We All Love the Beautiful Girls

by Joanne Proulx

  He goes to step away, but Mia slips her hand under the hem of his jeans and gives his ankle a squeeze. “Lucky,” she says.

  Which is exactly what he’d been thinking. By the end of the work week, all he wants is to be home. When they’re invited out for dinner, separated by people, he misses having her to himself. At a party, it’s always Mia who catches his eye. Her vitality, her youthful heart. He’ll wait for her to feel him watching. Then from ten, twenty, thirty feet, their eyes will lock, hold, as love rises sly into the room.

  Front door open, Michael can’t quite process the man shuffling from foot to foot on his porch, in a tuque and puffy down jacket, each breath an icy fog. Michael’s used to seeing Stanley tugging at his tie in their boardroom, trying to explain to him and Peter why even though sales are up, their property management companies aren’t making the money they once did. Stanley showing up at his house on a Friday night, even with his briefcase clutched to his chest, is way out of the norm.

  Michael puts a hand on Stanley’s back and guides him into the front hall. “Come in before you freeze to death.”

  “Sorry to drop in like this.” Stanley places his boots on the mat beside the door, then unzips his jacket, revealing an impressive paunch, fallout from long hours behind a desk and too many client lunches. “I saw your Jeep in the driveway.”

  “You want something to drink?”

  “This is a professional visit,” Stanley says, “but if you’re having one.”

  Mia’s still on the floor by the fire, but now she’s sitting up, cross-legged with a pillow on her lap. “Mia, you remember Stanley. Stanley, Mia, my wife.” Michael knows he doesn’t have to clarify the relationship, to add the title, but he likes to lay claim. Mia’s always worn her hair long, but this week she had it cut into a short bob, the bangs high on her forehead. On an older woman the haircut would be severe, on a child it would look like a mistake, the scissorwork of an unskilled parent, but on Mia the effect is gamine, showing off her straight, dark eyebrows, her moony eyes. She looks like a ripe tomboy from the Isle of Man, a French schoolteacher who prefers cafés to classrooms.

  “Our boys were on the same team a few years back, weren’t they?” Mia says, repeating a neighbourhood mantra, forget Kevin Bacon, everyone one ice sheet removed.

  Stanley nods. “Finn’s not playing this year?”

  “Nope,” Michael interjects. He bends and picks the wine bottle from the floor. “Concentrating on his marks.” Which is only partly true. Finn will be applying to universities next fall, so sure, his marks are important, but playing hockey a couple of times a week hadn’t hurt his grades; Finn’s always done well at school. But when he turned fourteen, fifteen, the sport turned rough. Even in their no-hitting house league the boys had started raising their elbows and slamming each other into the boards, trying out their bigger bodies, throwing around their new strength. Finn had been one of the biggest kids on his team—close to six feet tall and naturally muscular—but still he started hesitating going into the corners, looking over his shoulder, shying away from really fighting for the puck. Michael wasn’t sure if anyone else noticed, but he sure did.

  At one mid-season game against a team of farm kids from Quebec, a brawl had broken out, every guy on the ice grabbing hold of an opponent, jerking them around by their sweaters, trash-talking each other in both official languages. Finn had been the only kid to skate away. Michael had felt relieved, although standing in the brouhaha of hollering parents, he’s not proud to admit he’d also felt a stab of embarrassment. There was a code in hockey, unwritten rules governing sportsmanship and honour, and his boy wasn’t playing along. Watching Finn hanging on the boards by the bench, the word pussy had floated into his head, although Michael had pushed it away fast.

  When it came time to sign up this year, Finn had said he was going to stick to shinny, that he preferred pickup games on outdoor rinks with only his gloves and his skates and his stick.

  “Daniel still playing?”

  “Only thing that gets him off the computer.” For the first time since he walked in, Stanley risks a smile. “Made the A team again this year.”

  “Good for him,” Mia says as Michael heads for the bar at the back of the room.

