A knock on the door.
“Go answer it,” Anna orders, freeing herself of the apron. “And don’t forget to thank him.”
“What for?”
“The camera!”
I make my way to the front door and unlock the latch.
“Hi. Come in.” I shine, my portable smile stretching.
Ray is flustered. A little nervous, I suspect, at meeting the new girlfriend’s stepdaughter.
I notice his black hair is stiff with cold, hands protected by thick gray mittens. I think this rather strange: a grown man wearing mittens.
Man-child, Runner says.
For a moment I wonder whether there’s a strand of wool threaded through his sleeves so that he doesn’t lose them, a name tag sewn into the collar.
Portable smile still intact, I take his coat and hang it on the rack in the hallway, slyly checking for a string or name tag.
He’s still a man-child. Runner snorts when I don’t find any. Look, sneakers!
“Cold out there,” Ray says, thrusting a small bouquet of pink roses to meet my flat chest. “I believe these are your favorites.”
Touched by his effort, Dolly seizes the Light and flings her arms around Ray’s bulk.
“Thank you,” she says, holding on tight. “They’re lovely. Oh, and thanks for the camera too.”
Anna rushes through to Ray’s rescue, discreetly prying Dolly from Ray’s body.
“Comeincomein,” she says, quickly closing the door I’d left hanging open.
Ray wipes his feet.
“You look stunning,” he says, glancing at Anna’s dress. Black and fitted. A thin snakeskin belt squeezing her waist. Her blond hair curled and boinging around her collarbones. Lips and cheeks dusted with rose. Heels elevating her fine stockinged calves.
“Thank you,” she says, kissing his mouth, “you look great too.”
I look away.
Dolly giggles.
Oneiroi lowers her eyes, offering a beguiling shoulder.
Runner observes vigilantly, her crabby lip curled, while the Fouls stare with hard red eyes. A watchful stillness to their black capes, delivering a veiled shiver to the warm room.
“I’ll pop these in a vase,” I say, navigating Dolly back inside the Body.
“Under the sink.” Anna points.
Runner salutes and clicks her heels.
Ray’s like some big, splendid peach! Dolly says, leaning back, legs dangling over the Nest.
Anna busies herself while Ray and I settle at the dining room table, a red poinsettia wilting in front of the panting oven. A white cotton tablecloth crinkled from the dryer covering years’ worth of scratches and watermarks.
We take turns being polite, asking humdrum questions about the Christmas holidays, work, and what we’ve been doing all day.
Lying in bed, pretending to be sick, Runner says with a snort.
Dolly jumps down from the Nest, stamps her foot, and pushes past Runner and Oneiroi with stiff elbows.
Alexa is poorly! she says. Look at her wrists. And it hurts between her legs.
She deserved it, the Fouls hiss.
I look down at my wrists, still there, the violent bruising a reminder, and still sore. I pull down my sleeves again, this time securing both buttons.
Ray clears his throat.
“I’ve got some good news,” he says, his chest puffing out like a fattened frigate. “I’ve been promoted. To area manager.”
“Congratulations!” Anna sings, reaching over and kissing the top of his head. “I’m so proud of you.”
See, man-chi—
All right, I shout, I get it, Runner, now shut the fuck up!
I’m aware of how Anna’s words bite me, not a big wounding bite from some rabid dog, but a nip. In the heart. Anna rarely praising my work or me.
I feel a pang of jealousy grasp at my chest, which I instantly cut short with a sharp pinch to the back of my leg—old habits hard to kill.
Rome wasn’t built in a day, Oneiroi offers, stroking my skin with her fingers.
Runner rolls her eyes. Pfft, she mocks, you seriously are the queen of all clichés.
I watch Anna glide around the kitchen like a figure skater. When she lays the banquet of beef on the table, Ray becomes jubilant. He stretches his belly against his purple shirt, tapping his jolly set bulge as if to notify it that something good is on its way.
“Wow, this looks amazing,” Ray revels, tucking in before Anna and I have even picked up a fork.
“Please-please, start,” Anna says, gently guiding her hair from her eyes.
