The Submission Gift

by Solace Ames

  “Not Paul.”

  Jay’s smile was tight and painful. “No.”

  Wallace had brought flowers and a heavenly smelling cassoulet. “I figure youse guys can eat off of this for a while,” he said. Adriana hugged him. He was a little less bulky, he’d grown a neat gray beard and his skin looked clear and healthy.

  The three of them sat down on the couch. Adriana tried to comb out her hair with her fingers before she remembered. She dragged it away from her face with her two rightmost fingers, at least, and squashed down the frustration. That was going to happen a lot, she knew.

  Jay twitched, and smiled to cover it up. She patted his thigh with her left hand.

  “Knew a guy who sliced his thumb off on a cruise ship kitchen,” Wallace said, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “They sewed that shit right back on, though.”

  Adriana took a second to mourn that sense of certainty she remembered from the hospital hallway. It was the last time she’d been sure of being whole. From that moment on...

  Wallace’s bluntness was refreshing. It proved she was still the same in his eyes.

  I don’t need proof. I am the same.

  Adriana repeated what the doctors had told her about index finger functionality. Which was going to happen a lot, too, so she tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. “The thumb’s the most important finger for grip, so I think they’ll do almost anything to keep it. Even transplant a toe. But the index finger isn’t as important as it looks. I’m supposed to be able to retrain my middle finger to do most of the work. It’s just going to take a while for the stump to heal, plus I have a gash on my middle finger. I’m going back to work as soon as I can, if my reputation isn’t completely wrecked.”

  “You filed charges?”

  “Not yet. I need to talk to a lawyer first. How are things at Sapore?”

  “You’re fired, Steve’s fired, Vito’s about to pop. Well, fuck that sheisty fuck. I’m looking for a new restaurant to run. I don’t need the fucking stress. And when I find it, I’m gonna bring you on. That’s a fucking promise.”

  If she wasn’t floating on painkillers, she would have started crying.

  After Wallace left, and they squeezed his cassoulet into the fridge next to Jay’s mother’s numerous get-well dishes, Adriana relaxed on the couch, head pillowed on Jay’s lap. “I feel strange,” she said. “Like I’m balancing in the middle of a seesaw.”

  “Just rest. You don’t have to do anything for the next couple months.” He smiled down at her. “You worked so hard, Adriana. Your dad left with your stepmom and Jasmine, and they’re already in Oregon. They’ll be here soon. It’s going to be like another vacation, a real one that doesn’t just last two days.”

  The idea of being surrounded by love was comforting. Still, there was a sharp little pang that had nothing to do with her hand.

  “And Paul?”

  “He’ll be here soon.”

  “I told you to decide. And whatever you decide, I can’t take his money.” That’s not who I am. She brought in the money. Two months at the most, she’d be bringing it in again.

  Jay sighed and looked away. “When you told me to handle things, I did. I thought he was someone else, but I was wrong, and then I thought he was someone else, and I think I was wrong the second time, and I’m still sorting it out. The court case didn’t help, but the news stories did. I don’t think we have to decide one way or the other anymore—we can watch, and wait, and see. As long as Paul keeps telling the truth. The money doesn’t have anything to do with it, at least not for me.”

  “I’m going to take a shower, and then we can argue about it. I mean, debate, really.”

  “Do you want me to wash your hair?”

  She got up, feeling woozy and already missing Jay’s body heat. “Why? Oh...” She’d have to cover her right hand with a plastic bag to keep it dry. Shit. “It’s all right, baby. I can wash my hair with my left hand. It’ll just take a little longer.”

  “Sure,” Jay said.

  She loved, loved that he didn’t push her on this.

  She managed her hair fairly well in the shower. Toweling off resulted in an accidental stump-stubbing that had her whining in pain for a few seconds. When the pain passed, she pulled on a soft, comfortable sweatpants outfit. Took off the plastic bag around her right wrist. Then took off the old bandages.

  Jesus.

  People aren’t supposed to be these colors, she thought stupidly. Like meat.

  She cleaned her fingers and rebandaged them according to the instructions on the wound care sheet that Jay had helpfully taped to the mirror.

  It would have been nice if he’d written a similar list for how to talk to Paul.

  Yesterday, she’d been staring into a mirror not knowing what to do, and look how that had ended.

  The muted sound of the front doorbell let her know that Paul was here.

  “I made my case,” she whispered to her reflection. And it was true. She could have done better in Sapore, but she wouldn’t have done it differently. I made my case and I didn’t back down. I’m not ashamed of anything.

  She swung open the bathroom door with her left hand and stalked out.

  Paul stood right in front of her, but she couldn’t see him. Like he was there in outline, but inside, there was nothing to focus on.

  It wasn’t right. She had to see him for whatever he was, whatever it took.

  “I don’t want your money,” she said. “I’m giving it back.”

  Say something clever. Say something cruel.

  Paul’s voice was quiet, and not cruel at all. “Is there anything I can say to change your mind, other than I’m sorry? And I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t know. It would have been so much easier if Paul had tried to manipulate her, gone for her weaknesses—God knew she had enough of those.

