Catalina

by Liska Jacobs

  When we enter the backyard patio after the house tour, the partygoers visibly relax. Illustrated Books hands a drink to Eric, and they pose for the photographer, arm in arm, laughing easily. And those female curatorial assistants, they are clamoring. The exhibition isn’t ready until Eric gives his approval, and it’s not a party until he arrives. He is the bright center of their world, and when he turns that light on me, their world becomes mine.

  Film and Drawings show up with their families, and Estelle brings out a tray of soda and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for the kids. She’s even hired a lifeguard, a pimply teenager with a potbelly and two red spots on her cheeks, who ushers the kids to the pool.

  The curators and their assistants mill about drinking cocktails and eating barbeque that I remember being not very good. The martinis were good, I remember that. And that I was the only administrative assistant there—the other curators did not invite their assistants. Thank you, Eric. And I remember he was in a good mood, all easy humor and charm. Even when Architecture, with his sullen young mouth, made a point of saying It’s a pity your wife couldn’t make it. Even then, Eric was all smiles.

  At some point I wander off on my own, a little drunk and feeling awkward because I made the mistake of calling Poodle the Cavalier spaniel “Pancake the Pork Chop.” The curator wives smirking at me over their drinks like Uh-huh and moving away from me. Eric oblivious, too busy making his rounds.

  Inside the estate the windows are thrown wide and the wind off the sea sends the curtains billowing into the hall, filling the house with its briny scent. I’m studying the Louise Bourgeois prints, the dark mounds and valleys, the caves of the female body. Their blank, crooked faces stare back at me. The sun hangs low in the sky, putting the prints half in shadow, half in buttery light. They look strange, wanton—phantomlike.

  Architecture is there now, wants to show me the library. He asks where I’m from and we talk about Los Angeles, and art, and nothing. I’m enjoying the attention, and if I blur my eyes he looks like a young Eric. I accept another drink. I’m very loose now, and since Eric hasn’t come to find me, we snuggle up on a leather couch overlooking the great span of lawn below us. Sounds from the party on the patio carry in through the adjoining doors, and I hear Eric’s openmouthed laugh.

  At some point Architecture kisses my neck, making his way up to my ear. I can feel the tip of his tongue—hot and wet—and his teeth, very lightly on the lobe. I tilt my head toward him, as if he’s telling me a secret, and that’s what Eric must think when he walks in. His eyebrows go up and his mouth drops open. I can’t hear what he says, but he puts up his hands as if to excuse himself and walks quickly away.

  I find him later on the beach, skipping rocks. The rest of the party is still up on the patio, just out of sight. I can hear the music, though, the soft chatter and clinking of glasses and plates.

  His shoes are off, pants rolled up above his ankles. He’s standing with his feet in the wet, muddy sand. It’s a beautiful beach, wide and curving with rippled tidal flats.

  I tilt my head up at him, Hello.

  He studies the rock in his hand, bottom lip pulled in, dimpling his cheeks.

  I replay this moment often in my head, his expression that day. His hair wild from the onshore wind, his eyes narrowed. How he breathes out and chucks the rock so hard that I step back, afraid the swing of his arm might hit me.

  The women from Painting and Sculpting come down the path that leads from the house to the beach, and Eric pushes past me, shouting Hey there!, leaving me alone in the cold, slapping surf.

  Later the lifeguard brings the children down to the beach to play in the waves. I change into my bathing suit and join them because at this point the children and the lifeguard are the only friends I’ve got left. When one of the little boys is knocked down by a wave, he holds his arms out to me. Big fat tears roll down his grubby cheeks, but he stops crying when I pick him up. I put him on one of my hips like Bette did with her dog. He plays with the strap of my suit.

  I can feel the adults watching me from the shore. They’re in swimsuits and cover-ups with no real plans to go in. Someone yells Get Elsa! I see a little strawberry blonde girl holding a long strand of seaweed in her pudgy fist giggle and charge toward me, arm outstretched as if holding a sword. I laugh too and she chases after me through the surf. The little boy smiles, squirming in my arms and sticking his tongue out at the girl, who kicks water at us. We play this game, the other children taking turns with the seaweed, until the sun gets too low and our teeth chatter.

