by Jen Beagin
Later in life, after high school, Mona used to call Ginger in California and complain about her money situation, hoping Ginger would send her a check. Ginger had already lost one of her tits by then, and she kept her cash in the fake one. It was like a magic hat—whenever Ginger put her hand in there, out came a fistful of twenties.
“I’m just barely hanging on,” Mona would say whenever Ginger asked how she was.
“You got cigarettes?” Ginger would ask.
“Nope.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll send you a couple cartons.”
Sure enough, two cartons of Marlboros would arrive the following week, with a note from Ginger saying, Keep these in the freezer. They stay fresher that way. PS: Cigarettes will ruin your face. Take a walk and get some air before it’s too late. Mona searched the package for a card or hidden money, but it was always just the cigarettes.
The last time she’d seen Ginger had been near the end. She was emaciated by then and unable to walk without a walker, and the cancer had spread to her lungs. She couldn’t drive her Lincoln anymore, but she wasn’t bedridden. When Mona asked if she could do anything for her, like laundry or vacuuming, Ginger said, “Yeah, go down to the market and get me a pack of Benson & Hedges and a bottle of rosé.”
“Uh, you’re not supposed to smoke,” Mona said. “Or drink.”
“I haven’t pooped in two weeks,” Ginger said.
She’d granted Ginger her wish and they’d spent the afternoon drinking and smoking their brains out.
The package had arrived a month or two later. “It’s no Van Gogh,” Ginger had written in a note. “But it might look okay in your hallway.”
Mona dusted it off with a dirty sock, then slid it back under the bed. “Stay curious,” she repeated to herself before passing out.
* * *
SHE ARRIVED EARLY FOR THE first session. They gave her a cup of coffee and one or two reassuring looks, and then Lena asked her to disrobe behind a shoji screen set up in a corner. Mona wished she hadn’t overdone it with the trimming down there. More would have been better, in this case. Were her tits lopsided, the little fuckers? She pinched them awake and then covered them with her hair. A cashmere bathrobe hung from one of the hooks. Was she supposed to put it on?
She stepped out from behind the screen. Naked.
“Where do you want me?”
They both looked at her. “Over here.” Lena pointed to the wooden platform.
The wood creaked as she stepped onto the platform, which made her feel like a lard ass, and then creaked some more as she walked across it. She stood in the center, facing them, fighting the urge to fold her arms over her chest.
Lena glanced at Mona, smiled, and crossed her legs. Mona felt her face flush and looked at Paul, dressed for bed, as usual, and calmly regarding her from a stool next to his easel. No open signs of disgust. No open signs of anything.
Behind them, the floor-to-ceiling windows. Aspen trees filled the view. Hundreds of white trunks carved with hundreds of lidless black eyes. Dark green leaves with pale undersides. Quaking aspens, they were called, because their leaves fluttered like crazy at the slightest breeze. They were quaking right now, all of them at once, waving maniacally and making a distinct whispering noise.
She scratched her calf with her foot. “So,” she said.
“Don’t be nervous,” Lena said, and opened the sketch pad on her lap. “You look beautiful.”
“Hah,” Mona said.
“I would kill for your ass,” Lena said. “It’s so . . . firm looking.”
“It’s where I hold all my tension,” Mona said.
“Do you think you could tie your hair back?” Paul asked.
“A braid might be nice,” Lena said.
She gathered her hair at the back of her head and braided it, and Lena handed her a red rubber band, which she fastened to the end. Now what?
They asked her to turn and twist, this way and then that, tilting her head up or down, one arm here, the other there, one leg bent, the other straight, and then hold it, right there, relax your stomach, okay, that’s it.
Getting-to-know-you poses, Lena called them.
The aspens had stopped quaking. There was only the sound of pencils scratching paper. Scratch, pause, scratch, scratch, pause, scratch, scratch, scratch. If they were getting to know her, they were certainly being quiet about it.
“From WHYY in Philadelphia, this is Fresh Air,” she heard Terry’s voice say.
She waited for Terry to say something.
“Terry?” Mona whispered. “You there?”
