The Submission Gift

by Solace Ames

  Two hours east of Los Angeles and there were arid hills in the distance, under a searing blue cloudless sky. The land was beautiful, even if the mobile homes were ugly, crumbling, impermanent things.

  “Can you take a picture of me?” he asked Lydia, and passed her his phone when she nodded wearily.

  Smile, snap, return. “Who are you sending it to?”

  He kept the peace in front of their parents. They weren’t here right now, and he was in a strange, irritable mood. “My Mexican boyfriend,” he answered.

  Lydia groaned. “Very funny. Just because I believe in a sane immigration policy and equal rights not special rights doesn’t mean I’m a racist homophobe, but go on parroting your liberal propaganda if it makes you feel superior, by all means, even if this is the one day of the year—”

  Paul almost said Merry Christmas before he remembered that saying Happy Holidays would send Lydia into a paroxysm of political rage. He stifled the perverse impulse to do just that, and ended up saying nothing at all.

  She ranted all the way back to the house. Paul wished they could go back to a time when holidays were just holidays, when she was someone he actually enjoyed being around. He’d grown distant from her at the same time as he’d warmed to his parents, gradually accepting their flaws. His father’s get-rich-quick schemes, his mother’s willful ignorance and refusal to rein him in. They’d done their best. Paul had his own life now, and it was mostly a pretty good one.

  Their mother sat on the front steps of her home, petting her cat and smoking a joint.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this in public,” Lydia said, in a tone as dry and bitter as the hills.

  “It’s legal, honey. It helps my arthritis.” Their mother sighed and stubbed out the joint. “Can you help me grate some nutmeg for the pie? And Paul, honey, somebody called for you. A woman.” She handed him a slip of paper with a number. He extended his arm to help her up, but she just smiled, shook her head and rose by herself, the flimsy steps creaking underneath her.

  Paul walked to the side of the house and dialed the number. Was it Adriana, far away in Washington? No, she would have called his cell.

  The woman who answered the phone only said, “Yes?” in a tense, expectant voice. Paul’s stomach twisted. The weight of the past came crashing down on him, and he was totally unprepared to shoulder it, which was why he hadn’t hesitated dialing back, because if he’d taken even one second to think about it, he would have taken the coward’s way out and shredded the paper, let it blow away and vanish into the sun-baked fields of the Inland Empire.

  “Hello. You called for me?” he asked instead, because it was too late, and he didn’t want her hurt anymore.

  “Yes. I did.” A long pause. “I couldn’t find you anywhere, so I remembered your mother’s name, and I—I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m doing fine, Joanna. I’ve paid off a lot of my restitution already. I went back to college. I’m fine. You know I’m not supposed to talk to you, though. It’s in my parole conditions. Where are you and what kind of phone are you calling from?”

  “A halfway house and it’s not my phone. I won’t call again, then, because obviously I’m fucking toxic to you. When you were the one who sold me out first, even.”

  Paul closed his eyes, imagined her beautiful face somewhere far away, neither heaven nor hell but beyond his reach. “We all sold each other out. We’re never going to know the full timeline and it doesn’t matter anymore. I got off with only two years because you and Marc crossed more state lines for the mortgage fraud charges. That was the only reason. And whatever you do, please, please don’t call him.”

  Marc would be in his fifties by the time he got out of prison, but maybe he still had another long con left in him. He could start the cycle again. Find some more young, clever, damaged people and mold them according to his image. Create a phantom investment company. Rake in money from the right targets, and disappear.

  “I’m not that stupid,” Joanna swore. “I don’t care about Marc anymore. I used to think he was a god, but he’s just a shark with a human face. You were a real human being, at least.”

  “I’m glad you see things that way. You can get over this on your own. You don’t need him, you don’t need anyone.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she spat out. God, she was probably crying. “College boy. This is the end of my life. I don’t know why I’m still alive. Did you know he talked about killing you, near the end?”

