“Oh.”
Reeve’s car was small—a Dodge Neon he’d bought, with the intention of miniaturizing his lifestyle, when Eve left him. His lifestyle did become miniaturized, though that was largely the result of Eve’s absence and not any effort on his own part. He wished he hadn’t bought the car, actually. It had come with a pair of Ray-Bans, which the dealer had thrown in as part of a promotion, and Reeve put these on as he pulled away from Ice Cream & Gas.
He wasn’t sure what to expect out of Sally Streit. He’d visited her web site, to see what she looked like—all right, to see what she looked like naked—but he’d been disappointed. It was all rather tame—there was a head shot of the woman, smiling and composed as Betty Crocker, except with very short hair and a tattoo on her neck. The site was otherwise filled with lesbian sexual information and products, with a focus on safety and good clean fun. She was reminiscent, actually, of the anti-drug lecturers of the eighties, former street people who’d gotten off heroin and into college and turned their lives around. Sally Streit had been married at eighteen to a TV sports news anchor and had two children, but family life had left her wanting. Eventually she discovered her sexual orientation, and after her divorce found, to her disappointment, that there was nowhere “a girl could go” to learn the basics of “lesbian sex, sexuality, and sex-related issues.” And so she started “telling it Streit” at home-based gatherings that seemed, in description, to be very similar to Tupperware parties, except with strap-on dildos. Since 2001, the web site said, Sally had “told it Streit” at “more than 27” colleges in the US and Canada, and was the author of several best-selling books for lesbians, including “the first great gender-bending romance novel of our time.”
She had certain requirements, as a visitor, which had been faxed to Reeve a few weeks ago. The session was ninety minutes; she would need a certain amount of stage space; there had to be a sound system under the control of a female engineer. No men would be allowed in the hall, and any windows had to be high enough to prevent “persons of normal height” from looking inside. No fewer than four campus security personnel should be guarding the hall, two in, two out, and the ones inside had to be women. No still cameras, video cameras, or tape recorders were to be permitted in the hall. Each audience member would have to sign a consent form at the door, so (Ms. Streit suggested) the line for admission should be allowed to form early, because the session would begin promptly.
There was more, he’d forgotten half of it. But he was pretty sure it was all under control.
By nine he’d arrived at the airport. He wasn’t quite late, but he hurried, ever conscious of the possibility that, if seen running, he might be mistaken for a terrorist—so he propelled himself into the terminal in a sort of chugging shuffle, like a child impersonating a train. When he reached the metal detector he looked up at the board: the flight was in. Good timing, Reeve! He took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It read STREIT in big black letters. He’d made it himself, in the event that she’d grown her hair out or had the tattoo removed, rendering herself unrecognizable. When passengers began trudging up the concourse, dragging their bags behind them, he held the sign in front of his chest.
He needn’t have worried. She looked just like she had in the photo. The only surprise was her body: she was a bruiser, six feet easy, with wide hips, big hiking-booted feet, and huge round boobs. Her shoulders were easily as broad as a man’s, and she moved in large loping strides, her small head swiveling from side to side. Behind her walked the assistant Reeve had been told to expect: a small, thin, and very dark black person with a modest afro and a sour expression fixed to a knobbly and unanimated face. The assistant’s gender was indeterminate—Reeve knew only that he or she was called “Char.” But as the two approached, Sally Streit swinging a gigantic duffel bag from her shoulder and the assistant towing, with evident strain, a small wheeled valise, he decided that Char was a woman. Something about the cut of her jib, if in fact women had jibs. Sally Streit took notice of Reeve standing there and offered a brutally cheerful wave, which Reeve returned. In a moment the two women stood before him. Sally Streit clapped a massive hand to his shoulder.
“Reeve Tennyson, I presume?” Her voice was simultaneously deep and piercing, like breaking ice on the lake in spring.
“Welcome, Miz Streit.”
“Call me Sally. This is Char. Char, Reeve, Reeve, Char.” Reeve extended a hand to Char, who seemed even smaller than she really was, owing to a pronounced stoop. She was ageless, like an elf. She nodded, and dutifully stuck out her hand, which Reeve was puzzled to discover wore a latex surgical glove. Indeed, so did both of Sally’s hands.