“I’m here,” Terry said quietly, after several seconds.
“This is what they call a loud silence,” Mona said. “I wish I were wearing earplugs.”
“And an apron?” Terry offered.
“A hazmat suit,” Mona said, “with a hood and face mask, and possibly a backpack—”
Paul cleared his throat. “Next pose.”
They asked her to sit on a stool and pretend to clip the toenails of her right foot, which was more challenging than it sounded. Tightness in her hips, a sharp twinge near the base of her spine. She was sweating now and could smell herself. A comfort, usually, but there was something off about it. A little too sharp, briny. Her saliva was sticking to her teeth. She swallowed. Swallowed again. Now their pencil scratches were muffled. Her ears felt like they’d been corked with . . . tampons. She swallowed. Swallowed again. No dice. She glanced at Lena’s face—her lips were moving.
“Sorry,” Mona said. “Did you say something?”
“You have something here,” Lena said, and pointed to her chest.
Mona broke the pose and looked down. Her tits were livid red and mottled.
“A little rash,” Lena said.
Hives.
“You have allergies?” Paul asked.
“I’m fine,” Mona said. “This is just how I manage stress—I break out. I’ll probably wake up with acne tomorrow.”
“Maybe you’d be more comfortable lying down?” Lena asked.
“I would, actually,” Mona said.
The poses were longer now—ten, fifteen, twenty minutes—and were meant to emphasize her curves, but when she looked at herself she saw her grandfather’s body—his knees, his toes, his brown skin. Paul had abandoned his easel and was pointing an old Polaroid camera at her. She didn’t like the noise it made. A mechanical insect in her ear, buzzing, buzzing. Her limbs felt truncated. He seemed to be dismembering her, chopping off her head, isolating various body parts, arms, legs, feet, wrists. Was there something wrong with her face?
“Of course not,” Terry said. “You look incredible.”
“I feel weird,” Mona told Terry.
“Close your eyes,” Terry said. “Breathe. Tell me what you see.”
She closed her eyes and saw butterscotch candy in a crystal bowl, scotch sloshing around in a glass, her stockinged feet sliding into a pair of high heels.
“Whose heels?” asked Terry.
“Ginger’s,” Mona said.
The heels kept snagging on the mustard shag. This was where he wanted her, at the top of the stairs. She was wearing her own bright white bikini, Ginger’s long white opera gloves, and four long strands of Ginger’s pearls. The stockings on her feet were nude knee-highs. “Put your hand on your hip,” Woody said from the bottom of the stairs. He brought the Polaroid to his face. “Smile!”
“Ooh,” Lena said. “There it is again.”
Bright red splotches on her ankles. These ones were itchy. Mona broke the pose, scratched her right foot. “Sorry, guys,” she said, sitting up. “Let me just scratch these for a sec.”
Lena placed her sketch pad and pencils on the floor and stood up. She stretched her arms over her head and then untucked her blouse.
“Is something biting you?” Paul asked. He took another Polaroid.
Lena unzipped her skirt and let it drop to the floor, and then peeled off her tights. Not only was she not wearing un
derwear, she had the biggest bush Mona had seen in years. Dead straight and silky looking. Lena pulled her blouse over her head—hairy pits!—and unclasped her bra. Only her eyeglasses remained, on the beaded chain around her neck.
Mona zeroed in on Lena’s boobs. Her tits were two plastic bags stuck in a beautiful tree. The only blot on an otherwise breathtaking landscape.
“You’re staring,” Lena said. “They look like shit, I know. I’m getting them fixed this summer. Right, Paul?”
Mona laughed and looked at Paul, who was just standing there with his eyes closed.
“Paul, wake up,” Lena said.
He opened his eyes and fanned himself with a Polaroid. Lena looked down at herself and frowned. She reached into her bag and retrieved a pair of pointed tweezers. Mona watched them disappear into her bush.
“What’s wrong?” Mona asked. “Do you have a tick?”
Lena didn’t answer. She held up the tweezers and said, “It’s a fucking long white hair.” She deposited the hair on the platform—delicately, as if it were a tissue specimen—and then looked down at herself again. “Oh God, there’s another one.”
