Little Female and Little Male are upstairs. When I sniff the air, I can tell that they are both not sleeping. Their smell is awake. But they are quiet. I smell them being tired.
My mistress sits at the table in the food-smelling room. I am in the couch room because that room is closest to the door, and I can greet my master when he comes in. But my mistress smells different tonight. Usually, she smells like happy face and outside air. But not now.
I get up on all my paws. I am going to the food-smelling room, but first my paws take me to the window. I look outside the glass, but I can’t see when it’s black outside. I sniff the air, but I can’t smell the cat.
I trot into the food-smelling room and go to the table, where my mistress sits. She looks down at her little screen. Her face is not mad and it’s not happy, but her eyes are frowning. She puts the little screen thing on the table and picks up a glass bowl with a long glass leg, filled with something that smells like I wouldn’t think it’s tasty. She drinks it down, then looks at me. She pats my head and scratches under my chin and tells me I’m a Good Boy. But the sound of her voice makes me think that even though she said it, she’s not really thinking about me.
I sit next to my mistress’s feet, then slide into down, even though my mistress didn’t tell me down. I roll over so that my belly is facing my mistress. When I do this, my humans always reach over and scratch my belly, like they can’t help themselves. But my mistress isn’t even looking at me.
I roll back to down and look up at her. She empties the glass bowl with the glass leg and sets it on the table, then looks at me. She smiles, and it is a good smile. It’s the smile that tells me she’s about to get down on the floor with me. And she does, putting each leg on either side of me and her arms around me and scratching me until my back paw starts shaking without me wanting it to.
A part of me wants to go back to the couch-room bed to wait for my master, but I can’t leave the scratching and tickling and lovies from my mistress. My mistress is the best human when it comes to lovies. I think I like her lovies better than food. Maybe.
When she stops, I’ll go back to my couch-room bed. And even though I can’t tell how the time passes, I hope she doesn’t stop for a long while.
FIFTY
JONAH
“Marco. Tomorrow we’re going to find bugs.”
Marco doesn’t say anything. I really don’t expect him to ’cause he’s not real, he’s just a stuffed animal. But even though I know that, I kind of think maybe he’s more than that. Marco’s been to a lot of places, to lots of different houses with kids like me and their families.
Mommy read me a story a little while ago, a story she said her mommy read to her when she was little. It was called The Velveteen Rabbit, and it was about a stuffed animal who got loved on so much that he became totally real. I think maybe Marco is real, but only when the lights are out and everyone’s asleep. Kind of like Santa Claus, ’cause he only comes when all the kids are sleeping.
“I think you’re real, Marco. I know you are,” I tell him. “And I know you’re not going to come to life until after I fall asleep, but that’s okay. I got real awesome books you can read, like Goodnight Moon and Where Do Balloons Go and Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. I can’t read that one by myself, but I bet you can. And I got a big ’cyclopedia of bugs—it’s on the bottom shelf and Auntie Ruth gave that one to me, and that one would be really good for you to read tonight while I’m sleeping so you’re ready to find bugs tomorrow morning.”
Marco doesn’t move. His skin is like the blanket my nanny made for me when I was born, all knitted with yarn. It’s brown on his arms and legs and back, but then on his face, his nose and mouth are a lighter color, like sand, like the color of Mommy and Daddy’s bathroom. And then there’s a red stripe across the middle of his mouth, I guess for his lips. They’re kind of curvy up, like in a smile, and his eyes are shiny black buttons.
He’s smiling at me, and I squeeze him tight and think about all the eggs I found today, and counting them. And then, when we got back to Mrs. Hartnett’s classroom, how she went over to the big cabinet and pulled Marco down off the shelf and handed him to me with a really serious face, telling me what an honor it was for me to have Marco for the whole break and how important it was for me to take real good care of him. I already knew that, but I nodded anyway so she’d know I knew.
I’m so excited that I get to keep him for a week—nine whole days, if you count the weekends. I already love him lots, and I know I’m going to be sad when I have to take him back to Mrs. Hartnett, but I’m not going to think about that. I’m just going to have the best time ever. Starting tomorrow.
