Woman No. 17

by Edan Lepucki

  Well, so was I.

  “We’re friends,” I said. “That’s it. Maybe that’s unusual, Kit, but it shouldn’t be. We’re both into art.”

  Kit didn’t say anything for a moment, but then she was all at once disarmed. “My goodness. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions. I suppose it’s only your connection I’m sensing. You’re both artists. That’s wonderful! Have you seen his film? You should! Don’t be shy, Seth.” She laughed, embarrassed now. “I apologize. It’s just that Lady is blind to so much, I wouldn’t have been surprised if you guys were, you know, pursuing a relationship.”

  Seth was typing something on his phone. He handed it to Kit, and I leaned over to read it.

  Stop kit. Thats totally gross

  “Yeah,” I said. “Totally gross. I mean, Seth only just graduated from high school. And he’s a mute, for God’s sake! Like, he can’t speak up for himself!” I was afraid to look at him, so instead I walked to the counter and rang the bell for the clerk to return. “Still want to see my photos?”

  52.

  They followed me outside. Kit said I could lay the prints on the hood of her car (late 1970s Volvo, pristine, red). Was this how she did it with all her cohorts? She’d already put on her reading glasses (seafoam green, and so extreme they were architectural), and from her glove compartment she’d retrieved a bunch of magnets, shaped like tiny hockey pucks. I didn’t understand what they were for until she explained, “To stick the photos to the car, so they don’t blow away.” I couldn’t believe this was really a thing.

  I’d never before seen my photos at the same time that I was sharing them. It felt like a violation, like getting a pap smear while masturbating, but if the dread was magnified, so was the thrill. I hadn’t received feedback on my work since Everett. He’d line up my paintings and step forward, and then back, then forward again, so close to the canvases I thought he might taste one with the tip of his tongue. The feeling of him looking closely at something I’d made, not saying anything, thinking. I’d forgotten how much it mattered that someone cared.

  At least the whole process distracted me from Seth, who was glowering like a villain behind Kit. He’d been stung by my comment, just as I’d been by his. There was truth to what we’d proclaimed. It was too easy: the disgust we’d declared so publicly would wreck what we had shared privately.

  I slowly took out the first packet of photos. I’d ordered a contact sheet as well as the negatives, and I’d had every shot printed individually too. They were four by six, like regular point-and-shoot prints, to mimic Lady’s original picture.

  “I might pick one to print larger,” I explained. “But for now, I wanted to see them like this.”

  Kit didn’t ask me why and I wondered again what she already knew about the project. Then the photos were on the hood, and I was magnetizing them to it, and the metal was so hot from the sun I worried the prints might melt a little. Cars whizzed by. Someone honked, probably at us.

  There I was. And again, and again—ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five versions of me. I looked so defenseless and fake, like a teenager trying to take a selfie with her new camera’s timer. Nothing like Lady. The confidence I’d been carrying all morning collapsed. At least I’d gotten the sky right, and the blank space where Seth’s dad was supposed to be felt exactly as it should: like an absence, like a loss.

  Kit was carefully assessing each one, her lips pursed. If Lady could see us. The shame made me want to slam my hand against the car, sweep the photos to the ground. But now Seth was leaning in to get a look. He shook his head once, and I knew what it meant. His mother wasn’t there, not even a little. I’d failed. I wanted to ask, But what about Marco? You see that, right?

  “You sort of have to know the project,” I said when Kit was finished looking. “I’m not sure what Seth has told you.”

  “I know nothing.”

  “I’m staging photos of other people’s mothers, before their children were born.”

  “Do you have the original photo here with you?” Kit asked. “Can I see it?”

  “I paint a portrait, based on the photo I receive. My photo’s based on the painting.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “It’s multiple layers of remove,” I said.

  “You don’t need to explain the joke.”

  “I’m not—”

  She began to remove the magnets from all the photos except for one. It was the first shot I’d taken, before I’d been ready. My body was a little blurry, my mouth open and stupid with surprise. It wasn’t at all like Lady’s pose.

  “This one is interesting,” she said.

  “It is?” I asked.

  “Francesca Woodman, Cindy Sherman, Sophie Calle.”

  I wasn’t sure where this list was going. “All my idols,” I said. “I love their work.”

  “I can tell. Those artists already exist,” she said. “And so do I, not to bring myself into this.”

  “I love your stuff so much. The Women—”

  “The Women came two decades after other, more groundbreaking work.” She looked up, as if suddenly remembering something. “Seth did tell me something about you.”

  “You did?” I said to him. He looked freaked out.

  “He said you were trying to get people to send photos, but that you kept receiving pictures of penises.”

  “I only got three!” I said. “Did you write that on your phone to her?” Seth couldn’t help but grin, and I socked him.

  “Three is enough,” Kit said.

  “Enough for what?” I asked.

  “For something new,” she said.

  53.

  After I came to, Karl sat me down at my mother’s kitchen table and watched as I ate my energy bar and downed three glasses of water. He was worried about me but I could tell he didn’t want to send mixed signals; when he felt my pulse, he was as impersonal as a doctor. “You guys can go,” I said finally. “I’m fine.” That was all the permission Karl needed. He kissed me once on the forehead and told me to be careful. To eat some chicken. I hugged Devin, said I already missed him, and a moment later Karl carried him out of the house and I was alone.

