Catalina

by Liska Jacobs

  I hear papers shuffling, what might be the coffeepot brewing in his office.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not laughing. I’ll need a job eventually.” I want to hear his voice catch, feel him squirm, so I say, “Paris is tempting.”

  He laughs, a light, nervous sound. “Sweetheart, darling, I don’t think it would be a good idea—for anyone. It’s best you stay in Los Angeles. Or maybe take time off, rest up in Bakersfield with your mom … Elsa, are you there?”

  I hear his voice, but I’m thinking about his son’s death, how it was then that our lines first converged, and how it was only after his bereavement that things ramped up—when the hotel rooms started, when his hand began to creep up my thigh at lunch or a meeting, when his mouth—when everything became filled with urgency. And I’d thought it had more to do with love.

  That heaviness returns to my stomach, it smacks of mourning.

  “I don’t want to rest up, I’m fine,” I tell him. “And I miss you.”

  “Elsa,” he says. “Please…”

  “Can’t I come back?”

  I want to hear him say my name again. Because that last time was not at all how I remembered it. I need him to say Elsa like he’s tasting it. I want him to say it over and over until it permeates his clothes, saturates the room he’s in, until it sounds right.

  “I’m starting to think I imagined it all,” I tell him. There are tears now.

  The fisherman has reeled in his line. I watch him rip a piece of sandwich and push it on the hook, the fluorescent orange of American cheese between slices of brown bread.

  “Look, it just won’t work…” He pauses. “I mean, you freaked out when you left. You smashed an exhibition book through my table. You terrified poor Nancy.”

  “Who’s Nancy?”

  “From Human Resources. I had to talk her down.”

  “I bet you did.”

  “Don’t be like that. It was frightening—you scared even me.” He laughs again, that irritating light laughter that makes me want to kick through the pier. “My little firecracker.”

  I think back to that moment, to when Nancy from Human Resources asked me to sign severance paperwork. How she was a small woman, with a sharp nose and hawkish eyes. She kept using the word generous, and when Eric put his hand beside mine they shared a look above me—a look that said Poor girl. Had I started to cry? Probably, yes. I’m sure I did. I mean, I’m crying now, it doesn’t seem to take much. And then there was the Picasso book, the exhibition that started it all. The last two years of research, of us entangled in each other. How appropriate that I would be let go when the exhibition was finally on display, the book we had labored over together currently for sale in the museum gift shop. And here it is, in my hands. I can feel the weight of it, the taut shrink-wrap, the embossed letters—M-o-M-A. I’m thinking of how I researched with him, for him. I’m thinking of those sketches, how those lines turned into sexual pleasure, how they built a kind of primal love on the page. A gift, Eric is saying. A goodbye gift from the curators. I hadn’t thrown it, I let it drop—slammed it, maybe—just to get them to understand.

  I hear myself saying Goodbye. I tell him, “Maybe I’ll see you in Paris or Lisbon.”

  He says, “Let’s not end things like this.”

  “Goodbye,” I repeat, then add his name for finality. “Goodbye, Eric.”

  “Shit. Fine. Shit,” he says. “You’ve put me in a hell of a situation.”

  “I have to go.”

  He’s quiet. I can tell he’s trying to think of how to ask me nicely. Finally he huffs into the phone, “You won’t talk to Mary’s lawyers, will you?”

  I’m thinking about how eager I was for every part of him. My stomach turns. I belch and taste my fried breakfast again.

  “Elsa, for fuck’s sake,” he says, and all I can think of to say is Thanks for everything or Good knowing you, it’s been a real pleasure, so I hang up without saying a word. Later, I’ll pretend I said something clever.

  My phone does not vibrate again. The pier is quiet, except for the seagulls and the fisherman casting his line.

  I stare at my phone for a long time, thinking about that first interview, years ago. I remember that it was fall, that it was early and even though the sky was overcast the museum was filled with natural light, that it was spilling into every corner. And coming in from the street, where it had been a dark city morning, all that light overwhelmed you. Gone were the smells of the city—the car exhaust, and the trash, the stench of human piss. It was like that whenever you walked into a museum. You left the ugly outside.

