by Paul Briggs
“Um… okay.” At the end, even apologies had become a minefield. In fact, that was the subject of their last argument—“God damn it, Laurie, every time I apologize to you I end up regretting it! You just throw it right back in my face! It’s like you hear me say ‘I’m sorry’ and think it’s a sign of weakness!” “Well, you seem to think ‘I’m sorry’ means ‘Shut the fuck up!’” Isabel doubted Laurie remembered what any of their arguments were about at this late date, but she couldn’t very well not accept the apology.
“My car’s running low. Are there any charging stations on the Shore?”
“They’re on Route 50.”
“Thanks.” Laurie accepted a glass of water from the waiter, then turned back to Isabel. “So… you and Hunter really split up?”
“Yeah. It happened. And if you say anything that sounds like gloating, if you so much as smile”—Lauren hastily wiped a smile off her face—“this conversation is going to be over.”
“All right. No gloating. I just have one question, though, and I want you to answer it honestly.”
“Shoot.” Isabel lifted a glass of water to her lips.
“Did you start dating Hunter just to get back at me?”
Isabel had never done a real spit take in her life, but she came close. “No,” she said firmly as she set the cup down. “No. My reasons for dating Hunter had nothing to do with you.”
“Good.”
“I admit, after you I did kind of need a change of pace. But I stayed with him for two years. Does that mean anything at all to you?”
“Yes. It means you’re loyal and stubborn and have the absolute worst taste in everything. And yes, I include myself in that.” That got Isabel’s attention. The Laurie of two years ago wasn’t into self-deprecation. Sometime in the past two years, she’d grown a perspective.
Time to learn a little more about her. “So what have you been doing with yourself?”
“I’m in sales right now,” she said. “I’m selling this.” She pulled a small bottle out of her jacket pocket.
“You’re not going to try and sell it to me, are you?”
“Not unless you have a newborn baby I don’t know about. It’s supposed to prevent asthma and bad allergies.”
Laurie handed her the bottle. The label said it was “immunogenic baby powder” and included such advice as “apply 1/8 tsp once a week inside fresh diaper,” “not for oral use” and “DO NOT USE ON INFANTS OVER 12 MONTHS OLD.”
Isabel looked at the ingredients. “Hmm… active ingredients include cat, dog, and mouse dander… ‘beneficial bacteria’… ‘organic periplaneta product.’ What is that, exactly?”
Laurie stood up, leaned over the table, brought her lips next to Isabel’s ear and whispered the two words that Isabel had never fantasized about having whispered in her ear by a beautiful woman—“Cockroach feces.”
“Oh… kay.”
“I don’t sell it straight to the parents. Mostly I talk to health stores.”
Isabel nodded. “Before we go any further,” she said, “tell me the truth. Does this—I mean this literally—does this shit actually work?”
“Legally, I can’t make any promises,” said Laurie. “Theoretically, it should. Studies have shown that if babies are exposed to this sort of thing at the right age, it lowers their risk. But the FDA hasn’t looked at it and we’ve only been selling it for a year, so…” She shrugged.
“It’s just that I kinda have a personal stake in this,” said Isabel. “You know I used to have a really bad bee allergy, right?”
“I think you mentioned it. Was it the kind that could, um…”
“Kill me? Yep. My earliest memory is of a nurse sticking a tube down my throat to keep it from closing up and choking me to death. That was during the allergy test.”
“Jesus.”
“Even when I was little, I was never allowed outside on sunny days unless it was winter.”
“Didn’t you go out to help your dad on his boat? I remember you talking about that.”
“Well, yeah, I did go outside for that. Our house was right on the Bay—the dock was just past our yard. And every step from the front door to the dock, I kept my eyes open.”
Laurie nodded. “I remember that time on the quad you spotted the bee,” she said. “You were all tensed up and laser-focused—it looked like you were about to whip out a gun and start shooting at it. I think that was as close as I’ve ever seen you come to looking scared.”
