by Miranda July
“Do you need a plate?”
“I can eat it out of the thing.”
“A fork?”
“Okay.”
I gave her the fork and turned up the ringer on my phone. “I’m waiting for an important phone call,” I explained. She glanced behind herself, as if looking for the person who might be interested to know this.
“When you’re done, just wash your fork and put it right here with your other things.” I pointed to the small bin on the shelf where her cup, bowl, plate, knife and spoon were. “My dishes go here, but of course they’re in use now.” I tapped the empty bin beside hers.
She stared at the two bins, then her fork, then the bins again.
“I know it seems like it might be confusing, because our dishes look the same, but as long as everything is either in use, being washed, or in its bin, there won’t be a problem.”
“Where are all the other dishes?”
“I’ve been doing it this way for years, because nothing’s worse than a sink full of dirty dishes.”
“But where are they?”
“Well, I do have more. If, for example, you want to invite a friend over for dinner . . .” The more I tried not to look at the box on the top shelf the more I looked at it. She followed my eyes up and smiled.
BY THE NEXT EVENING, THERE was a full sink of dirty dishes and Phillip hadn’t called. Since the ironing room didn’t have a TV, Clee nested in the living room with her clothes and food and liters of Diet Pepsi all within arm’s distance of the couch, which she’d outfitted with her own giant flowery pillow and purple sleeping bag. She talked on the phone there, texted there, and more than anything watched TV there. I moved my computer back to the ironing room, folded up the cot, and pushed it up into the attic. While my head was on the other side of the ceiling, she explained that someone had come to the door with a free-trial cable offer.
“When you were at work. You can cancel it at the end of the month, after I go. So there’s no cost.”
I didn’t fight her on it because it seemed like a kind of insurance that she would leave. The TV was on all the time, day and night, whether or not she was awake or watching it. I had heard of people like this, or seen them, on TV actually. When it had been three days I wrote Phillip’s name on a piece of paper and ripped it up but the trick didn’t work—it never does when you lean too heavily on it. I also tried dialing his number backward, which isn’t anything, and then no area code, and then all ten but in a random order.
A smell began to coagulate around Clee, a brothy, intimate musk that she seemed unaware of, or unconcerned by. I had presumed she would shower every morning, using noxious blue cleansing gels and plasticky sweet lotions. But, in fact, she didn’t wash. Not the day after she arrived or the day after that. The body odor was on top of her pungent foot fungus, which hit two seconds after she passed by—it had sneaky delay. At the end of the week she finally bathed, using what smelled like my shampoo.
“You’re welcome to use my shampoo,” I said when she came out of the bathroom. Her hair was combed back and a towel hung around her neck.
“I did.”
I laughed and she laughed back—not a real laugh but a sarcastic, snorting guffaw that continued for quite a while, getting uglier and uglier until it halted coldly. I blinked, for once grateful that I couldn’t cry, and she pushed past, knocking me a little with her shoulder. My face had an expression of Hey, watch it! It is not okay to ridicule me in my own house, which I have generously opened to you. I’ll let it go this time, but in the future I expect a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround in your behavior, young lady. But she was dialing her phone so she missed the look. I took out my phone and dialed too. All ten numbers, in the correct order.
“Hi!” I yelled. She whipped her head around. She probably thought I didn’t know anyone.
“Hi,” he said, “Cheryl?”
“Yep, it’s the Cher Bear,” I barked, walking casually to my room. I quickly shut the door.
“That wasn’t my real voice,” I whispered, crouching behind my bed, “and actually we don’t have to talk, I just needed to make a demonstration phone call and you were the number I happened to dial.” This felt more plausible at the start of the sentence than the finish.
“I’m sorry,” said Phillip. “I didn’t call when I said I would.”
“Well, we’re even now, because I used you for the demonstration call.”
“I guess I was just scared.”
“Of me?”
“Yes, and also society. Can you hear me? I’m driving.”
“Where are you going?”
“The grocery store. Ralphs. Let me ask you a question: Does age difference matter to you? Would you ever consider a lover who was much older or much younger than you?”
My teeth started clacking together, too much energy coming up at once. Phillip was twenty-two years older than me.
“Is this the confession?”
“It’s related to it.”
“Okay, my answer is yes, I would.” I held my jaw to quiet my teeth. “Would you?”
“You really want to know what I think, Cheryl?”
Yes!
“Yes.”
“I think everyone who is alive on earth at the same time is fair game. The vast majority of people will be so young or so old that their lifetime won’t even overlap with one’s own—and those people are out of bounds.”
“On so many levels.”
“Right. So if a person happens to be born in the tiny speck of your lifetime, why quibble over mere years? It’s almost blasphemous.”
“Although there are some people who barely overlap,” I suggested. “Maybe those people are out of bounds.”
“You’re talking about . . . ?”
“Babies?”
“Well, I don’t know,” he said pensively. “It has to be mutual. And physically comfortable for both parties. I think in the case of a baby, if it can somehow be determined that the baby feels the same way, then the relationship could only be sensual or maybe just energetic. But no less romantic and significant.” He paused. “I know this is controversial, but I think you get what I’m saying.”
