The Almost Archer Sisters

by Lisa Gabriele

  Marcus hauled open a vaultlike door, and we found ourselves gasping for air in a cool Manhattan alley, his demeanor suggesting that he still planned to beat me to death up against the sweaty bricks.

  “Thank you, Marcus. And again. I am sorry. Now if you could just show me where to get a cab, you will never see me again.”

  “What if I said no?”

  “Well, then … I … I can find one,” I said, slowly backing away from him, making my way toward the street.

  “Hold up!” he yelled. I froze. I had no Mace, no gun, and no idea it would be this easy for a madman to overcome me. “What I mean is, you said you wanted to go on a date, so let me take you on a fucking date.” And with that he grabbed my hand and pulled me fast down the alley toward the lights of a busy street.

  WHAT I REMEMBER most about my first real date was the money; Marcus rained money on everyone who came near us, talked to us, drove us, fed us, opened and shut doors for us, who brought us drinks and took the empty glasses away from us. Money to the cabs we hopped into and out of. Money to the man at the door of a dark club we ducked into for a drink, sitting at a bar lit from below in a way that made my face look moody and intelligent in the mirror across from us. He gave money to the woman who brought us tiny scallops stabbed with metal sticks. To the man who dropped two pink drinks in front of our arms, and to the lady who later brought us two fancy coffees bundled in napkins and sprinkled with chocolate. Then more money to another driver who took us to a different part of the city where Marcus ordered food so foreign to me (Soft-shell crabs! Foie gras! Ceviche!) it was a supreme act of trust just to stuff my face. Then money to the ice-cream guy, money to the homeless kid, money to a person selling books on a towel after I cooed over a hard copy of Little Women, a book Beth and I both loved and one I lamented that the boys would never read because of its feminine title. And I let him, because there was nothing else for my face to do but to eat and drink and listen to Marcus talk about things I never knew about Beth; why he loved her, why he didn’t, and why, in the end, he ended things the way he did.

  Their relationship was hatched in the heady space between nine-to-five power flirting and last call at happy hour at the pub below the building in which Beth housed her company. When she hired Marcus to do the season’s contracts, he knew she might be trouble. But he thought it might be the sexy kind of trouble that sometimes resulted in vertical sex in the hallways, followed by those long bashful brunches where you pretend you’re reading the newspaper but you’re really just planning your next move, “You know what I mean, Peachy?”

  “Ahh … no.”

  He laughed. I was making him laugh a lot that night, and it felt nice to finally get the hang of the type of laughter that came from laughing at me, and what it sounded like when he was kind of with me on something.

  “Anyway. I liked her a lot. And right away too,” he said. We were sharing a cigarette with the rest of the smokers clogging the club’s sidewalk. “Pardon me for saying, but she’s fucking hot. My friends all thought so too. Not that that’s important.”

  “But … it’s important.”

  “Exactly,” he said, laughing the “with me” laugh. “So, at first it was great. Crazy great. But then she started to show up late for things already a little drunk. Which, whatever, I didn’t think anything of it at first. But at the end of the night, she didn’t want to shut it off. She had to keep going. So, you know, little blow here and there, no big deal. I don’t partake myself, but my friends sometimes do. But then it was a little more if we were going to a party and she had too much to drink and didn’t want to go home. I mean, I like my cocktails like the next guy, but she was really starting to scare me a little. And I was getting sick of being her fucking babysitter: Where’s my coat, where’s my keys, where are we, take me home, I don’t want to go home, what time is it, it’s early, it’s late, let’s go here, let’s go there. And on and on. A person starts to feel pulled. And stupid frankly.”

  I was sick at the thought of Beth snorting coke in the bathroom of some fancy restaurant, or some seedy bar she’d frequent to seem cool and edgy, where she wouldn’t have the benefit of knowing the bartender because she hung out with him in high school.

  “I know she likes to party,” I said. “But I didn’t know about the blow. She’s never done it around me. God, she’d never risk bringing it over the border. At least I like to think she’d never.”

  “Likes to party? No. Peachy, your sister lives to party. And she wouldn’t listen to me. I just cut my losses. And okay, I was cruel about it, but I wanted out.”