“Yeah,” said Isabel. “I don’t think I was in any danger, but it was kind of a habit. Anyway, if this stuff works, that’s awesome. And if it doesn’t, I’m coming after you and I’m going to make you eat it.”
Laurie chuckled. “Speaking of eating,” she said as she picked up the menu, “the chicken is really cheap here.”
“Yeah, this is a big chicken-farming area.” Two years ago, Laurie had been the sort of vegan who gave other vegans a bad name. Isabel had no idea what had changed, but if it meant she could order something with some meat in it and not get a lecture or a disapproving look, this was all to the good.
“‘Non-GMO chyq.’ How can chyq be non-GMO?”
“Maybe the particular company didn’t modify the plant a second time. Or more likely, the FDA is staffed with Pratt appointees. The same people who let you go around selling roach poop as baby powder, so don’t complain.”
“Good point.”
* * *
When the waiter showed up, Laurie ordered the baked chicken with ratatouille. “Only could you replace the eggplant with extra zucchini?” As far as Isabel knew, Laurie wasn’t allergic to eggplant. She just didn’t like it. This was the first thing she’d said or done that reminded Isabel of the old Laurie—going out to eat and trying to micromanage the kitchen from her table. Isabel would have bet that she’d unknowingly ingested more than one pint of restaurant employee spit over the course of her life.
“I’ll have the strip steak with mushrooms and scallions,” said Isabel. Her first dividend check from that carbon-fee-and-dividend thing had arrived a few days ago, dated October 15—Congress had timed it on purpose, so the checks came not too long before the midterms. This was as good a thing to spend it on as any.
She spent most of the time until the food arrived telling Laurie about her family and the troubles they were having, carefully watching her reaction for any sign of the old snobbery. There was none. Either her old girlfriend had gotten a great attitude adjustment, or had taken a course in acting.
Conversation stopped when the food arrived. Isabel’s dish was mostly a pile of sautéed mushrooms and green onions on a bed of mashed potatoes, slathered in gravy, with four ounces of strip steak on top. But the steak was perfectly cooked, with some of the juice and redness still inside despite the narrowness of the strips. Laurie’s chicken with eggplant looked a little more meat-heavy. Watching her eat it, Isabel wasn’t sure whether to feel sad or relieved. Laurie’s ideals and beliefs had been real—or Isabel had always thought they’d been real—and something had happened to them. She wasn’t sure how to ask what it was.
We’re just meeting for dinner. That’s all.
And maybe she is spending the night. So what? That would be a perfectly sensible thing to do. It would save her the cost of a hotel room.
Anyway, I’ve been spending too much time alone. I need some conversation with somebody, even if it’s her.
We are definitely not having sex.
* * *
It was just after eleven. Isabel sat up in the queen-size bed, naked, stretching her arms and legs a little, enjoying the little chill as the air pulled the sweat off her skin. Laurie lay on her belly next to her, also naked, arms folded under her head, droplets of sweat still visible on her shoulders. She looked up at Isabel out of the corner of her eye, a contented smile on her face.
Isabel ran her fingers gently over the surface of Laurie’s butt and down the back of her thigh. It was a butt she highly approved of, from an engineering standpoint. It was com
pact and efficient, with just enough convexity to draw the eye. While it lacked the raw mass and power of Isabel’s behind, it made up for it in elegance of design. Isabel would have liked to tell her so, but her attempts at talking dirty had never seemed to have the right effect. She wasn’t sure why.
Laurie wiggled happily under her touch. “You still have those tiny little scars on your fingertips,” she said. “I love those little scars.”
“You never told me that before.”
“Well, it seemed like kind of an insensitive thing to say. I mean, you got them when your dad… sold you to a fish-packing plant or whatever. I forget the details.”
“It was a crab-picking plant. And he got me a job there one summer because he knew the owner.”
“Wow,” said Laurie. “What a tragic waste of perfectly good white privilege.”
A sense of humor about yourself? Laurie, I might actually learn to love you again.