  And then the parents are on the shore, holding towels and speaking over one another. You’re so good with children, someone says. You were wonderful, thank you, thank you, they say.

  And there is Eric with my towel. He folds me into it, smiling.

  Now it’s important to get this right. This is when it matters, this is proof. Eric there with my towel, wrapping me up tight, arms lingering for a moment—furtive glances to see if anyone is watching—then pulling me closer to him. Not so close that our bodies are touching, just close enough that I can feel the warmth coming from his skin, and then, and then—he takes my cheek in one warm hand and brushes his thumb over my lips. I look up at him, stare into those dark eyes, and tuck his thumb into my mouth. It tastes salty from the sea. Somewhere down the beach a bonfire is lit; the smell of wood is thick.

  I knew he would be jealous. That he would not be able to help himself. That I could turn him away from his colleagues and coworkers—make a fat dent in that charming carefree exterior. I knew too that he could not stay mad for long, that he had watched me on the beach with the children—and that motherhood prompts forgiveness in men.

  So we’re not on the beach when the fireworks start. We find our way to one of the bedrooms on the second floor. It’s dark until the fireworks BOOM and the room is filled with green and blue light. Hot breath in my ear. Do you know that painting, Elsa? I’m shaking my head no. Teach me, teach me. Hot hands groping; panting in my ear—Turner’s Hannibal Crossing the Alps. How can he speak when his mouth is so full of me? In the face of nature, man is powerless. BOOM again, and the painting reigns over us both—that monstrous dark wave. His hand is half in my mouth now, trying to quiet me. Hush, Elsa, hush. BOOM. Gold. Purple. Blue. Gold again. He’s hurrying now, before I give us away. Before I shriek this house down, before I grind everything, crushing it all, collapsing, falling, disintegrating into ash. Left smoldering still.

  21

  The dog’s owner has caught up to her, and is working to get the leash back onto her collar. He is shiny with sweat and looks at me apologetically.

  “Sorry, she’s usually so good off leash,” he says, and motions with his chin to the jazz band. “I think it’s the music.” The dog’s tail wags manically, her head darting back and forth.

  She pushes into my hand. “It’s okay,” I say, rubbing her face. I’m still thinking of Eric, so my voice cracks when I say “She’s sweet.”

  I take one of the pink pills I brought with me from the villa and head into downtown. I pass the Casino, where the jazz festival will be held the next two nights. It’s an impressive Art Deco–style building about twelve stories high.

  There’s a small museum on the bottom floor, and as I get closer I hear a commotion. A father is scolding his son in the gift shop, the boy, maybe six years old, turning and tugging on his mother’s dress just as I see them. He’s sobbing. “Daddy’s mean. I hate him, I hate him.” His mother is pretending to read her brochure, but when our eyes meet, I can’t hide my embarrassment. She yanks the child’s arm from her dress, chucking it off like a bug.

  “God,” she hisses as if to curse them both. She walks right past me, her face red.

  I watch her join one of the cruise groups waiting for a tour of the Casino—one long line of sunburned calves and tired eyes, all looking at one another as if surprised to find themselves in such company. It’s a different set than at Hamilton Cove, but both will come for a tour of the Casino. The
y’ll stand in the same line, take photos with the same view, exit through the gift shop and buy the same key chains, and T-shirts, and postcards of Catalina. The attendant smiling brightly, asking over and over, Would you like a bag?

  So obediently they wait in line to buy the things they’re told to buy, with the babies they’re supposed to have in tow. How are they not jumping out of their skin? I think about Jared and Charly endlessly remodeling, and Robby and Jane exercising obsessively, and me so desperate to move to New York—all things thrown into the pit, hoping to fill it up. It occurs to me suddenly, maybe learning to settle is part of adulthood. Maybe if you don’t, it eats you up.

  Too late for me, then, I’ve let it boil down until it’s part of the fiber, until it’s become that ringing center of my core, and watching these tourists wait in line has it blaring so loud that I want to scream, What are you all waiting for?