  MoMA, that great institutional tomb where there is only the quiet click-clack of heels or that polished squeak of a good pair of boots—that rare air telling you It’s okay, you are surrounded by beauty, everything sterile, everything exactly in its place. Nothing bad can happen here.

  And then Eric. How at first he walked right past, but saw you just the same. A quick look that gave it away from the start. Oh, hello, beautiful stranger, it said, casually, with a slight smile, a glance thrown over his shoulder as he left the building.

  The interview was short, or would have been if Eric had not shown up. At first it was just you and two women from the curatorial administration department—who you did not see much after you were hired. One was named Ruby or Debbie, with short, frizzy hair and bright plastic rings on her fingers. They asked you questions about your degree, about working for the UCLA campus museum. What prepared you for a museum like MoMA? You had arrived so confident, so eager, your boss at the campus museum having helped secure the interview. You tried to be light, tried to joke, telling them how funny it was that you were a terrible artist, but wanted above all else to be surrounded by beauty, that a museum was just the place. Either that or a salon, you said, but they did not laugh, only sat there with their legs and arms crossed, the austere conference room clock ticking. There is a sneer women give each other—it isn’t in their face, so much. It’s beneath the skin, a tilt of a chin, a long breath. Maybe they will look behind you, sometimes right through you. If you studied it closely you would catch a slight frown, a narrowing of brows—the contemptuous pout of female distrust.

  At that moment you touched your hands together and watched them take in your manicured nails, your exquisite blazer, your blond hair bobbed at your shoulders, your skin dewy, Smoky Rose lipstick just right—how you were perfectly, expertly put together—and you wanted to apologize. To tell them this wasn’t really you, that you could be whoever they wanted, if only they would hire you.

  But then Eric was walking by in the hall, head down. He looked up just as he neared the door and smiled at all three of you. The interview changed when he joined, the women became softer, warmer. He filled the already glimmering room with more light. Suddenly we all talked like old friends. He asked, Why New York? Because New York was the pinnacle, the highest rung on the ladder. Because going from Bakersfield to Los Angeles to New York City to the Museum of Modern Art would mean you’d be untouchable, unreachable.

  It was during that interview that I realized, without shame, that I would do whatever it took to make my escape. That I had seen my future at Charly and Jared’s wedding and said No, thank you. From the moment I shared a look with the beaming bride across the room, I’d wanted to leave, to molt, to shed them all. And I would.

  Goodbye, I could feel myself saying during the interview—Goodbye, Robby; goodbye, Charly; goodbye, Jared; goodbye, life in Los Angeles. I’m meant for more. No one can touch me now. Except maybe this man, with his laughing green eyes.

  Stupid, stupid girl, I tell myself, wiping my cheeks.

  The fisherman has packed up his tackle, shifts his rod to his shoulder and moves farther down the pier.

  I scroll through my contacts, thinking, You need a plan. Robby will take you back, but he’ll use that phrase, Make love. And you’ll have to be okay with it—maybe call it that too. Make love to me, Robby, you’ll say.

  I can’t
get myself to do it. And there’s no calling Charly either. She’s lost the one thing she’s wanted, and I’ve lost the right to call her about anything ever again. I am untouchable finally. Free from everything because nothing will have me.

  There is no going back. Not to a dusty grapefruit orchard in Bakersfield, not to a New Mexico hospital, or a mansion in Provincetown where an influential man held my face in his hands and said God help me, I love you. Eric had said that, hadn’t he? Everything about the moment suggested it—the way he wrapped me in a towel, pulled me into a spare bedroom, covered every part of me. It doesn’t matter, because I can’t go back. Too bad nothing gets left behind. You have to carry it with you into the future.

  I think about Tom then, how he spat a little when he said You have nowhere to go, Elsa. I touch my lips, still slightly swollen and throbbing, more sore than injured. There will be no going back to New York. Or to Bakersfield.

  It’s too late to save that girl in blue.