“I really do.” He was nervous—men are always sure they’ll be accused of some horrific crime after they talk about feelings. To reassure him I described Kubelko Bondy, our thirty years of missed connections.
“So he’s not one baby—he’s many?” Was there an odd pitch to his voice? Did I hear jealousy?
“No, he’s one baby. But he’s played by many babies. Or hosted, maybe that’s a better word for it.”
“Got it. Kubelko—is that Czechoslovakian?”
“That’s just what I call him. I might have made it up.”
It sounded like he had pulled over. I wondered if we were about to have phone sex. I’d never done that before, but I thought I would be especially good at it. Some people think it’s really important to be in the moment with sex, to be present with the other person; for me it’s important to block out the person and replace them, entirely if possible, with my thing. This would be much easier to do on the phone. My thing is just a specific private fantasy I like to think about. I asked him what he was wearing.
“Pants and a shirt. Socks. Shoes.”
“That sounds nice. Do you want to tell me anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No confessions?”
He laughed nervously. “Cheryl? I’ve arrived.”
For a moment I thought he meant here at my house, right outside. But he meant Ralphs. Was this a subtle invitation?
Assuming he was on the east side, there were two Ralphs he could be going to. I put on a pin-striped men’s dress shirt that I’d been saving. Seeing me in this would unconsciously make him feel like we’d just woken up together and I’d thrown on his shirt. A relaxing fe
eling, I would think. The reusable grocery bags were in the kitchen; I tried to get in and out without Clee’s seeing.
“You’re going to the store? I need some stuff.”
There was no easy way to explain that this wasn’t a real shopping trip. She put her feet on the dashboard, dirty tan toes in light blue flip-flops. The odor was unreal.
After changing my mind a few times, I chose the more upscale Ralphs. We promenaded up and down the aisles of processed food, Clee pushing a cart a few feet ahead of me, her chest ballooning ridiculously. Women looked her up and down and then looked away. Men did not look away—they kept looking after they passed her, to get the rear view. I turned and made stern faces at them, but they didn’t care. Some men even said hi, as if they knew her, or as if knowing her was about to begin right now. Several Ralphs employees asked if she needed help finding anything. I was ready to bump into Phillip at every turn and for him to be delighted and for us to shop together like the old married couple we had been for a hundred thousand lifetimes before this one. Either I had just missed him or he was at the other Ralphs. The man ahead of us in the checkout line spontaneously began telling Clee how much he loved his son, who was sitting fatly in the grocery cart. He had known love before he had a kid, he said, but in reality no love could compare to his love for his child. I made eye contact with the baby but there was no resonance between us. His mouth hung open dumbly. A red-haired bagger boy hastily abandoned his lane to bag Clee’s groceries.
She bought fourteen frozen meals, a case of Cup-o-Noodles, a loaf of white bread, and three liters of Diet Pepsi. The one roll of toilet paper I purchased fit in my backpack. On the drive home I said a few words about the Los Feliz neighborhood, its diversity, before trailing off. I felt silly in the men’s shirt; disappointment filled the car. She was scanning her calves for ingrown hairs and picking them out with her nails.
“So what exactly do you aspire to, acting-wise?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Like do you hope to be in movies? Or theater?”
“Oh. Is that what my mom said?” She snorted. “I’m not interested in acting.”
This wasn’t good news. I’d been imagining the big break, the meeting or audition that would remove her from my house.
Kale and eggs, eaten from the pan, I didn’t offer her any. Early to bed. I listened to each thing she did from the dark of my room. TV on, then padding to the bathroom, flush, no hand washing, a trip to get something from her car, car door slam, front door slam. The refrigerator opened, the freezer opened, then an unfamiliar beeping. I jumped out of bed.
“That doesn’t work,” I said, rubbing my eyes. Clee was poking the buttons of the microwave. “It came with the house but it’s a million years old. It’s not safe, and it doesn’t work.”
“Well, I’ll just try it,” she said, pressing start. The microwave whirred, the dinner turned slowly. She peered through the glass. “Seems fine.”
“I would step away from it. Radiation. Bad for your reproductive organs.” She was staring at my bare legs. I don’t usually expose them, which is why they’re unshaven. It’s not for political reasons, it’s just a time-saver. I went back to bed. Microwave dinged, door opened, slammed shut.
ON THURSDAY I SLIPPED OUT before seven o’clock to avoid Rick. Just as I stepped into the office, he called.
“I am very sorry to bother you, miss, but there’s a woman here and she just asked me to leave.”
I was surprised he even had my number, or a phone.
“Excuse me, she would like to talk to you.”
There was a bang, the phone was dropped, Clee came on.
“He just walked onto your property, no car or anything.” She turned away from the phone. “Can I see some ID? Or a business card?” I cringed at her rudeness. But also maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.
“Hello, Clee. I’m sorry I forgot to mention Rick; he gardens.” Maybe she would forbid him to return and there would be nothing I could do about it.
“How much do you pay him?”