  “I’m not surprised,” Paul said, even though he was. “He’s a sociopath. I thought I was one too, you know. I’ve always felt a fundamental...disconnection to other people, to their rules. I wanted to be remorseless, like him.” He was spilling everything now, every vulnerability he’d guarded. He wasn’t allowed to talk to her, and he couldn’t help himself. “And I wanted the money, of course. And you. And him. And what you two had together, or what I thought you had together.”

  Joanna made a terrible sound that she might have intended as laughter. “But you’re playing by the rules now. You’re never going to talk to me again.”

  “When parole is over,” he promised. “I’ll find you. We’ll catch up. There won’t be any bitterness left. Maybe we’ll even have kids by then.” He wasn’t going to flaunt his happiness in her face, but he couldn’t help loving the future. It was so much cleaner than the wreckage of his past. “It’s good to hear your voice, though. And Merry Christmas.”

  “I’m Jewish.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t remember.” Guilt piled on guilt. Stop hurting her.

  “Have a nice life, then, you fucking asshole.” She hung up.

  Fingers shaking a little, he accessed the phone settings and figured out how to block the number in case she ever tried to call him again. Then he sat down and watched the sun set over the hills until his family called him in for dinner.

  He’d have to tell Jay and Adriana soon. He’d never lied, but he’d fallen far short of the integrity they deserved. He had to make it up. Pay his restitution.

  Menu

  Gazpacho

  Gruyère, shallot and asparagus quiche

  Roast leg of lamb in mole sauce

  Basmati rice with almond slivers

  Nopal salad

  Butternut squash flan

  Adriana had gone back to Sapore the day after Christmas and worked ten days straight. And now, on her first day off, she was cooking.

  She couldn’t help it. It was a point of pride. Jay could have put something halfway decent together, and he’d offered to do as much, but her ego got in the way. She wanted a table set with her stunning dishes. She wanted to see people whose opinions she cared about rave and roll their eyes to the ceiling.

  A break from Italian food couldn’t hurt, either. She was starting to get sick of the stuff.

  She slid the butternut squash flan into the oven, then peeked out between the counter and the top cabinets at the guests mixing in the living room.

  Eduardo they’d known forever, of course, and his husband Peter for four years. All the other guests were friends of Paul. John and Robin had stopped by, although they had to leave before dinner to go to some Saylor University film festival thing. Evan, Paul’s ex-boyfriend, was a fey white guy who looked a little like Legolas with a buzz cut. The last two—Ebony and Fabienne—were tall black women, West African deep-rich-dark but without any accents to their speech.

  Adriana was right in the middle of the color spectrum, which reminded her why she loved this city and its swirling multiplicity of people.

  Eduardo came over, got himself a beer and leaned against the fridge. “Need any help?”

  “Sure. Not now, but we can start taking food out in about five minutes.” She took off her apron and smiled at him.

  “I’m glad you made that lamb dish again. It’
s just stupid good. But I’m sorry you don’t get to socialize as much as everyone else.”

  “No, it’s cool. I have some introverted tendencies. Too many names and faces and it’s information overload, and having an excuse to go off and take a break in the kitchen really works for me. Helps me recharge. It looks like everyone is getting along so far without me. By the way, are Ebony and Fabienne like sisters, or, umm, sister-type sisters? You know—”

  “Well, they were complaining about the same relative. Fabienne’s older, and she’s not transgender, and she’s got a boring job like most of us. Ebony kind of told us what she does tactfully, and Evan was like—” Eduardo made a cartoonish face and grabbed his crotch “—‘I’m a motherfucking porn star, biatch!’ I don’t know about him. Paul seems okay, though.”

  “He’s a good person. He really is.” She inhaled deeply. Savory roasting meat, juices settling, and good fresh vegetables. Delicious. “And it’s not like we’re planning on making out in front of everyone, but it’s good to have one social space where...well...”