I pull on Marco’s arms and bend them up and down, and then I think maybe he won’t be strong enough to get the ’cyclopedia off the shelf. Maybe when he comes alive he gets all strong and stuff, but what if he doesn’t? I push off my covers and get out of bed and go to my bookshelf, then I drag the big ’cyclopedia off the shelf and put it on the floor. I open it to the middle of the book. I can’t see the pages real good ’cause it’s pretty dark, but I can tell by the shape that the bug on the page is from the order Coleoptera. Beetles and weevils. I think it’s a Buprestidae. I know most of the orders and suborders, and Daddy and Mommy think I’m a genius when it comes to bugs, even though Mommy gets all icked out when I talk about some of them.
I kind of want to turn on my light and look through my ’cyclopedia, but I know I need to go to sleep so I can have lots of energy for tomorrow.
I leave the ’cyclopedia open for Marco, then crawl back into bed and pull my covers up over me and him, then pull him into me.
“Tomorrow’s gonna be the best day ever, Marco.”
FIFTY-ONE
EDEN
I feel tired, but my stomach is still really full, so it’s hard to get comfy. I probably shouldn’t have had seconds at dinner, but Aunt Ruth’s lasagna is so yummy, I couldn’t help it.
I like what she said to me before, about me feeling better soon. I hope she’s right. I try to tell myself over and over that I never really liked Ryan Anderson that much, but it feels like a lie. I should have read Percy Jackson before dinner instead of looking at my yearbook from last year. I kept reading what Ryan wrote. I read it so much, I know it by heart.
Ur 2 good 2 B 4gotten. Have a gr8 summer. Stay awesome. RyAn.
Ryan Anderson.
Stay awesome. He thinks I’m awesome. Well, he did at the end of the school year last year. I don’t think he thinks I’m awesome now, not after Jonah attacked me with hugs today. But he used to think I was awesome.
Fuck Jonah, I think. And then my cheeks get really hot because even though I didn’t say the f-word out loud, which would mean I owed, like, twenty dollars to the curse jar, I thought the f-word, and that’s bad. Especially because I thought it toward my little brother. And that’s a big-time no-no.
The night-light in the corner of my room makes a shadow dance on the ceiling. I told Mom and Dad that I didn’t need a night-light, that I was too old for one. But they said it was for them, so that they wouldn’t trip over anything when they came to check on me. I know they only told me that so they could keep the light on for me, and I was kind of mad, like I thought maybe they were thinking I was a baby who needed it. But I’m kind of glad they kept it. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark, or anything, not like Jonah, who wants Mom and Dad to keep the hall light on. I don’t like the hall light being on, because it’s too bright and I can’t sleep. So Mom told me I could close my door—almost all the way. But the night-light is okay because if I need to go to the bathroom—and sometimes I do in the middle of the night—I can see my way.
And also, the night-light helps keep the monsters away.
I don’t believe in monsters, not really, but I know that bad things can happen, and sometimes they happen in the middle of the night, and sometimes when they happen, if only a light had been on, then the bad things might not have been too bad, becaus
e you could see your way out of them.
I know I should be real happy. It’s the start of spring break, and I have a whole week of sleeping late and not going to school and not doing homework. But I won’t get to see Ryan, either, and that sucks big-time. Uh-oh. I owe the curse jar, like, twenty-five dollars now, but I can’t help what I think.
It’s okay. It’s spring break, and maybe by the time we go back to school, Ryan will have forgotten about Jonah’s hug, and he’ll start acting normal again, like he knows I exist, that I’m there, and we’ll talk about favorite candies and things.
It’s going to be a fun vacation. Mom and Dad haven’t said anything about plans to go away or anything. But that’s okay. It’s better, really, because then I can spend more time with my friends. I think I’ll FaceTime Carlee in the morning. Maybe Ava, too. Maybe we can have a playdate. I know Mom will let me.
