Super Host

by Kate Russo

  1 2 3 4 2 3 4 5 6 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 1 2 3 4 2 3 4 5 6 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 2 3 4 2 3 4 5 6 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 2 3 4 2 3 4 5 6 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 1 2 3 4 2 3 4 5 6 . . .

  When the choir finishes the eight-minute recitation of numbers, she pauses the music. She glances at the wall that her drafting table abuts, where a thin hairline crack runs through the white paint. Seeing the crack bothers her, but not as much as facing the window that looks onto Bennett’s studio. He’s an artist, too. This information had apparently been available in the “About the Host” section of the AirBed website, but she hadn’t bothered to look, because at the time she didn’t give a shit. Besides, when Bennett wrote, “You won’t know I’m here,” she’d taken that to mean he’d be at work all day. Bullshit. Facing the window when he is working is far too distracting. He’s a painter in that old-fashioned white guy way—large, colorful, bold canvases. The way he holds the brush, it looks like it all comes easily to him. Too easily. He has an annoying rhythm when he paints (mix paint, dip brush, mark canvas, step back, wash brush, mix paint, dip brush, mark canvas, step back, wash brush . . .) and it disrupts her own rhythm. “How can you even see what he’s doing?” Theo asked her when she complained about it. “I just can,” she said. “You know I can see everything.”

  Emma sets the Prussian blue into an empty tin box, with divots for the individual pencils, that sits atop the adjacent dresser. Next, she holds up two colored pencils, considering, before finally deciding on scarlet red. She hits Repeat on the remote and once again the choir starts reciting the numbers, which she transcribes, this time, with the scarlet pencil. Now that she’s recorded the sequence once, she could just copy it rather than repeat the song each time, but that’s not how she works. There are lots of easier ways to do all kinds of things, but Emma’s not interested in any of them.

  The composer, Philip Glass, was a revelation. She’d heard of him—in fact, she’d been recommended his music on many occasions because of their mutual love of repetition—but she always shelved the suggestion. Being handed something is not nearly as rewarding as finding it yourself, Emma believes. She finally found Philip Glass on a Thursday in December. Therapy day. When she pulled out of the driveway, the radio was tuned to NPR. She didn’t really want to listen to it, but she’s a nervous driver and kept both hands tight on the wheel, at ten and two, until she got to the doctor’s. Next up was a segment called “Music That Moves Me.” The piece in question, that moved some guy called Craig, fifty-eight, from Warwick, was Philip Glass’s Einstein on the Beach, Knee Play no. 5. She can’t remember a single thing about what made the music special to Craig. She didn’t care. From that moment on, the song was no longer Craig’s, it was hers. The counting soothed her on the frigid roads, stained white from the grit of previous snowstorms. The sides of the road were piled high with banks of dirty decaying snow, but she kept her eyes ahead. Two female voices started speaking over the chorus of numbers, repeating nonsensical phrases like, “Will it get some wind for the sailboat? / And it could get for it is / It could get the railroad for these workers / And it could be where it is / It could Franky / It could be Franky / It could be very fresh and clean / It could be a balloon . . .” For those eight glorious minutes she felt she was actually in control of the car and not the other way around. The music felt like a message, some kind of Morse code, pure chaos for most, but perfect order for the chosen few. Emma felt she was one of those. She was at Dr. Gibson’s office five minutes after the piece ended, but whatever she and the therapist discussed in the session, she doesn’t remember. It wasn’t important. She was careful not to say anything about the song. She didn’t want to dissect the swell of emotion she felt for it, particularly the part at the end where the violin and the man’s voice came in, seemingly from nowhere asking, “How much do I love you? Count the stars in the sky. Measure the waters of the oceans with a teaspoon. Number the grains of sand on the sea shore.” Yes, she thought, exactly—the immeasurable, the immense, if she could quantify it all, she would.