They moved toward the baggage claim area and collected their cases, which were carpeted, black, and fitted with enormous locks, hinges, and hasps. It was lucky that they were wheeled because they were outrageously heavy. Reeve towed one, Char another, and Sally two. When they arrived at the Neon, Sally said, “Problem.”
“Too small?”
“Yep. Char, go rent us a car.”
Char nodded once and then walked off.
“So!” Sally Streit said.
“The students are very excited to meet you.”
“I bet they are. I hope this isn’t representative of the entire day, by the way.”
Reeve forced a smile. “That what isn’t?”
“Wrong size car, Reeve. It’s on the info sheet.”
“I’m sorry.”
She clapped, once again, her hand to his shoulder. “No hard feelings!” she boomed. Then the two of them turned toward the terminal to wait. Reeve felt uncomfortable, knowing they would be waiting ten minutes at least with nothing whatsoever to say to each other; but Sally Streit seemed to possess some preternatural, saturnine poise, like a statue of Stalin. She stood in the chill air, breathing manly clouds of steam, her ample behind resting on the Neon’s ample behind. She regarded the terminal, through a thin curtain of flurrying snow, with a stern yet faintly amused gaze.
Char soon arrived at their parking space with a grotesquely large SUV, into which she and Sally hoisted the flight cases with practiced ease. Then, they stood facing one another and went through a peculiar ritual: Sally held out her hands, and Char took her by the wrists, and with one fluid motion removed her gloves and stuffed them into a bulging pocket in her baggy black karate pants. From the other pocket, Char removed a fresh pair of gloves, into which Sally wiggled her muscled digits. The enigmatic assistant then exchanged her own gloves for fresh ones, and, as Reeve watched, opened the driver’s side door of the SUV and sprayed down the steering wheel with a small bottle of disinfectant and a clean white rag she had produced from what must have been a third pocket. Sally offered Reeve a little salute, said, “We’ll follow you, Chief,” and got into the car. Char nodded to Reeve as she moved to the passenger side and got in.
Reeve pulled out of his parking space and weaved through the rows of cars to the gate, where he paid for himself and attempted, as well, to pay for the women behind him. This was not, however, to be allowed, and he waited at the side of the off-ramp for them to come through. He looked back one more time as they merged onto the highway, just to make sure Sally and Char were close behind, and was rewarded with a rather unpleasant sight: the two of them banging the dashboard with their gloved hands, convulsed by hysterical laughter.
* * *
As Sally, Char, and Reeve were starting on their way toward Equinox, Jennifer Triesman was standing in her kitchen dialing her telephone and jogging in place. She was wearing silk shorts and a tank top, white athletic socks and tennis shoes; and her fist, the one that wasn’t holding the phone, shot out at seemingly random intervals to connect with an invisible target. When Happy answered, she stopped jogging and punching and leaned over in concentration. Happy said not “Hello” but “Jennifer Triesman,” and did so in a wooden, distantly satisfied voice, like that of a police detective in a movie.
“Wondering how I know it’s you?”
“Because,” Jennifer said, “I’m calling you from my house this time, dumbass.”
The pause on the other end might have indicated chagrin, or not. The voice that followed it certainly betrayed none. “Ah,” it said. “Of course. Well, it’s nice to hear your undisguised voice.”
“Oh, is it?”
“Delightful. You seem out of breath.”
“Just came down the stairs,” Jennifer said.
“Of your one-story house?”
“You’re awfully observant about my property, Missus Masters.”
A creak, as of a swivel chair, and a woman reclining in it. “I won’t deny it. Is that why you’re calling, Jennifer?”
“Actually, yeah, it is. Well, and other stuff too.”
And now the voice betrayed a hint of smugness—you can’t, Jennifer thought, keep a good whore down—“Do tell,” Happy said, and again: “Do tell.”
“Well, I guess I’ve been doing some of what you might call soul-searching, and I guess I first just wanna say I’m sorry for all the prank calls and protesting and accusing you of murder and all that shit. I mean, everybody deserves a fair hearing, you know? And I’m sure the old lady drowned herself, I mean, what kind of life did she have anyway, right?”