“Delicious,” Ray splutters, not caring his mouth is full—me getting a front-row view of chewed-up beef and pastry. A small dribble of brown leaking from his mouth. Anna leans over and wipes it for him. Runner throws me a look.
Eventually we move on to dessert. Peaches like the cheeks of babies, orbed and pink. A sprinkle of nutmeg like fine-grained freckles. Ray makes a sign for seconds while scraping his bowl, belly not quite content. His silly synthetic shirt slowly expanding, a gray tuft of hair peeking out from his chest.
“For you,” he says, handing us gifts that he’s had resting beneath the table.
“Thank you,” Anna says.
I open mine in seconds, revealing a stunning leather camera bag. I lift it to my nose and smell the warm leather. Its smoothness a stark contrast to the canvas one I’ve been using for years.
Wow, the Flock shine.
“I love it, Ray.” I smile.
Anna is also delighted with her gift—a brooch, which she immediately pins to the collar of her black dress.
“This is beautiful,” she says, stroking the white enameled cat. “How did you know I like cats?”
“I didn’t,” he says, “I just saw it and thought of you. I think it’s the eyes.”
Anna smiles.
“Let’s take a photo,” she says, suddenly stirred, “put it on automatic.”
I reach for my camera, currently resting beside the couch, and place it on the mantelpiece, all three of us smiling and awaiting the flash.
A warm glow fills my chest as I place my camera in its new leather home. A gratitude and contentment felt, so different from the Christmases we would spend with my father. Christmas was a time for drinking, and with that came hell, though I try my best to make these memories vague, like a dream.
Flash.
My father thrusts a foil cracker at me. “Pull it!” he says.
Inside: an orange paper crown, a thin little joke, and a tiny hand mirror. “Don’t look,” my father says, “it might crack!” Hahahahahahahaha.
He drunkenly pulls me into his side. One hand picking at his teeth, the other sliding to catch my waist and forcing me onto his lap. Kisses repeated on both of my cheeks.
“Don’t do that,” Anna says, her runaway words sprinting before she’s had time to rein them back in.
His eyes narrow.
“Fetch me more ice, girl!” he shouts, pushing me off his nylon-covered knee and waving his empty glass in my face.
Flash.
I stare at the bag full of ice—a line of chubby penguins dancing along the edge—smash it on the corner of the breakfast island, wishing it were my father’s skull. Thud. Thud. Thud.
I hate you. My lips mime the words, yet they never leave my mouth.
Returned, I stare at the cold pork belly and devoured lobsters, not a turkey in sight, then drop a chunk of ice in his whiskey tumbler.
“More ice,” he tuts, “so useless. So stupid. It’s better to have geese than girls!”
He pokes at my belly.
“You get fat and no one will want you. Especially me.” He laughs.
I stuff pork belly into my mouth and swallow. Defiant. A lump in my throat.
Flash.
They are drunk now. My father sporting the orange paper crown. Anna dancing to old Christmas songs.
Flash.
I climb into bed, alone.
Flash.
The
sound of their bedroom door slamming.
Flash.
“Are you a little slut?” my father shouts on the other side of my bedroom wall. “Say it.”
I cover Dolly’s ears. Crimp my eyes tight. The headboard jacking against the wall.
“Say it!” my father shouts again, slurring.
Anna doesn’t answer.
I imagine her mute, gagged or in shock. His rape of her something both feared and familiar.
Flash.
Tick-tock—
I blink and the images are gone. But I remember how her silence and his words and the jack of their headboard echoed and churned in the pit of my stomach. How I’d blocked out my hurt by slicing my legs.
I clear the plates while Ray and Anna move across to our old lumpy couch. Bodies nourished. The Christmas tree lights casting a halo across their foreheads.
“I’ll pop these in the dishwasher,” I shout, leaning out of the kitchen. The stretch forces a shooting pain between my legs, triggering an image of the Man in the Gray Suit.
“Thank you,” Anna says, magically transported behind me.