  At least my fainting had kept us from discussing Marco. The perils of a child who can speak your secrets aloud are manifold. I could only hope that Devin would forget about Mommy’s friend, and that Karl would assume Marco was a character in an insipid kid’s movie and never ask follow-up questions. If Karl was right, and I did favor Seth, it was only because Seth had never before ratted me out. Devin, like most toddlers, was a snitch.

  Karl was correct about one thing: I needed protein. I hadn’t eaten a real meal since last night’s omelet. I needed a burger. More than that, I needed a cold beer.

  I knew perfectly well that wanting a beer meant I wanted to see Marco. I wanted Marco.

  When I went to text him, I saw that I had a missed call from S. No voicemail. I wished, again, that I’d told her about Marco and not about the photograph. Until I had turned it into a confession, that old secret had almost lost its power.

  If I had told S about Marco, that would have made that mistake real. I wouldn’t be texting him now: Okay if I come by?

  My phone chimed a minute later. Ill be there in ten.

  I fled my childhood home like it was on fire.

  54.

  This was my fifth visit to Marco, and by now I already knew which days were street-sweeping days (Tuesday and Wednesday mornings), and which freeway exit was closest.

  Marco was just pulling into the driveway when I parked. He emerged from his truck with a bag of groceries.

  “I thought you said you were only ten minutes away,” I said as I crossed the street from my car. “That was half an hour ago at least.”

  He held up the bag. “I needed provisions. Lucy will be here at three.”

  “So if I wait long enough, I can meet her?”

  “You never stay more than an hour,” he reminded me as he led me inside. “And I’ve got some panels that need
cleaning.”

  The house was dark and cool and I thought of the Cottage. Marco tossed his baseball cap across the living room. His hair was matted with sweat that I could smell. It might make me faint again.

  “Solar panels need to be cleaned?” I asked.

  “Everything needs to be cleaned. It’s part of the business model.” He was walking down the hall to the kitchen. “Upkeep pays a lot of our bills.”

  “My mother died,” I said.

  He turned. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Shit, Lady. You okay?”

  “I need a beer. And do you have anything to eat in that grocery bag?”

  He poached me two eggs, like old times. If he knew the meal was transporting us to our days of yore, he didn’t mention it. He sat across the kitchen table, drinking his own beer, as I punctured the pristine white globes with my fork tines.

  “I’m hungover,” I said as the viscous yolks colored my plate yellow.

  “Well, you’re grieving,” he said.

  “I was hungover before I found out she was dead.”

  I took a big, slippery bite of egg and Marco said, “I used to love watching you eat.”

  “You did?”

  “It was the only time you weren’t mad at me. That, and when we fucked.”

  “Nothing has changed.” I leaned toward him with my beer bottle, as if to clang it against his, but he looked taken aback.

  “We’re good though now, aren’t we?” he asked.

  “These eggs are good,” I said.

  “And the sex?”

  “I’m afraid my marriage is really over. Karl’s getting his own place, like for real.”

  “Don’t blame me for that,” he said. He got up and began to put the groceries away. There was a carton of milk. Blueberries. Frosted Flakes.

  “Will you tell Lucy about Seth this weekend?” I said, taking a last bite, slick and salty. I swallowed. “You need to meet him.”

  He had the canvas bag balled up in his fist. “This isn’t going to turn into a Brady Bunch story, Lady.”

  “Who said I wanted it to?”

  “I can tell.”

  “I want Karl,” I said. “I’m just fucking you.”

  I pushed the plate away and stood up. I hoped the remaining yolk would congeal to the plate so that later Marco would have to scrub it clean, use a little elbow grease as he thought of me.

  “Are you really that into this?” Marco asked. He was coming toward me.

  “Honestly?” I said. He nodded. “Seeing you makes me feel like shit. And the longer we keep this up, the harder it will be to tell Seth that you exist.”

  He grabbed my waist, as if we were slow dancing, and like that, the pulse in my groin began to tat-tat-tat, a song my body played for Marco alone.

  “Finally, some real talk from Lady,” he said. He kissed my neck.

  “What about you? Are you into it?” I asked.

  “It feels good, yeah,” he mumbled against my skin. The heat was spreading across my belly.

  Marco backed away for a moment, so that we were facing each other. “But I’ve got a lot less at stake than you do.” He smiled sadly, then kissed my neck once more. He put his hands on my tits. As if on reflex, my nipples turned hard under his palms.

  “If I tell Lucy,” he said, still kissing me, “and then you tell Seth, you probably won’t come over anymore, will you? Not like this.”

  He was unbuttoning my jeans. He was kneeling down so that his face was at my crotch. I remembered the old Stooges song he used to play so loudly the neighbors would bang on the walls. “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” But I’d always been the subservient one, the one begging for treats. Had something changed?

  “You don’t know that,” I said. “I might decide to come back.”

  His tongue was sliding up and down my underwear, lapping me slowly. He wouldn’t remove them until I fell to my knees too. I could already smell myself; I was filling the kitchen.