  After the night she attacked the bouncer, he said he knew it was time to walk. He called her up and left a message on her cell number telling her in so many words to lose his number. When he tried to get out of his contract, she threatened to sue. When he found a good replacement to finish the season, she resumed her efforts to seduce him. He told me he had only posted the online ad to prove to her that he was done, because the more he tried to extricate himself from Beth, the more she promised to change, to behave, to be good. I thought of our phone call. I didn’t think the boys would be in any danger in her care, unless you counted near brain damage from Sam hitting the tile floor. Besides, she was being supervised by Lou and Beau.

  “Look,” he said. “She’s a fucking workhorse, and she’s highly functional. She’s not going to lose her company anytime soon. She’s careful during the week, and then she dries out every few weeks at her place in Michigan. But if the shit she pulled with your husband isn’t a wake-up call, then I don’t know what is.”

  “Yeah, well. About that place in Michigan …” I said, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, I can imagine,” he said.

  “How come she never invited you to her weekend place in Grosse Pointe?”

  “You know, I asked. She said it was undergoing major renovations and that this summer she’d definitely bring me. Definitely, definitely. Fucking delusional. But by the time I was ready to pack my sunscreen, I was over her, you know?”

  “Renovations. She’s probably not wrong about that. Because there’s gonna be a big doghouse under construction as soon as I get home,” I said, plucking the smoke from his fingers.

  “That’s a tough one, Peachy, but I would caution you to be cautious. Men are pigs, for sure. If it’s in the trough, it’s dinner. But Beau doesn’t sound like a pig. He sounds like a guy who made a stupid, stupid mistake.”

  “No, he’s a pig.”

  “Is he a nice pig at least?”

  I thought for a second. “He’s a handy pig.”

  “Well, that’s something. You could build on that. Ice cream?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling flattened under all this new information. I thought of the Chinese boxes and ceramic holders decorating Beth’s apartment. I decided to scour her apartment when I got back, and if I found her stash, I would flush it.

  “It’s nice, you know. Doing things with you Beth never wanted to do. Not that this is a date date, right?”

  “Right.”

  IT WAS ONLY eleven-thirty when Marcus and I finally reached Beth’s place after a quick stop near Washington Square Park for ice cream. My cone had almost made a clean exit into my mouth when I noticed chocolate staining two of my fingers. Whatever I had on usually substituted as a repository for my boys’ messes, so it was no surprise that my automatic response was to look for a place on my beautiful dress to wipe them. Marcus stopped my hand and carefully examined the chocolate. Then he did what I had often done with the boys’ own delicious fingers. He put mine in his mouth to clean them. I felt that familiar tornado stir just behind my belly button, the one that kicked up when Beau did this with my fingers. I looked around for Jonathan. I wasn’t sure if Beth’s doorman knew I was married, but I needed to look into a familiar face to remind me that I was.

  “My feet are killing me. I thought these shoes were my friends,” I said, trying to change the subject and to get my mind off of what was happening to my middle.
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br />   He plucked my fingers from his mouth and said, “Take them off. I’ll stick your toes in my mouth too.”

  I regarded him, his face, his gingery hair, his nice forearms, his wide mouth.

  “Pretty hot what I just did, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.”

  “Beth has air-conditioning, doesn’t she? I can’t remember now. We mostly dated in the winter months.”

  “She does. But—”

  “No, no. Yeah, yeah. Just wondering. It’s a valid question. I can ask questions.”

  I exhaled, thinking that though I didn’t want my night to end, I didn’t want to end my night in bed with Marcus. Bad enough I married the first man Beth had sex with; I didn’t feel like capping off my weekend with the last man she’d been with too.

  “So, you aren’t going to invite me up into the air-conditioning, I gather? What if I told you I’d looove to see pictures of your kids?”

  “No,” I said. “I can’t. I mean, I could. But I can’t.”

  “Dammit. And I spent all that money on you!” He pretended to stomp around like a toddler in a tantrum. “Not fair.”

  “Oh. Is that how dates work?”

