Small Silent Things

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Small Silent Things Page 17

by Robin Page


  I will make myself beautiful, she thinks. I will dress myself in money. She thinks of heels. I will find another girl to fuck tonight. There are plenty. A sea of them, right?

  Buy one, she thinks. A beautiful one to walk around with. To demean later. Earlier, at a gas station when Jocelyn was getting gas, there was a girl with a man by the bathrooms. Shorts so short that it hurt Jocelyn to look at her—all friction and rub, an almost burlap-looking fabric and fierce pink blotches on her translucent thighs. She was thirty years younger than he was, if a day—seventeen maybe. Pure white women are ugly, she decides. Something in the woodpile, Uncle Al used to say when he looked at the three of him. Then he’d laugh.

  She turns off the shower. She steps out. Steam is everywhere except the mirror. She wonders if this is some new technology. A mirror that doesn’t steam. She looks at herself closely. She sees the swell in her cheeks and the red around her eyes. The fine lines. The jowls that are just starting to seep. I will not cry over her. I will not make myself ugly for her. Such a job to stay beautiful. Toner, moisturizer, sunscreen, aging, antiaging, Retin-A, Retinol, Botox, Restylane, Thermage, highlights, lowlights, makeup. Leilah is as beautiful as she is. It is not outside her, bought and paid for. In youth, it is there. It is free.

  She stops thinking of Leilah. What can she do? She will get dressed, she will eat dinner. She lifts her phone, scrolls through. There are always acquaintances—a perk of marrying into a good family. She searches. She stops at one finally: a friend in Palm Desert, a relationship made close in LA years and years ago, because neither of them could have babies naturally. A simple thing. Any dog can do it, her mother would say, but not Jocelyn. Not Jen. Money, medicine, period blood shot across a white room, gloved hands inside them, injections, scrapings, bruises along their bellies and behinds—Conrad weak and fainting, pressing the plunger in, breaking the needle tip beneath her skin. She and Jen share these violations one day at a charity luncheon, and in fifteen minutes they are like best friends.

  She dials and Jen picks up. There is surprise on the other end of the phone. Delight. You’re here? I haven’t seen you in ages, the voice says. Well, it’s a spur-of-the-moment trip, the girl inside her says brightly, in Jocelyn’s happy voice. She can hear herself saying, Dinner? Of course. Conversation. Pretense. Goodbye.

  “I do not need that bitch,” she says aloud this time, after hanging up the phone. Like a whisper that only she can hear: I am always with you, the girl inside her says. You’ll be fine. A comb in her hand to bring back beauty. Lace panties, heels. Just put it on. Become something else. If you put it on. Breathe.

  3

  THEY MEET AT CIAO BELLA—AN ANCIENT ITALIAN RESTAURANT THAT can exist only in Palm Desert. It is tacky and boothed. She allows herself the slim, impossibly high snakeskin heels that have cost a thousand dollars, a leather skirt, a silk cream blouse. All meant for Kate, but why waste it (the other girl says). She feels sexy, which is somehow easier now that she is older. That single thing.

  “You look beautiful,” Jen says, and kisses her on both cheeks. Jocelyn says thank you, but what she looks is expensive.

  “Let’s do appetizers and drinks,” Jen says.

  “Let’s.”

  It takes a few rounds of drinks before Jocelyn can really settle in, really enjoy herself, really let go of what Kate is doing right now. Is she with her wife? Are they having sex? She is glad she has decided to get away. She is happy to see Jen. They gossip, catch up. She does not tell her about Kate. She lets Kate go.

  At the end of the dinner, Jocelyn feels certain that she can get through the weekend. She can enjoy it. She has redirected herself. It will be about tennis. She is not putting up with it. I will be good, she promises herself. I will place myself back inside my family.

  Jocelyn pays the bill for both of them, and then they head to the valet. Jocelyn calls the hotel from her cell phone, summons a car.

  “Please, let me take you,” Jen says.

  “No way,” Jocelyn says. “I like to be picked up. It feels fancy.” She smiles. “Conrad’s paying for it anyway.”

  Jen smiles back. It is a joke that wealthy women make all the time. Something they can come together on—the ways they spend their husbands’ money.