  Instead, I interrupt one of the tour guides to ask where I can find the grocery store. He’s telling the crowd how the Casino is the island’s civil defense center—how it can house the entire year-round population in an emergency.

  “It’s a small island,” he tells me, annoyed that I’ve interrupted him. “You can’t miss it.”

  Before I can find the store I see them. Or rather I see Rachel; she’s twisting her platinum ponytail around one of her fingers, shoulder to shoulder with a Latina around the same age, both drinking from straws as if practicing for a role much too old for them. Jared has pulled up a stool beside Rachel. Tom is sitting back, watching him with an amused expression.

  Robby stands off to the side, awkwardly holding a drink garnished with a teal umbrella. When I’m closer I can make out a tiny plastic monkey too, neon green, hanging off the side. Robby raises his shoulders, helpless.

  “We stopped for lunch,” he says to me. “They happened to be here.”

  Jared pulls me into a long hug. I can smell the tequila and salsa on his breath—heavy on the lime and onions.

  “Elsa!” he says. “Look who we found.” Rachel thrusts her chin out as a greeting. She’s in a pink strapless dress, the top low across her chest, the skin pinched and rough, the color and texture of a walnut. She’s delighted by Jared’s attention.

  “Hi, Rachel,” I say to her. “I hope they’re behaving themselves.”

  “We bought them lunch,” Jared says, beaming. They’re seated on the patio, and there’s a good breeze coming up from the harbor, but still, he’s sweating through his shirt.

  “And drinks,” Tom adds.

  “What gentlemen.”

  The girl in a skirt and tube top throws out her hand. “Marisol,” she says. “They were telling us about your trip to Two Harbors. My family lives there in the off-season.”

  “Can you imagine living there?” Jared says. He runs a hand over his face.

  I think of those modest tract homes in the isthmus, the swings underneath the eucalyptus, that wild open ocean during storms, watching it twist and churn, maybe even swimming out into it on calm days. The pill I took finally kicks in, making everything fluid and gentle. It’s like I’m in the sea again, weightless and floating on my back, the lulling swells beneath me. I’m about to ask Marisol how to do it, how to live there too, but then Tom is talking and I realize I’ve missed the moment—I’ve missed several moments—and I work to catch up.

  “How often do you get to the mainland?” Tom asks, leaning into Marisol. He’s watching her think about it, letting his eyes drop to her chest.

  “I haven’t been in almost two years,” Marisol says proudly.

  “I go over every month,” Rachel says as if embarrassed by her friend’s answer. “My dad works for Catalina Express. He’s a captain.”

  That fluid feeling of weightlessness is gone too quickly. I’m checking in my pockets for another pill when something occurs to me. “Have you been on the open ocean?”

  Rachel makes a face. “Well yeah, of course. He used to take me out on his fishing boat.” She plays with her ponytail, smoothing it around her fingertip, and purses her lips. “I hated the smell and I always got sick. The swells are terrible.”

  “Does Hamilton Cove offer trips to that side of the island?” I can’t find the other pill. Tom catches me checking my pockets a second time and grins.

  Marisol is shaking her head, but it’s Rachel who answers. “Nothing but wild cliffs and sea—there’s nothing to do.”

  “I said I’d take them out on my boat.” Tom’s looking at me over their heads like a cat with a new toy.

  “Did you, now.”

  Rachel’s excited. “He’s planning to sail to Tahiti next. God, what a dream.” She bites her straw at him.

  The waitress comes up, looking relieved to see me.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Marisol takes the waitress’s hand. “Miss Ballard was my teacher in Two Harbors. She used to take us to see the horses at El Rancho Escondido.”

  The waitress looks mortified. This could be Miss Sandy, no longer taking seventh graders to New York City—still plump and miserable and trying very hard not to be either.

  “Bet you never thought you’d be serving us tequila,” Marisol squeals.

  I drop my purse hard onto the table, sending the empty salsa bowl spinning. Robby’s sensed the party’s over. He sets his drink down.

  “Just the check, please,” I tell the waitress, who has stepped back from us all. “And waters. Lots of waters.”

