SEVEN
Octavia could smell it on me—not just the alcohol fumes, but also the bananas and tanning oil that had rubbed off Stephanie. She turned her head away in something like revulsion before saying, “Would you like some wine with your toxicity?”
Jennings led us to the dining room. On the way, Octavia asked, “I can tell it’s not sex. You don’t smell like pussy. So what have you been up to all day, Professor Thofft?”
“Just…talking.”
“To whom?”
I felt like I was in a funhouse, in the spinner. I had to steady myself on her shoulder. She scoffed but slowed her pace to match mine. I supposed the interview had gone well, as Octavia certainly looked comfortable. Her hair was down, slightly damp, and she wore black pajama bottoms with a summery white long-sleeved blouse, also damp in spots as if she’d just gotten out of the shower.
Did I mention that drinking makes me painfully lusty?
She was waiting for an answer. I said, “I believe I’ve found the key to the Robo Pen.”
“Okay.”
“I need to decide how—”
“You call the boy and tell him there’s a problem with the magazine, and you need to discuss it with him in person because you have a hard time explaining computer language over the phone, even though we both know you’re pretty well-versed in it.”
I stopped walking. My hand slipped off her shoulder as she continued on. After a few more steps she stopped and turned. A Mona Lisa grin in bright lipstick. I wobbled like a boxer who had been badly mismatched.
“You knew?”
“As did you,” she said. “So let’s talk to each other like grown-ups and stop trying to pat ourselves on the back for being just as smart as we already know we are.”
I had my pride. I stared her down and waited, I swear, at least twenty seconds before saying, “I had to go to the office and get his address. I ran into a friend. Well, one of Frannie’s. That’s all.”
“A woman.”
“Yes. The wife of another professor.”
That seemed to satisfy her, as she nodded curtly and resumed walking to her dining room, leaving me behind to prop my hand on the wall for guidance.
If the rest of the house was a museum for her love of the Gothic, then the dining room was her Renaissance. Antique Italian walnut table and chairs, plus cabinets to hold her Wedgewood china. An immense chandelier hung over the center of the table, and along the wall opposite the cabinets ran a room-length mirror of the sort I’d only ever seen in castles. Embossed walls of blue and cream. Candles on stands high as my head. The only unusual thing was the art, all by Fernando Botero, all paintings of fat people. Like cartoons, grotesquely balloon-like. And they were all either erotic nude women, exotic dancing, or several of his recent, very disturbing paintings of Abu Ghraib prisoners being humiliated and tortured. Just what you want at dinner.
Jennings held Octavia’s chair for her at the head of the table, a coordinated dance they’d worked out to perfection. I made my way to the seat to her left. As Jennings started towards the kitchen, Octavia called out, “No, you too.”
He stopped, looked over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”
She pointed to her right. “Come, sit. You’re trying this too. Let the girl serve it herself.”
“You do know what’s on the menu, right?”
“The one I helped plan? Really? Don’t get all catty on me.”
He swallowed hard and stood his ground. “Beef.”
“Actually, it’s Cabernet Filet Mignon, rare, with twice-baked garlic potatoes and roasted asparagus.”
That sounded good to my out-of-focus head. “Sounds great. I’m surprised.”
Octavia shrugged. “I decided we should start with her handling of the basics. After you left, she made some very nice eggs and hash browns.” She turned back to Jennings. “And we all need to sample what she’s prepared for us—”
“I’m a vegan,” he said. “You know that.”
“That may well be your philosophy, but let me ask—are you physically unable to eat meat?”
“It’s been five years. I’ll get sick.”
Like a cat’s eyes widening to all black when it sees a toy dangled in front of it, that’s what happened to Octavia’s, too. I swear. She dropped her chin, batted her eyelids at him. “That’s in your fucking head, mister. I ask again. Are you physically—”
“Please.” Jennings stepped closer, lowered his voice. He was sweating. “Please. It’s all I’ve got. I just…can’t.”
