorous and groomed, looked like she was having a much better time of it.

  Eve held out a cold bottle of white wine. It looked expensive.

  “Where’d Clay take you last night?”

  “Pyramid. And Stanley was there, I think I gave him India’s number,” Justine said.

  “I wonder how Stanley ended up in the city. What’s he living on? He’s even more broke than . . .”

  Eve did not finish her sentence. “Well, we have to find him,” she said decisively as she pulled open a drawer looking for the corkscrew. “He’s probably living on the street.” Eve found it and peeled the lead off the top of the bottle. “Big Mac?”

  Justine gave her a feeble smile. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks. How was Clay?”

  Justine almost choked. Did Eve know?

  “I still think the guy leads something of a charmed life,” Eve said. “He’s been given everything, after all. How important are mom and dad anyway?”

  Pretty important, Justine thought as she took a big gulp of wine.

  “I watched the whole family fall apart,” Eve continued. “It was like a Greek tragedy.” Eve paused, looking pained as she reflected on the demise of the Bradley family. “You know what’s weird about parents, though,” she continued, setting her glass down, “once I got expelled, even though I was barely allowed to leave the house, it felt strangely comfy. They still drive me up the wall and my mother is like the evil queen, but I dunno . . . I felt safe, like if I fell and scraped my knee, Mom and Dad would be there.”

  They sipped wine in silence, Justine wondering whether Eve knew about Clay’s father, whether she’d known all along. Justine couldn’t bear to ask.

  “God, I’d love to go to the Pyramid,” Eve said, psychic as ever.

  “Yeah, but I’m totally fried today.” And Philip Bradley was kissing a boy as young as your brother.

  “Any good drag queens last night?” Eve asked.

  “There was one with a snake that almost licked Clay’s face,” Justine said.

  “That must have freaked him out!”

  Justine took another bite of the burger.

  “Mind if I smoke while you eat?” Eve asked.

  Justine nodded as Eve took out her Gauloise tobacco and started to roll a cigarette. She licked the paper, spitting a tendril of tobacco out of her mouth with a pfff.

  “Don’t you think it’s weird that Dino and Raymond know each other?” Eve lit her cigarette.

  Justine wasn’t sure. It seemed everyone knew one another and had for ages, like Tierney and Jackie and Christina and Bruce and so on. Justine was the only one who didn’t know them all from way back when.

  She got up, feeling unsteady. Maybe a burger and wine on an empty stomach had been a crappy idea. Staggering to the window, Justine took in huge breaths through her mouth. Heat and the stench of garbage wafted up from below.

  Eve was beside her in a moment. “You okay?”

  Justine’s eyes filled with tears. No, she was not okay. She just wanted to go home.

  “You need to get out of this insane heat,” Eve said, stroking her arm. “We’ll find a way to get you out to the beach.”

  FIVE

  NEW YORK CITY, JUNE 21, 1984

  Dear Mr. Winkler:

  Happy Summer Solstice!

  Thank you for your letter. Sorry it was so hot there, and not to talk about the weather or anything, but it has cooled off here.

  I’m working at the Margot Moore gallery. It is on West Broadway and I’m extremely busy helping prepare for the upcoming Massimo Sforza show. It’s exciting work, and I feel lucky. It’s also fun being in SoHo every day.

  What are you teaching this summer? Is it mostly high school students from around the United States? I’d love to know what’s on your syllabus.

  I bought a copy of the Eco book you recommended. It looks perfect for me, so thanks.

  I just finished The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles. I loved it—it completely transported me to that part of the world. I did go to Morocco with my parents four years ago, and the book really captured the exotic atmosphere. A strange thing happened there, I was only twelve and my mother and father had to literally hold my arms on either side so that men in the souks did not try to grab me. Mom and Dad were terrified but I thought it was funny.

  Then, in the Atlas Mountains a shepherd tried to trade a goat for my younger brother. We are still laughing about that. I still remember the tangerines we ate there, and the incredible sweet mint tea.

  I’d love to visit you, but I’m not sure I’d be allowed. When did you have in mind?

  Thank you again for writing, it was great to hear from you.

  Love and other indoor sports,

  Eve

  On Friday afternoon Eve was admiring Raymond’s slender figure at the espresso machine.

  “Want one?” he asked.

  She glanced around and nodded. He handed her a black demitasse just as Margot stormed in.

  “Right!” her boss snapped, looking at Raymond. “Take a look at Eve, would you? Sipping espresso on the biggest day of the summer. Does she have any idea where that coffee comes from?” Margot wheeled around to face Eve.

  Eve shook her head.

  “Tazza d’Oro,” her boss said.

  “The one in Rome?” Eve asked.

  “‘The one in Rome?’” Margot mimicked. “Let me guess, you were there on some teen tour?”

  Eve nodded. It was her favorite espresso place, near the Pantheon, she thought, as she set the cup down on the table.

  “Drink. It cost a fortune.”

  Eve picked it back up. “Mom and Dad are coming at three.”

  Margot glanced at her watch. “They’re getting the Salome. It will look great in their foyer next to the Hora
ce Anders. Slasher sculpture, slasher picture.”

  “I saw a really great Salome at Barbara’s loft,” Eve said.

  Margot’s eyebrows shot up. “Barbara Bradley?”

  Eve nodded.

  “You know Barbara Bradley?” her boss asked in a voice of controlled calm.

  “I grew up with her son,” Eve said, finishing her espresso.

  “Interesting. Raymond, my coffee?”

  “I’m just making it.”

  “Bring it to my office. Eve, stop hogging the oxygen and come with me.”

  Eve followed her into a room painted lipstick red, with a red Venetian-glass chandelier and a sofa shaped like lips. It was like being inside of Margot’s mouth.

  Margot pointed to the sofa. “Please have a seat.” Eve wondered if she was about to get fired.

  There was a tap on the door.

  “Come in!”

  Raymond placed another cup on the table and scurried out.

  Margot folded her hands on the desk and looked at Eve. Her lipstick had run into small fissures and she reminded Eve of Sekhmet, the Egyptian goddess with the head of a lion who had drunk rivers of blood. “I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m not exactly thrilled with you.”

  Eve nodded, feeling a lump in her throat.

  Her boss waited.

  “Please, Margot, I’m trying—”

  “If there’s one thing I must insist on,” Margot interrupted, “it’s disclosure.”

  Eve looked at her in confusion. Didn’t she mean closure?

  Her boss stirred the espresso with a tiny spoon. “You must share all information pertinent to the success of this business. You have to be an open book here, or else you are of no use and might as well sell handbags at Bonwit’s.”

  “I understand,” Eve lied.

  “Why have you been hiding this?” The spoon landed in the saucer with a clatter.

  Eve started to stand up.

  “Sit down! Everyone knows I’ve been trying to lure Barbara away from Holly’s for years, and I can’t understand how . . .” Margot’s voice shook with emotion. “How could you not tell me you know her?”