  * * *

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  When Einstein ends again, she hits Pause, putting down scarlet red. She already knows she’s going to go for cobalt green for the third sequence and then probably caput mortuum for the fourth, maybe Payne’s gray for the fifth, but she doesn’t want to get ahead of herself. It’s hard not to get excited by all the possibilities. She’s working on an application, an open call for a solo show at a Providence gallery, where she wants to exhibit a series of drawings influenced by Einstein on the Beach. The problem is, she hasn’t exhibited since graduation five years ago. It’s hard to get her work seen, so much harder than she anticipated. Her drawings are subtle—quiet and contemplative. They don’t photograph well. Posting images of her work on Instagram is pointless; it looks like nothing at all, making her wonder why she bothers. But this song, it opened up something in her, made her feel sure of herself and what she wanted to do—interpret the music visually. The deadline for the exhibition is at the end of the month—ten images and a statement, but this is only drawing number one and already doubt is creeping in. Do the drawings look better in her head than they do on the page?

  Back in Providence, to ward off the encroaching doubt, Emma procrastinated on her application. Then a month ago, the shit hit the fan. Charlie was found unconscious in a pub bathroom. Though Emma had long suspected that Charlie’s drug use went far beyond recreation, Theo and his mum were slow to accept it. According to Theo, it had been a long-running joke in the Easton family that Charlie had an addictive personality, though it was always portrayed as harmless, even “adorable” how addicted he would get to things like cigarettes, coffee, tattoos, and even running. “It was a mistake,” Charlie told Theo over the phone after he was released from the hospital. “I was at Simon’s leaving do. You know Simon . . . I took some co-codamol because my back was really hurting. I got there and, you know, there was cocaine, there was vodka. I got carried away.” His back injury was the result of falling off his skateboard while attempting kickflips at Acton Skatepark, an injury Emma had very little sympathy for to begin with. Two weeks after being found unconscious at the pub, Charlie was evicted from his flat for starting a small fire. He’d taken more painkillers (far beyond the recommended dose), lit a cigarette, and promptly passed out. Now he was back living with his mum. As Charlie spiraled, Emma and Theo both stopped working creatively. Every day, they waited, half expecting to hear that he’d lethally overdosed. But every day he was getting by, his mother supplying him with a small regimen of co-codamol to keep him from going out to get the harder stuff. One afternoon, over the phone, Monica admitted she was struggling. Despite her attempts to keep him calm, Charlie’s cravings won out and when he was in withdrawal, he could be mean. “Don’t worry, he’s not violent,” Monica said. “He just doesn’t know his own strength.” For Theo, that was it.

  “He’ll kill her,” he told Emma with a wild stare. “I can’t be here. I need to be there.”

  The tip of the cobalt green pencil snaps under the pressure of Emma pushing it into the paper. She hadn’t realized how hard she was pressing. This can happen when her mind wanders. Dr. Gibson is encouraging her to be more mindful, to really focus on whatever she’s doing, but that can be difficult when the things she’s doing are so repetitive. “Maybe you should try making less repetitive work,” Dr. Gibson suggested in one session, but then backed down when she saw the panic in Emma’s eyes. Emma hits Pause on the music to sharpen her pencil. The broken end looks wounded, brittle, and angry. She twists it through the sharpener hastily, eager to smooth the jagged edges.

  She checks her phone before resuming the music. It’s noon and Theo hasn’t called. He’s spent only three nights in the house with her, so far. Mostly, he’s over at his mother’s helping babysit Charlie. The idea had supposedly been to spend the afternoons there and come home to Emma in the evenings, but Monica clung to Theo when he arrived, and before long she wanted him there until Charlie went to bed at night
and again as soon as he woke up in the morning. Eventually, it just seemed easier for Theo to stay overnight. Easier for everyone except Emma, that is.