She turned onto her side to face Isabel. “I never did understand—why’d he do that to you?”
“He tried to get Chelsey to do it, to teach her the value of hard work. She pitched a fit and wouldn’t go. So I volunteered.”
Laurie looked at her in disbelief. “Why?”
“Basically to prove I wasn’t her. It was teenage rebellion, only it wasn’t Mom and Pop I was rebelling against.”
“Refresh my memory. Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one in the family?”
“I was fifteen, okay? I was fifteen and I prided myself on my work ethic. I grew up with Mom and Pop saying you gotta work for what you want in life, there’s no free lunches, and I accepted that. I think I spent half my childhood doing homework, helping Pop on his boat, helping Mom with dinner… or flat on my back from allergy treatment, but that’s another story.”
“So if this was how kids were brought up in your family, how do you explain Chelsey?”
“I don’t.”
Laurie propped herself up on one elbow.
“Speaking of your family, I have a question,” said Laurie. “You keep talking about the problems you’re having. Money problems.”
“And health problems in the case of Pop-pop. And Chelsey’s problem.”
“I remember you telling me that diamond start-up girl used to be your best friend when you were little.”
“Sort of part friend and part babysitter, yeah. See, she was born in New York, but her dad left when she was a baby and her mom came to Talbot County—”
Laurie gave a little wave, as if shooing a swarm of irrelevant details away from her brain. “Either way, these days that girl is richer than fuck. Can’t she help you guys out?”
“We haven’t asked.”
“You haven’t? Why the hell not?”
“Because she actually is our friend. We don’t want to be hitting her up for money.”
“Oh, come on!” said Laurie. “If you were friends, there’s gotta be at least one favor she owes you.”
“Other way around,” said Isabel. “I owe her. Big.” She paused. “She saved my life once.”
Laurie let out a low whistle. “You never told me that.”
“Well, you never seemed all that interested in my stories of growing up on the Bay.”
“No, this story I definitely want to hear.”
“Okay,” said Isabel. “I was six years old. Mrs. Symcox—Sandy’s mother—was visiting. I was out on the porch with Chelsey. I can’t remember what we were playing, but Chelsey kind of had her back turned. Sandy was there watching us. I think she was trying to read a book, but part of her must have been paying attention, because…
“I felt something land in my hair. I didn’t know what it was, I just reached up and suddenly there was this iron grip on my wrist yanking my hand away from my head.” Without thinking about it, Isabel caressed her right wrist a little. “It was Sandy. She looked white as a sheet. Then with her other hand she snatched whatever it was out of my hair—really fast, bam, like a snake—and sort of squeezed it between her fingers.
“I was like, ow, Chelsey saw what was happening and said ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ Mom and Mrs. Symcox came out to see what was happening… and then Sandy let go and opened up her other hand.”
“A bee?”
Isabel nodded. “The porch was screened, but somehow it must have gotten in. And it stung her in the index finger before she killed it. Mrs. Symcox took her into the kitchen and covered her finger with wet baking soda so it wouldn’t swell up too bad… after that, Mom ripped out every flower on the property and started me on allergy therapy. Every Friday after school I’d go to the doctor’s office and get injected with a teeny tiny little dose of bee venom, and then I’d spend all night and the next morning feeling like I was weighted down with a hundred pounds of bleah. It got better after the first five months or so… the point is, she saved my life and she let herself get stung doing it. How many eleven-year-olds could do that? I mean, even knowing it was the right thing to do, how many of them could?”
Laurie nodded. “Yeah, that’s… pretty awesome.”
“It doesn’t end there. She’s the one who got me interested in science, and that’s what led me into STEM in general. So she’s a big part of the reason I’m doing as well as I am.”
“When was the last time you met in person?”
“Her mother’s funeral,” said Isabel. “See, her mom was killed by a drunk driver a few years after she left, so she came back for the funeral. And I’m telling you right now, this story does not make me look good.