“Are you going out?” she whispers. “It’s just—”
“Don’t worry,” I say, voice peaking on the last syllable. “Ella’s picking me up in an hour.”
“What have you girls got planned?”
“Not sure. Maybe a movie,” I lie.
She reaches for a couple of round brandy glasses.
“Don’t forget the Christmas presents under the tree. A headband for Grace and perfume for Ella.”
“Got it,” I say, “thanks.”
“Is their mum back yet?”
“She got back a couple days ago.”
“About time.” She judges. “Just taking off like that, and leaving Ella to take care of Grace. So irresponsible.”
Runner throws Anna a black look.
She’s got some nerve, she says in my head.
Anna clears her throat and moves in a little closer to me. “Ray has to head off in an hour or so,” she whispers.
“Okay, I get it,” I say, loading the last dish and slapping the door shut. “I’ll be upstairs in my room.”
We drive. No music. Night sinking down. A smattering of dog walkers and their leashed charges. Cyclists on a thin path cutting through the park.
“How are you feeling, you know, after what happened at the club? How are your wrists?” Ella asks with reserve, changing gear.
I exhale slowly. “Angry. Confused. Foolish.”
It wasn’t your fault, Oneiroi whispers, you did nothing wrong.
Nothing wrong? the Fouls dismiss. She’s a whore. A tramp.
Don’t listen to them, Oneiroi defends. They’re wrong.
The Fouls look at me as I take hold of my wrist. I don’t ever remember seeing them with such menace and savagery in their eyes.
Ella steps on the gas.
“Try to forget that night,” she says.
“Easy for you to say,” I dismiss in return. “You aren’t the one who was raped.”
We emerge on the East Side. Once-derelict houses now restored and gentrified. Potted palms, fast low cars, and majestic wisteria replacing what once might have been drooping fuchsia. We take a turn into rural quietness, where a baggy-jeaned kid runs alongside us as we park. He gives us the bird and sticks out his tongue. I return the gesture. He laughs and disappears into the early night, a six-pack of Bud—one missing—swinging from his fingers.
Obnoxious little toe-rag, Oneiroi mutters. Her nose in the air.
Ella kills the engine. I study the twitch of curtains like tired eyes on the face of the familiar Victorian terrace. Groom Residence, how can I help you? Its red door like an open mouth of something wild, waiting to be fed. A wolf, a lion. A tiger, maybe.
Navid appears at the window, smiling as we approach the iron gate. A cigarette hanging from his lip.
I follow Ella past the tall bamboo plants, as wilted as my desire to be here. We knock and an unfamiliar moonfaced girl with bee-stung cheeks and high ruler bangs opens the door. Her eyes swirling like the delicate hands of a clock. Tick-tock.
“Yeah?” she says, eyes suddenly paused before sliding down our bodies.
Another girl emerges behind us, breathless, all attitude and makeup. A large pack of paper towels and laundry detergent held to her chest.
“Let them in,” I hear Navid call.
Ella’s hand touches me lightly, then quickly disappears, so I hold hands with the air, wishing to God we hadn’t gotten ourselves into this damn mess. All the while, resentment toward Ella slowly building in my chest.
Remember, it’s for the greater good, Runner says.
Martyr, the Fouls sneer.
The girl with the detergent pushes past us and I realize then that she’s the Banana Hater.
Just like Ray’s synthetic-clothed belly, the Groom House is bursting when we enter: techno pumping from upstairs, hmpf, hmpf, hmpf; a gaggle of girls comparing nails in the kitchen; the Banana Hater feeding the washing machine with bath towels and bed linen; two girls in matching flip-flops exchanging whispers and giggling behind a porn mag, Juggs.
I spot Poi-Poi at the top of the stairs, undressing and re-dressing a Tiny Tears doll—a pair of four-sizes-too-big fluffy mule slippers dangling off her tiny feet. I wave to her but she doesn’t wave back, seemingly disinterested, attention pinned on her doll instead. Watching Poi-Poi talk to her reminds me of my own juvenile conversations—a captive audience of teddy bears and rag dolls propped on my bed. They always spoke back, of course, agreeing with me. My father is evil. He is. Anna is weak. She is. I wish my mother were still alive. Us too. Shall we eat doughnuts? Let’s!