“Blunt way of putting it,” Happy said, “but all right.”
“And I’ve been seriously considering these, ah, offers you’ve been sending to us. Especially this last one. And I was thinking maybe it’s time we tried to work something out. Because, you know, I oughta have an open mind. I mean maybe you want to do something really nice with this property, right?” She felt her muscles start to seize up, and so began a series of stretches—toe-touches, torso twists—with the receiver pinched between her cheek and shoulder.
“That,” Happy crooned, “is precisely my intention, Jennifer.”
“Yeah,” Jennifer said, squatting, “well, how about you come on over right now? We can talk it over, you know.”
Happy Masters chuckled. Amazing! Some people! She said, “Hmm, I don’t see why not…”
“Aw, great!” Jennifer said. “That’s just great. Okay, well, I’ll see you soon then?”
“Just give me a few moments, and I’ll—”
“Oh, hey, Happy?”
“Yes?”
“Dress casual.”
That seemed to throw her. “How do you mean, Jennifer?”
“Sneakers, sweats.”
Now a wary silence. “Why?”
Touch toe left, touch toe right, now reach for the sky! “Just because, you know, the kiosk, it’s pretty dusty. And the garage.”
“Dusty.”
“Yeah. And the garage is, you know, it’s oily.”
“You’re panting again, Jennifer.”
“Yeah, I know, I’m just excited.”
For a second Jennifer thought she’d lost her. Then Happy sighed, and with dismissive cheerfulness said, “Yes, you should be. All right, then, sweats it is.”
“Hot damn!” Jennifer said, and hung up the phone.
* * *
It was pretty clear that Jennifer had metamorphosed, in the face of six figures and a dollar sign, from reactionary bitch to cheerful loon, and though Happy was relieved that she wouldn’t have to destroy her neighbor for holding out, she did find this new personality rather disturbing. Nevertheless, she pawed through her armoire in search of some sort of athletic wear. She’d gone jogging once, several years before, and anticipating doing so had bought special clothes for the purpose; but she had not exactly kept them at the ready for another session of exercise. She got enough exercise, she had decided, just thinking and talking. And she looked like a poisonous mushroom in sweat clothes.
But she found them, and she put them on. Anything to further the cause. She also put on a woolen ski hat and a pair of sunglasses, and oversized elkskin work gloves that one of her crew had left behind. Then she peered out the bedroom door, on the lookout for Jims.
She sniffed the air. Was he still here? For a moment, the soundless house seemed to indicate that he had left. But then she heard, from downstairs, a footstep, and another, and a sigh. Damn! He was waiting with his bags by the front door for his driver to come and get him.
She came down the stairs feigning friskiness, jingling her car keys, and made a surprised noise when he came into view. “Jimsy! You’re still here.”
“Leaving any minute,” he said. “I hardly recognize you in that getup,” he said.
“That’s,” Happy curtly replied, “the point.”
She thought she might get by with a pat and a peck, but he was blocking the door with his large rectangular body, which he seemed to want to wrap around her in a passionate farewell. Okay, fine. She had let him do the same last night, although then they were naked, and she had had to contend with his overly solicitous manner, exaggerated expressions of pleasure, and billion-dollar wanker. She hadn’t been any more eager to see him then, either, but she had let him imagine, as she was doing now, that her unhappiness was the result of her burned-up outlet store. That had certainly pissed her off, but it wasn’t what was bothering her. Rather, it was Jims himself, who was surrounded, in her eyes, by a haze of suspicion, to go along with his usual olfactory aura of aftershave. He was acting funny: him, and Janet, and everyone else in this twisted little burg. It made her paranoid, and while paranoia had fueled a lot of highly productive effort in the past, she did not intend to succumb to it now, nor had she this past week, when instead she had striven to get drunk, make a lot of money, open birthday presents, and get laid, all in an attitude of blithe obliviousness.
Nevertheless, paranoia lay in wait, like a mountain lion, blinking its glassy black eyes, switching its tail. There, there, that’s a good kitty.
