Unreliable

by Lee Irby

  “I’m not feeling so great,” I say, yawning loudly, drawing my participation to a close. Graves sucks his cheeks in with nervous vehemence, watching me with eyes bugged. He’s enlisted me as an ally, and there’s nothing more frightening in this world than trusting another human being not to destroy you.

  “Good night,” he says before scurrying upstairs like a gerbil. Somehow I manage to fall asleep, which should rank among the greatest feats in the history of somnolence.

  3

  A dull thud awakens me, and then I hear footfalls down the stairs. My eyes blink open in time to see a young woman descending to the basement. I catch a quick glimpse. Something about her hair reminds me of a knotted tangle of forsythia, wild yellow curls that sprayed from her head in a sunny profusion. She stops when she sees that I’m awake and stands perfectly still on the last step.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you up,” she whispers. “I just need something from the dryer.”

  “No problem,” I groggily reply.

  “Did you wake him up?” I hear my mother yell from the top of the stairs. “I’m sorry, Eddie! I told her not to wake you up!”

  “It’s fine! I need to get up anyway.”

  My mother’s small feet plop down the stairs and, like a deer fleeing a ravenous bear, the blond girl scurries off to the laundry room. She is clad in a white T-shirt that barely covers her round and supple body. She might just be the most exquisite creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. I literally can’t wait to kill her.

  “So now you’ve met Gibson!” my mother sings, arms outstretched. I sit up in bed so that we can embrace. It’s been two years since I’ve seen her, and she looks fleshier, ten pounds heavier, but her face is radiant. Her thistle-colored eyes sparkle as she gazes at me. Maybe all brides glow on the eve of their wedding, even those who’ve begun their seventh decade. “What time did you get in?”

  “Around four. Graves made sure I had everything I needed.”

  “He was still up, I take it?” She frowns disapprovingly, glancing over at Gibson, who’s pawing through a clothes hamper by the dryer.

  “Yes. And he was a gracious host. He offered me food, in fact.”

  “He’s a good egg, deep down. One day he’ll figure it out. This one?” My mother nods toward Gibson. “She’ll end up in jail.”

  “A lost cause, huh?”

  “You don’t know the half of it. I told her to get her laundry last night and she swore she’d do it. But she’s just so lazy, it drives me crazy.”

  Gibson, having found what she’s looking for, rushes back toward us. Mother detains her for a quick intro, during which Gibson barely looks at me and seems to be in pain, as if I’m gnawing on her leg instead of waving.

  “Gibson, this is my son Edwin,” my mother explains. “He lives in New York and teaches college.”

  Suddenly the girl perks up. “New York City?”

  “Sadly, no. I live upstate, in Ithaca.”

  Her beauty is almost palpable, an exotic force that emanates from her in pulsing waves. The wild yellow hair frames a face classically delineated by high cheekbones, oval-shaped eyes, and sun-kissed skin the color of golden honey. A thin, slightly upturned nose hovers above full, pouting lips that contrast so starkly with her brother’s odd puckering. She exudes an untamed quality, whose beauty comes to her so naturally that even in her attempt to downplay it, she only adds to her own luster.

  “Hurry up and get dressed!” Mother shoos Gibson, who dutifully floats away, her bare feet lightly touching the ground as she ascends the stairs. Then reality begins to sink in and my mother sighs plaintively. “I’ve got so much on my plate today, and I don’t know how it’s all going to get done.”

  “Can I help?” I offer, glad to be of service.

  My mother has a way of smiling that makes Mona Lisa seem like an open book. This upturn of the lips, is it a grimace? A mocking gesture to me, her wayward son? Or perhaps she’s genuinely thankful for the assistance? “Don’t you need more sleep?” she asks in an equally opaque tone.

  “Not if you need me to pitch in.”

  “The big thing is that Gibson needs a ride to school because she’s not allowed to drive since her conviction.”

  “Conviction?”