“Are you—”
“No. I can eat it. But…but you’re so cruel. Petty.” Seething now, cheeks red. “You’ve taken so much away from me, can’t you just give me this? I’m begging.”
If it rattled her, I couldn’t tell. Poor guy. I had to look away, just in time to see a sliver of Harriet at the far doorway, one-eye peeking around. She ducked back when she saw me.
Octavia lifted her water glass and took a sip, ignoring Jennings, not even looking at him when she said, “It’s part of the job. I need your advice. I don’t care if it means slaughtering a pig for me, it must be done. Beliefs, religion, feelings, none of it happens on the clock. Square it later when you’re trying to sleep.”
If it were me, I would’ve quit. Really. Even considering how much money was involved, plus all the side benefits of working for the rich and powerful—the clothes, the food, the business trips he took in her place when necessary, since she hated traveling. The contacts he’d made in the business world, all the more helpful for when he finally raised the money he needed to open his own club or restaurant or used bookstore, whatever it had morphed into that week.
But then again, I didn’t know what it was like. I had never been indebted to her as he was, the sickness of it all just staggering. I played with my napkin, unable to watch as Jennings held his tongue, pulled out his chair, and sat at the table staring straight ahead—at me—probably thinking that for all of the good Professor’s seeming support and friendship, when it came down to having Jennings’ back, I was long gone, man.
Octavia said, “Good.”
Nearly under his breath, Jennings said, “Can’t I just try the vegetables?”
“Don’t make me force you into seconds.” Then louder. “Okay, Chef, I know you’re listening. You can bring the entree. Skip the appetizer. Let’s get on with this.”
I asked, “Where’s the wine?”
“You’ve already had your fair share today. Just drink the water. Jennings can get some Aleve for you when we’re done.”
She flashed a fake smile towards the other end of the room, and Harriet came out, a new chef’s coat, her name stitched in immaculate Gothic lettering, black with a shadow of red. She was desperately trying to balance our three plates as if the ground might fall from beneath her at any second.
*
Yes, it was a wonderful meal, full of flavor and complexity, the natural flavors of the beef and potatoes and sauce unfolding as if you were listening to a beautiful song, moving along from verse to chorus, changing keys and building in intensity. If anything, I’d say it needed some more salt, but that was perhaps because I was pretty drunk, and also because I’d watched so many cooking reality shows with Frannie, in which the judges always thought the dishes needed more salt.
By the end of the meal, I felt myself refortifying, vision clearing, noise in my head fading. The three of us sat as if in a moment of silence. Octavia didn’t make Jennings eat all of the steak, but he ate more of it than I figured he would—a full third, even with it rare. Octavia looked to him for a response.
“I hate you.”
“The beef?”
Snorted. “Wonderful. You bitch.”
“Get your nose back in joint or I’ll make you try the lamb tomorrow.” Waved him away. “Go get her.”
Jennings pushed his chair back and threw his napkin onto his plate, a pathetic protest. As he started away, Octavia turned to me.
“If this boy confesses, you’ll need to ma
ke sure he’s willing to go on the record.”
Like whiplash. I’d forgotten all about David and robot writing and my now shitty position within my department. I’d experienced joy from a meal again. And after, back to the grind. “Of course. I mean, I’m sure he likes his job—”
“No, he liked your wife’s pussy more. Remember that when you speak to him. He looks down on you. He thinks you’re weak. And whatever punishment you can think up for him, the Bitch and her lover can think of rewards to balance it out.”
I slumped into the chair. “What would you do?”
“Smack him around.”
“What?”
She mirrored me, slumping back and crossing her arms across her chest. “I don’t think he’ll tell anyone. First, after a few smacks, he’ll fight back. Second, he’ll be too embarrassed to tell anyone you hit him, or that he beat you up. Either way, it’ll shock him onto your side. Something about violence that brings men together.”
“Um…I’m a tenured professor. It’s very hard for them to fire me. But hitting a student is probably in the top five instant job enders.”
