The Goddesses

by Swan Huntley

  Mandy sighed. “So does that mean we’re going to get back together in about twenty-two days?”

  Ana chuckled. “Why don’t you tell me a little more about Trevor, and then I can tell you how it might unfold.”

  “Cool,” Mandy said, bruising her ribs again, “because my friends are so sick of hearing about it. So Trevor and I are in history together, and one day he asked me out. As, like, a group thing.” Mandy went on to explain that she and Trevor had spent a few weeks exchanging super-sweet texts and making out. Then, they had sex—her first time—and the next day he told her he couldn’t be “tied down” right now—Mandy said this with angry air quotes—because he was only fifteen and he had his whole life ahead of him.

  Ana, like a good therapist, became completely invested in Mandy’s long story. Then, like a good businesswoman, when she saw the line of people growing behind Mandy and knew it should be someone else’s turn now—Mandy had been there for twenty minutes—she took Mandy’s hands to calm her and said, “Mandy, don’t settle for the crumbs when you can have the cookie.”

  At this, Mandy’s face went slack. “Oh my God,” she said, “Trevor is the crumbs.”

  “Trevor is the crumbs,” Ana repeated knowingly.

  “Whoa.” Mandy was still dumbfounded. “Thank you so much. Can I give you a hug?”

  “Sure,” Ana said, but before she could get up, Mandy had darted around the table to squeeze the life out of Ana’s blond head.

  “You totally changed my life today,” Mandy said, squeezing harder.

  Ana patted Mandy’s back. “Mandy, your future is so, so bright.”

  Mandy smiled and checked her phone with a satisfied sigh. Then she fearlessly walked into the rain without an umbrella.

  “This was such a good idea, Nan,” Ana whispered, looking toward me but not at me because we were pretending I wasn’t a part of this.

  “I agree,” I whispered back. I was moved. Ana may have just saved a girl from years of eating crumbs.

  “Next,” Ana said, her voice cutting through the rain.

  It was amazing the things people divulged. Sandra, the muscular bulimic woman, wanted to know if she would ever stop bingeing and purging. A very old and barely mobile woman named Dee opened her purse and said, “I just stole this,” glancing furtively at the fruit stand a few stalls over. Her sticky fingers were so impulsive! But they were ruining her conscience. Would she become more honest anytime soon?

  The next man’s crime was much worse. Peter looked unassuming at first—a small farmer in a broken straw hat and a flannel shirt with the arms scissored off. But as he began to talk, I realized my first impression was wrong. He wasn’t meek. He was kind of scary, and definitely disturbed. “Sometimes, when I feel the jitters, I take a stick to my horse’s behind and beat on her a little.” I could tell Ana was trying hard not to break character when she said, “Does it need to be the horse you take a stick to, Peter? Can it not be something else? Like a chair, perhaps?” she asked. “After the horse, I take the stick to myself,” Peter said, his leg jittering under the table. Ana asked Peter about his mother, who he described as “a fine lady,” and then she suggested that maybe Peter could name the horse after someone he loved. Maybe he could even name it Mom. At that, Peter’s lip curled up and his mouth began to twitch and he got up and left before Ana could tell him his future was so, so bright.

  Many people were confused about love. The Dallas Cowboys guy sat in the chair after his massage and said he thought his wife was cheating on him. A Latino man asked in broken English if his corazón would ever be fulled back up again or if he should no longer think about his reina and only think about work instead. A soft-spoken woman in her thirties admitted she had never been in love, not really. In a monotone voice, she recited it like something she had learned but didn’t want to know. “I worry the common denominator in all my failed relationships is me.”

  Ana was uplifting and moving and decisive. Everyone left feeling inspired. She was at her best doing this. She knew just what to say, and she also knew when to say nothing. Later she would tell me it was easy because it was mostly listening. “People just want to be heard. And then they want a line to walk away with. Something that’s easy to remember and never too harsh.”

  Ana always seemed to have the perfect line, and after she delivered it, she reminded each person that their future was so, so bright.

  The people didn’t stop. Sometimes the line dwindled and I thought we’d take a lunch break, but then it would grow again. At some point I went and bought us bananas and water from my vendor, who told me her name was Coco. “I’m Nan,” I said, surprised I had called myself that.