“So where are you off to?” Jims asked from over her shoulder; he rocked her in his arms as though she were a child.
“Jennifer Treisman wants to sell, finally. I’m going to examine the site.”
“Isn’t she the one who keeps showing up with the picket signs?”
“She apologized,” Happy said. It sounded ridiculous. Maybe she shouldn’t go after all? Down, kitty, down!
But, “Huh,” was Jims’s response. “Have a hot bath when you get back.”
“Sounds good. I think Pavel’s here.”
“He can wait.”
She patted his back and disengaged herself. “I can’t, though. Have a good day. Call me from Kuala Lumpur.”
“Will do,” he chirped. But his eyes were doubtful and perhaps a bit frightened, as if he were about to be found out. Or maybe that was the mountain lion again.
The day was gray and cold and stank faintly of pulp mill and exhaust, as if a fluorescently lit lid had been clamped down over the world. Little toxic snowflakes melted against Happy’s hot face. Like everyone out on the sidewalk today (not many people, honestly), she automatically assumed an anonymous hunch. Nobody said hello. That was the way she liked it, lately, but today it saddened her; indeed, everything about downtown Equinox saddened her, even the cheerful storefronts she had created, even the future Happyland Inn, whose wooden frame had reached the third floor. Workers dangled from it like insects trapped in a spider’s web.
Bud Triesman was sitting outdoors in his lawn chair despite the cold, a racing magazine in his gloved hands, an unlit cigarette between his chapped lips. He looked up at Happy and squinted, and then he said hi.
“Where is she?” Happy asked.
He squinted harder. “Oh, it’s you!”
“Indeed it is.”
“Hardly recognized you! So how’s it going?”
“It’s going pretty well, Bud. I’m supposed to meet Jennifer.”
“Are you really?”
“To go over the terms. I’m glad you two have finally decided to sell,” Happy said.
This seemed to take him by surprise. “Well! Wow!” he said.
Happy said, “That is what you’ve decided, correct?”
“Well. Ah, sure. I think. That is, if Jenny said
so.”
“Jenny said so.”
He smiled broadly. “Well all right then!”
“So,” she prompted.
“So!”
“So where is she?”
“Oh!” He looked around the parking lot, as if she might be hidden in plain sight. “I think I saw her in the house? Go around back of the garage and just knock and go in.”
Happy gazed up at the garage as she walked around it. Cinder blocks, shedding years of recoated paint, the mortar between them gray and falling away in chips. Weeds growing along the base, beside this cracked and crumbling sidewalk. And then the Triesman house: a glorified double-wide, with a couple of additions sticking out of the sides, painted slightly different colors. They could keep it, as far as Happy was concerned—though if she made their lives unpleasant enough, she could talk them out of that too, maybe for a song. She could raze it and build…what? A catering service? A dog salon? Maybe a little artisan complex could go up back here, a bunch of little cottages she could fill up with woodworkers, miniaturists, dressmakers…actually this was good, it was very good. Wooded paths wending through the facility, and maybe a sandwich shop down by the lake? The Bistro Annex. She’d get the Klams to draw up some plans.
Here was the door: dented, scratched, hollow-core chipboard faced with aluminum. Yuck. In a moment it flew open and Jennifer appeared before her in shorts and a tank top, hopping up and down, panting.
“Happy…Masters. Come…on…in!”
The smell of cigarettes and sweat. Laundry. Breakfast dishes in the sink. The rug was foot-worn shag, the walls were plywood panel, the television was bigger than the biggest window in the house. It definitely, definitely needed to be torn down.
“Jennifer! Thank you!” She stepped into the dank warmth of the house, and her eyes fell upon a dirty kitchen table heaped with magazines, ashtrays, and two pairs of boxing gloves. She turned to her hostess, who continued to hop up and down.
Jennifer was different. Thinner in the face, more focused. Her bare arms looked like maple saplings, narrow and unbreakable. Her eyes were pale and weird, stretched at the corners by her hair, which was tied back in a severe ponytail. She was hard to look at. Happy returned her gaze to the boxing gloves, lying there on the table.
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