What's Mine and Yours

by Naima Coster

  “Around. You interested?”

  “You sure this isn’t Mr. Riley? Cause he’s weird. He’s got a thing with me.”

  “Look, the truth is, I’ve got an agenda.”

  Gee laughed without meaning to. Noelle was strange, in her trench coat and big boots. She talked as if she were much older, so direct, so plain.

  “I’ve been thinking this could be a good way to bring us all together. You know, old students and new. We could work together on something, really piss off those shitty concerned parents or whatever. Plus, it could be fun.”

  “That’s cool,” Gee said, without knowing whether he meant it or not. He was so used to saying things he didn’t mean just to get through a moment, to get someone to look away.

  “But I don’t know,” he went on. “I don’t think I’d be good at acting. I’m not really a big talker.”

  “Then you’d be perfect,” Noelle said. “All the words are already written for you.”

  11

  October 2018

  The Piedmont, North Carolina

  Noelle’s phone rang in the dark. Nelson. She fumbled to answer, desperate to hear his voice. She pressed the phone to her ear and heard nothing. “Hold on,” she said, “let me step outside.” She rushed to pull a coat on over her pajamas, a pair of slippers. She was groggy but quick.

  She stepped onto the porch, and it was still quiet on the line. “Hello? Hello? I’m here,” she said. She wasn’t afraid to seem eager anymore. He had broken the silence between them by calling, and it was a sign they could find their way back. It had been their custom for one of them to seek out the other after an argument, or a long spell apart. They would come together briefly and kiss, as if to touch the cornerstone of their marriage, to be sure it was still there. Nelson would find her reading on the couch, lay his head on her lap, and thread their fingers together. She would find him in the kitchen, scrubbing counters, and she’d grab him by the waist, lean her body against his, to let him know that he was loved.

  The sky was the deep blue black of night; it was probably lunchtime in Paris. She sank onto the steps and peered across the yard at the woods. A coyote stood by the dumpster at the end of the lawn. It turned its shining eyes on her and then slipped back into the trees.

  Noelle heard a voice on the line, but it was muffled. She strained to listen. “Nelson?”

  The voice was high, thin. It belonged to a woman. She went on listening. Eventually, she heard Nelson’s voice, too, but not well enough to know what they were saying. There was no background noise of cars or clinking glasses or other conversations. They were somewhere private, just the two of them, their voices volleying back and forth, although Noelle still couldn’t make out their words. Noelle kept the phone pressed to her ear. She felt her blood beating behind her eyes, in her throat. It must have been no longer than a few seconds when she heard the first moan. It rose suddenly—hers—and then it was met by a gasp, a groan she recognized. Nelson’s. The moaning went on for a few moments, and then a slap, a louder grunt. Noelle hung up before she knew she’d done it, without deciding whether she wanted to hear more. It was instinct, unthinking. She threw her phone down on the porch, and then she was lurching to stand, bowing over the stairs to vomit. She retched into a patch of monkey grass, high and blue in the dark. When she was empty, she wiped her mouth, fell back onto the porch steps.

  She decided to call back. She rang once, and he didn’t answer. She rang again. A third time, a fourth. Every time he didn’t answer, she hung up and dialed anew. She didn’t know what she would say to him if he answered. She thought, briefly, there was no way he could see his phone, not while he was with another woman; and, if he could see it, he wouldn’t be fool enough to pick up. It would take just a few clicks for him to realize what had happened, and the horror would overtake him. She supposed some part of her expected he would try to make things right—he was, after all, her Nelson. She was crying when the phone rang the ninth time, the tenth. She wondered briefly if she’d misheard it all, but then she shook the thought away. It made perfect sense, although she hadn’t entertained the thought before, not really. It was an ill thought that crept around the edges of her mind from time to time but that she never indulged. A delayed flight, a turned-off phone, the vestiges of perfume on his coat. Why would she have given in to wondering? Her life was held together by trust and vows and benefit of the doubt. To be aloof was not to be out of love; to not answer your phone was not to be fucking someone else. She had no reason to think herself an idiot until it happened to her.