  Last night, though, he said something on the phone about meeting at a pub, the Elk, for lunch. Getting hungry, she’s frustrated at having to wait for him all the time. All there is in the house to eat is granola, cheddar cheese, crackers, and an avocado, but she’s been avoiding the avocado ever since she found it facing the wrong direction in the fruit bowl a few days ago. She doesn’t like it when her food is pointing right at her, like the barrel of a gun. Avocados, bananas, eggplants, zucchini, all have to be laid out lengthwise. This, according to her therapist, is one of her compulsions. A few nights ago, when she went into town to meet Theo’s friend, Sarah, for dinner, the avocado was pointing toward the laundry room—the way she likes all the fruit and vegetables to point, because she’s rarely in the laundry room to receive their harsh stare. But when she came home the next morning, the avocado had been pointing toward the window and out into the garden. The previous evening, she’d given Bennett permission to come in and retrieve a painting from the house, so obviously, he touched it. Why on earth he’d want to manhandle her avocado, she has no idea. She’d taken it to the sink and examined it for possible lacerations, even running it under a hot tap to remove any residue he might have left behind. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the avocado, but she still hasn’t worked up the courage to eat it. She wrote Bennett touched my avocado on a piece of paper and added it to the fact jar. She wanted to throw the thing away, but she knows that it would be a good challenge for her to keep and eat it, if only to prove to herself that Bennett and the avocado aren’t conspiring against her.

  Just as she’s about to hit Resume on the music, her phone rings.

  “Hi,” she says to her husband, purposely grumpy.

  “Hi,” Theo matches her emotionally. “It’s been a shit morning.”

  “Come back.”

  “Charlie says he’ll lose it if I leave.”

  Emma releases the cobalt green pencil into the plastic tray, before she can snap it in half. “‘Lose it’? What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, making a fist.

  “I’m not sure I want to find out.”

  She wants to ask Theo why he lets his brother threaten him like that. She can feel the anger rising inside her, like from deep in a volcano. She punches herself in the leg, harder than intended. She’d meant to hit her thigh, but she missed, catching the side of her kneecap. “Ouch. Fuck.”

  “You okay?” Theo asks, seemingly more out of frustration than concern.

  “I’m fine.” She rolls up her jeans to examine her knee, which is red on the left side.

  “Good. I can’t take care of both of you at once.”

  And the volcano erupts. Her ears feel like hot magma, her eyes like balls of fire. “Bye, Theo.” She hangs up, raising the phone above her head, preparing to smash it facedown on the wooden floor, but that would be the third screen she’s rage-shattered in a year. Instead, she chucks it hard on the mattress, where it bounces high and then disappears into the duvet.

  She retrieves the cobalt green pencil and hits Play on the song.

  2 3 4 2 3 4 5 6 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 2 3 4 2 3 4 5 6 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 . . .

  She can hear a muffled vibration from the phone in the duvet, but she ignores it. Theo thinks he’s such a saint. She reminds herself to write that fact down later. What would she and Charlie and Monica do without him? Everyone’s savior. Oh, please. He’s only making things worse. Doesn’t he get it? Charlie needs to hit rock bottom and he’s not going to with Monica and Theo propping him up. Charlie’s not even in therapy, for Christ’s sake. He can’t even admit he needs help. If she picks up the phone right now she’ll cry, maybe even scream at Theo. She’s doing him a courtesy by not answering.

  2 3 4 5 6 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 1 2 3 4 2 3 4 5 6 . . .

  She pauses the music again, takes a deep breath, and digs the phone out of the duvet. “Voicemail from Theo,” it reads.

  “Emma, I’m sorry. I was trying to make a joke. It was a bad one. I’m not comparing you to Charlie. Want to meet for lunch at the Elk? I could really use a burger. I miss you.”

  Sure. When? she texts him back, adding a kiss to show she’s calmed down.

  * * *

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  There are two distinct crowds in the Elk. The front part of the pub is populated with solitary older men. They don’t talk to each other; in fact, they take no notice of each other at all. Each man occupies his own small, round wooden table with a bottle of red wine or a pint, noses bright red like Rudolph. Some have newspapers to hide behind, but most make no attempt to hide their purpose—drinking to forget.

  Toward the back, the young mothers gather, their strollers pushed up against the back wall of the pub. They’ve pulled tables together, so they can sit in groups of six and eight. Toddlers and babies are bouncing on their mothers’ knees: some cooing, others screaming. It bothers Emma that at thirty years old, she still feels complete indifference to such a sight. Being diagnosed with OCD has made her wary of her ability to be a good mother. It’s hard to see how she could succeed at motherhood when so many other seemingly normal tasks are such a challenge. She’s already had to stop herself from smashing her phone twice, just today. What if she can’t stop herself from spiking her baby on the ground when it won’t stop crying? How do you explain to a child why perfectly benign sights and sounds, like the tap of a hammer or the sight of peeling paint, terrify you? What kind of example is that for a child? Be afraid, kid, be very of afraid of everything all the time.

