by Liska Jacobs
My phone vibrates and I fumble for it.
“Hello? Eric?”
Her voice is thick and rich and I place it immediately.
“No, my dear, this is Eric’s wife, Mary—we’ve met previously. I think you might have tried to call my husband just now?”
I look around, thinking she might be nearby in the dark, but there’s nothing except the crashing of waves. I try to sound casual, Oh, hello … but she sighs over me and I’m reminded of how she looked staring out the Plaza window, watching the clouds, one hand propped under her petite chin.
“I have his phone, I’ve been waiting for your call. What time is it there? Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”
I can hear her breathing.
“I really don’t have a lot of time, I was just about to go out,” she says with a touch of impatience. “You understand why you were offered such a generous severance package, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I say, unsure. “There were cutbacks. I took the buyout offer.”
“Oh, then you didn’t, you really didn’t. You’re all the same—pretty and silly.”
Could this be the same woman I watched that day? I remember how she stood on her upmost tiptoe to reach Eric’s cheek, such tenderness.
“Did anyone else get let go? No. Have you ever heard of such a large severance package? No.”
“I’ve never been fired before,” I say sharply, which only makes her laugh.
“Look, I’m on your side, I think the way they let my husband scamper about with his pants around his ankles is quite—revolting.”
I reach out for a handful of sand, which is cold and wet, and rub it between my fingers. I realize the wet is seeping into my clothes, the coldness too.
“Are you there or did I lose you?” she says.
There’s a sea lion now, I can hear it calling. I make some excuse. “I have to go,” I say, but don’t hang up. I’m thinking about when I was called into Eric’s office—to be let go. That human resources woman with her polite cough.
“I’ll just cut to the chase,” comes Mary’s faraway voice. “I’ve been building a divorce case, can my lawyers contact you? I know several galleries in Europe—Paris, Prague, Lisbon. I’ll put in a good word, wherever you’d like to go.”
My hands are shaking. I’ve gotten it wrong. This is not the unwitting Mrs. Reinhardt I imagined—with her big museum jewelry and posh bright scarves that never wrinkle.
“Hello? Elsa, dear, you’re a capable assistant—I can help you. Here, I’ll text you my number, think about it. Don’t get hung up on some aging prick.” Then she adds coolly, “I’m going to bankrupt the bastard.”
I hang up and when I feel the phone vibrate with her text, I shut it off and lie back in the sand. You will not cry. I close my eyes and try to focus on the crashing surf, the lulling repetition. That sea lion cries out again, and somewhere in the dark another answers. I shiver, exhausted, and sick to my stomach. You’re all the same, pretty and silly. I think of those young curatorial assistants, the even younger research assistants—how they giggled, ate it up, whenever Eric, with that damn smile, walked into the room. The whole world wanted him and he chose me.
Why hasn’t he called? It was real. It had to be. I could not have imagined it all. I curl up on my side, burrow into the sand, and try to picture him: Eric Reinhardt, with his silver hair and dark, serious eyes. Looking at me from behind his coffee, a martini, across a hotel bedroom. The man who threw a stone so far into the ocean that I did not see it splash—only watched that twisted expression on his face, his breathing long and low. But then I think about his wedding ring—and it hits all at once. I can see him now, in every instance, in the vaults, his office, each and every hotel room—that band always on, even when the rest of him was naked.
36
Let the dull roar of the ocean, several feet away, become the freeway—the 405. That soft sand, a well-worn bench seat in Rex’s truck. You’re bouncing along with Rex at the wheel, driving up, up. Every gear change over the Sepulveda Pass you can feel his triceps flex and jerk forward against your thighs, back, flick, switch.
Austin is with you too, the waiter from the hotel with the good coke. He’s taller than you remember and several years older than Rex. He wears shorts and has a ridiculous amount of blond leg hair. When he smiles his eyes get a sharp glint.
What brought you to LA? Austin is asking.
I missed the sun, you’re saying. You’re between them both, sitting at an angle so Rex has to reach down beneath your skirt to change gears.
