“She won’t be good to go,” Kate says. “She’s a good girl. A pretty, popular girl. The stakes are raised with this one. She has a lot to lose. You must build the foundation.”
“Jesus, Kate,” Henry says.
She ignores him and slurs on. “Then,” she says. “Are you ready? Are you with me?”
The boys nod.
“Give it to me, Mrs. Hale!” Shipley says. “Let me hear it!”
“We’re with you,” Henry says. “What does the boy do next? Say they’re at a party in Russian Hill. There are plenty of rooms. Hallways. What happens next, Kate?”
She looks at Henry, but not with a scorching glare. Her gaze is soft and unreadable, supple—it could be saying either this or that. She turns away and faces Shipley, but she seems different now. Slow, distracted and sad.
“Then, once you’ve given her attention and backed off, try to be at the same party as her. See that she’s having a good time. Perhaps engage in casual conversation. Be chipper and occupied. Have identical interactions with other girls. Run into her every now and then, but be busy, have fun. Believe me. She’ll be watching you.”
“Then what?” his son asks. His eyes are watery as if he’s been in front of a campfire all night. He acts pissed off when he’s mortified. “Then what do you do, Mom?”
Henry sees her caught off guard a little, perhaps by his tone, or because she’s forgotten he’s here, her son is here, her baby boy, who used to eat on Dad’s lap. She looks at Henry, then around at everyone, as if at once realizing all eyes are on her. But they usually are anyway. She’s beautiful, polished, thin, too thin. Every now and then she gets a pimple on her chin, right in the same spot. This has happened for as long as he’s known her, and now he looks forward to its appearance—the only thing about her that’s stayed the same.
“Then you’re going to notice that this girl is looking for you, you know, talking to her friends in a way that you know is a performance. A show for you. A show that says, I’m having a great time. But you’ll be able to see through this. In fact, she may look a bit disappointed, a little unhappy. She misses your attention. She misses you. That’s when you make your move. Maybe the girl’s at the bar getting another drink, or by the keg, or whatever.”
Ross raises his eyebrows.
“Oh, please,” she says. “Like I don’t know.”
“Or,” Tupp says. “Say she’s getting some fresh air because she drank too many root beer floats. That’s what we usually drink, Mrs. Hale.”
“Okay,” Kate says. “So, she’s getting fresh air. Though it’s okay if she’s with other people. Talking to a group of friends. It’s more eventful this way, and then when people ask, ‘What was that all about?’ she’ll have a secret and she’ll love this secret because it gives her something to think about. Something different than the things she thinks about every single day.”
Henry clears his throat. “Kate, I think we should head upstairs. I think we should go,” but she talks right over him:
“Approach the girl and take her hand unexpectedly,” she says. “Without saying anything lead her down a hallway. She’ll laugh. She’ll say, ‘What’s going on?’ but don’t answer. Don’t say a word. Then, when you’ve found a place away from the group, stop walking. Face the girl. Hold her shoulders. She’ll know what’s happening. Move her against the wall, and without hesitating, kiss her. The girl will kiss you back. I promise you. Don’t kiss her kindly. Don’t be delicate. Bump your teeth against hers, make her mouth stretch. Kiss her violently, desperately, like what’s meant to happen is finally, finally happening. Try to swallow her whole. Touch the sides of her body. Move your hands up and down. Hook her leg around your body and press yourself in. Let her feel you.”
“Jesus Christ, Mom!” his son says.
And Kate blinks. It’s like watching someone come about of hypnosis.
“Is that how it’s done?” Henry asks.
“Yes,” his wife says. “That’s how it’s done.”
He can see the boys’ chests moving up and down.
“So, then what?” Henry asks. “What happens now?” He remembers her flushed face in the hallway, her silence during the car ride home. She gazed out the window the entire time with an expression of grief except for one moment when she smiled quickly to herself.
“After the boy has conned her into thinking she’s special, what will the girl do?” he asks. “What is she willing to do?”