My eyes start feeling really heavy and tired. I like watching the dancing shadow on the ceiling, but I can’t keep my eyelids open any longer. I close them and see Ryan Anderson in my brain. He’s smiling, and I can’t help but smile back.
FIFTY-TWO
SAMUEL
What the hell am I doing?
Greta and I have traversed the entire building. She has boosted my pride by oohing and ahhing at the appropriate moments, but when I remember her enthusiasm for the nearby Ross Dress for Less and Raising Cane’s, my own gratification is somewhat tempered.
We are now in the sleeping quarters of the center. There are no beds—thank God. The square cutouts in the walls where the windows will be let in the cool breeze of the April night. The rooms are small, dormitory-style, only large enough to accommodate two beds. The center will have the capacity to house fifty-two people at any given time, based on need. The occupancy is not my purview, however. I designed the space as per my client’s instructions. Once the center is complete, it will merely be another entry on my résumé, another group of photos in our catalog.
“This is phenomenal,” she says. Phenomenal is her word of choice. The first time she said it, my loins stirred. Now, on the eleventh usage, I feel my scrotum shrivel.
Greta walks the length of the room, away from me, then turns on her stiletto heels, and walks back toward me. She smiles like a Cheshire cat. “You really are amazing, you know.”
I shake my head. Her smile has brought my lower region back to life.
“This isn’t the Twin Towers, or the Chrysler Building or the Eiffel Tower,” I say.
She looks down at the concrete floor, which a month from now will be covered with laminate masquerading as hard wood.
“No, it’s none of those things,” she says. “But this place, it has a purpose. An honorable purpose. And you have created a space that will give dignity to those poor souls who need to be here, who’ve come for redemption.”
Her assessment causes me to take a step toward her. Despite my ambivalence about this project, nothing is more seductive than a beautiful woman’s idolatry.
“I’ve learned so much from you, Samuel,” she says, her luscious lips turning up into a smile.
“I’m glad.” I can’t think of anything else to say.
“And I really appreciate the interest you’ve taken in me. You’re so patient. You take time. You’ve really helped me to understand the whole process.” Another step toward me. A mere eighteen inches separate us.
My brain suddenly suffers from lack of circulation due to the fact that all the blood in my body is rushing to my dick. “A part of me always wanted to be a teacher.”
Her eyes go wide with glee. “You’d make a wonderful teacher.”
“You think?” I ask. Ironic, because I’ve lost the ability to form coherent thoughts.
“Definitely.”
I clear my throat, hoping to clear the fog from my head. “Well, teachers are paid a lot less than architects.”
Her gaze is direct. “Money isn’t everything.” She closes the space between us. I can feel her breath on my neck. “Can I tell you something?”
I nod, unable to trust my voice. She grins. “I think you know what I’m going to say, Samuel. I have a crush on you.”
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly as I quickly ponder the ramifications of her words. I knew it, of course I did, but confronted with her confirmation, I find myself at a loss. What now? My dick is hard, twitching, craving, ready. But my brain is full of noise.
“You have a crush on me, too, don’t you?”
I can’t bring myself to give her an answer. She doesn’t need one. She wraps her arms around my waist and presses herself against me. I don’t reciprocate, but my erection gives me away. She pulls away slightly, glances down, then back up again. Her grin has become feral.
“I knew it.” She rests her head against my chest and starts to slide her hands across my back. I remain paralyzed, unable to act or react, but Greta appears unfazed.
“It’s okay, Samuel. I know you’re conflicted. I am too. I like Rachel. She’s phenomenal. She gives me lovely gifts for my birthday and for Christmas. And the way she is with your kids. Fantastic.”
I want to yell at her to stop talking about my wife, especially while she rubs herself against me. It would be comical if it weren’t so grotesque.
“We don’t have to do anything,” she whispers, and the soft, throaty timbre of her voice almost sends me over the edge. I see myself grabbing her by the shoulders, shoving her against the wall, turning her around so that her ass is mine to own, to violate, to ram into until I explode inside her. This vision fills me with shame, but also with a sense of longing so excruciating, I can barely stand it.