  They bought the house before Finn was born and had extended the legs on an old pump organ they’d inherited from Mia’s grandmother, added a matching rosewood extension, complete with a built-in fridge and a discreet stereo system. They’d painted the walls a rich ruby red, and Mia had hung velvet curtains and an antique mirror behind the bar and a Fortuny lamp—hand-painted Venetian silk; Michael hadn’t even asked how much it cost—overhead, so what had been an awkward, unused end of a long living room now had the lusty warmth of a Parisian salon.

  “You still taking those pictures?” Stanley asks.

  “I am.”

  “That one you took of Daniel a couple years back. My wife just loves it. You just, just got him somehow, you know?”

  “Well thanks, Stanley,” Mia says. “He’s a lovely boy.”

  Michael pulls the curtains against the cold and clunks a fresh glass onto the bar. The kid is a puck hog. Fast, but he never passes. Always tries to go end-to-end, which worked okay when the boys were younger but rarely once they all figured out how to skate. Michael pulls the cork and motions to Stanley. “Shiraz okay?”

  Stanley nods but stays put at the front of the room. “I have some papers to go over.” He reaches up and scratches his neck. “We’ll need better light.”

  “It’s brighter in the kitchen,” Mia says, flashing Michael a wondering look. “You could use the table in there.”

  Michael has no desire to sit in the kitchen. He’s comfortable behind the bar. “Should I call Peter for this?” he asks, rather gruffly. “He’s the finance guy.”

  “No.” Stanley shakes his head. “You shouldn’t. You definitely shouldn’t call Peter.”

  —

  THE PARTY’S A RAGER. And like all things Eli, his basement is killer. Rich kid. Rich parents, currently in Costa Rica. Everyone drunk on their left-behind booze.

  If anyone tries to talk to me, I pretend I can’t hear over the music, which is loud—Eli’s at the coffin, two decks, two laptops, professional six-track mixer. Tonight, I’m not into it. At all. What I’m into is drinking—tequila shots, beer, more tequila. You know, whatever. What I’m feeling is the bass from the upstairs party. Like hammer blows from above.

  Frankie and this other girl, Brooke, from my physics class, straddle arcade motorcycles in the corner. Eli’s dad got them cheap from some place that was going under, gave them to Eli and Eric last Christmas. I got a hockey stick and some socks. The girls swing into the curves—the bikes tip, their asses tip—but I’m not really paying attention. Until game over, Frankie slides off the bike.

  I got owned, she laughs, stumbling against my leg, drunk or pretending to be. She sits on my knee, holds up her phone and leans in for a selfie. I tell her she’s heavy and bounce her off. She gives me a bitchy look as she walks away.

  Like I care. Tonight, I only care about the upstairs party, the music. Which is irritating. And distracting. Very Fucking Irritating and Distracting.

  I haul myself off the couch, head over to tell Eli I’m leaving. But he’s totally oblivious, in his five-hundred-dollars-a-pop headphones. He finally sees me and frees up one ear. You okay? he shouts over the music. Travi$ Scott. “Goosebumps.” Tonight I hate the fucking song. You in a shit mood, or what?

  I’m fine. A bit wasted.

  Crash here. In my room. Just don’t puke in my bed. His pupils are small, the whites red. He’s been upstairs with Eric. Eric and Jess.

  I’m not gonna puke. I’m fine. I’m going home.

  Come on, man. Stay here. I’ll call your mom. Make some shit up. He tries to throw an arm around my shoulder, but I shrug it off.

  Frankie elbows her way in, flashing smiles and cleavage as she leans into Eli, making some bogus musical request, shimmery and happy, pretending I don�
��t exist. Eli smiles loosely back—he’s always been into her, she’s given him nothing so far—his face lit blue by MacBook, his stupid fucking smile.

  When he’s stoned, he looks just like him.

  I’m going, I say.

  I’m halfway up the stairs. Eli calls over the music. Finn!

  I trip.

  Hey, Finn!

  I trip again.

  —

  WHEN MICHAEL CALLS HER, his voice sounds strangled, as if Stanley’s got him by the throat in the kitchen. They’ve been in there a while—obviously their time together hasn’t been pleasant. Reluctantly Mia downward-dogs her way off the living room floor, finds the remote and with a click shuts off the fire. She and Michael have always agreed she wouldn’t get involved in the business. And despite her financial acumen—ten years as a corporate banker—Peter never argued. Nothing more emasculating than a wife hovering over her husband’s shoulder, he’d laughed. Especially one as number smart as Mia. But there’d been no bonuses at the company this year or last, and recently Michael has been making noises about her taking a look at the books.