  While they wait for Jocelyn’s driver, the sky goes dark, the air picks up, and Jocelyn is reminded of summer tornado weather in Ohio, basements, trees lifted like weeds out of the ground. To her delight, it starts to rain. A sudden, intense, desert rainstorm. The first drops steam up when they hit the pavement. Jen puts her arm outside the awning. Drops bead and multiply on her clear skin and hands.

  They watch the rain, mesmerized by it, until the valet brings Jen’s car. They hug, kiss cheeks, make promises to not let the time pass.

  The hotel car service pulls up less than four minutes later. It is a huge GMC. Ten people could fit inside. The driver has an umbrella for her. The scalpel of memory opens her, the flash of Ycidra, all three of them racing around in a pelting rainstorm. No raincoats. No umbrellas. Just Hefty bags—another one of her sister’s make-dos.

  The driver opens the door for her. She settles into the back seat, watching the droplets hit the windshield. She wishes for lightning, and then for thunder to follow. Sound is slower than light, her sister taught her. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. Ycidra dividing. The storm is five miles away. But why was this important? What did it do for them to know when the storm would arrive?

  She is tipsy from the drinks at dinner. The memories are all neutral, tinged with an aquatic feel. She calls Conrad. They speak for less than five minutes. She feels deeply in love with him. Deeply grateful that she hasn’t been caught in her affair with Kate.

  He hands the phone to their daughter. “When are you coming home, Mama?” Lucy says. “Me and Papa are having fun, but when are you coming home?”

  “You’re coming to see me,” Jocelyn says, and finds that she is really joyful about it. She misses her child, wishes to be back home. “I can’t wait until you get here.”

  Conrad’s voice is abruptly back on the line. “That’s it,” he says firmly. “Go have fun. I know if I let you two talk for much longer, you’ll be back here before morning.”

  He is teasing her, and she likes it.

  “How’s the tennis?” he asks.

  “No tennis yet,” she says. Better to not lie. They say their I-love-yous and hang up. She leans back into the large bench seat of the GMC. It is nice inside the car, the leather luxury. She thinks she might schedule a facial for the morning. She will form a new idea about what is ahead of her for this weekend. She will make a tiny circle, place her family inside, place herself inside with them, seal it. She will let go of Kate. Her phone buzzes and she knows it is Conrad. Surely he has forgotten some bedtime ritual—which sweet is allowed, which story needs reading. The alcohol makes her feel in tune with everything—telepathic even. She looks at her phone, but it isn’t Conrad. It is a text.

  KATE: Where are you?

  She feels instantly angry. She doesn’t want to respond. Doesn’t want to talk. Wants to tell the driver to stop the car. She should find another hotel.

  JOCELYN: I’m out. Out to dinner.

  KATE: When will you be back?

  The car is almost to the hotel. Maybe she can get inside, sneak in. The confidence she felt just minutes before is waning. Don’t text back, she tells herself, but then she’s already started it.

  JOCELYN: I don’t know.

  The driver pulls into the hotel parking lot.

  Jocelyn looks up. The fierce rain has died down to a drizzle. The lobby is ten paces away, and though her visibility is lessened by the rain, she can clearly see the outline of Kate’s blonde hair. The hair, the hair the hair. It is stark, almost white in the gray weather. It is down, wavy in the humidity. Kate is standing under the overhang texting her. Jocelyn’s body stirs.

  The driver slows, then stops. She hears the car go off. Her door is opened. The umbrella is there again. She slides out of the ba
ck seat. Her skirt lifts above her thighs, raindrops touch her skin. She rifles around for a tip, gives the driver a twenty, and before he has a chance to walk her inside, Kate is on her.

  “Where have you been?” she asks.

  “Dinner. I told you. Thank you,” she says, excusing the driver.

  “Can we talk?” Kate asks.

  “I don’t really want to,” Jocelyn says. “Thanks though.”

  She begins walking away, happy with her snarky tone. Kate keeps pace beside her.

  “Just a minute, okay? I want to explain. Let’s go to your room?”

  “Explain about what?” Jocelyn asks. Room, room, room, she thinks, even though she doesn’t want to think it. The things that will happen in my room.

  “A minute?” Kate asks again, almost whining. “Please. You’ve got to have a minute for me.”