  “DUI.” Each letter spits out of my mother’s mouth with venom. When feeling betrayed, the woman could coil into a viper, and her bite was meant to maim. “I could ask Graves, but his car was recently totaled when he got hit by an uninsured driver. Hey, I really want you to talk to Graves while you’re home. He says he’s not going back to VCU in the fall. He says he wants to take some time off and I don’t think that’s a great idea. He’s a good student, though. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

  “I’m a trained professional, so he should listen to every word I say.” No laugh. She can’t think I’m being serious, and so I quickly add, “Just kidding!”

  “Thanks, Eddie. He’s a good kid but he seems confused.”

  Immediately I think of the person visiting Graves late last night, and begin to suspect that the two of them were up to no good, a surmise based on no evidence beyond my mother’s own direful warning. Should I mention something to her? I promised Graves I wouldn’t, and anyway, my mother seems on edge enough already. I see no need to add to her load of stress—and there’s no way I’m bringing up my lack of white shoes.

  “And I’ll be glad to give Gibson a ride to school,” I offer in a voice so sugary-sweet that I could’ve provided the candy for a toddler’s birthday party.

  “That would save me an hour! Oh, you’re a real Johnny-on-the-spot! But look how tired you are! Circles under your eyes! Eddie, you worry me so much.”

  She never buys my bland assurances of well-being and leans forward as if inspecting my scalp for lice. “Of course there’s plenty to worry about! How are you doing anyway? Have you been getting enough sleep?”

  “Sleep is for weaklings.”

  “Stop it, you’re being ridiculous. Tell me you’re dating someone.”

  “I’m dating someone.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “One of my students. She just turned twenty and she’s amazing.”

  “Eddie, can’t you ever just answer my questions? Not everything is a joke.”

  “My love life happens to be a joke. A crude, offensive joke.”

  “We’ll talk about that later. But the caterer has apparently lost her mind and on Saturday I don’t know what we’ll be eating. So I’ve got that to deal with.” She falls silent and then slaps herself on her forehead, one of her more peculiar mannerisms that reminds me of my childhood, which was mostly spent waiting for her to get organized—keys, wallet, shopping lists, phone numbers—all of which eluded her at crucial times. “Oh my gosh, it just hit me. You haven’t met Mead yet.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “He’s not here. He had business to look after.”

  “Another time then. I’m looking forward to it.” A true statement, but not honest. I want to lay eyes on this miscreant the way an abnormal psychologist would desire an interview with a convicted pedophile. There’s little pleasure in it but much data to be gleaned.

  “I hope you like him. He’s quirky but in a good way, and very, very smart. He’s a real history buff. You guys have that in common.”

  Do we now? I’m a highly educated college professor, and he’s a gold-digging arms dealer. How I want to defend myself! It’s so easy for people to take shots at me, considering how little my life has amounted to. But my goal for the weekend is simple: to cause no upset, be a good sport. So I bite my tongue and lie through my teeth. “I’m sure I’ll like him, don’t be ridiculous.”

  She giggles in delight and flashes a bright smile. “Not everyone does, mind you.” Then her voice drops like a fallen sparrow. “Some people who shall remain nameless think I’m making a big mistake and they haven’t been shy about telling me so. Needless to say, they didn’t get a wedding invitation. The caterer! I have to call her! You’re taking Gibson, right?�
��

  “Yes, of course. Whatever you need.”

  “And I promise we’ll catch up. I want to hear all about what’s new with you. Gibson needs to go. She’s probably not even dressed. For the last year I’ve had to stay on top of that girl every minute or else she’ll spin out of control like a tornado.”

  With that last lament she turns and minces up the stairs as fast as her short and stumpy legs will carry her. I too need to get dressed and hopefully grab some coffee before the car pool commences. To be honest, I’m more than a little disoriented. Five hours of fitful sleep isn’t enough to clear my addled brain, and now I have to spend time alone with Gibson, who seems to have sprung from some deep and vast subterranean vault where the world’s secrets are stored. She’s the sort of Norma Jean who becomes a Marilyn, meaning that she’s in the process of burning through her beauty, and the conflagration threatens to consume not just her but everyone in the vicinity. She was unabashed to parade in front of me nearly naked, and I can’t fathom what that portends, if anything. Nothing good, for her or me.

