by Swan Huntley
He said my name again. “Catherine?”
“A horse broke my leg once. It trampled me.”
“That is traumatic.”
“But it’s strange. I barely remember it. I went into shock.”
“That often happens during trauma,” he said. He kissed my neck, and then he kept kissing my neck, and then he was moving in for more.
“Sorry. I’m not really in the mood,” I said, and felt guilty. I was asexual; I was a bad partner. I made it all about me and blamed myself. Until I realized that, no, this was Mae Simon’s fault; I could blame her. I hated that she’d made me feel unsure about the man I was so sure I loved.
“I understand.” He patted my leg twice and moved his hand away.
Because it was dark in the room and because he was tipsy, I felt brave enough to ask. “William?”
“Darling?”
“Are we going to be okay?”
“When we have the baby, we’ll inherit more money. And who knows, maybe we’ll have more than one.”
“I mean us, though. Are we going to be okay?”
“Oh.” William fumbled. “Oh, Catherine, I’m sorry. I thought we were discussing finances.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “You’re right. You’re being logical. We do need that money, don’t we?”
“I suppose we could manage without it, but it would be more difficult.”
“I don’t like difficult.”
“Neither do I.”
And then, despite not wanting to be touched by him, I was compelled to kiss his brow. Why did I do that? Maybe to show him I understood we were bound to each other now. Maybe to show myself that I could pretend. It didn’t feel like a choice. It felt like instinct.
38
Marty brought three makeup artists to the house. He explained to them in his bitchy way that I wanted heavy eyeliner, light lips, and glowing—not powdery!—skin.
As I sat in the dining room chair we had pulled up to the window for better light, feeling nauseous, Marty told me he worried that Cass would leave him for someone better-looking. My initial thought was, Yeah, probably, and you should give him a bigger allowance. What I said was, “Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re a bad liar, Cat.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Oh my God,” the MAC girl said. Her fingers smelled like garlic. I had discounted her already because of this. “Oh my God. I can tell, kind of, from your skin.”
“So happy for you, Cat. Is William freaking out? Oh God, what about the dress? Are you going to fit into the dress?”
“Hopefully,” I said, and was very surprised at how little this mattered to me.
The Estée Lauder girl smelled like cigarettes. We ended up choosing the Lancôme girl, who smelled like a fragrance that was fragrance-free, and who also kind of smelled like my mother. Plus, Marty said she had done the best job.
After they’d left, Marty said, “Cat, in less than a month you’ll be hitched. Is it sinking in? Tell me all your emotions! I love this part.”
He pulled up a chair next to mine. We sat facing the window. My tree was beginning to lose its leaves.
“I’m excited,” I said.
“Are you? Are you nervous? What are you going to eat for breakfast on the day? Tell me everything that’s going through that pretty little head of yours.”
“I am a little nervous.”
“Of tripping when you walk down the aisle? Oh my God, I would be.”
“Yeah, I guess that, too.”
“Okay. For breakfast, I recommend nothing heavy, but you don’t want to be hungry either. Yogurt is good, a thick yogurt. And nothing that might give you gas. Oh my God, a horror story? I had a bride who ate a plate of spinach before the ceremony. I’m talking huge plate of spinach. No, no, no.” He wagged his finger. “It was ugly.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Oh, and for the gift bag? I found something very clever. It’s a lock-and-key box. Your face is on the lock, William’s is on the key, and inside we put the gifts. Keith Haring salt and pepper shakers, also with your faces on them, and okay, I caved on the olive oil. Blue Hill’s going to give us a bunch of small bottles. We’ll put those in the box, add some gorgeous paper filler for padding—white, obviously—maybe in the shape of doves? What do you think?”
I thought it was tacky and too food-focused, but I wasn’t in the mood to brainstorm something better. “Sounds great,” I said.
“Amazing. And the scalloped silverware—I want to come back to that. I know the Upper East Sider in you wants scalloped, but I’m strongly suggesting the non. It’s more modern, and I think we’re going to need that after a day at church.”
“That’s fine, Marty,” I said.
“Really? You’re not even going to argue with me?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Great. Also, hello, we haven’t discussed the throwing of the bouquet! Is that something you want to do, or should we skip it?”
I felt nauseous again. My mother was right. Being pregnant was hard. And I had so many months to go. “I don’t know, Marty. Whatever you think.”
“Moi?” Marty looked puzzled. And then he was nodding. “Okay, I see, you’re one of those—I get it. Some brides, when we hit the stress month, go crazy over the details, and other brides just say no, no more, you take care of it. I got you covered, girl.”
“Great.”
“Well.” He slapped his knees. “I’m leaving. You look like you need a nap, my friend. But don’t get me wrong, you look gorgeous. That makeup? To die. You’re a model. No! You’re a princess! Princess Catherine Stockton!”