  Jocelyn would like to punch her.

  “Where’s your wife?” Jocelyn asks. “Why are you here bothering me? Where does she think you are?”

  “I thought we weren’t doing that,” Kate says.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “She surprised me. I didn’t think she was coming up until Friday,” Kate says. “Let’s talk in your room.”

  “Whatever,” Jocelyn says. “You could have texted me.”

  “I couldn’t have. Please.”

  Jocelyn feels herself giving in. “Hurry up, please. I don’t want anyone to see us together. Especially not your someone.”

  “Don’t be smug,” Kate says.

  “I would have brought my husband if I’d known,” Jocelyn says.

  “I said, don’t be smug.”

  “You’re an asshole. You could have texted me,” she says again.

  “I could not have texted you. She was waiting in the car for me when I got home from work. She took the day off to come. The whole car was packed up. My son was in his car seat. She thought she was doing something nice, something for the family.”

  Jocelyn can’t look at her. She stares at the ugly hotel carpet, which, she thinks, is always ugly no matter how expensive the hotel.

  “Nice shoes,” Kate says.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Nice shoes,” Kate says again.

  “God you’re annoying,” Jocelyn says.

  They reach the room, and Jocelyn puts the key card in. The door doesn’t open. She tries again, sliding it in and out. Nothing. She looks up and down the hallway, worried that someone might come. She tries again, slowly this time, but the red light just blinks. She feels herself starting to panic.

  “Let me try,” Kate says. She puts the card in the slot, and she is in the room in a flash.

  “You’re clearly experienced at hotel room doors,” Jocelyn says and smirks.

  “Only with you,” Kate says. A light smile is on her face.

  Jocelyn refuses to laugh, but it’s harder now. The room is dark, quiet. It is almost peaceful. She walks in, behind Kate, pushes the door shut, and leans against it, just breathing. What are we doing? Why is she here? Tell her to go.

  “What do you want from me?” Jocelyn asks. “I don’t want to waste time with you.”

  Kate steps closer to her, reaches out to touch her, but Jocelyn flicks her hand away.

  Kate grins. “I want to know where you were. I want to know who you were with.”

  “No way,” Jocelyn says. “It’s none of your business. We’re just fucking, remember? I mean when your wife isn’t here anyway.”

  “Where were you?” Kate asks again.

  Jocelyn glowers. Her lover’s face is an inch away from her own. She can feel warm breath. It is almost in her mouth. Kate wraps her fingers around her wrists. Jocelyn wonders irrationally if she will be safe in the room. If she can get out of the room before anything happens.

  “I want you to go,” Jocelyn says.

  “I’m not going,” Kate says. “I’m definitely not going. I understand that you’re mad at me. It’s kind of cute.”

  “You’re an ass.”

  “You’re mad, Jocelyn. That’s all. It’s okay.”

  “I want you to go,” Jocelyn says again, but isn’t quite so sure.

  Kate leans in, presses her mouth against Jocelyn’s, and then pulls away a bit. “We had an agreement,” she says. Each syllable is slow. “We’re fucking. I want to fuck. You agreed.”

  Jocelyn starts to protest, but Kate’s body is a wall. She doesn’t like the change of roles. She doesn’t like when she isn’t in charge, but she feels pulled, dragged in like a kite in a fierce wind. She feels a flicker, a switch turning on, even though she doesn’t want it to happen.

  “I—”

  “Don’t speak, okay?” Kate says, kissing her again. Her tongue is light, almost licking. “Just take your panties off for me.”

  Jocelyn opens her mouth. She feels her breath heave up and then down. She feels Kate’s tongue, likes it. She wants to be angry, wants to deny her, but also wants to keep going.

  “No,” she says.

  “Don’t say no,” Kate says. “Just do what I say. No guilt, remember. No responsibility. Just sex.”

  After each sentence she kisses Jocelyn, softly, lightly. She lifts the leather skirt, bunching it inch by inch up either side of Jocelyn’s hips. She traces the outline of her behind, moving her thumbs in toward her inner thighs, but just barely, making Jocelyn long for her.

  Once more, she thinks. I will do this once more and not again.