  I just need to get dressed and discharge this duty. Since it’s blazing hot out, I pull on cargo shorts and one of my favorite T-shirts, a fake-vintage Wham! Bev gave me for my birthday two years ago, knowing how much I appreciated cheesy 1980s memorabilia. I’ve been debating whether I should bother to wear it anymore, as I’ve vowed to put Bev out of my mind, but then, I don’t know, a flood of emotion overtook me a few weeks ago and I started wondering whether I couldn’t win her back. Which was nuts, because we were officially divorced, but look at Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Reconciliation isn’t impossible. Under some circumstances it plainly is, such as in the case when one of them dies. Or is killed.

  There are scratches on my upper arm, and as I lie there, I examine the reddish stripes with odd detachment, like my skin is a canvas on which an artist has scrawled ravening lines that express…disgust?

  Just get dressed, I tell myself.

  Black socks. Black Chuck Taylors. And now for the part I most enjoy, the selection of a hat. My affinity for hats definitely comes from my mother, who also has a vast collection of headgear. I’ve personally given her a hat for every birthday and Christmas for the past fifteen years, thirty hats, to go with the fifty she’s acquired. I’m not nearly that obsessed, but I possess around twenty-five hats, most of them of the “trucker” variety, meaning thick polyester on the lid and mesh in back. I packed four of my current favorites, and for this errand I select the one with “I Have Issues” stenciled in white letters across black fabric. This motto does seem appropriate for the goings-on this weekend, where issues of every variety will bloom in a field of dysfunction.

  I wish that my thinning hair didn’t require a hat, but I’m very good at concealing my flaws—especially from those who know me best. Yet women have paid me compliments, especially my boy-next-door dimples, and some have even described me as devilishly handsome, which might be, um, overkill. But am I the subject of schoolgirl fantasy? Bev said yes back when she still laughed at my jokes…

  “Ready?” Gibson calls down. I’d categorize her voice as syrupy and modulated. Feminine, with a hint of huskiness.

  “Let’s go!” I eagerly reply, grabbing my mirrored sunglasses, Miami Vice knockoffs that really border on the tasteless, where I’m most comfortable, aesthetically speaking. My belief in cheesiness is a vehicle for me to express grave distrust with current social constructs and allows me to poke fun at my privileged position as a white male. Or something.

  I need a steaming cup of coffee to jolt my brain into action, not to mention my lower extremities that have trouble climbing the stairs. I feel dizzy and nervous, with Gibson watching me with a backpack slung over a shoulder. Then she smiles, dazzlingly, a thousand watts that burn my eyes.

  “Nice hat,” she quips. A real compliment? I’ll pretend it is.

  “A gift from my ex-wife. It’s the nicest thing she ever did for me.”

  “Besides marry you?”

  “She didn’t have a choice. I’m ready. Lead the way.”

  I follow her through the kitchen, which looks the same as I remember it, blue tile countertop, knotty-wood cabinets with hammered-copper handles and drawer pulls, round Formica breakfast table topped with a lazy Susan, a bright window looking into the backyard (where a vegetable garden is withering), and then we proceed to cross the dining room, which also has the same long table with the blue embroidered runner and eight high-back chairs flanking it, familiar, comforting signposts in an otherwise alien landscape. I’m trying not to stare at Gibson as she walks in front of me. I don’t want to reach a sickly state of arousal by the sight of her long, tanned legs and perfectly sculpted ass that her jean shorts outline with frightening precision. She is to be my stepsister, and is basically a stranger, and yet I feel the haunting tug of desire.

  Ever since the divorce, I’ve developed the unfortunate habit of falling for almost every woman I come into contact with, and in the world of higher education, you have contact with many women. At my college the ratio of female-to-male is around sixty-forty, meaning there is a preponderance of absolutely lovely young women for whom no date will ever come calling, and they seek solace, affirmation, confidence from male faculty members who have excellent listening but limited coping skills. This isn’t a confession. I’m not going to touch Gibson, lay one crooked finger on her lovely golden locks, just as I’ve never engaged in inappropriate sexual conduct with any of my students, at least seven of whom in the past eight years have made overtures that would’ve enticed other, less ethical males to mount them right there in the office, right on top of the L-shaped desk made of cheap vinyl-laminated particleboard.