  Ana ate her banana in three bites and said, “Next!” As the next person walked up, Ana half turned toward me and whispered out of the side of her mouth, “I feel high on this.”

  At one the sun came out, blazing and full. People put their umbrellas away. I began to feel hot under the tent. A massage flyer had blown onto the ground in front of me. I picked it up and fanned myself and kept changing the position of my legs. I’d been sitting for a very long time. But my discomfort was apparent to me only in small bursts, which were easy to ignore because I was so thoroughly engaged in the conversations at the tarot table. The way these people were so willing to confess their sins to Ana. It was fascinating.

  I stopped fanning and stilled my body, straining to hear the low voice of Jan, a sixty-something woman who was asking Ana where she should throw her husband’s ashes. He had never told her. In their forty years together, how had he never told her that?

  And then, like a car crash: “Nanceeeee!”

  Several people, including Jan and Ana, looked up at Marcy, who was Tasmanian-deviling her way toward me through the maze of massage tables. “I didn’t know you came down here on Sundays!” she said, closer now, and just as loud. I stood, mouthed “Sorry” to Ana, who didn’t notice—she and Jan had resumed their conversation—and Marcy threw her arms around me with the drama of a soldier who’d just returned from war. Her crunchy hair stabbed my face and I said, “Sshhh.”

  She pulled away. In her normal voice, which was still too loud, she said, “I’m so happy to see you. I was worried. After that lunch,” she tucked her hair behind her ear, “I was worried you might not like me.”

  “No,” I whispered, flapping my hand. “No no no.”

  Marcy adjusted her visor. “Why are you whispering?” she whispered.

  I pointed to the tarot table.

  “Oh,” Marcy mouthed.

  I motioned for Marcy to follow me, and stepped out into the sun, far enough away from the tarot table so that her voice wouldn’t ruin any more important moments.

  Marcy had made some assessments on the way. “Are you part of the”—she looked at the sign—“free tarot?”

  “I aaam,” I said hesitantly. And then, with overcompensating confidence, “Yes, I am. I’m here helping my friend.”

  Marcy looked at Ana with judgment. It was hard to tell because she was wearing sunglasses, but I assumed it was judgment. “Oh.” Marcy studied Ana. “She has rhinestones on her face. I wonder where she got those.”

  “The store,” I said quickly, and it came out sounding rude.

  But Marcy was unfazed. “Maybe Michael’s?” she asked. “Anyway, Brad and I are just going to lunch. Do you want to come with us? It would be great to catch up.”

  I was starving. I’d been diligently ignoring the noises from my stomach for the last ten minutes. But lunch with Marcy and Brad? I preferred to suffer a little longer.

  “No, I just ate,” I said, recalling the small banana. “Plus I should stay here and help my friend.”

  “Oh.” Marcy was disappointed, and she didn’t seem to understand either. “Are you reading tarot cards, too?”

  “No,” I laughed. I had no idea how to read a tarot card.

  “So you’re sitting behind your friend while your friend reads tarot cards?”

  “Yes,” I said, now resenti
ng Marcy for making me feel self-conscious about this. Was it strange that I was sitting behind Ana eavesdropping as people exposed their inner lives? Yes. But no, because it was more than that. It was us, me and Ana, and we were on a mission, Marcy! But even if I explained this to Marcy, I knew she wouldn’t get it. I was looking at the ground now, preparing what I would say next, when my eyes latched on to Marcy’s Tevas. Which looked very familiar. Because I had Tevas at home, in the same style with the same blue straps. I was about to tell her, but instead I decided to throw my Tevas away the second I got home, and then I said, “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  I paused for emphasis. “I walked the Pig Trail alone.”

  “You did?” Marcy was impressed. “Wow.”

  In my most laid-back voice, I said, “Yep.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Very much.”

  “It was a little scary though, right?” Marcy said, trying to bond.

  “No,” I said, not condescendingly at all, “I didn’t think so.”

  “Maybe we can go together sometime then. You can lead the way!”

  I lied. What else was I supposed to do? “That would be nice.”