  She feels the pull of her panties being moved aside. She tries to call up the image of Kate’s boy, Kate’s wife, but it doesn’t work. She tries to think of Conrad and Lucy, but it’s no use. Her own fingers come to life and she starts to undo the leather skirt. The buttons are difficult. Her fingers are not adept. She tugs. There are too many. She feels Kate’s hands now inside her shirt, warm on her waist. Talking and kissing her neck.

  “Not your skirt,” Kate says, pushing her up against the door, lifting Jocelyn up on her tiptoes, so her hips are leaning into her. “Just the panties.” A finger runs gently, almost tickling her along her back. “Do you need help?”

  “No,” Jocelyn says, pulling the underwear down, letting it fall free. She feels it pass over her thighs and then her rain-wetted calves. Her cheeks are warm. She can sense Kate’s intensity growing. She is kissing her harder.

  “Open your mouth for me,” Kate says, and Jocelyn does as she is told. She feels the soft edge of Kate’s lips. Her tongue tipping inside of her mouth. They are the same height now, with her heels on. Jocelyn kisses back, and Kate pulls away.

  “Just open your mouth,” she says. “I’ll tell you what to do.”

  She starts to unbutton Jocelyn’s shirt. She leaves the skirt where it is. Jocelyn lets go. I’m here. I’m in.

  “Keep your shoes on,” Kate says, at Jocelyn’s ear now. “The whole time.”

  Her silk shirt falls open. The cool hotel air-conditioning chills Jocelyn’s skin. Kate lets the shirt slide off Jocelyn’s body. Goose bumps prick her.

  “Who did you have dinner with?” Kate asks again, insistent. “These pretty panties and bra aren’t for just anyone.” She moves the bra, pushing the cups down, lifting the swell of her breasts out of it. Her nipples are hard, elongated. Kate is sucking on Jocelyn’s nipples between questions, lightly and then more intensely. “A girl? A boy?”

  “A friend,” Jocelyn says. She feels impatient, awash with lust. She wants to push Kate’s head down. She wants to sit on top of her. She likes and doesn’t like the power Kate has over her at the moment. Kate is sucking and kissing, but keeping Jocelyn’s hips and body anchored against the door. Jocelyn feels like begging, but won’t. Might. Isn’t sure.

  “Let’s get on the bed,” Jocelyn says.

  Kate lifts up her skirt, pulling it roughly. “Don’t speak,” she says. “Unless I ask you a question.”

  Jocelyn feels a hand between her legs. She sucks in breath. It’s just there, just barely, skimming. Kate is watching her face. “Is your friend pretty?”<
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  Jocelyn looks away. The finger is there, a constant, circling. The small flame inside her ignites, expands, breathes.

  “Please,” she hears herself saying.

  “Look at me, Jocelyn. Is she pretty?”

  Jocelyn looks. Kate pushes the finger an inch inside her, and then out, each time a little more. Jocelyn hears her own voice, moaning. It is almost like fucking, but very, very slowly, outside and then in, and then back on the tip of her clitoris.

  “I want you to answer me.”

  The word tonight sticks in Jocelyn’s brain. She feels disoriented.

  “Yes,” Jocelyn says. “Yes. She’s pretty.” And it is as if her friend is there too. Jocelyn feels herself unspooling, pressing herself now against Kate’s finger. She is balanced on her high heels, up and down. The tempo picks up. Kate is licking the tips of her nipples, moving from one to the other. The cool air of the room is like a breeze on her body, exaggerating the tingling in her nipples. All of it connected like a string being plucked gently, activating everything at once.

  “Whatever I want, right?”

  “Right,” Jocelyn says. “Yes.”

  “You understand, right? You’ll do whatever I want?”

  “Yes, yes,” Jocelyn says. She pulls Kate’s head away from her breasts and pushes her mouth into her own. They kiss deeply. Jocelyn is so close to coming—moving, and pressing. Kate pulls away. She holds Jocelyn with one hand against the door, watches her, pressing and teasing with the other finger the whole time.

  “Please,” Jocelyn says. “I’m going to come.”

  Without warning, Kate pulls her finger out.

  “No,” Jocelyn says. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.” She is kissing Kate, pulling, begging. She feels as if she’ll die. “Please.”

 

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