Well, let’s have some sun, then, Austin is saying. And just like that there’s a sunroof, and Austin pushes it open and turns up the radio. Hello, bright blue sky. Large cumulus clouds tumble overhead like an approaching wave.
The small truck climbs the canyon, and you can feel the change, it’s in your nose, a pinching—everywhere that high, dry scent of eucalyptus and chaparral.
The Valley rarely gets rain, Austin is telling you, his blond leg hair tickling your thighs. It should rain, you think, why doesn’t it rain? You can feel the drought suddenly, the parched earth waiting for water.
And then you’re at a house party in the dry hills above the valley. There’s a pool with a diving board and hot tub and there are young people, all swimming and drinking and looking like fourteen-year-olds with boobs and defined abs. The lights flash from blue to red and—is that Robby? Tom is there too. They have each other by the lapels again. But when you’re closer they aren’t fighting, only waiting for you to walk by, giving you matching judgy looks.
Enough of this, you think, and shiver because a little wind has picked up and the sea lions are crying out again.
Inside Rex is spinning records. Had he said he was a DJ? You can’t remember, but there he is, sweet boy with neck acne and a grown-up’s jaw, lips big like a woman’s, smiling shyly, asking if you have any requests.
I need a drink, you’re saying, and then you’re wandering the house. It’s ranch-style, so you can walk in a circle forever. Around the hall, down the corridor, into the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, and back out to the hall. Again, again. You float in loops until you’re in a bedroom.
Austin is there too, only now he looks more like Justin. Tall and thin, hooked nose, shaded eyes. Flat wide hands. He’s talking to a girl not yet twenty years old. The girl looks at you. She looks like you, with that wild-eyed marbled look young girls get when they’re very drunk for the first time. She’s wearing a blue dress, short and tight at the waist, flaring out over her hips. Then Justin is asking you, annoyed, Can I help you with something, chica?
But you cannot look away from the girl, who giggles and puts her hands over her eyes. You show him a twenty-dollar bill. His demeanor changes then—he smiles, waves you into the room. There’s some lines in the bathroom, they’re yours.
She’s pretty, the girl in blue says. Her voice is light and familiar and feels like a hand squeezing inside your chest. She looks at you between her fingers.
Not as pretty as you, chica, he’s saying. How you doing? You feeling good? Did you miss me? Come here, baby girl, yeah.
You can smell his breath even though you’re only watching in the bathroom mirror. Stale and dusty. You want to do something, stop it from happening, but your limbs are heavy and helpless because this is history and there is no stopping it. So you watch him stand between the girl’s bruised bare knees, watch him push her back onto the bed, his mouth near her face. You can see where his hand is. She’s making little gasps, saying, I can’t, Justin, I can’t. I’m on my period. You’re embarrassed for her, ashamed even. You know why she’s letting it happen—you can feel his brusque maleness, his desire. It is bigger than her. Best to just go with it. Don’t get hurt.
Justin, I can’t, she’s saying over and over, and when she stands up he does too, saying Prove it, and she does a feeble little shrug and without pulling up her dress his hand disappears underneath it. Then his voice is so brutal that you both flinch: Fucki
ng cock tease. And he’s suddenly Austin again, walking out with swagger, sunglasses on the back of his head, blond leg hair thick and coarse-looking.
The girl falls onto the bed and you think she must have passed out. She’s just lying there, on top of the covers, penetrable in every way. But when you’re about to leave, she turns her head and says, Don’t tell Julia.
She’s very young, this girl in blue, younger than Rex even. She has big hazel eyes, her curls messy, matted, not yet dyed. When she breathes her whole tiny caged chest rattles. She looks miserably drunk. You go to the kitchen to find water and Advil. When you return she is sitting up in bed.
Oh, get me the trash can, she moans.
You bring her the one from the bathroom. She vomits almost immediately. When she’s done she lies down, exhausted.
You touch her back; it’s very warm.
This dress, she’s saying, pulling at the zipper.