  Let him and Peter work it out. She’s had enough of men and their money. She knows that in every business numbers get fudged, games get played, and honesty and integrity aren’t typically at the top of anyone’s list.

  She pushes hard through the swinging door. Michael and Stanley are sitting side by side, watching as she makes her way across the kitchen. If it weren’t her husband and his accountant at the table she’d laugh; the two men are the embodiment of white-collar scared shitless. Normally with his easy smile and beautiful skin Michael looks like a man just back from sailing. But tonight his face is the colour of chickpeas. His lips are white. And Stanley’s hot and red as a second-degree burn. Two full glasses of wine stand forgotten in the spread of papers between them.

  The radio, permanently tuned to the CBC, is playing an old Q rerun, the host interviewing Joni Mitchell. Mia turns it off. She also shuts off the hood fan left on after a dinner of homemade lasagna, so all is quiet, the air undisturbed but for the lingering smell of burnt cheese. Mia takes the two steps down to the garden room. The dining room. A new addition to an old home. A bank of windows overlooks the yard; Michael likes to stretch out on the long bench seat beneath them after dinner. The outside lights are off, so the windows reflect back the room, making it feel encapsulated, as if beyond the glass the world has stepped soundlessly back. The deck, the trellis, the snowy yard, the crabapple’s twisted branches. The cedar fence flattened. The house behind them, converted to a triplex years ago now, much to the chagrin of the neighbours—Jess and her mom live on the second floor. All of the houses, all of Old Aberdeen crept away, the handsome bridges fallen. They’ll wake tomorrow alone in a new wilderness, a white flatness running to every horizon, the river a rush in the distance.

  The image is not entirely unpleasant. When Mia was a new mother, she had a recurring dream of watching the house burn. Smoke gushing out the windows, flames shooting from the roof, the heat pressing into her where she stood in the middle of the avenue. And instead of feeling panicked, she’d feel relieved, joyous even. She’d wake flushed and excited, as if she’d been liberated into a glorious second chance, although even in her dreams she was careful; she always held Finn in her arms and stood Michael squarely beside her before burning her life to the ground. At least that’s the way she remembers it now.

  Mia circles the table and takes the chair next to her husband, so she’s facing away from the windows.

  “Explain it to her,” Michael says, his voice pinched.

  Stanley squares papers neatly in front of her, ready to back up all his bad news with official documentation. A corporate search, his fingerprints clammy along the edges. “During the last restructuring,” he tells her, “the splitting of one company into three, Peter wrote Michael out.”

  “What?”

  “He wrote him out.”

  Company records slide across the table, an amendment to the shareholder agreement with Michael’s signature at the bottom. Mia does her best not to flinch. Stanley explains how Peter had things drawn up so he was the sole owner of the Conrad Management Group, eliminating their negotiated sixty-forty split with a few scratches of a pen. Formed a new company—Peter Corp.—Peter Corp!—into which, after flowing from one company to the next, consulting fees totalling close to half a million dollars were funnelled annually.

  “How could this happen?” Mia directs her question at Stanley. She doesn’t look at Michael. It is enough seeing his signature on these pages.

  “Michael always left the financials to Peter.” Stanley taps a short stack of documents beside him, the ones Mia hasn’t yet seen. “He never really read the paperwork.”

  “We’re friends,” Michael says. “We’ve known each other since high school.”

  “He’s been withholding information,” Stanley says. “Purposely making things difficult to figure out. I just work with the in-house numbers I’m given. I’m not paid to ask a lot of questions. But for the past few years, things just haven’t added up. I’ve done more than I should.”

  Mia stares across the room at the fridge. Finn’s last report card, a notice from school about an upcoming ski trip, a dental appointment reminder, the fine details of their lives held up by glossy magnets. She wonders what, if anything, Helen knows about this.

