The Insatiables

by Brittany Terwilliger

  “Now, enter an executive named Gus. Gus takes a bottom-up approach to business. Instead of asking his team to come up with ideas, Gus finds out exactly what consumers want. Then his team uses that information to design products. Once designed, Gus’s team precisely targets the consumers who most want the product they’re selling. Knowing what people want—what they really, truly want—is the key to motivating them. It’s not about us, it’s about the people.”

  He gestured toward the audience, moved by his own magnanimity, and they burst into applause. Gus took a sip of water from a slim glass.

  “The question is,” he continued, “where does one get this information? How do we know what the people want? Well, ladies and gentlemen, that’s what the Tantalus will do. Now, this is all proprietary, and I know a couple of executives who would love nothing more than to get their hands on this technology, so I’m not going to reveal any more than that. But if our projections are correct, the Tantalus is going to revolutionize consumerism. And that means our future together is bright.”

  On cue, they applauded again, as Gus stood godlike, marveling at his ability to command.

  Rousseau’s style of speaking was completely different from Gus’s. He wasn’t a showman. His manner was intimate and conversational; he was talking only to you. He told us what was new in the industry, what was coming soon, what was missing. He talked about how useful the Tantalus would be in people’s everyday lives. He made us feel noble; we were making a difference.

  I felt a complex longing as I watched him. I wanted to be what he was, to be the one on stage being respected and adored. I wanted to be him, and I wanted to belong to him.

  When the talk was finished and Rousseau had answered all the questions, I rose from my seat and walked out. He’d scheduled an early flight, giving himself just enough time to deliver his lecture and leave. The car we’d hired to transfer him back to the airport was sitting outside the hotel’s front entrance. I waited to make sure he found his driver.

  “Hey, there you are,” he said when he spotted me in the atrium.

  “I liked your lecture,” I said.

  “Oh, well don’t tell anyone, but this is my eighth time delivering it. I’ve had time to practice.”

  “Ah, and here we thought we were special.”

  He looked at me, and I looked at my feet.

  “Do you have your luggage?” I asked.

  “I left my bag in my room. Are you walking me out?”

  “I was going to. I can meet you downstairs.”

  “That’s okay, it’ll only take a minute. Ride up with me.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Is that weird?” he asked. He said it so straightforwardly and with such self-assurance that I believed nothing he said could have possibly been weird.

  “No-er,” I bumbled.

  Damn it. No-er? What the hell was that? He smiled. We boarded the hotel elevator. He pushed the 9 button. I was sidetracked, worrying about the no-er. Why couldn’t I have just said “no”? And then there we were, enclosed by lighted brushed steel on all four sides, a ball of energy hanging in the air between us like a thunderstorm. Neither of us said anything. We arrived at the ninth floor and I waited by the elevator for him to return. He came back pulling a small black suitcase on wheels.

  We re-entered the elevator. I pushed the L button. I stood against the adjacent wall, afraid to look up at him, afraid he would see all the way down into me, my deranged mind, the depth of my adoration. Then I saw his right shoe advance toward me, and then his left. His hands rose to the wall on either side of me. I closed my eyes. His face brushed against my face. He breathed a deep breath in, then back out again, hesitating. He kissed my jaw, and an electric jolt went straight through me. And then I felt his lips on my collarbone. Earth was put on pause. His mouth warmed my skin. All I could think about was how badly I wanted him to kiss my mouth. Then the doors opened to the lobby, and in a second he was gone. The faint smell of him lingered in the air inside the elevator. It felt silent and empty, as if a vacuum had opened up and sucked all the life out of it.

  11

  I’d liked Rousseau’s kiss in direct proportion to the shame I felt for liking it, and I was embarrassed by the shame. It was the shame of a child, a novice, and I was supposed to be an adult. I wanted to go on with my day as if nothing had happened, and I felt that I could. And there was the real turmoil, because the child in me—bound by the fear of the cosmic punishment that awaited me should I violate such clear and firm absolutes—said that I was supposed to be disturbed by what I’d done; I was supposed to feel terrible and promise I’d never do it again. He was married! And a client! But I didn’t feel terrible. I didn’t feel like I thought people who kissed married men—married clients!—should feel. Instead I was newly aware of how easy it was to do bad things and remain intact, and that awareness began to shift the boundaries of my universe. I got the disquieting and not unwelcome sense that there was some unseen current slicing through me, shaping me into something darker. I could do anything, and life would go on.

  All at once my sense of urgency over the product launch was reborn, bigger and brighter than ever. Rousseau’s life, Rousseau’s world: I wanted to let it mold me into someone exactly like him. I imagined myself as that person. Someone whose energy matched Rousseau’s energy. Someone a little bit untouchable, from whom a sort of seductive certainty would emanate in beautiful waves. It had been her in the elevator with Rousseau that day. Now the scene became much more interesting, like a movie where the bit actress is replaced with a star. She wouldn’t be awkward or nervous. She’d be steady. Aloof and unsexed, face betraying nothing. No provincial fears caging her in. He might even be a little scared of her. Standing there beside her, his hand would brush against her hand and the force of her distance would turn that one small touch into something explosive and extraordinary. And when she looked at him, when he pushed her against the wall, when she kissed his mouth, when he picked her up, when she wrapped her legs around him, the world would ignite. Then the elevator door would open and she would go back to her life. No regrets. Such a complete and impervious thing. I wanted to be her so badly that the taste of it burned my mouth.