  “Okay, well, see you later, Nancy. Have fun”—she looked at my chair in the corner with judgment—“enjoying the shade.”

  My stomach lurched. I hoped she hadn’t heard. “I will, Marcy. You have fun at lunch.”

  I watched Marcy walk away in her floral tunic and her khakis and her Tevas, and then I watched her find Brad, and then I watched them hug each other, their silly doughy middle-aged bodies wrapped in a cartoon embrace. Brad saw me and waved, his ridiculous gold watch catching the light and reflecting it sharply right into my eye.

  •

  At five I told Ana I know and I’m sorry and I really, really want to go to Natch with you tonight, but I have to get home to the boys.

  She did not use the term “domestic chains” again, which I appreciated. Instead she said, “Good for you, Nan, that’s a good thing to be doing. I feel so good after all the good I did today. Holy. Shit. That was groundbreaking. Those people. Right?”

  “I can’t believe how much they told you.”

  “People love to tell me their secrets,” Ana said. “I don’t know what it is about me, but it always happens.”

  “It’s a gift,” I said, and hugged her good-bye. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Peace out, partner.”

  When I drove past her out of the lot, Ana was stretching. Foot on the wheel of the Jeep and her billowing sleeves reaching for her toes and a Red Vine stuck between her lips like a cigarette. I thought she looked like a queen.

  •

  On the way home, I stopped for sloppy joe ingredients. That was everyone’s favorite. I would make my family sloppy joes and they would forgive me for being gone all day.

  “Hello-o!” I sang, slipping off my sneakers on the lanai. No one answered. The TV was on. I opened the door, saw the boys’ blond heads. “Hey, I’m makin’ sloppy joes tonight,” I said in a funny Southern accent.

  Cam turned. Bloodshot eyes, definitely stoned.

  Jed did not turn, but said, “You missed our game, Mom.”

  Panic. I felt my face flush. I had been very aware of how heavy these groceries were in my hands a second ago and now they felt like nothing. “I thought it was canceled because of the rain.”

  “Yeah, but then it stopped raining,” Cam said helpfully.

  “We called you like a million times,” Jed said, his eyes fixed on the TV.

  “Oh, babies, I am so sorry.” I felt terrible. And maybe they weren’t stoned. Maybe their eyes were red from the pool. “Did you win?”

  “Yeah.” Cam grinned. “And I scored a goal.”

  “Sweetie!” I set the groceries on the counter and hugged him.

  “Hey, I scored one, too,” Jed said.

  “Sweetie number two!” I hugged Jed, who patted my arm.

  “Are you really making sloppy joes?” he asked.

  “Yes sir, and I’ll make ’em quick,” I said in my Southern accent, and went to unbag the fixins. “Where’s your daddy?”

  “Playing pool,” Cam said.

  “On a Sunday?”

  “There’s a tournament or something,” Jed said.

  “Huh,” I said. Had Chuck told me that and I’d forgotten? Or had he not told me?

  •

  I made green beans and the best sloppy joes I had ever made, according to Jed. “Can you please start making these once a week again like you used to?” he asked, and, still feeling guilty about missing their game, I said, “Sure, I can do that.”

  After dinner Cam made popcorn and we watched a movie together, which we hadn’t done in a very long time. Still feeling guilty, I let the boys choose. They chose Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which was a sweet and childish choice and also, I thought as we watched the magical colors morph around Johnny Depp, kind of a stoner choice. I checked my phone at some point. Chuck had called me fourteen times that day. I pressed Play on one of his messages. “It’s me again,” he said, sounding overly disappointed. Delete, delete, delete. I deleted all the messages because clearly, he had overreacted. Then I called him—just once—because I knew he would appreciate me checking in. He didn’t answer.

  By ten, the boys and I had made one movie into a movie night. We were watching a thriller starring Liam Neeson when Chuck walked in. I turned when I heard the door clap shut. His Tide Poolers shirt had a violent streak of sauce down the front like the blood in the movie. Chicken wings, I thought. He put his hands on his waist. Something fell. His keys. He bent to pick them up. Why wasn’t he speaking? I rubbed my arms. Goose bumps. Because my body knew before I did. A low ringing in my ears, just for a second, and then it went away.