•
I had to lie down. But then that was too much. It was too quiet. I turned the TV on. I turned it off. I went to the kitchen for seltzer. I took a sip. It wasn’t good; there was something wrong with it. I threw the bottle away, opened a new one. I wandered into the study. I walked in a circle around the music stand. William’s violin was propped against the bookshelf. I’d never seen it before. Cherrywood. Looked expensive. I scanned my books and felt bad, as I always did, that I hadn’t read most of them. I took The Powers That Be off the shelf. I hadn’t read my father’s inscription in a long time. “For Catherine, This is the way the world works. Be POWERFUL! Love, Dad.” On a different day this might have inspired me. Today I had to laugh at how unpowerful I felt.
Lucia had taken the afternoon off to do her immigration stuff, so there was no one to talk to. I could have called someone. I could have taken a walk. I could have at least gone downstairs to get the mail. As I thought about all these options, I found myself sitting down in front of my computer and then I found myself at the Neiman Marcus Web site, where they were having an online sale that would end in an hour, which meant I could discard the other options and focus on this. Because it was a big sale.
I found a Stella McCartney bag at 80 percent off and felt more powerful. I didn’t love it, but I liked it a lot. And it was such a good deal. I added sunglasses to the cart. Where had my mother’s collection of sunglasses gone? Did Caroline have it? Caroline had everything. Well, except for a loyal husband. But still, she had enough money to buy a whole country of sunglasses. I should get Mom’s. I would ask her.
I had vaguely promised myself that I would spend only $1,000, just to see if I could stick to a budget, just for fun. When I went to check out, it was closer to $3,000. I didn’t know if I felt more or less powerful when I hit Buy.
I ate some pretzels because I was supposed to eat more and then I went to take a shower because I felt dirty. The image of myself in that mirror—I couldn’t believe it was me. My body had filled out nicely so far. I didn’t look fat, I looked healthy. And my face, all done up in the makeup I would wear on my wedding day—it was flawless. I stood there for a long time. This is you, Catherine, on this day in this house in this life, and you are gorgeous. So why are you crying?
39
“I’m sor
ry I’m late, but I did bring flowers.” He set them on the nightstand and kissed my forehead. I was in bed not reading the book about apartheid and not watching the late-night shows. I waited for him to notice that my eyes were puffy and ask me what was wrong, but he didn’t. He was undoing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, bending down to pet Herman.
“Geraniums,” I said.
“They reminded me of you.”
“How was your day? Did you have a client dinner?”
“No. In fact,” he said from inside the closet, “I had dinner with Caroline.”
I suddenly felt more awake. “My sister Caroline?”
“Yes, that one.” He chuckled.
“Why?”
“Well,” he said, appearing in boxers and a plain white shirt, “why not?”
“Okay, but why?”
“Are you upset?”
“I don’t know. I…I don’t know.” I hadn’t talked to another human being since Marty had left at noon, and it was hard to find words. “I mean, why didn’t you invite me?”
“It was spur-of-the-moment, darling. Caroline happened to be downtown, and so we met for drinks and then ended up having dinner. I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to be so late. You must have been worried.”
“I wasn’t worried. I assumed you were out with a client.”
He sat on the bed, put his hand on my thigh. I wanted him to take it off so badly, but I didn’t tell him that. “Next time we’ll invite you,” he said. “I’m sorry if you feel left out.”
He still hadn’t noticed how puffy my eyes were. “What did you talk about?”
“Bob, mostly.”
“What else did you talk about?”
“Nothing of import, I would say. We remarked on how nice it was to get to know each other better. We are going to be family soon. I thought you would appreciate it that we made this effort to bond.”
“Does she want to sleep with you?”
He took his hand off my thigh, put it over his heart. “Excuse me?”
“Just answer. And be honest. Caroline’s in a weak and destructive place right now, so it’s probably not even about you, but I still want to know. Does she want to sleep with you?”
“No,” he said. “The answer is a firm, firm no.”
It wasn’t his words that convinced me. It was the look on his face. The idea of sleeping with my sister apparently repelled him. But that didn’t mean it would in the future. Anything could happen. The future was always full of doubt.
“I don’t want you to see her again unless I’m there.”
“Whatever you want, Catherine.” He furrowed his brow. Two wrinkles above his nose. Little indents, barely there.
“William.”
“Yes?”
“Were you ever a smoker?”
“No,” he said, disgusted. “Smoking is vile.”
“It is vile,” I said slowly.
After a long silence, he said, “How was your day?”
“Fucking hormonal.” I knew he didn’t like it when I cursed, and it felt so good when I did. In this small way, I was being true to myself.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Let me rub your feet.”
I didn’t want him touching me at first, but then I got lost in the feeling of feeling good. I’d had a long day. I deserved to have someone rub my feet at the end of a long day. He turned off the TV and put on classical music instead, something light and soothing.
“You know,” he said, “I would never do anything to hurt you, Catherine.”
“I know.”
He moved from my feet to my legs, and up from there, and by the time his warm body was hovering over mine, I did want to kiss him. Was it to remind him that he belonged to me? Herman’s bark rose above the music until he got tired and stopped. I may have cried while we made love, but not much, and afterwards, I let him hold me because I was cold.
•
In the morning he was gone. He’d left a note. No words. Just a drawing of a heart with a smiley face inside. I didn’t know if that was cute or kind of lazy, but either way, I liked it. It was better than nothing.