“Oh, higher than that.”
“Exactly.”
She shook her head. “He won’t tell anyone.”
“Are you insane?”
“You asked my advice. There’s no need to be rude, Mr. My Wife Fucks Everyone But Me. Just a suggestion. But keep it in mind. Here she is.”
Jennings led Harriet into the room. She’d lost the spunk we’d seen at the Dakota—one pair of earrings instead of the scrapyard she’d worn before. Tattoos mostly covered. Holding her fingers together in front of her, twisting them. Octavia surprised me again by standing to her feet and applauding, big smile on her face. Exactly what Harriet needed, the breath she’d been holding gushing out, her shoulders relaxing, cheeks all rosy. Jennings stared at me, jerked his chin a few times before realizing I was so stunned by Octavia’s reaction that I had kept my seat. I rose and joined the applause.
“Bravo. That was great. That was fucking great. The job’s definitely yours if you want it.”
The chef beamed. All it took was the clean new coat and a vote of confidence to transform her into someone I’d take seriously behind the grill. In fact, it looked as if she had just won one of those reality shows Frannie liked. “Okay, cool, thank you, Miss VanderPlatts, yeah, that’s great.”
“Even the vegan liked it.”
She didn’t know how to take that. A quick glance at Jennings, who answered, “Yes, it was fabulous. I look forward to what you can do with vegetables.”
“All right.”
“You know,” Octavia spread her hands wide. “I can’t think of one complaint. Not one. How about you, Mick?”
Salt. I wanted to say it needed salt. Instead, “As good as the best steakhouse. Better.”
Harriet didn’t seem impressed with my input. She crossed her arms, waited for Octavia to say more.
“If you’d like, we can talk about the contract now.”
“Sure, uh, yeah. That’s cool.”
“How about taking a few minutes to change, get your things together, and then meet me in the office?”
Nods all around. “Nice job” and “Congrats” and “Excellent”. Jennings said he would need to tidy up the kitchen, even though Octavia had a service I knew would handle it in the morning. I suspected he was really going to throw up. Harriet followed him out, and Octavia started for the door.
She looked back at me. “Coming? Going?”
“Give me a few minutes, okay? I’ll be right there.”
“You feel all right, Mick?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Let me stretch it out, get some fresh air.”
“Face it. You weren’t built to be a heavy drinker. Are you going to want the after-dinner smoke?”
She meant marijuana, of course. I shook my head. “No thanks. Already swimming up there.”
After she left, I headed after Harriet.
*
She had just taken off her chef’s jacket, carefully hanging it on the pantry doorknob rather than just tossing it off somewhere. Octavia surely would give her one for every day of the week, but the care with which Harriet handled the coat twisted my guts a little. She had pulled her undershirt halfway up her back when I cleared my throat.
A quick turnaround, ink-sprawled arms covering her breasts, bunching her t-shirt tighter, her midriff bare but for the tattoo ringing her belly button.
I averted my eyes. Kind of. “I’m sorry.”
“Jesus, can’t it wait?”
“Well…” I looked away, then back, away, then back.
She finally yanked the tail of her shirt down hard and planted her fists on her hips. No more smiles for me. “Come on.”
“I wasn’t kidding about why you shouldn’t take this job. I know she’s my friend and all, but I wouldn’t want to work for her.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“Listen, don’t you feel any sort of bad vibes? You’ve got to have some sort of little voice in your head telling you something’s off. It’s not your scene. You’ll be miserable.”
Harriet laughed before I’d even finished. “Miserable? You’re telling me, like, an eighty percent increase in pay, health insurance, working with the best ingredients, pretty much cooking whatever I feel like, and no greasy, crowded, sweaty kitchens full of guys that can’t even speak fucking English is my idea of a party?”
“Octavia told you that, didn’t she?”
She ignored me and swooped the t-shirt off, revealing all the ink and a black sports bra. I’d been analyzed and tagged as harmless, my eyes weaker than your average males. She picked up a ragged local band tee, snugged into it, and then whirled, face to face.