“Forget it,” his son says. He stands, and his chair falls to the floor. He startles, then picks it back up. His body is rigid, on edge, but his face is wilted and lost. He has chocolate on his cheek. His friends look at him anxiously, as if they know he could blow their already blown cover. His son swaggers to the fridge. The other boys try not to laugh. Henry could care less. They should be drinking. It’s what you should do at this age. At least this is something his childhood could have in common with his son’s. Poor kids, rich kids, they all like to get lit.
“Forget all this,” his son says. “I don’t want to deal with that bullshit anyway. Fuck girls. I’ve got everything I need.”
“Yeah,” Ross says, quietly. “Your hand and your shower.”
The boys laugh. Tupp punches Ross’s leg and says, “May the force be with you, Hands Solo.”
Kate looks like she hasn’t even heard what the boys are saying.
“But I want to know,” Henry says. “I want to know what the girl will do. The story isn’t over yet.”
They all look at Henry’s wife, her cool skin, her sharp eyes. She’s a fortress, standing there. She looks like a stranger. The woman before him is not his wife.
“The girl will do anything,” she says. “Because she’s never felt so wanted. It’s not about the boy. It’s about the boy showing her it’s not too late. She can be anything, anyone. She’s still alive.”
“So does she fuck him?” Henry asks.
“Whoa!” Shipley says.
“Whoa!” his son yells. “Whoa, whoa, fuckin’ whoa!”
“Whoa!” his daughter yells. She has just appeared in the doorway. She hangs her car keys on the hook. Henry thinks she has been drinking because she looks really happy.
“What’s going on here?” She looks around the room at the boys. “What’s up, losers?”
“S’up,” Shipley says.
She’s only two years older than they are, a freshman in college. The boys are looking at her legs in the skirt, slung low on her hips. Her T-shirt reads, LOOK ME IN THE EYE, ASSHOLE, and Henry notices their eyes dart from her chest to her face. Her hair seems damp, and black eyeliner smudges the skin below her eyes.
Henry tries to catch Kate’s eye. This is what you were like, remember? But she’s looking at her two children with worry.
“Why do you look damp?” Kate asks their daughter.
“I was at a concert.”
“Which one?” Tupp asks.
“Anti-Flag.”
“Oh, I love them.”
“Please,” his daughter says. “You probably don’t even know their first album was released in ’ninety-six.”
“I do now, killer,” Tupp says.
“You missed out,” his son says. “Mom and Dad are telling us how to get laid. It seems they have different approaches.”
Henry can feel his face tensing. He wants to hear the end of the story. This isn’t a big joke to him.
“You don’t have to convince a girl to do it,” his daughter says. “Just convince her you won’t tell. Believe me, they want to do it as much as you. They’ll even make playlists of songs you can do it to.” She opens the freezer and unwraps an ice cream sandwich. “On second thought. You guys hang with those prissy bitches. They won’t give it up unless you buy them all kinds of shit, and they’ll be all stupid about everything. They’ll own you, basically. Go for the punk girls. They’re still sensitive, but they won’t let you know.”
“That’s what I said,” Henry says. “What did I tell you?”
His wife see
ms crestfallen that no one’s paying attention to her anymore. But that’s what happens, right? The boy paid attention, made her feel special, she revealed herself, and now he is gone. It was a trick. She was tricked. Henry feels he knows the end of the story. The girl got pressed against the wall. The girl was happy for a while, the good feeling still pulsing between her legs, until she realized it was over, not the relationship—that’s not what she mourned—but the feeling, the possibility. That was over, and here she is, back where she started. A husband, two teenagers, and a toddler sleeping upstairs. She can’t be anything, anyone. It’s too late. Or is it?
Henry walks toward his wife. “The girl really did it, didn’t she?” he says quietly.
The boys aren’t listening anyway. They’re busy with the girl in the room, asking about her night, asking about her friends, trying to impress her by throwing another apple at the fridge. Henry’s wife turns and walks out of the kitchen unnoticed by all of the boys.