“First off, I didn’t realize until we were in church that I’d left my cell phone on, and I couldn’t turn it off without it letting out this beep. I couldn’t even figure out how to set it on silent without taking it out and looking at it. The whole service, I was terrified somebody was going to call me and make me look like the world’s biggest asshole.
“Second, I was wearing these new dress shoes that weren’t comfortable. I said they were uncomfortable when Mom bought them, but she said it was okay because they were dress shoes and I was never going to walk far in them. Well, the day of the funeral, we parked on the edge of town, we walked six blocks to the church, we walked four more blocks from the church to the cemetery, we walked I forget how many blocks from the cemetery to Mrs. Fluharty’s—she’s one of the other teachers—for a little reception with food, and then we walked back to the car.”
“Ouch,” said Laurie, caressing her own feet.
“So all through the service, not only was I thinking about my cell phone, I was thinking, ‘ow ow ow my poor feet I think my little toes are about to come off…’ which is not what you’re supposed to be thinking at a time like that. One of my closest friends had just lost her mother right out of nowhere, and I kept getting distracted by my own problems.”
“Is that why you never wear good shoes?”
“I always wear good shoes,” said Isabel, gesturing to the neat line of well-worn sneakers, work shoes, and boots that rested against the bedroom wall. “If they’re not fashionable, they should be.”
Laurie laughed. “Anyway,” she said, “from what you say, it sounds like this woman has a track record of helping you.”
“That’s the problem,” said Isabel. “Somebody once said—I think it was John Wayne—‘If you help people when they’re in trouble, they’ll remember you when they’re in trouble again.’ I can’t be one of those people. Really, I can’t. I don’t think I can face her again unless I’m giving something back.”
“Why not?” Laurie rested a hand on Isabel’s arm. “Seriously, what’s stopping you?”
“It’s sort of… this is going to sound crazy.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“It’s this sort of voice in my head.”
“Oh… kay.”
“I told you it was going to sound crazy. It’s like my conscience or something, only it isn’t always right—I’ve caught it in a contradiction more than once. It’s weird, because it’s not consistent at all. Sometimes it sounds right-
wing and sometimes it sounds left-wing. Sometimes it sounds like Pop after a bad day. Sometimes it sounds like my least favorite teachers. Every once in a while, it sounds like Martelle Sherman.”
“That girl you knew back in school?”
“Yeah. My beloved co-Valedictorian. But you know who it sounds like most often?”
“I’m gonna take a wild guess,” said Laurie. “Me.”
Isabel nodded. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “I had this problem long before I ever met you. But that was why I kept getting so mad at you. You were basically broadcasting enemy propaganda in time of war.”
“I never knew about it… so does this voice ever have anything nice to say?”
“No.”
“Even when you do something good?”
“No.”
Laurie rolled onto her back and thought for a moment, then sat up and looked at Isabel squarely. “I’m going to give you some really bad advice, and I hope you’ll take it to heart,” she said. “I say it’s bad advice because it’s always bad advice when somebody who isn’t a medical specialist gives you advice on medications.”
Isabel leaned forward. She sells medicinal roach turds, and she thinks this is bad medical advice? This I gotta hear.
“I used to have the same sort of problem,” she said. “Only I didn’t have a voice in my head.” She paused for what Isabel suspected was dramatic effect. “The voice in my head had me. You’ve been at war with yours—I just accepted mine.”
Isabel reached over and held Laurie’s hand. “I didn’t know.”
“Why do you think I was such a cunt, anyway?” Now there was a word Isabel had never imagined hearing from Laurie’s perfect lips. “I couldn’t stand being the only one in the room who felt bad about herself. Just as well I didn’t know about your little problem. I would not have put that knowledge to good use.” She sighed.
“Losing you was kind of a wake-up call,” Laurie said. “I mean, you’re not perfect, but you have the patience of stone. If you decide you’ve had enough of somebody, there’s got to be something wrong with that somebody. So I talked to some therapists. Got some shit sorted out. Only it wasn’t the sort of thing you can fix just by talking about it. So I… well, I started taking Suiamor.”