I needed a Tums. I might have been abusing Tums because I felt so nauseous all the time. I grabbed my purse off the floor, pulled the bottle out of the side pocket, took two. Took one more. Got out of bed.
•
“Lucia?”
“Miss Catherine?”
I followed her voice to the kitchen, where she was unloading the dishwasher.
“You would like a coffee?”
“No, I need you to run some errands for me today, please. I need you to get fresh flowers from the Upper East Side, from where my mother used to go. Eighty-Third Street—do you remember?”
“Yes, okay, I remember, but why we no get flowers from Tommy?”
“I want them from Eighty-Third Street today.”
Lucia looked at the flowers on the countertop, which had been bought the day before and looked perfect. “These no good?”
“I want new ones.”
Lucia shrugged. “Okay.”
“And pick up the dry cleaning, too.”
“Yes, Miss Catherine, okay. I see you feeling better today, yes?”
“I don’t know, Lucia. What does better mean?”
“Eh, okay? I don’t understand.”
“Never mind. Just go, please.”
“I go now?”
“Yes, you go now. And take the subway.”
“No taxi?”
“Subway.”
She looked displeased, and I felt guilty, so I gave her $40. “And take yourself to lunch.”
After she’d gone, I locked the deadbolt and returned to William’s office. There had to be something. There had to be more. There had to be a reason he didn’t want me in here.
The pictures again, the drawers again, the locked computer again. My tree outside the window again, losing more of its leaves. I expanded my search to the whole den. I looked behind the TV, behind the blankets in the cupboards, under the couch cushions, under the couch. Under the carpet. What did I expect to find there? Maybe a trapdoor he had built? I’d seen too many movies. I was going insane.
And what exactly was I looking for? Papers, an object, many objects? How big was it?
I had to sit down, I was going to throw up. I put his little trash can between my legs and waited. I needed more Tums.
And then I was opening the drawers again, looking again for secret drawers under the real drawers, for hidden compartments. A safe, maybe, a key to a safe, a gun. I didn’t know.
I thought I heard my phone ringing upstairs. I waited, waited, waited. I couldn’t decide whether it was actually ringing or not. I sat very still, made no noise. And then my eyes settled on the X-Acto knife. Why would William have an X-Acto knife? What would he possibly need this for? I remembered how he’d said he made cutouts as a kid but wasn’t very good at it. Was he trying again now? I picked the knife up, pushed out the blade. There were little tiny bits of paper stuck to the serrated edge.
So I was looking for paper, cut-up paper. Nothing in the drawers; I already knew that. And then I looked at the books. Books were made of paper. I started opening them. I would flip through the pages of every book, and then I would call this mission off and go check my phone. William’s books were alphabetized. I hadn’t noticed that before. They were mostly coffee-table books, big sturdy things with big pictures. Of art and architecture and the castles of Scotland and the gardens of Europe.
Michelle Bellario’s book. How had I not seen this in his library before? The cover was a subdued green that didn’t stick out. Pictures of her sculptures. Yes, there were the pillows. Right, some of them had been installed in a park upstate. But there were so many books and Lucia would be home soon and I didn’t have time to linger right now. I flipped quickly.
I almost missed it. I could have blinked a split second too early or late and missed it. But in the flipping, I saw a flash of green. A square had been carved through the pages of the second half of t
he book. With an X-Acto knife, probably. In the square, a pack of Kools.
“No.”
Shock. I expected to cry, scream, something, but I stayed very still instead. William was a smoker. William was the guy. Mae was right. This stupid pack of cigarettes showed me everything I hadn’t wanted to see. William was a liar. He was a person I didn’t know.
They were menthols. Was this why he smelled like mint? And he was not only a smoker, but he smoked Kools? I would have expected something classier. Djarums, maybe. American Spirits maybe. Marlboros even. But Kools?
William was a person I didn’t know at all.
I stared at the square. It was creepy, how well he had cut it. He hadn’t done this just to be practical. He hadn’t been in a rush. He had taken his sweet time. He had obviously used a ruler. He had felt proud making this little house for his secret.
40
At first I thought, A hammer. I need a hammer to remove the hooks in the wall. But I didn’t know where the hammer was in my house. I walked to the tapestry. I touched it. All the work it had taken to make this, all those tiny pulls of string. I would get the ladder—I knew where that was, it was in the closet downstairs—and I would look for the hammer. But then something took over. I pulled. I pulled harder. I yanked violently. I broke into a sweat. Nothing mattered but taking this thing off my wall. The corners ripped. The fabric landed in a soundless heap. I’d like to say I forgot the image immediately, but I didn’t. The hollow eyes of that woman. Even now I sometimes think of her.
•
I sat at the dining room table and waited for him. I’d put Michelle’s book on the table. That would say everything. And then I would ask him why. Why had he come back? What did he want from me?
My phone beeped. William. “I’ll be home in five minutes.”
Good. He would explain why he had done this and then we would…what? Wait? Wait together for the baby to be born? Split the proceeds, never speak again? I had a hard time imagining he would leave quietly. And the next six months, waiting—it would be unbearable. There would be fighting. If I confronted him now, it would be worse. This was a bad idea.