  “You don’t have to lie. Hey, I adjusted. And Peter’s already so open-minded it’s a miracle his brain doesn’t slosh out of his skull when he nods his head. You know, someone in college convinced him that saying ‘straight’ for giving directions was heteronormative, so he kept saying ‘directly ahead’ until I made him stop?”

  Peter was a lot older than Eduardo, but Eduardo was the one who grounded him.

  They had a few more gentle laughs at Peter’s expense—he was a lovely person, even when he was being painfully earnest—and then it was time to carry out the food.

  The lamb, studded with garlic spikes and coated in dark burgundy sauce, was the most dramatic. Everyone oohed and ahhed, and Jay sang out the theme music to Iron Chef while jumping up and down. There were more oohs and ahhs when she carved thick slabs, perfectly pink in the center.

  She stifled a tiny flash of irritation that Paul and Jay wouldn’t be eating the lamb. They looked at her with such obvious pride, it was impossible not to reflect their light, not to feel it shining inside her.

  As soon as they began eating, she received the best compliment of all: silence. The only sound was the clink of forks and knives, the occasional sigh of satisfaction.

  “This is the best food I’ve had all year,” Ebony said.

  Fabienne made an outraged face at her sister. “You’d better not be counting from the first.”

  “No way. I mean a full three-sixty-five. What you call this, Mexican fusion?”

  “I guess so,” Adriana answered, blushing a little. “The most authentic thing is the nopal salad.”

  “Nopal is super Mexican,” Eduardo said. “It’s on the flag and shit.”

  Jay shook his head. “Pozole is more Mexican. When one of my cousins got the Aztec calendar tattoo on his chest, I told him he should have gotten a big bowl of pozole instead.”

  “But pozole doesn’t look very dramatic,” Peter protested. “It’s a stew and it’s just sort of...there. Stewing.”

  “Well, this gazpacho is kicking my ass and blowing my mind,” Evan said, and gave Adriana a thumbs-up sign and a brilliant grin. She warmed to him a little, for that. Not that she was jealous—Paul said they’d been nothing more than friends for a long time—but Evan had come off like a self-obsessed airhead on first encounter.

  Jay, who was sitting next to Evan, smiled too. “I was just thinking we could have had pozole and gazpacho. Then I realized—two soups? That would be madness. That’s why I’m not a chef. Much less a genius chef. Adriana, I love you.”

  She was about to say I love you too when she thought of Paul. Paul, dressed in a beige cotton-lawn sportshirt that draped fluidly over his thick arms. He wasn’t looking directly at her, but there was something about the angle of his face, a look of expectation maybe, that stopped her from speaking. Stopped her cold, and then set her on fire.

  I love you too, Jay. And you, Paul. Second, but not less.

  Never less.

  She’d tell him. Not now, but later, when it was just the three of them. The premonition that had hit her right before the sex party—why and how Paul would leave them—hadn’t gone away. But she could accept his leaving. Love him, and let him go gracefully when the time came.

  Tears were forming even as she smiled proudly. She blinked, wishing them away.

  “I’m going to get the pepper grinder and check the flan,” she said. “Be right back.”

  A few seconds staring into the spice cabinet was all it took to settle herself. The jars were all different shapes, sizes, colors, powers but they didn’t expect anything from her—their undemanding complexity was perfect for the moment.

  When she turned around, Paul was right there. “Are you worried about anything?” he asked in a low voice.

  There was enough loud talk at the table that Adriana felt secure enough to answer. “No, I’m fine. I just had a really sentimental flash. I’m so glad we could do this.”

  He put his palms to her shoulders, the lightest and sweetest of holds that made her whole body feel like singing. Anyone could see them, if they cared to look, and it didn’t matter this night, because the way they touched was right and good and appropriate. They fit. In all their constellations, they belonged together.

  “I’m glad too,” he said. “Just when I think it can’t get better with you two, it does. Every day it’s better.”