Poi-Poi is acting as hairdresser now. Her small voice bossing Tiny Tears the way a mother might.
“Now sit still, here, that’s it. Now don’t get all silly! Shhhh. Ānjìng! Yes, quiet. Do what I say, okay? You’re a big girl now.”
She makes imagined scissors with her fingers. Snip, snip.
“There,” she says, combing the doll’s wiry blond hair, “wánshàn!”
I want to tell her: Don’t concern yourself with being wánshàn. Perfect is a myth. And by the way, little girl, treasure grows from an ounce of imperfect breath.
Ella and I squeeze past a fresh delivery of boxes parked at the bottom of the stairs, which I align and straighten, their awkward lean causing my obsessive compulsions to quiver, and then head toward Navid. He is sitting on a chocolate leather couch, eyes pinned on a game show, a bowl of salted dried plums resting in his lap. The pale velvet curtains are drawn now. The room is cluttered with boxes of beauty products, clothes, various fans and blow heaters, and piles of magazines.
Navid looks at us both, chewing a prune, waves, then stares back at the line of excited contestants—fingers by buzzers, eyes locked on a bright flashing wheel.
Ella steps forward.
“Shaun said to give you this,” she says. “This week’s takings.”
“Good girl,” he answers, holding out his empty palm, his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him.
Ella places the manila envelope on his hand like a cake.
He counts the money and hands her a crisp fifty. Ella folds the bill and slides it into her purse with no pause or conflict. I, however, feel sick at her willingness, the ease with which she takes his payoff. Ella instantly catches my look of disapproval and turns away, the zzziiiiip of her purse pulling Navid’s gaze back toward us. He smiles like he knows how much she wants his money, then turns his focus on me. I pretend not to notice, instead choosing to dally with a make-believe something or other in my own purse. When I look up, his eyes are still on me, appearing to scan my wrists—I assume in search of the rohypnol’s crimes. I stroke my wrists, wanting him to ask. Does he know what happened to me in the girls’ dressing room? Did he discuss it with the Man in the Gray Suit? Did they laugh over it?
His glare makes me so angry I have to look away.
“Where’s Cassie?” Ella ask
s.
He stuffs another prune in his mouth, then nods toward the ceiling. “Upstairs.”
As we turn to leave, he stands. Reaches over and takes a firm hold of my arm.
“The other night,” he says, pulling me close, “what happened? Did he hurt you?”
I don’t answer.
He cocks his head like his neck’s about to have bullets loaded. “I won’t tolerate any of my girls getting hurt.”
“I’m not one of your girls,” I say, too quickly perhaps.
He drops his grip, strokes my heated cheek.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” he says, taking my waist. “That means you’re one of my girls.”
Ella squeezes my hand three times.
Play along, Runner whispers.
A pause.
I muster everything inside me and nod. Manage a smile.
“Good then,” he says, again seated, “now go help Cassie.”
The stoned moonfaced girl with the ruler bangs slides past us clutching a shawl around her body. A joint held in her free hand.
When I turn back I watch her curl into Navid’s side like a pet. Her young, lithe body and perfect shoulders now free of the shawl. She looks up to him with her celestial cheeks and swirling eyes.
“You need anything?” she asks him.
“Maybe,” he says, stroking her spine as if reading a thin line of Braille. His paws moving slowly across the terrain of her body. Eventually cupping her young wánshàn breasts.
I catch a whiff of expensive perfume curdled by hardworking sweat: Amy cleaning the windows, Annabelle fully back in the fold and hoovering the carpet while Cassie bends over a mattress forced against the wall and tucks in pink bedsheets. In the middle of the room a low table has been planted, a pretty tasseled lamp resting on top. I do the math:
5 bedrooms:
4 + 4 + 4 + 2 + 1 = 15 mattresses
A total of 15 girls; more if they share beds
The Eighth Girl Page 22