* * *
She hasn’t yet reached the stairs, so Henry knows she wanted to be caught up to.
Her back is to him. Her shoulders are slumped, and the back of her neck looks fragile and thin. He quickens his steps, and when he gets behind her he turns her toward him. She’s crying, but her expression isn’t angry. It looks defeated, or maybe just tired. He holds her shoulders, and he moves her against the wall right outside of the kitchen. He almost leans in for a teeth-to-teeth kiss, but it would be a ridiculous thing to do. She sniffles, and then to his surprise she raises her arms and he walks into her embrace. It feels like a final embrace, but most likely they will embrace again, no matter what the outcome of all of this is. He holds her hair. He thinks about pulling.
“What’s happened to us?” she asks.
“You cheated on me with Greg Dorsey,” Henry says. His name rhymes with horsey. “That’s what’s happened. In a nutshell.”
“And now?” she says.
He resents her not denying it, even if honesty is the entire point of the evening. Now that it’s out there he’d like a little room to hide in. He wonders if this is how people feel after they remodel to an open floor plan with floor-to-ceiling doors and windows.
“I’m very tired,” he says. “Aren’t you? Aren’t you just . . . tired?”
The question seems to devastate her. A grave diagnosis.
“I’m going to bed,” he says. “I think that’s what we should do for now.” He lets go of her hair, then walks up the stairs; a chorus of laughter comes from the kitchen. When he wakes up, his marriage may be over. It will be over.
He trudges on.
He strains to hear the voices of the children—it’s like a song, exiting music.
“You don’t even want to know,” he hears his daughter say. “Like for real it will make you cry. Cry or laugh your ass off.”
“I doubt it,” he hears his son say.
“I’m telling you,” his daughter says. “It will.”
I’m not hatin’ on them because they don’t speak English. I am not racist. FYI I have tons of foreign friends. My favorite person in the world is German, my other favorite is Venezuelan. They love me and I love them. I was furious yesterday because my son flew facefirst down the slide. He was hurt. I saw the whole thing because I watch—not like those other parents. If they are living here illegally and I threaten to call the authorities on them, maybe they’ll avoid me and my problem is solved.
—Renee Grune
Renee—you have every right to be upset when someone, English-speaking or not, unjustly bullies your child. However, the language you have used in your grievance is quite disgusting. Perhaps an overview of bullying philosophy might be helpful. Powerful nations have used their military to bully other nations (including their children) for hundreds and thousands of years. Some English-speaking armies are bullying quite a few non-English-speaking people around the world right now. To what extent are you complicit in that? I suggest the following books, with all sincerity:
A Theory of Justice by John Rawls,
Enemy Pie by Derek Munson, and
Understanding Power by Noam Chomsky.
—Marina Willis, A non-English-speaking U.S. citizen
I also suggest you read Marley and Me and Bedding the Wrong Brother.
—A.L., West Portal
Please list any awards you’ve won in your life, or accomplishments. What are your strengths?
Tonight I was awarded by a very tired child who expressed her fatigue with actual words. I was lucky. Gabe left the park howling, poor Georgia, tense though calm like a nurse getting a drug addict through a bad trip.
We left a bit later than usual—I was talking with Henry, listening to his story while imagining and inventing the details. It’s exhausting sometimes—I feel like a medium—and I don’t know if I’m a better or worse listener because of it. Do I tune in more clearly, squeezing out the juice? Or do I insert myself into things, missing the point? Whatever it is, it’s something I’ve always done and I’m not sure if I’d call it a strength. It could be a useless portal. Even now I’m still thinking about Henry, trying to imagine his home, his stairs, his kitchen. I can see him in that space, licking mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth. Sorry. You don’t know what the sauce I’m talking about.