  He answered on the twelfth time. This time there was noise: street sounds, the wind. He was somewhere outside.

  “Sweetheart,” he said. “Everything okay? I saw all your missed calls.” He was playing it calm, waiting to see if she knew anything.

  Noelle was sure he would hear all the crying she’d done in her voice, but she played along. “I’m just returning your call. You called me.”

  “Did I? It must have been an accident.”

  “Of course it was an accident. You haven’t called me in weeks.”

  “You haven’t called me either.”

  “We’re even then.”

  “Noelle, I tried. I wrote to you about the play, and you never answered.”

  “What was I supposed to say? I couldn’t reach you for days. I even tried your assistant, and then I get an email that you’re extending your trip.”

  “I was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what? Afraid I’d break up with you? You’re my husband.”

  “Maybe that’s not the right word—I am ashamed.”

  Noelle caught her breath, waited for him to confess.

  “I’ve gotten so caught up here—I suppose I wanted to forget. I’m not proud of it. I was so embarrassed that I didn’t know you’d gone away until I spoke to your mother. Did she tell you I called?”

  “She didn’t mention it.”

  “It’s so good to hear your voice. Maybe I dialed subconsciously. Maybe it was meant to happen.”

  Noelle could feel her every intake of breath. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at this café, in the middle of a work lunch.”

  “Oh yeah? What are you having for lunch?”

  “I wish I could talk more, babe, but, actually, I—”

  “You fucking coward.”

  “Noelle.”

  “I’m used to you lying to yourself, but you will not lie to me.”

  “Noelle, let me explain. What did you hear?”

  “You’re a fake and a fraud, and I hate you. I hope I never see your face again.”

  “Noelle, you have to listen to me. Calm down.”

  “Is this the part where you tell me the problem is my reaction? All my feelings—”

  “There can be more than one problem at a time, and, yes, part of it is the way you lose control—”

  “Oh, shut the fuck up.” She said it before she could stop herself, and soon Nelson was yelling back at her, “No, fuck you!”

  She could hear him breathless on the phone, and she sat stunned. She had expected Nelson to grovel, to say sorry, beg her not to leave. She spoke to him in a hush.

  “Can you imagine if he were here? If he could see us? If he were unlucky enough to have us as parents? Maybe it’s better that we lost him.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I mean every word. Don’t you bother coming back.”

  She hung up and felt her resolve collapse. She was sobbing when the screen door rattled open and Diane came onto the porch, dragging a sweatshirt on over her head. She rushed to Noelle, sat beside her, circled her with her arms. “What’s the matter?” she said, and Noelle let herself unclench. She told her sister everything she’d been holding on to—the lost child, and Golden Brook, her pathetic, domestic life, Nelson’s remoteness, the rustling and fucking she’d heard on the line.

  “I’d say it wasn’t his fault,” she said. “I did become kind of a loser afterward. But, of course, it’s his faul
t. I hate him.”

  It felt forceful and good to curse Nelson, to shed her instinct to shield him from her disappointment, to spare him.

  “I can’t believe he’s cheating.” Diane yanked her close. “I have half a mind to call his mother. I bet she’d set him straight.”

  “I always liked her, you know, but Nelson doesn’t really talk to her anymore, so neither do I. Not officially. He just sort of drifted away.”

  Diane considered this. “Maybe this is a pattern of his, Nells. Maybe this is what he does. He reaches a new stage of life, and he leaves some woman behind.”

  “But he married me. We made promises.” She tried to still herself, but her eyes filled with tears. “Please don’t tell Mama.”

  “I won’t tell a soul.”

  Diane held her sister, and Noelle laid her head on her shoulder. Her baby sister’s body was firm, solid, and it felt good to let Diane hold her up.

  “Maybe you two will work this out.”

  Noelle pulled away from her sister, looked her squarely in the eyes.

  “I’m not saying you should, but some people stay together after a thing like this.” Diane didn’t say it aloud, that she was thinking of Alma. If Alma ever cheated on her, Diane was certain she’d take her back. Any life without Alma seemed worse than a life with her in it.