  Do you find my vociferous denials credible? My college, for your information, has an Amorous Relationship Policy that expressly forbids sexual contact between a faculty member and a student, but this same policy is silent about romantic entanglement, about developing genuine feelings of human attachment to an unsullied and eager young woman who adores lyric poetry and Leonard Cohen—speaking purely in the hypothetical, of course, by way of illustration. No such person exists, and even if she did exist, I never defiled her.

  Should I just make something up for prurience’s sake? I can invent salacious details of a torrid and illicit affair, how she used to hang around after class so that we could repair to my office to discuss some utterly invented literary issue, such as the overuse of passive voice, while we actively groped each other with my door closed and locked—yes, locked from the inside! The college gave us all-new doors with this feature so that in the event of a mass killing by an armed maniac, some of us could survive by locking ourselves in our offices, but it turns out that these same sturdy doors created the required privacy where love could bloom, as only in secret does true affection burst forth like a tender bulb of a hydrangea. More? What more is there? There’s nothing more. She was tall and willowy, with hair she dyed various colors, and largish breasts she vowed to reduce to B-cups one day, against my whimpering protests. A sliver of pubic hair the color of rust, which abutted a tattoo of a small butterfly. She was double-jointed. The boyfriend of a favorite babysitter had exposed himself to her when she was ten and for that reason she both abhorred and was fascinated by the male organ.

  Get a grip on yourself! None of this is true. There is no girl named Lola who was once my student. Please, check my class rosters for the past ten years. You’ll see I’m in the clear. I haven’t developed a fondness for coed flesh the way some alligators become habituated to humans and then endeavor to devour one, and so you don’t need to fret about Gibson as we make our way out to the car. I’m no registered sex offender. Get on a computer and scroll through the DOJ databases. Your appetite for depravity is limitless. Do you think I’m unable to control myself? That the mere sight of such a beautiful young woman is enough to send me into a sex-crazed tailspin? I really must object here. For the sake of argument, let’s assume that I had an amorous relationship with someone named Lola (w
hich I didn’t). Do you think I’d risk my career, my marriage, my entire existence, just so I could see how unbelievably luscious and round her firm breasts were? No! If I were ever to risk it all with a student, it would be because I was in love. Let’s not confuse the issues. There are other more pressing problems that will overwhelm us and cause considerable damage. The dead will die again, and so don’t get caught up in what I might do to seduce Gibson.

  As for the young lady in question, we know next to nothing. Gibson might be a nymphomaniac or an exhibitionist or a sadist or all three (which is your dream). And I’m sure she isn’t the least bit attracted to me. But what if it’s an attraction of a different variety? Perhaps Gibson is not my victim, but my killer? Now that is a real stretch, preposterous even. What motive would Gibson possibly have for killing me—unless of course she doesn’t have one beyond the simple enjoyment of murder. Would my position as the natural heir to my mother’s new fortune entice her? No, that is an unfortunate stereotype, and I refuse to be killed by a stereotype.

  As for Gibson, let’s remain skeptical. Let’s watch her closely. It’s blazing hot outside, and sweat is dripping down our bodies. The earth literally feels like it will burn, that rubber will melt. Gibson fumbles through the zippered pockets of her backpack and eventually produces a crumpled ball of cigarettes, ironically the same brand my father worked for. Richmond at its core is a tobacco city, and its riches derive from that “noxious weed,” as King James labeled it. My father didn’t actually handle the leaf but instead labored in HR, where at his desk and then in designated areas he was a loyal smoker of his company’s product, which of course killed him. Gibson, being young and impetuous, lights up and inhales with relish, blowing smoke into the stifling air with a dramatic flourish, even though her fag is bent and deformed.

  “Can we stop at a store on the way?” she asks me in a Lauren Bacall contralto.