  “Jared.” Robby motions with his head. “Let’s go clean you up.” Jared’s shirt is see-through now; you can see his nipples, pink and nubby like pencil erasers. I help Robby get him to his feet as Tom looks on. He blows across the mouth of his beer bottle so that it hums.

  “I’m surprised at you, Robby.”

  “Don’t blame me for this,” he says to me, but then Jared groans.

  “I don’t feel too hot.”

  Robby hoists him up. “I got you, buddy, come on. You’re fine.”

  Rachel takes the umbrella from Robby’s drink, tucking it behind her ear.

  “Marisol, take a picture,” she says, holding out her phone. And they pose.

  Tom takes my arm, drawing me close. “What if I stick around? What’d you think of that? That brunette could use some kicking in.”

  “They’re children.”

  “And your bellboy at the Miramar, what’s he?”

  I’m breathing a little quickly because I don’t remember Tom meeting Rex, or how he saw us together. Was it the night he tried to come up to my room? Had I introduced Rex? Had Tom seen the two of us together? I remember Eric’s face when he saw me with that hot wet secret in my ear, and start digging around in my purse again.

  “Do whatever you want, I’m checking on Jared.”

  I push past belligerent groups of tourists devouring burritos and enchiladas and screaming at the bartender to turn up the volume on some television show that they all seem to know.

  I find two white pills, half crushed at the bottom of my purse. They leave an acrid aftertaste. I drink down half an empty bottle of beer someone left at the bar. It’s warm and a little flat but I don’t care. Someone’s shouting at the back of my head. I think he must be shouting to someone on the other side of me because he keeps saying, “Susanna. Hola, Susanna. Hey!” And then all at once—almost the moment he touches my shoulder—it clicks.

  22

  It’s like one dream being pulled into another. I feel light. So light I worry I might float right off over the ocean, joining those pelicans in the safety of the sea. The Latino producer is looking at me with expectant eyes, his mouth pulled up in a sly grin. He smooths his dark curls with one hand, points a beer bottle at me with the other. He’s with a group, all of them looking at me with interest.

  “There you are,” he says. “Susanna.” He says this fake name with emphasis.

  “Oh, hello,” I say, taking his hand and looking past him, at Tom and the girls, who aren’t paying any attention to me, but then Rachel turns to look over her
shoulder. I step closer to him, which he takes as a sign of affection and folds me into his arms.

  “Found you,” he says, breathing me in. “You smell good.”

  “Rafa,” his friends are saying to him. One in a tank top, a fat gold chain tumbling in his chest hair, clicks his tongue at me. “Rafa,” he says. “Introduce us.”

  “What are you doing here?” I say, putting on my best smile.

  “You said you’d be in Catalina over the weekend—so Rafael Ochoa came to find you.”

  I nod stupidly—had Susanna from San Diego told him that? The jolt of seeing him in my present has not completely worn off. I thought I had left him on his private beach, bodysurfing in tandem with the version of me that stayed behind. But here he is, hands on my hips, sashaying me toward him. I can feel his T-shirt, soft and moist from the heat. The smell of him comes back thick in my nose. He makes a tut-tut noise with his tongue. “If your friends are anything like mine, then you could use a dinner away from them,” he says, pointing toward Tom and the girls.

  Just then Tom catches sight of us from across the restaurant, tilts his chin at me. I have a distinct desire to flee.

  “Come on, Mama, have dinner with me tonight,” he urges.

  “Rafa likes to keep the pretty ones for himself,” his friend interjects. “Where’d he meet you? Some audition?”

  “Does she look like an actress? No. Too sophisticated, too severe for that.” I can’t tell if he means this as a compliment or not. His expression is pleased, he’s a little drunk, and the shadow that flickers over his eyes says he remembers the feel of me—the sounds I make.

  I feel trapped, powerless, and turn as if in a hurry to meet someone. Tom watches on, clearly entertained by my discomfort.

  “It’s good to see you,” I say. “But—”

  “Aw, don’t be like that, Mama, I came all the way over to find you.”

  “We just wrapped our show,” his friend tells me. “And Doug’s got a yacht.” He flicks his head toward the others.