  Noelle shook her head, disbelieving. “I’ll never be able to forgive him. I’m not going to wind up like Mama, hung up on a man she can’t trust.”

  “Give yourself some time,” Diane said. “It’s all too fresh. You don’t have to decide now.”

  The sisters let a hush fall between them. They held hands and sat together on the porch, looking out at the yard.

  Despite the dark, the birds were already singing in the trees. When it was light out, they’d zip across the yard, ribbons of color, flying from one bird feeder to the other, bluebirds and cardinals and chipping sparrows. Sometimes a mourning dove. Noelle liked to take her coffee on the porch and watch the birds fly back and forth between the wooden posts. There were often deer on the lawn, chewing at twigs; they scattered as soon as a car approached. The land reminded her of where they had all grown up, before moving in with Hank, although Diane’s place was smaller, a ranch style. But it was all familiar: the lush scent of the mulch and grass, her garden, the pines, the critters in the yard, the scant light that pierced the trees, all the humble space and quiet, the spiderwebs in the windowsills on the porch. Crickets sometimes got into the house, and sang and leapt around the living room. Noelle had seen Alma catch them in her hands and release them outside.

  “You know, if this wasn’t where I was from, I’d love it here.”

  Diane chuckled. “It’s divine. You shouldn’t have stayed away so long.”

  “It’s easy to take good things for granted. Don’t assume you’ll be able to have kids when it’s your time, Diane. It’s not as easy as you think it is. Start as early as you can. Start yesterday. Do you want kids?”

  “Sure,” Diane said noncommittally.

  “You’d make a beautiful mother.”

  “You too.”

  “Maybe,” Noelle murmured. “It’s easy to be a good mother when it’s all imaginary. I’m not sure I’d offer the right kind of example. You know, sometimes I think back to high school and that play I was in my junior year. Do you remember that? I think about how brave I was then, how determined. I felt like anything was possible—all I had to do was get out, leave North Carolina.”

  “You achieved all that.”

  “In some ways, that was the best time of my life. I was in love. I loved Gee.”

  “Don’t let the nostalgia get to you now,” Diane said. “This isn’t the time for idealizing first love.”

  Noelle nudged her sister. “What do you know about first love? You’ve never brought anybody home.”

  “Neither has Margarita.”

  “No, but you could always smell the men on her. We saw her hickeys. I didn’t have to wonder about her.”

  “You wonder about me?”

  “All the time, baby sister. And one day, I know, you’re going to surprise us all with all the secrets you’ve been keeping.”

  Alma made them breakfast: buttermilk biscuits and eggs, a salad of kale, cabbage, and fennel, all from the garden. Diane made coffee and juiced carrots. They played romantic salsa while they whirled around each other in the kitchen. Margarita scrolled through her phone, and Noelle rifled through a day-old copy of the paper, while they waited to be served at the table.

  “This is cute,” Margarita said. “Your morning routine. Do y’all do this every day?”

  “Not usually,” Alma answered. “But today is special—you’re all here.”

  She joined them at the table, her plate heaped with vegetables and eggs, a biscuit glittering with orange jam. She’d painted her nails in the night, a blood red. She wore a blazer over a Sleater-Kinney T-shirt, cutoff jeans, and knee-high leather boots.

  “You dress like that to spend time with the dogs?” Margarita said. Alma had a look, and she liked it.

  “I just wear what I want to wear. Otherwise, I’d be in jeans and a T-shirt every day.”

  Diane laughed and slid next to Alma at the table. “You’re going to get mud all over that outfit.” She stopped herself from reaching for Alma’s hand, palm up on the table. It was too easy to touch her.

  “I almost had a roommate in L.A.,” Margarita said. “But she was a total bitch. It’s probably for the best we never moved in together—I might have killed her. And her little dog, too.”

  Noelle arched an eyebrow at Margarita, turned back to the paper. She had been unusually quiet this morning, her face pallid, her eyes pink around the edges. Margarita had caught Diane throwing glances at her, and even Alma kept offering her more salad, more coffee. They were doting on her, and Margarita could tell something was up. If she asked outright, they’d never tell her. She smashed up her biscuit with her fork so it would look like she’d eaten some of it, and tried to figure out how to get them to spill whatever was going on. They were talking about a story in the paper—a blighted strip mall was closing; a bowling alley and brewery would replace the crafts store and laundromat.