  38

  The sun has come out and the peaceful morning is filled with cars and pedestrians all going somewhere important. My phone is off, shoved to the bottom of my purse. I found the napkin with Rex’s phone number written on it, but it’s slightly smeared now, enough so that I can’t read it.

  It’s a short walk from the pier, so I make my way back, back over the palm-tree-lined bluff to the bougainvillea-and-jasmine-covered gate, the golden light spilling over the Miramar’s circular drive, the red-vested valets huddled at the door. Only this time, the valets move away when I approach, so that I have to open the door myself. I look around the lobby for Rex but don’t see him, only other hotel boys just as young, just as helpless. In the bathroom the attendant watches me. I can see her in the mirror straightening the bright packs of gum on the counter, looking at me from the corner of her eye.

  I ignore her and wash my face, taking one of the tiny mouthwashes she offers without tipping, and carefully apply lipstick and mascara. I pinch my cheeks, do the mouth exercises Mother taught me—You don’t want jowls, young lady.

  Just then a manager comes in, dressed in a sharp black pantsuit.

  “Hello,” she says, and smiles at the bathroom attendant, who nods. I hear their little walkie-talkies hiss.

  I smile brightly, wonder if she recognizes me from when I checked in. She had given me my room keys, written down my driver’s license info, called Rex over to help with my bags. But now she washes her hands five feet away hardly seeing me, saying something that makes the attendant laugh.

  “I’m looking for one of your employees,” I say, but it’s like I haven’t said anything at all. They just go on chatting lightly.

  I swallow a few times, my throat suddenly tight. I take one of the packs of gum and head for the front desk. At the counter a girl I haven’t seen before, dressed in a crisp white blouse and a delicate neckerchief, smiles at me.

  “Can I help you, miss?” she asks, beaming.

  “I’m looking for one of your employees, Rex.” I falter. “I don’t know his last name.”

  She folds her hands, the fingers long, the nails manicured and painted a bright coral. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t give out employees’ last names.”

  “I’m a ‘ma’am’ now? You called me ‘miss’ a second ago.”

  The other employees look over; the hotel boys that could be Rex but aren’t fidget with their shirts. I flash my smile so they know everything is all right.

  “I only want to know if he’s working.” My throat gets tighter, I’m grasping the counter between us.

  The girl grimaces and turns away to use her walkie-talkie. Then we’re both waiting, watching the giant palm-frond fans circle above. One of the young hotel boys gives me a pitying sort of smile.

  “He gave me his number.” I struggle with my bag, pulling out the crumpled Miramar napkin. “See?”

  A voice comes over her radio, says something I can’t make out.

  This girl is younger than me, probably five or six years, but she already has little forehead lines. They’re caked with powder, and she’s wearing two giant silver hoops in each ear. When she shakes her head they swing and hit her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she says, that head shaking, the earrings flapping. “But he isn’t here.” She looks sorry too—sorry for me.

  I pull myself together. “Thanks anyway,” I say.

  Outside the air is too hot, too thin and too hot. I don’t think I’m breathing right. I find the last of the pills at the bottom of my purse and take them without water. They snag somewhere in the back of my throat like sharp, jagged things, and I dry-heave until I’m vomiting a thin acidic liquid, the pills smashed up and half melted on the sidewalk. I spit, my stomach squeezing so hard I start gagging again. Beside me the valets have stopped talking; one has paused while retrieving keys from some hotel guests, all of them looking at this girl, broken and puking beside the bright hydrangeas and palm fronds.

  I pick up and eat the pills from the ground in one quick motion, pausing only to look one of the valets square in the face.

  At the bus stop I use the last of the mouthwash, chew the gum I took from the bathroom. It’s minty and calming and for a moment I feel fine.

  I ride back toward the marina, my hot forehead against the cool glass, the bus air-conditioning on full blast. It’s marvelous to be cold on such a hot day. I watch a hawk soaring high above Ocean Avenue, almost in line with the bus. Its great wingspan shadows the walkers and joggers and cyclists below. The pills aren’t working fast enough and I wipe at my eyes. It would be irrational to be angry with Rex. I tell myself this over and over but still I feel abandoned.