Okay, you tell her, your hand still on her back. It’s okay. Hold on, I’ll help you. And you do. You help her out of her dress—she has very small breasts in a white cotton bra, no underwire and no padding. You can see her brown nipples, too large for a girl so young. She has on floral panties, not one curve to her body other than her ass.
She climbs back into bed, moaning and saying, Oh, don’t tell Julia, don’t tell Julia.
You tell her hush, you won’t tell Julia a thing.
Austin is her man, hers, she says, her eyes bright, feverish.
You tell her not to worry, here is water and Advil. Take three when you wake up, you’re saying. Then go back to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.
She nods, her lips pucker and you think she might cry, but then she points cartoon-like to her lips, her eyes pressed tight. You know instinctively what it is she wants, a kiss good night—a token paid for sweet dreams. She smells a little rancid from throwing up, but you kiss her anyway, lightly on the lips, and she says, Thank you, as if you paid the toll and may cross the bridge.
Then Rex and you are alone in his truck. The radio is turned low, a small amount of fuzz, just for atmosphere. The windows are rolled down. He’s taking the canyon rather than the freeway. There’s the light rain you wanted. You want more. You want the dry canyon earth to be fragrant. You want to smell wet sage, licorice, eucalyptus. You want to quench this damn thirst.
You also want to tell someone the truth. So if Rex asks, Did you have fun tonight, Ingrid? you’ll sit up so you can look at him straight on, and tell him. That you’re not a wine rep from Portland, that your name isn’t Ingrid. It’s Elsa, you’ll say. And you’ll tell him how you were fired from the Museum of Modern Art for having an affair with your boss. That you have nowhere to go, that your childhood friend had a miscarriage because of you, that she is your friend no longer, that your ex-husband has left his girlfriend and wants you back in spite of it all. And you still do not love him. Because you’re tired of being someone’s prize, tired of the compromise. Womanhood has such a shitty exchange rate. You just want what you want. You don’t want to have to pay more. You don’t want to have to justify it, or feel ashamed.
And sweet young Rex will blink and you’ll be struck again by how childlike he is. Maybe you’ll cry. You’ll get his sleeve wet with tears. Fuck, he’ll say. Are you okay? And that will make you laugh, and you’ll put your head back on his shoulder, saying, I hope so.
You’ll be quiet then, Rex working the gearshift, the sunroof pushed open because now you want to catch various star formations through it. Goodbye rain, hello Hydra, with its orange and yellow giants—that solitary serpent in the sky.
Maybe everything will be okay. You’ll go back to Bakersfield and live with Mother for a little while. Start things over. You’ll write for one of those slick art magazines, work in the salon for some quick cash. Mother can teach you to blow out hair. It’s all in the wrist, Elsa.
But then a breeze picks up, a cold, crashing sea air that starts my teeth chattering. No more Rex, no more stars. And somewhere nearby, seagulls, shrieking.
37
I wake up blindingly sober, the ocean just ten feet from me. I have sand pressed into the side of my face, inside my clothes, knotted in my hair. I roll over so that I can push myself up, but this is the kind of sober that hits back, and pain is everywhere: behind my eyes, between my toes, up and down my back. My brain swollen, my tongue swollen—I’m fairly sure the roots of my hair are swollen—with pain.
I try to focus but I can still feel the jerking of Rex’s truck, smell the newly washed scent of the canyons, even Austin’s stale breath.
And that girl in blue. I touch my lips, still tender from when Tom bit me. I realize then that I left my duffel bag on his boat.
A surfer pads out a few steps from me, gives me a quick once-over from the corner of his eye. I must look pathetic. I pat at my hair, brush off my bare legs, and stumble across the sand, back up to the boardwalk. The streets are empty except for a street cleaner and pigeons pecking at an overturned trash can. I catch a bus to the Santa Monica Pier. There’s only me and the older Latina women on the bus; they’re holding their lunches on their laps, on their way to work. They talk in happy animation—the ones that are awake—and do not look at me when I climb aboard. But when I reach my stop one of them calls out, Buenos días, just before the doors close.