Greta reaches up and grasps my neck with her hands and pulls my face toward hers. An instant later, she gently grazes her lips across mine. When I don’t protest, she tilts her face to the side and aggressively takes my mouth.
I could kiss her back. I would kiss her back, but I’m suddenly besieged by vivid images of my family. If a person on the brink of death sees his life flash before his eyes, a man on the brink of cheating might also see his wife, his children, his entire familial existence flash before his eyes.
Rachel on our wedding day, smiling, eyes dancing, beautiful. Rachel in labor with Eden, a fierce warrior; stitching a Halloween costume by hand, grinning as she sucks on her punctured thumb. Eden on the monkey bars, at her ballet recital, proudly displaying an academic award at school. Jonah riding his Big Wheel, writing his name for the first time, joyfully finding a wasp’s nest in the neighbor’s yard. The four of us on the beach, at Disneyland, at the fair, at dinner, laughing, holding hands, all of us together.
With those pictures of Rachel and Eden and Jonah crowding my mind, I realize that Greta’s lips, which I once thought sensual and imagined would be sweet like strawberries, taste bitter on my tongue. Her caress feels like dry ice scraping across the skin of my neck; her breath smells fetid. Bile rises from my stomach and burns my esophagus. My erection deflates, once and for all.
Even as Greta continues to grind against me and plant warm, wet kisses on my neck and nibble on my ear, I consider how best to disengage from her. She is a lovely young woman, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings or alienate her. Selfish bastard that I am, I don’t want to lose the best assistant I’ve ever had.
My ringtone chimes from my breast pocket, and Greta freezes. I take the opportunity to pull away from her. She steps back, grinning at me and breathing heavily, unaware of my complete withdrawal from the situation. I grab my cell from my pocket and stare at the screen, which is filled with the picture of my beautiful, smiling wife. Rachel.
How could I have allowed this to go so far?
I’m sorry, Rachel.
I can’t go through with it, though. Doesn’t that count for something?
I will never let anything like this happen again, I swear to you, Rachel.
“You can answer it if you need to,” Greta says, even as I let the call go to voice mail.
I shake my head and look down at the concret
e floor. “I should get home,” I tell her, forcing a tone of regret. She nods and smiles, not sadly, but knowingly, as though this night—here at the center, where she pressed her lips against mine in a cold, nondescript, unfinished room—this was only the first time, that there will be more stolen kisses, more covert rendezvous, that a series of secret liaisons lie ahead for us. That there is and will be an us. I don’t disabuse her of that fantasy, but a fantasy is what it is. I will never stray from my wife. I will never, in any way, put my family in jeopardy. I will not lose the amazing, blessed life I have.
The drive back is interminable. I can’t wait to get home.
FIFTY-THREE
RACHEL
The kids are asleep. Eden’s chest rises and falls; her eyelids flutter as though she is dreaming. I gently brush errant strands of hair off her face, then kiss her forehead. I close the door almost all the way, then walk to Jonah’s room. He snores lightly, and I smile at the familiar sound. Marco is tucked in the crook of Jonah’s neck, his long stuffed arm draped across Jonah’s middle. I move to the bed and repeat my ritual, smoothing Jonah’s curls and kissing him softly on his cheek.
As I retrace my steps to the door, my toe catches on something, and I stumble. I look down and see Jonah’s bug encyclopedia lying on the floor, open, pages fluttering from where my foot hit it. The pages come to rest. In the low light of Thomas the Train, I can barely make out a glossy picture of some horrendous creature. Jonah loves the book, a huge score for Ruth. She gave it to him for his last birthday, having chosen it without any help from me. She was delighted by his reaction.
I consider closing the book and returning it to the shelf, but I’m fairly certain that Jonah left it out for a reason. Probably, he wants it to be waiting for him when he jumps out of bed in the morning. Likely, he had it open to a particular page, but there’s nothing I can do about that, since I have no idea which disgusting bug he chose to greet him.
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