“Mick, right? Mick. What does it matter, man? Why do you care?”
Yeah, why did I? Why look out for the happiness of someone who obviously thought I was a puny snob? Dunno. I just did. “Those guys in your kitchen? They’re your friends. You drink with them, and they’ve taught you some cool phrases in a bunch of different languages. They showed you neat dishes and tricks in the kitchen that you would’ve had to pay a lot of money for at culinary school.”
Shrugged. “I won’t lose my friends.”
“And you love the pressure cooker, right? You thrive on it. When you sleep, you dream about work. Your whole shift revolves around where you guys go drink after, and all the bands you hang out with until sunrise.”
Crossed her arms. “Now I’ll have more time to sleep and still stay out all night. Shit, it’s healthier all around.”
“Goddamn it, Harriet, I swear, in six months…” Caught myself. Decided to try another track. “You know the vegan she talked about?”
“Well…I thought she meant you at first, but I suppose it was the butler. He’s vegan?”
“Vegan, gay, and a jet-setter.”
“Okay, I’m cool with that. Why’d he eat the steak?”
“She forced him to.”
Harriet blinked. “No way.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’m not into all that shit, but if someone else is, you‘ve got to respect, man.”
“Octavia doesn’t. She made him eat the steak to remind him who’s boss. And she pays him so much money that he eventually gave up trying to date regularly because she would wait until his day off to find stuff that would make him late or miss it entirely. His only trips now are either short vacations or business trips for Octavia. In the old days, he’d spend weekends in Manhattan, L.A., Vegas, Tahoe. Tonight, she made him eat meat for the first time in years.”
As I spoke, fear appeared in the middle of her pupils and spread outward until both orbs were quivering. Lips parted. Silence after I was done, until she realized she was staring into her own future, thinking about how it was all going to change, and she didn’t want to believe it.
She closed her lips and swallowed and then said, “That’s not going to happen to me.”
“No, it will. Maybe not as dir
ect a sting, but it’ll happen.”
She eyed her jeans, maybe trying to decide if my harmlessness extended to letting her change into those in front of me. I guess it didn’t. Still some teeth on this old tiger.
“So, then, why, Mick? Why would he stay with her?” Lowered her voice. “They’re not, like…lovers, something like that?”
“Not at all. Much worse. Let me tell you.”
EIGHT
Here’s pretty much what I told her:
After grad school, Octavia got roped into working for a conservative think tank. They paid her a lot of money to write papers on politics with an eye towards comparisons to classic literature. I guess they thought if it’s all happened before, maybe they could skip the part about finding new answers and just rely on the old ones, as long as enough people had forgotten about them. But then, a couple of trips to Washington later, she discovered her true talent was in lobbying. Octavia had a talent for threatening people to vote her way while still having them return her calls.
She was bored, though. Lots of money, lots of power, lots of dinners and lunches and drinks shared over topics like Ethanol subsidies, prayer in schools, television standards, pharmaceuticals, on and on. It was too easy for her. Talking points memorized, Psychology 101 level manipulation, close observation and deductive reasoning employed to find weaknesses and/or strengths that could be somehow massaged should the congressman vote a certain way. Dull stuff.
No matter what she did, how much she flirted or tried to build true relationships with these people, it always came down to money and fear. Other women lobbyists, she noticed, could flash a little leg and laugh at the tasteless jokes, and could get a lot further than Octavia ever could unless it came down to the brass tacks and some serious blackmail needed to be put on the table. This was before she weighed as much as she does now, too. Back then, around two-fifty. A striking woman in high school and college, but not exactly what senators wanted to take to a hotel after hours. Forget trying to make herself the talk of the town for her expensive dresses and pretty face. She decided the power was worth chasing, which meant she had to say and do some awful things to get what she wanted—votes, sex, respect—and the more fear that registered on the faces of her victims, the better.
Choke on Your Lies Page 7