  But he wouldn’t.

  He never had.

  Jay crossed the frozen space between them and leaned against the wall, folded his arms across his chest. His fingers plucked at the fabric of his shirt, but his face was calm. “This is it,” he said. “Not the money. Just us. If you can make it right, Paul—”

  She turned on Jay. The love she had for him was suddenly laced with rage, and she wasn’t sure why—it wasn’t Jay’s fault that they hadn’t talked everything over first. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. “What do you mean, not the money? Why are you putting me—why are you doing this to me?”

  “Please, Adriana. I don’t want you to lose anything else because...just because it seems like you have to. Fuck the money and fuck the rules. I just want you to be happy again.”

  The defiance in his eyes—oh, she couldn’t be angry at Jay. Angry at Paul, angry at herself, but never angry at Jay. Never.

  “So this is what you decided?” she asked, her voice close to cracking. She had to know. The only thing in the world that frightened her anymore was this shivering uncertainty.

  “I was with him that whole night.” He took a deep breath, his shoulders digging into the wall. Jay couldn’t seem to put what had happened into words, but she knew how that went; she understood. “I want him to make it right with you. And if he can’t make it right, he can walk out, and I’ll never open the door for him again.”

  Talking about Paul like he wasn’t even there. That was fitting, in a desperate way.

  She turned to Paul’s shadowy outline.

  This is it. Just us.

  She asked him the last question that mattered. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Because I kept telling myself the time wasn’t right. In the beginning, it wasn’t. But when both of you started opening up to me, I should have done the same. It was a kind of magical thinking that held me back, too. You represented something to me, and if I could just figure it out, then I’d fix
what I’d done wrong in the past.”

  She opened her mouth to say that doesn’t make any sense, and he paused, waiting for her to speak. But she tightened her lips instead, because that was exactly what she’d tried to do with the knife. Fix the past. Correct the balance.

  She knew him. They were connected.

  Paul took the cue to continue. “I was stupid, and I fooled myself. You’re human beings, not symbols to read. Not reoccurring patterns. I’ll never forget that, whether you send me away or not.”

  “I don’t want to send you away.”

  It was so easy to tell him what she wanted.

  The neat lines fell apart and she finally saw Paul. He was pure visual delight. His gray cotton blazer made the angles of his body sharper, like he could cut through the air. Every birthday and every Christmas wrapped up together, just to be in the same room with him...

  He moved like a large, streamlined man should move, with a graceful efficiency that took her breath away even before he gathered her in and held her tight. One hand on her shoulder, another pressing her hip. Every part of her body that wasn’t wounded sang out, wanting to belong to him.

  When he kissed her, taking what was already his, she felt like a wave had crested inside her...passion overflowing, all-encompassing. And terrifying, because she couldn’t tell where love turned into submission, that incredible sense of surrendering the burden of her self. It was all giving up. Giving in.

  But it felt so good to let herself love him.

  Jay would help, she knew. He’d help her find a balance. After Paul let her go, the tip of his tongue skimming regretfully over her parted lips, she could see Jay still leaning against the wall, watching, smiling. The look of defiance still set in his eyes, along with something even fiercer. Triumph, maybe. Like he’d watched her win. Like he’d won, himself.

  “Take my money,” Paul told her.

  Fuck, that was melting hot.

  “Maybe,” she said, buying time to think.

  “Let’s talk about it.”

  He took her left hand and led her to the couch. She followed in a daze that was one part painkiller, ten parts Paul.

  They sat down together on the blue corduroy sectional, Adriana to Paul’s right, Jay drawn by an elegant flick of Paul’s fingers to his left. Paul drew them close until they were leaning against his shoulders, then held their hands. The most natural thing in the world was to close the circle, to touch Jay’s hand resting on Paul’s thigh with her bandaged right hand. She and Jay looked into each other’s eyes. My mirror, my love.

  “Attach my conditions,” Paul said. “Please.”

  That was so perfectly Paul that she couldn’t help laughing, and neither could Jay.

  When her ribs stopped shaking, she nestled the side of her head into the warm, strong wall of Paul’s shoulder.

  “All right. Your conditions are—”

  Jay broke out laughing again.

  “Oh my God, stop it,” she said, already giggling. She wanted to be serious, but she still couldn’t help the laughter. Maybe because she felt like they’d all been given a reprieve. Like they’d been released from separate murky prisons to start fresh, clean, full of hope. Together.

  “I’ll stop,” Jay promised, drew a line across his lips and crossed his heart.

  “You have to go back to school.”

  Paul’s shoulder tensed.

  “That’s the only way I’m not giving back the money. You told Jay you don’t care about architecture anymore, but it’s still like you’re throwing away your dream. I don’t want any part of that.”

  “It’s not a very appealing dream.”

  “It doesn’t have to be architecture school. I bet you can get a degree in something related, right? Like urban planning. You need to do it for your future, and to finish what you started. I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m going to get my grip back to eighty percent or whatever I can, and work like crazy on my knife skills, and get back in the kitchen. But you need something for the long term.” When she traced out their separate but interlinked futures, everything made sense, but what if she was delusional, what if—no, she had to trust herself.