  He stopped. “But you want Karl.”

  I didn’t reply. He slipped a finger beneath my underwear. “And once Seth knows about me,” he said, watching me squirm. “You’ll have to behave. You’ll have to be a mom again.”

  “What the hell am I right now?” I said, but I could barely get the words out.

  55.

  Kit drove off, leaving it to me to chauffeur Seth wherever he wished. “You don’t mind, do you?” she had asked as she started her engine, not caring what my answer was. “I’ve got a meeting in Venice.” Seth had stood apart like we were his divorced parents and this was a low-grade custody argument. I wondered why he’d surrendered his independence and asked her to drive. Now his car was stuck at Kit’s.

  She merged onto La Cienega and sped away with a backward wave out her window. I felt relieved, actually, because now the lump of tears in my throat could explode. I would cry like the little brat I was, the kind who didn’t understand the value of constructive criticism. Jesus, it wasn’t every day that your idol tells you that you’re unoriginal. What a gift. At least those dick pics had potential.

  Seth’s hand was on my shoulder.

  “I know. I’m being a baby.” I wiped the snot from my face and kept myself turned away from him. “The photos definitely aren’t great, but I don’t think she really got the project either. I mean, she hasn’t seen all of it: the paintings, for starters. And what about the notebooks about my mom? My drinking?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s more than that, though. The whole becoming her, you know. It’s got a performative element too.”

  He thrust his phone in front of my face. I had to blink away the tears to read what he’d written.

  Her gallery guy doesnt like the pics of me

  “Really?” I turned.

  He typed something else.

  Thats prob why she said that stuff. Passing the shit along u know?

  “You think?” I asked.

  We all do it

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He shoved his phone back into his pocket and I said, “I didn’t mean what I said to Kit. About you being disabled.”

  He signed something, and when I didn’t follow he signed again, slower this time.

  I A-M.

  “You are. Right. And so I guess I really am repulsive to you?”

  He made a face like, Maybe you are, Maybe you aren’t, and when I pretended to protest, he pointed at my shirt. I laughed. “Oops, I totally forgot I’m dressed like 1990s Chloë Sevigny.”

  I could tell from Seth’s face that he had no idea who that was.

  “I mean, I’m dressed like your mother.”

  He winced.

  “My clothes are in my car. Come on.”

  He followed me to the alley behind the lab, and when we reached my car, he went to the passenger side, as if to get in.

  “You aren’t going to stand guard outside while I change?”

  Seth shook the door handle in reply and I unlocked the car. We both got in, he in the front and I in the back. Once I’d changed into my own shirt, I climbed up front.

  “It’s hot as hell in here,” I said.

  I was about to roll down the window when Seth touched my arm.

  “Seth,” I said. “We can’t…not here.”

  But I was already reaching for him. I ran a hand through his curls, which today were wild around his head. I touched his earlobe.

  “Hi,” I said.

  He didn’t do anything.

  “This has to be the last time,” I said. “If your mom finds out—”

  He pulled away and I couldn’t read what he was feeling.

  “Were you not about to kiss me?”

  Nothing.

  “Are you upset?”

  Still nothing.

  “What’s going on with you? Why did you bring Kit here?”

  He spelled a word: A-R-T.

  “My art? You wanted her to know I’m a genius, is that it? Bullshit.”

  Seth had his phone in his hand now, like he might write me som
ething. He didn’t.

  “You were mad at me just an hour ago,” I said. “About me and your mom. Remember? But, like, why can’t I be friends with her? She’s cool. You can’t expect this—you and me—to go on forever.”

  Seth was edging toward the passenger-side door, away from me.

  “So now you’re leaving—yet again?” I asked. “Go ahead, call an Uber, take the bus.”

  But instead of opening the door, he had his hand on his crotch, rubbing himself.

  “What are you doing?”

  He plunged a hand down his pants and pulled out his dick. It was as hard as a baton, and its head was pink and throbbing; it was like a single salivary gland, a shot from a surgery documentary. Even though I couldn’t see it, I could picture the mass of black hair at its shaft, thicketed and rough, a nasty bird’s nest.

  With the other hand, Seth picked up his phone.

  “Stop,” I said just as a light blinked. The flash. It would make the photograph bright and sad, like he was taking it indoors at night, alone; it was even sadder that he wasn’t.

  “Stop!” I said again, even though it was too late.

  I got out of the car and waited for my own phone to alert me that the photo had arrived. When it did, I didn’t look. I wouldn’t. I heard the other door open and shut, and Seth’s shoes crunching the gravelly cement as he approached me.

  “I hate you,” I said.

  He took out his phone.

  Something to remember me by?

  He hadn’t even wanted to be with me one last time.

  “That was wrong. I said stop.”

  Wrong? Think about what youve done. Im barely legal.

  “Are you blackmailing me?”

  No its called a joke

  I sighed. “It isn’t funny.”

  Seth was looking at his phone again. Now he was tapping the screen. He handed it to me. It was a Yelp page.

  “Green Builders?” I said, reading. And then, I understood. “This is your dad. Marco.”

  He grabbed the phone and typed.

  Its a home address. Take me there.