  “Yes, Peachy, no one told you? That’s how a date works. When a boy spends a lot of money on you on a date, it’s incumbent upon you to sleep with said boy. A blowjob or a hand job is sometimes okay too. Or you can just make out with him on the couch and let the boy play with your boobies or something. There are various options. And we could discuss them all if you would just”—he was using his index finger to indicate up—“let me come in for a minute. Or thirty. Thirty tops. Thirty and then I’ll go.”

  “Seriously?” I said. “You want to come up?”

  He nodded so quickly his face went blurry. It was a different kind of sexy knowing that I was standing opposite a man who wanted me but didn’t need me one bit. And though getting to this point in the evening had been exciting, as well as expensive, I had the feeling of being sated enough to end things there. To do more than kiss Marcus once and full on the lips wouldn’t have been criminal. In fact, it would have been completely understandable. But it would have left me feeling greedy. I would have carried home that glassy look the kids sometimes had after they’d gorged themselves to the gills at a birthday party.

  “I had a lovely time, Marcus Edward Street.”

  “I have to pee?”

  “And I can’t thank you enough for spending lots of money on me and showing me around the city. I loved every minute of my date.”

  “You know what? I need to make a phone call. My cell’s dead too. See?” he said, shaking it. “Totally dead. Broken.”

  “Beth lost a great guy. But maybe if she gets her shit together, you guys could try again?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. What if, you know, God forbid, and I do hope He completely forbids it, that Beth and I end up getting married. I can’t go around coveting my sister-in-law for the rest of my life. That would be fucking hell. Oh my God! Look! Is that smoke coming from Beth’s window? We better go see if Beth’s apartment’s on fire!”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Don’t thank me,” he said, smiling an impossibly white smile and placing his hands on the sides of my arms. “I mean, make out with me. Sure. Sleep with me, yes. But don’t thank me.”

  He was handsome. He was funny. He smelled clean and industrious. His hands were big enough to encircle my upper arms. He held them firm. I bet he bit. I bet he slapped and lasted. I was young and owed this, so far beyond reproach that I couldn’t imagine St. Peter himself would keep me standing long outside the gates of whatever heaven I’d be sent to. And still, and still …

  “Good night, Marcus.”

  “No.”

  “Good night, Marcus.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “You should.”

  “I know. But I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “You should be,” he grinned.

  “Good night, Marcus.”

  “Good night, Peachy.”

  With that he pushed a long, firm kiss into the middle of my forehead. When he pulled away, he kept his lips puckered and one eye tightly closed. I rotated him easily, steadied him from behind, and launched Marcus gently back into the Manhattan night.

  I slowly passed by Jonathan, who had probably seen a bit of my goodbye on the security camera. I was heartened that he kept his feet up on the kiosk. Without looking up from his TV, he sleepily asked, “Have a nice time, Peachy?”

  “Such a nice time, Jonathan,” I said, pushing the UP button.

  “That’s good, Peachy.”

  “Good night, Jonathan.”

  “Good night, Peachy.”

  Marcus’s pleas had made me damp, and my legs felt floppy from exhaustion. I kicked off my shoes into the dark of Beth’s apartment, not caring what they hit. While I waited for the computer to power up, I fished out my soggy sandals and threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Then I went on a digital rampage, killing Almost Me’s profile and email account. Mapless and unafraid, I went back downstairs, passing Jonathan’s darkened kiosk. I headed toward the Hudson River, a few blocks west of Beth’s condo. My hair hung limp in the boggy heat. There were people out everywhere. A lovely hum and chatter echoed out of the restaurants and bars I passed, and through some low-slung windows you could see crowded parties happening inside. Along the Hudson River park, I merged with the wall of foot traffic, watching for Rollerbladers and even a couple of carriages pushed by couples taking a stroll while a baby slept inside. I stopped to watch some lithe and daring trapeze artists perform a midnight show for the small crowd below. It started to feel normal to me, the idea of walking at night alone, of casually stumbling upon a brightly lit cage of circus people, flying and spinning and laughing and falling. Beth had mentioned there was a trapeze school, had said she wanted to try it, had been meaning to try it, and even at Earl’s just two nights earlier, she vowed she’d do it if I promised to watch.

  “It’s something I’ve been meaning to do,” she said, sensing the wave of nausea that came over me at the idea of Beth aloft, Beth falling.