  “That sounds fair to me. Although my perspective might be a bit skewed, at this point. I’ve lost track of who owes who.” Paul’s shoulder relaxed.

  “It’s that...I don’t want the money to change who I am, or what I do.”

  Paul smoothed the fingers of her left hand. “Taking the money isn’t going to change you in fundamental ways. And even if you do change, I can’t imagine not loving you, still.”

  That’s not fair, she almost argued. But her voice suddenly wouldn’t work.

  “Have a tissue. I remembered them!” Jay said, with strange pride. There was, indeed, a box right on the coffee table, and Jay took one, dropped it into her hand.

  She remembered to grip with her middle finger and thumb, and dabbed at her eyes. “Thanks so much, baby.”

  “And as for you being a kept woman,” Paul said, “Maybe you can allow me this. There’s a perversely traditional appeal to it, you know?” Oh, she knew. “You can look at the arrangement in many different ways, but it would never mean giving anything you don’t want to give.”

  “Okay,” she whispered, forcing the sweet, painful word out past the lump in her throat.

  “It’s settled then,” Paul said. “Conditions attached. Expect full and transparent compliance.”

  Then he kissed her.

  She didn’t want him to stop, and he didn’t. There were so many things left unsaid, but they’d say them in time. He’d take her right here on the couch where it all began, and seal their bargain. Whatever it was. God, her heart pounded like a drum again for wanting him inside her, and she knew Jay felt the same—he was already slipping the jacket off Paul’s shoulders, staring at them with dark burning eyes.

  My loves.

  A drum, beating faster and faster and—

  Knocking?

  “Javier? Adriana?” A muffled voice called through the door. “I brought you some tamales!”

  “Fuck my life, I think that’s my sister-in-law,” Jay moaned.

  Paul rose up quickly and shrugged his jacket back on. “I’d rather not literally hide in the closet, so let’s keep this simple,” he said, grinning, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I’m a friend. We met on the internet due to a shared interest in...help me out here.”

  “Coming!” Jay yelled at the door.

  That, among other things. Adriana covered her face with her hands to keep from giggling. And bashed her bandaged stump against her nose. Ouch.

  “French cooking?” she suggested, getting to her feet.

  “Perfect.”

  Jay opened the door. Two screaming children tackled his knees.

  Adriana made sure she wasn’t standing too close to Paul. That hurt, but she might have to get used to it, at least for a while. “My dad and stepmom and my best friend from culinary school are going to be sleeping here on air mattresses,” she told Paul.

  “I’ll wait. I don’t mind waiting anymore. I’ll dream about you.”

  The thought made her dizzy, but it was too late to reach out and steady herself against him. She looked at Jay and remembered to be firm. “There’s one more condition attached,” she warned Paul.

  * * *

  Jay didn’t have time to be disappointed that a simple Saturday trip to the museum had snowballed into a logistical nightmare. He was too busy herding kids. And his self-image as the coolest uncle was taking a beating. No, the snacks here are too expensive. No, don’t touch that, you’ll set off an alarm. No running. No, oh God that’s disgusting take it out of your mouth. No no no.

  Still, there were scattered moments of joy and quiet wonder. He’d ended up with the least rambunctious ones—his gre
at-niece Margarita, and Amado, from the Center—in front of a collection of eighteenth-century Mexican casta paintings, and the two of them were absorbed in every detail.

  Amado read one caption slowly. “‘From the union of an Indian and a black, a wolf is born?’ That’s so weird. But they look like a happy family.” In the painting, a family walked to market together, the little child carrying flowers.

  “Lobo was the slang they used back then,” Jay said. “I think they used the word sambo in different countries. But they had a name for every kind of mixed race, or caste, down the generations. We don’t use most of those names anymore, which is probably a good thing. The whole point of these paintings is to show white dudes from Spain at the top of the food chain, basically.”

  Amado and Margarita both made disappointed humming noises.

  “But it’s still a representation of something real, and I bet those families did love each other, and most of them wanted the best for their children,” Jay added by way of reassurance. “History is always a mix of bad and good stuff.” He sighed and bit his lip. “You know, I meant that to sound deeper than it actually did...”

  Later, in the lobby, Jay passed off Margarita to her parents. “Can I come visit Amado tomorrow?” Margarita asked.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Jay said. “He lives in a special hotel where there aren’t any visitors allowed. But maybe next week, I can take you kids on another awesome field trip.”

  He drove Amado back to the Center, and they talked about the museum most of the way. Amado had brightened in the past few weeks, made eye contact on a regular basis, and was about to go back to school.

  Like Jay would, in a few months.

  Conditions attached. Even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. When Adriana told him in no uncertain terms you’re going back to school too he’d done his best to wriggle out of it. He’d negotiated a three-year part-time MSW program to keep his job at the Center, but she’d held firm on the start date.

  He dropped Amado off, and all the way from East L.A. to Venice Beach he kept the music low, just enough to drown out the traffic and let him think. Years of being a burden on one side of the coin, a brighter future on the other, and the coin kept spinning in the air, never landing. He’d have to get used to that feeling.