“May I ask what it is you’re doing, Lena?” Paul asked tiredly.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Lena said, and sat in the armchair. “I’m trying to make Mona comfortable by being myself.”
“I think it’s enough for today,” Paul said. “Mona, we’ll see you next week, I hope. Lena, put some clothes on—I want to talk to you.”
“Fuck off, Paul,” Lena said. “Mona, let’s smoke on the patio.”
“Naked?” Mona said, alarmed.
Lena shook her head. “It’s a bit chilly.”
Mona pulled the peony kimono from her tote bag and held it open for Lena. “Here. Wear this.”
“Oh, my,” Lena said, and stepped into it. “It’s gorgeous. Is it vintage?”
“It belonged to my grandmother,” Mona lied. She’d found it on the Internet.
Outside, they chain-smoked next to Lena’s boat sculpture. She felt like a head case in her track pants. I don’t usually wear track pants. I don’t know what came over me. Lena, of course, looked like a movie star.
“I hope you’re not feeling self-conscious about your looks,” Lena said. “You have the kind of beauty that sneaks up on you. It makes you feel like you’re discovering something.” She picked a piece of tobacco off her tongue. “Something no one else knows about.”
“Wow,” Mona said.
“Paul will know how to paint you,” she continued. “You’re in very good hands. He’s old and grumpy but extremely talented. You can relax.” She brushed a strand of hair out of Mona’s face. “You know, I was an artist’s model once, about a hundred years ago.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty-one,” Lena said.
“You probably know this already, but you don’t look fifty-one.”
“The insane never age,” Lena said.
“I was going to say you look older,” Mona said, and smiled.
“You’re funny,” Lena said, and lit another cigarette. “I was also a hooker for a few years.”
“Excuse me?”
“An expensive hooker,” she corrected herself. “Not a streetwalker.”
Mona tried to picture Lena engaged in an expensive sex act.
“Don’t bother,” said Terry’s gentle voice in her ear. “Pay attention to the way she’s scratching her nose.”
Mona watched Lena warily. Lena wasn’t merely scratching her nose—she was making slow, patient love to it with her fingers.
“What’s that remind you of?” Terry whispered.
Mona gulped. “Junkies?”
“Bingo,” Terry said.
“Well, it would explain the lithe-languid combo,” Mona said. “And her wax-paper eyes.”
“Your lips are moving,” Lena said now. “Are you praying?”
Mona felt her cheeks redden. “No.”
“You do that a lot, I’ve noticed.” Lena smiled. “Move your lips a little bit, like you’re saying something under your breath. It’s cute.”
Mona bristled at the word “cute.”
“I’m talking to my imaginary friend,” Mona confessed.
“Oh,” Lena said. “What’s her name? Or is it a man?”
“Terry,” Mona said. “Her name is Terry Gross.”
Lena opened her mouth and then closed it. “The radio person?”
Mona nodded. “Afraid so.”
Lena smiled. “What do you talk about?”
“Killing people,” Mona said.
Lena stopped smiling.
“I’m kidding,” Mona said. “We talk about everything. And nothing.”
“Anyway, I think you should practice at home,” Lena said.
“Practice what—being an imaginary friend?”
Lena laughed. “Doing things in the nude,” she said. “Not posing, but—I don’t know—cooking? Or the crossword? Or yoga, perhaps. Things you enjoy doing.”
“Sometimes I enjoy doing drugs,” Mona said.
Lena blinked. “Okay.”
She could have let it go, but she was unable to stop herself. “In fact, I think I’d like some of what you’re on right now,” Mona said.
“Pardon?” Lena said.
“I’d do some with you, if you ever wanted company.”
Lena looked both stunned and irritated. She recovered quickly, though, and then smiled and squinted. “How do you know I’m . . . on something, as you say?” she asked.
“You have a tell,” Mona said. “It’s the way you scratch your nose.”
Lena laughed and shook her head but didn’t say anything. Mona watched her take long, careful drags off her cigarette. It was so obvious now.
“Takes one to know one, I guess,” Lena said finally.