  All afternoon my mind wandered, searching for a way to get there, to reach Level 2, to go to France and see Rousseau again. Then, as I reviewed the meeting’s departure transportation schedule, an idea came to me. It was a vile idea. The most underhanded, deceitful idea I’d ever had. I dismissed it almost as soon as I thought it. But I kept hearing the echo of it again and again, like a song I couldn’t get out of my head. Gradually I let it work on me, let it weigh the choices that would decide my fate. I could be the same polite old Halley, dripping with existential fear and self-consciousness. Halley Faust, preoccupied with being likable while everything I’d ever wanted went to someone more tenacious. Or I could be the strong, fearless, take-matters-into-her-own-hands person I’d wanted to be in the shower that morning.

  I closed my eyes, picked up the phone and called the transportation company.

  The next morning, hotel staff and audiovisual technicians had the Sisyphean tasks of tearing down staging and lights, switching the rooms for the next group. Tearing and building, building and tearing. Every day, never moving forward. It put me in a dreary mood. I packed leftover demo kits and marketing materials into boxes to send back where they came from. Celeste came in, clearly agitated.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” she said, eyes glistening. “The limo never showed up to get Gus and the other execs. I had to call them cabs, and some of them didn’t have cash so I had to run to an ATM; it was a nightmare.”

  My stomach fell, and I looked down at the floor. “That’s awful. Did you call the transportation company?”

  “Yeah, they were confused. Fucking idiots. They thought I canceled the car. They must have misunderstood when I called to update the other transportation yesterday.�
��

  The sound of the packing tape dispenser cut through the room as I raked it across a box. “I’m sure everyone will get over it,” I said.

  She rubbed her eyes with her fingers. “I don’t know, they looked furious. You know how they always want to be early.”

  I looked her in the eye and then looked away again. “Did you tell them it was the transportation company that messed up? It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No,” she said tiredly, “then it just sounds like I’m making excuses. Anyway, it is my fault because I didn’t reconfirm that pickup. Stupid.”

  The fact that she didn’t suspect my treachery was so excruciating I almost confessed everything. Suddenly I regretted all of it, every little betrayal, every moment we’d spent questioning one another since the day Gus had announced the product launch. I wanted to take it all back.

  “What’s up with you?” she asked. “You’re acting kind of weird.”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  She crouched down to the floor and started packing a stack of miscellaneous pamphlets into an empty box, waiting me out.

  “Well, I spent a couple hours talking to Thomas Rousseau the other night. At the gala.”

  “As in the Thomas Rousseau? Wow. What happened?”

  I thought of the kiss and a breath of heat ran through me. “It was like we knew each other in another life or something.”

  Celeste turned to see if anyone was within earshot. “You’re not getting involved with him are you? You know that’ll get you fired.”

  I sighed and picked at an old shipping label. “It wasn’t like that. I’ll probably never see him again.”

  She smiled. “You’re actually thinking about it!”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Sweet, innocent little Halley who never does anything bad suddenly wants to have an affair with a married man who happens to be the company’s most important client. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “No, I don’t! I just like him, that’s all.”

  Celeste studied me for a few seconds. “Let’s go out tonight,” she said. “We could use a night out.”

  Her bright-eyed openness, as if everything was the same as it had always been, tormented me with guilt. “I don’t feel like it,” I said.

  “Come on. It’ll take our minds off things.”

  “I can’t, Celeste. I’m on the 7:00 a.m. back to Cincinnati tomorrow. And you know how Phil Collins gets nervous about going through the X-ray machine. I think I should . . .”

  “Look. We’ve been under too much stress lately.” She shoved the box she was packing aside. “Tonight we’re going to live.”

  I briefly imagined us committing some insane crime and then driving off a cliff like Thelma and Louise. Tempting.

  I sighed. “I can’t.”

  “Okay. Well . . . I just wanted to say I’m sorry I’ve been kind of a jerk lately.” She stared at the floor. “I really wanted to go to France, but . . .”

  “Maybe we should both just quit,” I said, changing the subject. “Let’s quit this job and move away.”

  “I’m being serious,” she said. She grabbed my hand and held it, like she used to do when we were kids, and for a moment I was transported back in time. A wave of self-loathing hit me so hard I burst into tears. I wanted to leave, or get into a fight, or drive off that cliff. Anything but this. Celeste mistook the tears for happiness and came in for a hug, and I pulled away. I wiped my eyes with grubby fingers, got up, and walked out of the room.

  12

  “How was your flight?” my mom asked. I held Phil Collins’s travel aquarium firmly under one arm as I pulled my suitcase toward her familiar plum-colored sedan in the freezing-cold parking garage.