At a corn-dog stand my card is declined. I think, So this is it, finally. I pull out cash but the pimple-faced teen insists I take it for free. I drink down the lemonade, which is too cold and sweet but helps ease the headache.
In the beach bathroom I try to wash up. The stalls are concrete and open at the top, so it smells like piss and the ocean. I think about my dream and how I thought of going back to Bakersfield, and laugh out loud. Working in the salon with Mother—what a riot.
I decide I want to ride the Santa Monica Ferris wheel at the end of the pier. Its lights are still on from the night before. It isn’t the same Ferris wheel that was installed after the storm destroyed the original. They auctioned that one off on eBay to the highest bidder earlier this year. I remember reading about it while sitting in my MoMA cubicle, Eric bringing us our morning coffee. Me thinking, So what if they got rid of the Ferris wheel? What happens in Los Angeles can’t touch me. I’ve climbed out of Bakersfield, moved to New York City, to the Museum of Modern Art. I’ve reached the top.
This new Ferris wheel is solar-powered and very shiny. The attendant, mid-yawn, locks me into one of the buckets. He waits awhile, plays with his phone. No one else is around, the park having just opened. Finally, he starts the ride.
There’s an awkward moment on any Ferris wheel—when you circle back around and come up from the inside, facing the other buckets. Usually they’re filled with riders, but at this hour they’re empty, and it’s just the lone attendant, scrolling through his phone, scratching at his stomach. Then suddenly he’s gone, and it’s just you thrust into the open sky, out over the silver curve of the ocean.
I can almost make out Catalina through the fog, those high-ridged mountains where the bison live. How their fur ruffled in the wind. But that’s not right. I was too far away to see that kind of detail. Why not remember it that way? Their ragged fur, molting from the winter, moving like long grass on cliffs.
I turn my phone on. There’s a missed call from Robby and a brief but silent voicemail. The corn dog threatens to come up, but then the ride peaks again and I gulp down the fresh air. I can see Catalina’s mountains now. I think of Charly, about those orchard sleepovers, her childish laugh, bubbly and catching, a little bit mischievous. I can’t imagine her laughing like that now. The weight of that threatens to make me cry again. It would be nice to talk to her, to tell her that in my dream everything turns out all right.
When the ride ends I find change in the bottom of my purse and use it to get a bag of hot nuts. I’m reminded of Central Park, those winters when everything seems like it’s just waiting for that first snow, the one that will blanket the city. Maybe there isn’t a version of myse
lf still there, walking Central Park or haunting the halls of MoMA. But if things were fair, I must have left some imprint there, the way it’s imprinted itself onto me.
On the pier I watch a gull peck at a fisherman’s bait when he isn’t looking. The phone vibrates in my pocket and I know it’s Eric. But just in case, I stay silent until he speaks.
“Elsa.”
I cry out I miss you and startle even myself. The fisherman looks over, pretends to be interested in the view behind me.
“Your wife called,” I say, trying to control my voice. “But I don’t care. I still miss you.”
“This won’t work,” he says. “Not at all.”
The gull has flown off, the fisherman throwing garbage after it. We speak over each other.
“Did she offer you a job?”
“Will you get a divorce?”
“Elsa,” he says, sighing. “I’ve told you—it’s complicated. You don’t know what it’s like to be with someone for twenty-eight years. She’ll never go through with a divorce—never. She always comes back.”
That always hangs in the static between us. Twenty-eight years is a long time. When their son died there had been an extended bereavement period; two weeks turned into four. I imagine the funeral arrangements: the phone calls, the florist preparations—the cards with embossed calla lilies and letterpressed sentiments, Sorry for Your Loss, Mary and Eric opening them together. I picture Mary displaying them on a mantel in their living room. Had their dead son been good-looking? I never asked to see a photo. Why hadn’t I?
“Yes, she offered me a job,” I tell him.
“What? Oh, she did.” He sounds worried. “Did you take it?”
“No,” I say, and when he sounds relieved, lets out a puff of air, I say, “I told her I’d think about it.”