Awards: none. There are no pictures of me in magazines crouched on my knees and looking up into the lens like it’s a hand offering kibble. As I’ve mentioned, I wanted very badly to be a writer—I even went to school for it and wrote about things like immigrants struggling to save their families by selling tropical fruit in a marketplace. I thought I was going to be around rebels. Visions of hunting, drinking, and traipsing through Paris danced in my head, but instead I found myself at parties with cheap wine, SUV-size blocks of cheese, and boys talking about their latest accomplishments, like being published in the Higgleytown Reader or the Chugachoochoo Review. In class they’d keep telling me to earn things—my endings, my beginnings, my metaphors. Then they’d look at the professor. See, the main goal in a writing workshop is to say something that makes the professor nod emphatically. If the professor didn’t nod, I’d look at my classmates and think, Earn this, losers. But alas, I never made it. I succumbed to rejection emails, telling me that “at this time we don’t have a space for this story.” But I’m back at it, I guess, in cookbook form.
I don’t feel particularly accomplished from the job I had last. I was a menu writer—that’s how I met Bobby, head chef at one of those old, manly steak houses in Union Square whose menu used excessive blurbs to sell different parts of a cow: “Mouthwaterin’!” “Whoppin’ huge!” and so on. I suggested less punctuation. I suggested the sides have more description. Instead of “creamed spinach,’ why not ‘Sonoma creamed spinach with a dash of nutmeg”?
Bobby suggested a booth and a Bordeaux. We dated for almost a year. I fell in love with him. He was mouthwaterin’ and yes, whoppin’ huge. Four months into the relationship he opened his own restaurant out in Sonoma, using all of the ideas we had gone over—huge windows, a hot young butcher, open kitchen, a whimsical menu, a communal table, and using only local foods because when you put “Local” on a menu people come in hordes, feel great about themselves, and are willing to dish out forty bucks for a chicken wing. Ten months into our relationship I got pregnant. Oh, the stories I wrote, the movies I made in my head. My mind was on fire. I would be more than a chef’s wife, I’d be a partner, creating a restaurant of substance. After establishing a cult following, I’d create a cookbook that was surprisingly popular with millennials—Alice Waters, French Laundry—that was their mothers’ thing. They liked the lady with the radish tattoo (or perhaps a little pig). We’d have a beautiful home in the valley, rolling hills, regal oaks, a pool, and a detached office/studio, and a place where I could write, both fiction and non. A studio of my own. My profile in Gourmet Magazine would be brilliant. I’d wear makeup that didn’t look like I was wearing makeup. My baby would be six weeks old, and the interviewer would exclaim: “You
don’t even look like you’ve had a baby!”
“It’s the breast feeding,” I’d say.
But then the scene cut to Bobby, his expression when I broke the news. I was radiating hope and confidence and pure love. Sure, I made room for worry and fear, bewilderment. But we had talked about what we’d name our children. We had long postcoital conversations about dream houses and vacations. We had gone snowboarding with each other. I knew he had a special uncle who died when he was twelve. We had reached the gas-passing phase with one another. We were there! I had even told him what I wanted to do in my life—the embarrassing I-want-to-be-a-writer admission. When a man says “I love you” and “I love what we have,” I don’t think to question it, and so I never predicted his reaction or his words:
“I’m kind of already engaged.”
* * *
So, no. No major accomplishments for me, per se, though I suppose I helped create a restaurant, I’ve supported local farmers—I’ve practically married one off. My other accomplishments for this week include reading Ellie the whole series of princess stories without skipping ahead or stopping to insert my views on the princesses’ hopeless futures—cleaning, breeding, and endless blow-jobbing. This week I’ve pushed back my cocktail hour to five thirty, and this evening, I came up with a dish after having talked to Henry.
Seems like his already troubled marriage reached a new low. I knew something was going on. He was looking so dazed and slumped where he usually sits up straight or moves around the park as though he were at a cocktail party. The nannies light up when he opens the gate, except for one named Hilda, who wouldn’t light up unless you set her on fire.
How to Party with an Infant Page 4