  “Yeah, I can see how breaking your neck could be high on your to-do list. Yeah.”

  “Don’t try and talk me out of it, Peachy.”

  “Go ahead. Break your neck. I don’t care. In fact, when I tell you not to do something, you do it all the more.”

  “Not true.”

  “True.”

  “No-oh.”

  “Yea-ess.”

  “Like when?”

  “Like … oh, everything. It must be so exhausting to be a constant contrarian.”

  “You know something? It is. And I’ll tell you another thing I’ve been meaning to do. See that sign?” She closed one eye and pointed her finger like a gun at the Starlite Variety sign across the street. “I’m going to go over there and tell those fuckers that it’s about time they spelled ‘starlight’ right. Doesn’t that drive you crazy? You have two kids who are going to grow up thinking that that’s how ‘starlight’ is spelled, Peach. I mean, that would make me crazy. It’s making me crazy right now.”

  “Well, go tell them, Beth,” I said, my voice filled with mock encouragement. “You just go tell them it’s wrong. I dare you.”

  The words had barely left my mouth before Beth tamped out her cigarette, leapt off the stool, and tipsily made her way across the street without watching for cars.

  “I was kidding,” I said to Stu, and we watched as Beth finally exited the store trailed by a startled cashier, the youngest son of the Korean family that had long ago bought the store. They had kept up the same stock of weird-looking dolls and greying birthday cards, but added an impressive selection of ramen noodles. She pointed to the “Starlite” part of the sign.

  “What is she doing,” I mumbled to Stu.

  “She’s being Beth.”

  But it was all for show, this stunt anoth
er in a long repertoire that comprised the Story of Beth. It didn’t matter whether it was “Starlite” or “Starlight.” What mattered was how I told the story of how Beth had the temerity to tell the owner’s son that “Starlite” was incorrect and how funny it was when she got up from the bar and crossed the street to tell that poor Korean kid his sign was wrong. And that’s when I felt done. It was hours before she had had sex with my husband, hours before I left the farm in a fury, but I was done telling the Story of Beth.

  We were mostly quiet on the ride home except when Beth reiterated her desire to take to the trapeze that weekend. Instead of daring her or fighting her, instead of finding flaws with her plans, I shrugged and said, “Should be fun.”

  She had never inquired if it was something I’d consider doing, because it was always understood I’d remain below, her precious watcher, her vigilant observer, her constant cheerleader. And why would she think otherwise? Until that night I always thought I was among the Stus and Marcuses, the Nadias, Kates, and Jebs, looking in amazement and sometimes disgust while Beth performed her daring feats, secretly tsking her, expecting, possibly hoping, to see what would happen if she failed or fell. But the truth was, I had never stood with the gawkers and the cheerleaders. Instead, I’d always been her stalwart net—slightly frayed and bowed—but I had always, until now, kept my sister from hitting the unforgiving pavement.

  chapter sixteen

  TWO AND A half days was not a long time to be away. The weather did nothing new to the sky above us. Nobody in town moved or died. The boys hadn’t grown, my father hadn’t aged. As far as I could tell by scanning two city skylines from a fast-moving car, no new buildings were completed, no old ones torn down. The trees and flowers remained at their ripe, midsummer stage. A few stubborn acres of brush and soy still prevented the spreading subdivisions from swallowing up our town. Our garden had a bit of bedhead, nothing ten minutes of weeding couldn’t tame. The house was clean, too clean, really, the beneficiary of a sleepless and dry Beth, who apparently kept busy bleaching counters and organizing the pots and pans until well past both midnights. Lou told me this on our drive back from the airport, during which I couldn’t stop searching the boys’ faces, checking and rechecking for evidence of my absence, to seek out whether it had had any effect on them. There had been that unsettling tide of tears I unleashed at the sight of their faces in the crowd at Arrivals, but that couldn’t be helped. I saw them through the glass before they saw me, a gift really, because I was able to watch the way love moved from the heart to the face, when the object of affection (me!) came into view. I had probably seen them brighten up like that before, their smiles splitting wide open, arms and legs doing that goofy, kinetic dance. But not since each of their births had I appreciated what a painful effect their faces could have on my heart. You could die from this, I thought. It is entirely possible.