  A child sitting with an older woman points at the bird, his little finger smearing the bus window.

  “A hawk,” I say, smiling. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  The boy looks at me, the grandmother too, and then she looks to see where the child’s pointing.

  “That’s a turkey vulture,” she tells the boy. “They feed on carrion, dead things.” She sniffs and turns the child away from the window.

  Fine, all right, I think. You win.

  I take out my compact. Mascara under the eyes, one a bit more smeared than the other. Lipstick gone. Hello there, old friend. The word beats like that, like the hum and thrust of the bus engine, like the toy the woman has given the boy to play with: Old, old, old.

  But don’t worry, it’s easily fixed. I take out my beauty bag, empty now except for makeup, and begin. First, makeup-removal towelettes, lavender-scented. The grandmother watches me wipe away that old messy face. Next, foundation. You have to go in layers. Blur the lines, smear it up into the hairline, under the jawline too. Hide those dark circles. Make your fingers cold by holding them against the bus window. Press them lightly under your puffy eyes.

  The grandmother watches, her lips pressed together. I almost can’t see them at all, she’s got them shut so tight. So I do my lips next. I purse them in her direction—kiss, kiss—and spread the lipstick color Lickable across them, smacking them together so that the child looks again. Hello, I smile that brilliant smile, the one I can feel in my cheeks, behind the eyes. Hello. The boy blushes and squirms in the old woman’s arms. Then it’s time for mascara: black, noir, negro. Enough so that they really pop. A little brow liner, some blush. How sweet am I now? Such a pretty girl.

  At the marina bus stop I get up and walk past the grandmother and child with such ferocity she moves her bags out of my way and looks after me with her mouth a little open. It’s like that, I tell myself. When you witness a transformation—a metamorphosis—you’re left in awe. At the bottom of the bus stairs I slip off my panties, folding them neatly in my purse.

  After the bus roars off I can see Tom washing down his boat, shirtless. I can make out his shoulder muscles, every muscle in his back and torso. I misstep then, some break in the pavement, a loose bit of asphalt, something. I bite the inside of my lip accidentally. I can taste blood, cold and metallic.

  I think of that story Tom told me—
that woman hanging Christmas ornaments alone. I think of Tom seeing her, watching her misery—how that was enough for him. I spit blood into the dry gutter.

  “Tom!” I shout. My voice does not waver at all.

  He drops the hose and walks over.

  “You have my duffel,” I say when he reaches me.

  He holds open the gate without saying anything. I walk past him, down the dock. I make that short distance work. I walk like my hips are chewing, like every woman with a good ass and an agenda does. I walk and he watches—I know he watches, there’s nowhere else to look.

  “Where are we headed?” I ask, smiling.

  When he looks at me, seething, a little turned on, I look away. I can’t help it.

  “Does it matter?” he says.

  I shake my head. No, it doesn’t matter at all.

  Acknowledgments

  To the following people and institutions, without whose support and guidance there would be no book: Mark Haskell Smith, Tod Goldberg, Mary Otis, David Ulin, Dara Hyde, Daphne Durham, Sean McDonald, Sara Birmingham, Jeff Seroy, Sarah Scire, John McGhee, Corinna Barsan, Jamison Stoltz, Olivia Taylor Smith; the University of California, Riverside–Palm Desert, staff, faculty, and students; the Getty Research Institute, The Last Bookstore, Mary Clare Stevens and the Mike Kelley Foundation, my family, my friends, and of course my husband (who has been my rock), as well as all the coffee shops and museum cafés I’ve haunted for the last four years—you have my eternal gratitude.

  A Note About the Author

  Liska Jacobs is a Los Angeles native. She holds an MFA from the University of California, Riverside–Palm Desert. Her essays and short fiction have appeared in The Rumpus, The Los Angeles Review of Books, Literary Hub, The Millions, and The Hairpin, among other publications. Catalina is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  Farrar, Straus and Giroux ebook.