Now, as he sunned himself at her feet, looking as content as an old dog, she realized that her plot to make Jordan jealous had gotten out of hand. David seemed to think she would marry him even knowing he was gay.
“I want a family more than anything,” he said.
“It won’t work.”
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life unfulfilled.”
She shook her head.
“But you’ll never want me for me. It’ll be because you want something else. You want to be a father and a husband, but what about love? We’re supposed to be joyful, but you’ll be dutiful. I don’t think that’s enough.”
David’s face grew tense.
“Trisha, you have to trust me. I’m telling you the truth. If that isn’t enough for you, I don’t know what else to say. You must believe me.”
“David, I’m the last one who should be saying this, but I don’t think you can choose.”
He knelt beside her and kissed her cheek.
“But I have. Sex isn’t the issue. It’s how I want to live my life,” he said, while drying himself off with a taut towel, straining muscle to show off muscle.
“David, I do believe you. I want you to be happy, but what you’re asking of me, I’m not capable of.”
David ran his fingers along her arm.
“You know I love you.”
Trisha pulled away angrily.
“You can’t. You can’t love me like a man loves a woman.”
David laughed, surprising Trisha. She wanted him to leave.
“You’ll find someone willing to do what you want.”
“I want you, Trisha.”
“That’s because you can’t have me.”
“We’ll see about that. You’ll see how wrong you are.”
“Go, David! Just leave!”
“Trisha?”
“Go!”
Enraged, Trisha kicked aside the deck chair as she stood.
“You just aren’t listening to me,” David said with a stricken look.
“No, you’re the one who isn’t listening! You told me your plans and I told you I’m not going to be part of them.”
“Well, if you want to be a bitch about it.”
Trisha’s hand whipped up and slapped him hard.
“Get out!”
David hesitated, his hands clenched into fists. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her close.
“You’re not listening to me!” he shouted.
She heard the sound of a screen sliding open and footsteps. There was her father striding towards them with golf club in hand.
“Hey, young man! What do you think you’re doing?”
“Dad, stop!”
David raised his arms in protest, but Mr. Bell swung. David dived to avoid the blow.
“Who are you? Who do you work for?” Mr. Bell yelled, but David didn’t answer because he was too busy swimming to the deep end of the pool. Even so Mr. Bell was on him, swinging the club inches above his head.
“What do you want? Why are you threatening my family?”
David again tried to pull himself from the pool, and again Mr. Bell blocked his way out with sizzling swings.
“Trisha, what’s wrong with him! Help!”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but I do know what’s wrong with you. You’re totally and completely stuck on yourself!” Trisha said, and gently led her father away from an astonished David.
CHAPTER 10
Somehow she thought if she just sat in the serenely empty, bare-walled, off-white room that was her studio apartment, that would be enough to exorcise this demon. If she gave it all away, everything, he wouldn’t have anything to claim. She’d be as bare as the room, a container of nothing. What use could that be to him, a crop of misery for him to harvest?
How had she come to this, fighting for her life once again? She became what he wanted her to be; an uncomplaining, docile possession.
She was a figment of his imagination.
If she wanted a lawn to lull upon, cool grass between her toes, a breeze, trees growing along a stream, she’d have to free herself.
He wanted more from her, another figment.
She didn’t need the pill, though he accused her of lying. She controlled that by running, running and sweating and working herself to exhaustion. Her fertility was gone because she didn’t want to be pregnant for him. He strained against her to start a flood, but the river was dry.
His seed had entered her and it died.
Jordan’s didn’t.
Frank had always wanted a boy, but she knew she’d give birth to a girl.
She heard a light knock. It trailed off as though whoever it was was embarrassed to be knocking.
“It’s open,” she called. From around the opened door Jordan appeared, smiling awkwardly.
“Hey, how are you doing? I was driving by and I thought I’d check in.”
She almost laughed at the silliness. Even though she wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t turn her head from the white wall she had been looking at all morning, she could feel how uncomfortable he was with the image of what she was now. Pale, hair cut closer than his, thinner than he had ever seen her.
“Are you . . . getting over something? I . . .”
Daphne slowly shook her head.
“No, I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping.”
Jordan started toward her, but her eyes stopped him dead.
“You should go.”
“Go, why? Am I intruding?”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
Jordan’s face hardened.
“It’s this Frank? What’s he doing to you?”
Daphne smiled faintly.
“This is me. This is all my choice. He has nothing to do with it.”
“But you don’t look . . .”
“He doesn’t want me to look like this. He wants me to be beautiful.”
Jordan shrugged, not knowing what to say.
“He’s coming. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Listen, I’m not worried about him. It’s you. What do your parents say?”
“They can’t help me.”
“Let me help you.”
“You can’t help me.”
They both heard the sound of a car pulling up.
“It’s him,” Daphne said.
“It’s okay,” Jordan replied.
One sharp knock and Frank entered, more casual this time. Maybe as a concession to laid-back Santa Barbara, he wore crisp blue jeans and a black blazer.
“Greetings. I wondered when you’d come by and talk sense to Daphne.”
Jordan didn’t know what to make of this hipster with hardly enough hair left to make that ponytail he wore presentable.
“You know, Jordan, I think we need to talk.”
“Talk?”
“Yes, but alone would be better.”
Frank glanced at Daphne.
“Excuse us,” he said.
Daphne quickly left the studio through the back door and went out onto the deck that overlooked the Riviera.