  “Oh God, stop it. You’re—you’re turning me into a puddle of emotions and I need to take out the flan. But I feel the same way.” She turned away quickly.

  “I’ll get out the dessert plates.” He shifted along with her, falling back into the lively breezy spirit of the dinner party.

  More compliments came at dessert. By that time, she was getting faintly embarrassed.

  “How do you cook a dinner like that and still look so glamorous?” Evan asked. “When I just cook a grilled cheese sandwich, I get totally wrecked, grease all over me.”

  “That’s...abnormal,” Ebony said. “Please never show me how you cook a grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “I’ve seen it,” Paul added, laughing a bit. “He puts on dubstep and thrashes the pan around.”

  Evan, who’d been digging around in his pockets, produced a fat joint and waved it in the air. “Who waaaants to get hiiiiigh,” he said, in slow-mo.

  Jay tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey dude, if you smoke that in here, do it in the bathroom with the fan on, okay?”

  Evan nodded.

  No one took up his offer except for Peter.

  The six of them still at the table talked about food and politics and language. Ebony and Fabienne had a mother from Cameroon and a father from Watts, and they’d both kept French, like Jay had kept his Spanish. Adriana’s kitchen-level Spanish wasn’t nearly as fluent, but she was working on it when she had the time, and trying to pick up French too.

  Eduardo stayed quiet, just glancing at the bathroom door every now and then. Adriana started getting worried for him. Eduardo and Peter had a solid relationship, but seeing your husband in a very tight, enclosed space getting high with a porn star... Shit. Maybe she could go in there too. Have one or two puffs just for the sake of breaking the tension. But before she could get up, Eduardo did. “Been a while,” he said, and went into the bathroom.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Jay said. “Eduardo’s a lightweight. Someone always had to babysit him whenever he got high, or he’d call up infomercial numbers and order everything. He still has one of those ab belts, you know, the ones that shock you.”

  That reminded Adriana of one of Paul’s Christmas presents. The first was a beautiful sterling silver Byzantine chain bracelet, the twin of the one he gave to Jay. The second was hidden, for her eyes only: a steel speculum designed to carry a certain frequency of electrical current. She could barely th
ink about its sleek, savage form without clenching her thighs together in a fusion of fear and desire.

  Jay wore his bracelet tonight. He swirled his spoon in the caramelized sugar coating his plate—all that remained of the flan—and licked it clean. So many shiny pretty things...

  The three smokers soon staggered out of the bathroom, laughing and elbowing each other, Eduardo last. Like Jay had predicted, he was the worst off, and kept complaining that his right foot was bigger than his left foot, and how was he supposed to walk straight when his feet weren’t the same size anymore?

  They talked late into the night, until Ebony and Fabienne had to leave. “Call me anytime you want to talk,” Ebony told Adriana. Adriana nodded and felt reassured, strengthened, because here was another strand of Paul’s history woven together with theirs.

  Evan headed off soon after, bound for a nightclub. Jay put on some comedy videos, and they all went to the couch and clustered in front of the television, adding their own commentary. Peter held Eduardo’s hand until his feet went back to being the same size. The couch pillow cradled Adriana gently. Paul sat to her left and Jay to her right, and something about the positioning felt strangely ancient, as if she was a queen surrounded by her court. In the center of everything. Guarded. Safe.

  “Baby, you’re drifting off,” Jay murmured in her ear. “Do you want to go lie down?”

  She yawned and nodded.

  Eduardo swore not to drive home too slowly, so Peter passed him the keys. They both hugged her goodbye. “You’re okay,” Eduardo muttered before he waved goodbye. He sounded like he’d just now convinced himself of something she already knew.

  Yes, she was okay. Better than okay.

  Just tired.

  Paul helped her to the bedroom, kissed her forehead, tucked the blanket up to her chin. He left to help Jay in the kitchen. After a while, the clink of dishes and rush of tap water changed to other, pleasured sounds.