  “All that effort Mama put into that campaign, all her worrying, and will you look at this town? Even the east side is getting nice now.” She turned to Alma. “Diane hasn’t told you? About our mother, the activist? You won’t like the story. And you probably won’t like Lacey May after you hear it—if you even like her now. The truth is both our parents are totally crazy. They just have different brands of crazy. The only sane member of our family, ever, has been Jenkins. Did Diane tell you about our dog?”

  “You all are going out to look for your father today, right?” Alma swiftly defused the minefield Margarita had laid out. She hadn’t followed her lead, but she hadn’t cut her out of the conversation either. Margarita was impressed.

  With her dark nails and big curls, the pink Planned Parenthood mug she held with both hands, Alma was a perfect shot in black and white. Margarita took her picture with her phone.

  “What are you doing?” Alma said.

  “Just capturing the moment. I love your whole aesthetic.”

  Alma left the table under the pretense of clearing her plate. She leaned against the sink and went on eating, angling her body away from Margarita, her phone.

  Margarita quickly uploaded the shots from that morning: the view from the porch (Tree Therapy), their spread for breakfast (Farm to Table), Alma (The New South), and her sisters (Catching Up and Old Friends). She didn’t mention she was home.

  “We should be leaving,” Diane said, and she started to explain the plan for the morning. She and Noelle would take Alma’s truck. They’d drop her off at the camp and then work their way through the motels Robbie had frequented over the years, the auto shops where he’d picked up work. Margarita could take Diane’s sedan around to the east side, check out the businesses there, the bakeries, the carnicería, the Súper Súper.<
br />
  “So, I’m going to the east side? Alone? While you two ride together?”

  Diane looked flustered. “That’s what I was thinking, but we could always change the plan.”

  “You can ride with Diane,” Noelle offered in a rare motion of magnanimity.

  “Or you two can ride together,” Diane said.

  “Forget it,” Margarita said, picking up her plate and shoving it into the sink. “I should have known that’s how it would be. Let’s get a move on then.”

  At first, Margarita had been bothered mostly that her sisters had left her alone. But then she figured something was wrong with Noelle, and it was in Diane’s DNA to go to the person in need. She was like a dog. Dogs sat at the feet of the most reprehensible people. They found sick people, lonely people, mean people, and chose them, because dogs knew who needed to be comforted. She decided she couldn’t blame Diane, and then she felt better, more even. She released her anger into the universe. She didn’t have to sit in the parked car anymore, alternating between banging on the wheel and trying to observe her breath.

  She started making the rounds, stopping into the different shops, asking after Robbie Ventura and flashing his picture, describing his stature. Sometimes, she had to speak in Spanish, and she stumbled over her words. She knew mi papá, but she couldn’t figure out how to say he was missing, he’d disappeared, so she’d say, Él no está aquí, which didn’t help things. They would agree with her and repeat, Él no está aquí. She spoke to cashiers and stock boys, the waiter at a taqueria, and eventually they’d piece together a definitive no. Nobody knew where he was, and most of the time, they didn’t know who he was. At best, he looked familiar, but they didn’t know his name, and they couldn’t say where they’d seen him last.

  It was an hour before lunchtime, when Margarita was set to see her sisters again and debrief about their progress. They were meeting downtown for sushi. So far, Diane had been paying for everything, and that was fine with Margarita. She’d amused herself as she drove between places, by imagining what rolls she’d order, how she’d arrange everything in front of her, the little ceramic dish of soy sauce for the pictures she’d post in the afternoon. But after her seventh stop with no luck, she was tired, and she needed something to enliven her. She didn’t like the feeling of incompetence, the way people furrowed their brows in confusion at her, the way her tongue malformed the words. And she didn’t like how they’d cast her out—her sisters. If she had to name her feelings, it would be piqued. So she stopped early for lunch, for herself, a liquid lunch.