  Theo is sitting at a small, round table sandwiched between the two groups. He stands up when he sees her coming, his green eyes beaming with the look of sweet freedom. He wraps his arms around her waist and gives her a big squeeze. “Did you leave your drawing to meet me?”

  She shrugs. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

  “How’s it going?”

  She sits down across from him. “Too soon to tell. It’s hard to get momentum.”

  “I know.” He reaches his hand across the table and takes hers. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugs, again. She knows he’s sorry. She feels guilty that he’s always sorry.

  “Mum thinks you should come stay with us.”

  Emma pulls back.

  “She says she could clean off some of the dining room table for you to work.”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “I know it’s not ideal, but at least we’d be together.”

  “We spent a lot on this house. Someone needs to sleep in it. Half of that money was your mum’s!”

  “Yeah, Mum was thinking maybe we could cancel the remaining nights and get a refund. You don’t know until you ask.”

  “Yes, I do.” She pulls her hands away from his.

  He shrugs. She wants him to say she’s right, but he doesn’t.

  “Is Bennett still spying on you?” Theo grins as he asks the question, hoping to lighten the mood.

  “I’m serious about that,” she says defensively, but a smile breaks through. “He’s watching me. Did I tell you he touched my avocado?”

  “Yes, you told me. He probably didn’t.”

  “If you were home . . .” She takes a sip from her water. “You’d see it.”

  “I don’t think the guy means any harm. You’re both artists, maybe you should hang out?”

  She pulls a face like he’s crazy. “Sarah said he used to be kinda famous. Like part of the Damien Hirst crowd.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” She shrugs. “Bit of a fall from grace, if true.”

  “I don’t know, I think you need to investigate. Invite him round for tea.”

  “No way! Not with you gone. He’ll probably think I want to sleep with him.” She puts on her best porn star voice. “Oh, Bennett, c
an you come over and fix my faucet, it’s leaking . . .”

  “Yeah, alright,” Theo concedes. “Just thought he could be a friend.”

  “I’d rather have you.”

  * * *

  ||||||||||||||||||||||||

  Lunch is too quick. Theo leaves the Elk after a text from Monica. Emma wonders what Monica will do when they head back to the States? Theo can’t come running every time his brother wakes up from a nap. Deep down, Emma’s worried Theo’s not planning to return to America at all. She doesn’t envy him the task of trying to get his brother into rehab, but still, she’s envious that when he walks through the door of his childhood home, he’ll be needed immediately. When she opens the door to Bennett’s house, she’ll be on her own again, until the next time Theo can get away, and those gaps seem to be getting longer and longer. She hadn’t anticipated feeling so useless. She thought marriage would secure her from this kind of loneliness.

  She passes Khoury’s Market on the way home and sees that among the fruit and vegetables displayed outside the shop are a bunch of avocados. She thinks maybe she’ll buy another one for the fruit bowl. Once there are two, hopefully she’ll forget which one Bennett tainted. Standing over the crate, she sees each avocado is nestled in its own foam nest. She looks for one that reminds her the most of the avocado at home, selecting a plump one with dark green, coarse skin.

  She hesitates going into the market, noticing the gross black-and-white-checkered linoleum floor inside. It’s peeling and curling up at the edges, shriveling and decaying like a dead leaf. She steps in, holding her breath. Good challenge.

  She heads straight to the register with the avocado, doing her best to ignore the floor and stare straight ahead at the girl behind the register. The young woman’s long, plastic, bejeweled fingernails are wrapped around a tattered copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. They look sharp, like the kind of fingernails that cause tearing and peeling, possibly even big, gaping wounds. They’re painted pink with white and purple rhinestones glued to the surface of each nail, save for the right index finger, which is missing the purple rhinestone. That’s disconcerting, Emma thinks, knowing that little jewel could have attached itself to any number of things in this shop. Instinctively, she checks her avocado, then holds it up to the girl, who regards Emma, curiously.