  “I’ll call Peter tomorrow,” Michael says. “Get this whole thing straightened out.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Stanley says, his eyes skittish. “I’d get in touch with a lawyer first thing Monday. First thing, you hear?”

  —

  UPSTAIRS, I STAY close to the wall. I try not to look over. I try not to look over at her. Leaning on the counter, her back to me. Two steps and I’d be grazing the sliver of skin showing above her jeans. Running my fingertips along it. Like just casually, on my way by.

  Eric’s standing beside her. Not touching her. Not touching her. Lucky, stupid prick. The first time I came over, he dumped the dog’s water bowl on my head. I was, like, six. He’s been selling weed to half my friends since grade eight. On the breakfast bar in front of him, a big blue bong, a lazy cloud drifting overhead. Upstairs crowd. Downstairs crowd. Except for the dedicated stoners, we don’t really mingle that much.

  I make it through unnoticed. In the aftershock of the journey, my heart’s hammering, confusing a stroll through the kitchen with a blind stumble across a minefield or something. Idiot. Idiot heart.

  I dig through the pile of winter jackets on the couch, locate mine—neon blue, so it’s easy—rip it from the pile, grab one black glove, then another, it’s not mine, I whip it back into the fray, if it wasn’t so fucking cold I’d just ditch, do a couple laps of the block, punch a tree, sober up, go home.

  And I don’t even see her at first. I’m still rifling through the pile, but I feel her come out of the kitchen. I feel her moving along the hall. I turn my head and she disappears into the bathroom. She’s wearing a pink sweater that I know to be incredibly soft. I drift over, like smoke I drift over, press myself against the wall and listen to her pee—even this I love—the toilet flush, water running as she washes her hands. When she comes out, the smell of soap, I know it’s stupid, but I don’t care, I grab her around the waist.

  She lets out a little scream before she sees it’s me. Finn, she hisses, twisting away. I reach for her again, but she traps my hands in hers, holds them down and away.

  I stare at her as hard as I can.

  Stop it. She squeezes my fingers, tight, so I know she’s not fooling around.

  What?

  Just stop. You’re drunk. You wouldn’t do this if you weren’t.

  She has a velvet ribbon tied around her throat. Black. Black on creamy brown. Thai. No, Indonesian. Or maybe half. I’m not sure—Jess never talks about her dad.

  I like your necklace thing, I say.

  Thanks. A quick, cautious smile.

  Can I touch it?

 
No.

  Can I?

  No.

  I pull one hand free, wave it around a bit, let it do a little victory dance, before I reach up and run my index finger slowly along the ribbon.

  Soft, I say. Like you.

  Finn. She steps away. Glances toward the kitchen. No one’s watching. She tilts her head to one side. I tug a dangling black end. The bow collapses. The ribbon falls from her throat. I take my time wrapping it around my fingers. I can do all this because I’m drunk and I don’t care.

  Are you leaving? She nods at my jacket.

  Yeah, but I can’t find my glove.

  She takes my hand and leads me to the front hall. Wait here, she says, pressing down on my shoulders, collapsing me onto the stairs. I’ll find it for you.

  She’s back in a minute, my glove on her right hand. I pull her down beside me, thankful when she doesn’t resist.

  You okay? she asks.

  No. My knees jumping, radioactive. I was losing it downstairs. I sound so sucky, like a two-year-old, but I can’t help it.

  Finn.

  It’s been six months.

  Really? Are you serious?

  Yeah. Six months today. Every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day. I bump her shoulder. Your fault. You started it.

  I shouldn’t have.

  But you did.

  She takes my chin and turns my head toward her. It’s just that you’re so gorgeous. So gorgeous and so nice.

  Come to the bathroom with me, I say.

  She raises her hand, makes my glove deliver the warning, an obedient puppet. Be good, Finn.

  I will. In the bathroom. You know, the bathroom.

  Finn, she says, I can’t. Her face is two inches from mine, her breath is warm and weedy, her lips are—

  HEY!

  Like a kick in the fucking head hey and Eric standing in front of us, his hands on his hips. You babysitting or what?

  She’s off the step, poof, gone. Finn’s not feeling great, she says, all trippy and fast.