  “Chuck?”

  And I knew it. I knew it already. But the way he said “Nance”—the rise and fall of just that one word, the phlegmy rumble in the back of his throat—confirmed it. Chuck was drunk. This was why he hadn’t wanted me to come to his games. This was what he had been hiding.

  The boys were too engrossed in the movie to notice. “Hey, Dad,” Cam said.

  “Hey, Dad,” Jed said.

  “Hey.” Chuck dropped his keys on the table. “Nice to see you,” he said, trying to stare me down but his eyes couldn’t focus. “We missed you today, Nance.”

  Cam turned to look at his father. One second later I watched his face fall. He looked at me. I made a look that said: I’m sorry, son. Cam hit Jed’s arm. Jed looked at Chuck and rolled his eyes.

  “Boys,” I said, “why don’t you go to bed.”

  “Hell no, we’re finishing the movie.” Jed crossed his arms over his chest.

  Cam was poised to get off the couch but didn’t move.

  “We won the game,” Chuck said. “We won the game. Woo.” And then he was doing a little dance. A geriatric version of the washing machine. Then his torso bobbed forward. He was touching his toes now, or trying to. He couldn’t reach them. He popped back up.

  Slowly I reached for his arm. “Chuck.”

  “I love you guys,” Chuck said. “I love you all so much.” And then he threw his arms around me and pressed me in close, and I leaned my face back to keep it from touching the barbecue sauce on his shirt.

  “Love you guys soooo much,” he was saying.

  I had already decided what to do. “Chuck, please sit down, okay?” I helped him into the chair and handed him the glass of water I’d been drinking. “I’m going to get you some pajamas and the futon,” I annunciated, “and then we’re going to the ohana.”

  He stopped drinking the water. “Hana?”

  “Yes, just a second.” I jogged to the bedroom, picked whatever pajamas were on top, pulled the futon out of the closet, and dragged it into the living room. “Ready?” I said, flipping the lights on outside. I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Let’s go.”

  As I guided drunk-bodied Chuck through the dark with one arm while t
rying to keep the futon high enough off the muddy ground with the other arm, I imagined all the rich apologies he would have for me tomorrow, and knew none of them would make up for this.

  I turned on the light, unfolded the futon right underneath it. The ohana was completely bare—just off-white tiles and off-white walls. “Put these on.” I didn’t let go until I was sure he had the pajamas.

  “Why why why,” he mumbled, and collapsed onto the futon facedown. I leaned in to take his hat off because the brim was pressing into his skull.

  I sighed, touched his hair. Softly, I said, “Chuck, why did you drink tonight?”

  And then, quickly, he rolled over onto his back, hitting my leg with his arm.

  “Ow,” I said, even though it didn’t hurt.

  I stood up. I put my finger on the light switch. There was no point in talking to him when he was like this, so I don’t know what possessed me to ask again. “Why, Chuck? Why did you drink tonight? Goddamnit. Everything was going so well.”

  Chuck mumbled something unintelligible.

  Leave, Nancy, this is pointless. Leave. Don’t say anything else. “What, Chuck?”

  Chuck faceup on the floor. Me above him looking down. He managed to focus his drunk eyes for just as long as it took to say it. “I miss you.”

  “What do you mean, you miss me? I’m right here.”

  “I miss you, Nancy.”

  I was losing patience. “Chuck. I am right here.”

  “But you’re not.” Chuck’s blue eyes filled with tears, and I remembered that this was the most annoying thing about drunk Chuck. He got so emotional over nothing.

  He started muttering again. He was speaking in fragments. “Yoga teacher,” he said. “Jacuzzi,” he said. “All the time,” he said. “Don’t even make shepherd’s pie anymore,” he said.

  “What?”

  Chuck’s head rolled back and forth on the futon. His eyes were closed now. “All the time.”

  Nancy, don’t. There’s no point. “Well, you’re at work all the time, Chuck.”

  “All the time,” he said again, with the effort of his whole body this time. His arms and legs contorted into a very uncomfortable-looking shape. “All the tiiiime.”