“Me? I’m not an addict,” Mona said. “But I used to volunteer at a needle exchange, way back when. Are you shooting it, or what?”
“Stay put,” Lena said, and coughed. “I’ll be right back.”
“Mona,” Terry said. “Painkillers make you cranky, remember? And extremely constipated.”
“I know,” Mona said.
“So, what’s behind that impulse?” Terry asked.
“Hey,” Mona said. “This was your idea. Remember?”
“I was only drawing your attention to what you already knew,” Terry said.
“I guess I’m looking for a friend,” Mona said. “A human friend.”
“Am I not human?” Terry asked.
Lena stepped through the sliding glass door, fully dressed. She handed Mona her coat, tote bag, and kimono. “I really like you, Mona,” she said soberly.
Fuck. She’d gone too far.
“I really like you, too,” Mona said.
“Good,” she said. “Open your mouth.”
* * *
AT HOME, MONA DISROBED AND made herself a fried-egg and cheese sandwich with pickled jalapeños. She ate it naked at the kitchen table. She washed the dishes naked, did some naked dancing, and then stood on her head for two minutes, also naked, which supposedly stimulated her pituitary gland, according to Yoko and Yoko. She sat on the couch and scratched her nose, her mind pleasantly blank. She did not think of Dark, not even once, but she felt Mr. Disgusting’s presence. She looked around the room, trying to locate him. “Speak to me,” she said out loud. “Speak to me, old man with no teeth and baggy underwear!” And then, just like that, he appeared. On the bed. Naked and semi-erect. She’d forgotten about his crooked cock. He gave her his toothless smile and patted the space next to him, and she was overcome with euphoria. “These pills annihilate loneliness,” she murmured to Terry. “Holy shit.” Then she took a short, naked nap in Mr. Disgusting’s arms.
* * *
THE MODELING DID IN FACT get easier, partly because Lena greeted her at the front door every Saturday and said, “Open your mouth.”
Twenty minutes later, after the pill kicked in, baring herself became more bearable. Enjoyable
, even. It wasn’t being naked that she had reacted to in the beginning, it was being stared at, and she didn’t mind their eyes on her now. Go ahead, guys, drink me in, she wanted to say. Drink in my cellulite and man calves, I don’t give a fuck.
There were no hives now, no hearing loss, and no Terry Gross.
Paul handed her a gray mohair blanket. “Could you maybe pretend this blanket is trying to kill you?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Don’t be afraid to destroy it,” Paul said.
“You can bite it,” Lena said. “Or rip it. Whatever you feel like.”
She went through the motions of grappling with the blanket, and choking it and so on, but it turned out to be difficult to kill a blanket on painkillers. The blanket was nicer than anything she owned, clothes included. For a long while she thought of her childhood blanket, a large, turmeric-colored cotton-acrylic blend with pink satin trim. Mona had sucked on that satin trim for years, rubbing the wet part against her cheek before sleep. When she turned seven, the blanket suddenly acquired a body, the body of a teenage girl named Brenda. Mona continued sucking on Brenda’s trim, but she also kissed Brenda’s face. She fastened a rubber band to Brenda, giving her a long ponytail. Brenda was submissive, with huge knockers. A cheerleader type. Prom queen, probably. They often rolled around on the floor together and Mona always wound up on top. She’d twist Brenda into a rope and hump her in front of the television while stroking Brenda’s ponytail. She made love to Brenda in mixed company—she didn’t think anyone knew what she was doing. Eventually, Brenda was taken away from Mona and probably burned, ending their five-year relationship. It was Mona’s first breakup and it was a bitch, and Mona wept out of both eyes every night for a week.
* * *
LENA CALLED BREAK TIME “INTERMISSION.” Paul stayed in the studio while she and Lena smoked cigarettes, drank prosecco, and told stories on the patio. Or, more precisely, Lena told stories—entertaining, highly rehearsed stories that Mona suspected she’d told a hundred times—during which Mona wondered how many other women had sat where she was sitting, and whether Lena had also told them she loved them. She’d said it half a dozen times now, unceremoniously, without the “I.”