“I—sometimes I give him a twenty.” Nothing; I’d never given him anything. I suddenly felt very judged, very accused. “He’s practically family,” I explained. This wasn’t true in any sense—I didn’t even know his last name. “Can you please put him back on?”
She did something that sounded like tossing the phone on the ground.
Rick was back. “Perhaps it is not a good time?”
“I’m so, so sorry. She’s not well-mannered.”
“I had an arrangement with the Goldfarbs . . . they appreciated . . . but perhaps you—”
“I appreciate it even more than the Goldfarbs did. Mi casa es tu casa.”
“What?”
I had always thought he was Latino, but I guess not. In any case, it probably wasn’t a smart thing to say.
“Please keep up the good work, it was a misunderstanding.”
“The third week of next month I will have to come on a Tuesday.”
“Not a problem, Rick.”
“Thank you. And how long will your visitor be staying?” he asked politely.
“Not long, she’ll be gone in a few days and everything will be back to normal.”
CHAPTER THREE
The ironing room and bedroom were my domain, the living room and the kitchen were hers. The front door and the bathroom were neutral zones. When I got my food from the kitchen I scurried, hunched over, as if I was stealing it. I ate looking out the too-high ironing-room window, listening to her TV shows. The characters were always shouting, so it wasn’t hard to follow the plots without the picture. During our Friday video conference call Jim asked what all the commotion was.
“That’s Clee,” I said. “Remember? She’s staying with me until she finds a job?”
Rather than take this opportunity to jump in with accolades and sympathy, my coworkers fell into a guilty silence. Especially Michelle. Someone in a burgundy sweater sauntered across the office, behind Jim’s head. I craned my head.
“Is that—who was that?”
“Phillip,” piped Michelle. “He just donated an espresso machine to the staff kitchen.”
He walked past again, holding a tiny cup.
“Phillip!” I yelled. The figure paused, looking confused.
“It’s Cheryl,” said Jim, pointing to the screen.
Phillip walked toward the computer and ducked into view. When he saw me he brought his giant fingertip right up to the camera—I quickly pointed at my own camera. We “touched.” He smiled and moseyed away, offscreen.
“What was that?” said Jim.
AFTER THE CALL I THREW on my robe and strolled into the kitchen. I was tired of hiding. If she was rude, I would just roll with it. She was wearing a big T-shirt that said BUMP, SET, SPIKE IT . . . THAT’S THE WAY WE LIKE IT! and either no bottoms or shorts completely covered by the shirt. She seemed to be waiting for the kettle. This was hopeful; maybe she’d reconsidered the microwave.
“Enough hot water for two?”
She shrugged. I guessed we would find out when it came time to pour. I got my mug out of my bin: even though the sink was full of dishes, I had continued using only my set. I leaned on the wall and kneaded my shoulders against it, smiling lazily into the air. Roll, roll, roll with it. We waited for the kettle. She poked a fork at the layers of calcified food on my savory pan as if it were alive.
“It’s building flavor,” I said protectively, forgetting to roll for a moment.
She laughed, heh, heh, heh, and instead of growing defensive, I joined her, and laughing somehow made it funny, truly funny—the pan and even myself. My chest felt light and open, I marveled at the universe and its trickster ways.
“Why are you laughing?” Her face was suddenly made of stone.
“Just because—” I gestured toward the pan.
“No.”
“Yes. That’s what you thought.” She took a step toward me, talking right into my face. “I was laughing because”—I felt her eyes move over my gray hair, and my face, its big pores—“you’re so sad. Soooo. Saaaad.” With the word sad she pressed her palm into my chest bone, flattening me against the wall. I made an involuntary huh sound and my heart began to thud heavily. She could feel this, with her palm. She got a revved-up look and pressed a little harder, then a little harder, pausing each time as if to give me a chance to respond. I was getting ready to say Hey, you’re about to cross a line or You’re crossing the line or Okay, that’s it, you’ve crossed the line, but suddenly I felt that my bones were really being harmed, not just my chest but my shoulder blades, which were grinding into the wall, and I wanted to live and be whole, be uninjured. So I said, “Okay, I’m sad.” The kettle began to whistle.
“What?”
“I’m sad.”
“Why would I care if you’re sad?”
I quickly gave a nod of agreement to show how completely I was on her side, against myself. The kettle was screaming. She pulled her hand away and poured the water into a Styrofoam cup of noodles—not appeased, just revolted by our affiliation. I walked away, a free woman on rubbery legs.
I curled up on my bed and held my globus. What was the name of the situation I was in? What category was this? I had been mugged once, in Seattle in my twenties, and that had had a similar feeling afterward. But in that case I had gone to the police and in this scenario I couldn’t do that.
I called my bosses in Ojai. Carl answered immediately.
“Business or pleasure?” he said.
“It’s about Clee,” I whispered. “It’s been lovely having her, but I think—”
“Hold on. Suz—pick up! Clee’s making trouble! Not that phone—the hall one!”
“Hello?” Suzanne’s voice was almost inaudible through the crackling connection.