  “It was fine,” I said. “We watched a movie.”

  Musty heat blew from the defroster and the light rock radio station played Celine Dion. It was remarkable how business trips always made Dayton’s relative poverty feel oppressive and filthy. How vulgar my mother’s red nail polish looked in the winter light. I felt a guilty shame for her that made me want to hide my eyes.

  “I brought you back some Dandelion chocolate,” I said.

  “Oh. They put dandelions in chocolate?“ She chuckled softly. “That sounds like something they’d do in California. Your dad will eat it.”

  I shifted in my seat. “I don’t think they put dandelions in it.”

  “Then why do they call it that?”

  “I think it’s just the name of the store,” I said, taking the bars out of my bag. “Here, why don’t you just try one?”

  “No, thanks,” she said. “But I’m sure Dad will love them.”

  I studied her while her eyes focused on the road ahead. I’d been back in Ohio for twenty minutes and we were already on that same old merry-go-round. I should have been content to keep things like this for myself. If she didn’t want them, I didn’t need to share them. But I did need to share them. Alone they felt less real.

  “Why won’t you just try it?” I half-shouted.

  A silent wave of tension filled the car. She gave me an icy look.

  I started to scan the ingredients on the wrapper and wondered, petulantly, how my heart could contain so much life that she would never know. To think that anyone could spend so much time studying your cries and your gestures and still have no idea who you really were was bewildering. It was one of those childhood absolutes, that mothers were supposed to be penetrating, all-knowing beings. But, in our case, the more time passed, the smaller we seemed to become to one another. I felt cheated.

  I gave up and put the bars back in my bag.

  Neither of us spoke for most of the ride back to Dayton. We passed pro-life billboards and one-pump gas stations. A red and white cement truck swirled down the highway like a fat candy cane. There was my old high school. Here were the derelict cars that hadn’t moved in a decade. I searched a ragged cornfield for the spot where I’d had my first kiss, damp and exhilarated and unaware of a future outside of that moment. They floated up to me, memories and smells like scraps rising from a shipwreck. Trips to the mall when we used to beg Mom to let us sit in the massage chairs at the Sharper Image. Riding in the rusty bed of my dad’s pickup truck, the side-wind so strong it blew your hair straight over your face. The way an orange Popsicle stick smells after you’ve eaten the Popsicle. Nights full of imagining princesses and castles, writing our names in the air with sparklers and believing in a world of infinite light, so big and mysterious it couldn’t be contained. I’d just begun to edge far enough past all of it that the first complicated traces of nostalgia twisted within me. It wasn’t nostalgia for this place. It was nostalgia for who I’d been, for the imagined future that I still hoped would one day match up with reality.

  “Uncle Larry and Aunt Jo said they want to come visit you if you move to Europe,” my mom said a little more brightly.

  “No way,” I replied without thinking.

  She glanced sideways at me.

  “Remember the last trip we took with them?” I said. “When he touched that painting in the museum and set off the alarms?”

  My mom pursed her lips and stared at the road.

  The air outside smelled like freezer burn and auto mechanic fingers. We got a table near the front of the Cracker Barrel and ordered two Diet Cokes. My parents loved Cracker Barrel. It was one of the only restaurants that my dad hadn’t given what he called “the axe” for some permutation of unacceptable food, bad service, or steep prices. I started playing with the golf tee game in the middle of the table while my mom decided whether to order from the breakfast or the lunch menu. A toddler at the next table buried his face in his mother’s chest as if she was the source of all good feelings in the world. I pulled Phil Collins’s food out of my purse and sprinkled a few flakes into his travel aquarium. Still skittish from the trip, he emerged from his castle, looked
around, and then went back in again. Probably the scary farm kitsch hanging on the walls didn’t help.

  “Mike is in town,” my mom said. “I saw his mom at the store yesterday.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “Are you going to meet up with him?”

  I sighed. “No, probably not.”

  “Why not?” she said.

  “Because he’s not the right person for me. And spending time with him will just lead him on, and then I’ll have to let him down again.”

  She looked thoughtful for a second, and I wondered if she might break character and tell me that I was a good person, or at least good enough, and that I deserved to get what I wanted. Instead, she said, “Mike is a great guy. What do you think it is about you that causes you to be like this?”

  I looked at her tiredly. “I don’t know. What do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know either. Your sister never had these kinds of problems.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  I finished the golf tee game with three remaining and started over again.

  She took a drink of her Diet Coke. “You know your dad is drinking about ten Cokes a day now.”

  I laughed. “Why?”

  “He read on the internet they dissolve kidney stones.”

  “Probably cause kidney stones is more like it,” I said, sipping through my straw.

  She sighed, unrolling her silverware bundle and arranging the paper napkin on her lap. “Well,” she said, “someone wouldn’t go to all the trouble of putting it on the internet if there wasn’t some truth to it.”

  I turned my attention back to the golf tee game and hopped the last one over. “Look. It says here I’m a genius.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone do that without cheating,” she replied with a half-smile.