Surprised at how fast she had responded to Frank’s suggestion, Jordan assumed the worst.
“What’s up with that?”
“What’s up with what?” Frank asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“There’s room,” he said, patting the mattress. “Daphne isn’t much into furniture.”
“You say something and she just jumps. She cleared out like she was frightened of you.”
Frank laughed.
“Oh, you think I’m abusing her. No, I’ve never touched the girl with evil intent. She’s just very responsive to suggestion.”
“Oh, is that right?” Jordan said.
“Yes, but you need to know how to talk to a woman. You might not know how.”
Jordan felt it roiling up, hot anger directed at this smug bastard. He rushed Frank, but as he tried to swing at Frank’s bald head, he found himself falling hard, landing and blacking out for a moment.<
br />
“What is this? I mean, you really want to fight for this woman?”
Jordan lay wheezing, trying to catch his wind.
“You shouldn’t lead with your jaw. That’ll get you knocked on your ass every time.”
Jordan grunted.
“Jordan, let me ask you, have you done time? You don’t look the type. I’m not saying you’re soft, but you seem like . . . how would I say it . . . soft.”
Jordan finally managed to get his feet back under him. He eyed Frank; he looked slow, but he had quick hands, and he hit pretty fucking hard. He tensed, getting ready to try it again.
Frank held out a finger.
He pulled up a pants leg and revealed the dull metal of a small gun.
“Before you decide to have another swing at me, I think you need to ask yourself what’s going on here. Do you think I’m the one who made Daphne this way?”
Jordan rubbed the back of his head, glaring warily at Frank.
“I don’t know, man. I don’t know you but you act like some lowlife pimp!”
“Listen, I’m trying to help her.”
“She was fine before you came to town.”
“Yeah, blame it on me. I’ve been trying to hold her together for years.”
“Then explain it, this influence you got going. You show up and she gets weird, stops talking to people, drops out of school.”
“I think that’s because she doesn’t belong here. This isn’t her world. Her world is my world,” Frank said.
“What gives you the right to say that?”
“Well, for one thing she’s my wife.”
Jordan stood up quickly and again started toward him but stopped at a respectful distance.
“Why do you lie?”
Frank laughed.
“Do you need to hear it from her? Daphne!”
Daphne appeared as though she had been waiting by the door.
“Daphne, how long have we been married?”
“Five years,” she said, without emotion.
Jordan shook his head and walked to the door.
“Listen, Jordan, don’t leave without saying your goodbyes. You’re good for Daphne.”
“I don’t know what kind of game you’re trying to run on me, but . . .”
He waved Jordan off.
“Ask Daphne. She’ll explain it to you.”
Frank adjusted his jacket and headed outside without a glance backward.
Jordan couldn’t bring himself to look in Daphne’s direction. He wanted to go, but somehow her silence held him there.
“Daphne, I’m getting out of here.”
He started for the door but stopped, waiting for an answer. A reaction, anything. But she was distant, almost serene.
“So, is he lying?”
In a voice that sounded harsh from disuse, she responded.
“He’s telling the truth.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know. I wanted to forget I married him.”
“Why don’t you divorce him?”
“I’ve tried.”
“What do you mean you’ve tried? You can just do it.”
“He won’t let me.”
“Daphne, he doesn’t own you. You aren’t his Sally Hemmings. You have your own mind.”
“If I’m not with him . . . I have my own mind.”
“What happens if you’re with him?”
“I have his mind.”
“I’ve known some women like you. They hand over their souls to guys and become property, but those women had to stand for beatings. You, you have something different going here. You’ve got all the money you need to tell Frank to go fuck himself. I don’t get it, but I don’t have to. It’s your life.”
Daphne smiled weakly and hung her head.
“I’ll see you around.”
She didn’t look up as he closed the door.
* * *
Mr. Bell usually avoided answering the door, and with Pie staying with them to help with his convalescence, he had even less reason to respond to the doorbell. But something was up; no amount of psychotherapy could convince him otherwise. He clutched his golf club and threw the door open.
“Yes!” he said.
The white girl standing in the doorway made him instantly uncomfortable, even though he was the one gripping the golf club, ready to do damage with it. First of all, he wasn’t sure she was white, and that threw him off. She looked like some of the Italian girls he had seen when he was in the service, but she didn’t look healthy. Maybe it was the white sacklike dress she wore, calling to mind religious devotees, or the close-cropped hair, but more than anything it was the frightened expression on her face; the same fear he had managed to keep hidden—but now, after all these years, it had surfaced like a submarine through thin arctic ice.
“Did they send you?”
“Send me? I’m a friend of Trisha’s.”
“Are they after you?”
He sensed he had frightened her a bit because she inched away.
“Wait, don’t go! Who’s after me? You can tell me. I won’t be angry.”
Those words did nothing to calm her. She retreated farther down the driveway.
“Mr. Bell, why in heaven you answering the door with a golf club in your hand like you gonna hit somebody?” Pie asked, snatching the golf club from him.
“Hey, miss! Hey there!”
Pie’s voice boomed down to the road, stopping Daphne cold. Pie lumbered down the driveway and escorted Daphne to the house.
“What you say your name is?” Pie asked, as they approached Mr. Bell.
“Daphne.”
“Daphne, I’m Pie, and this is Mr. Bell, Trisha’s daddy. Don’t you mind that golf club. He carries that thing everywhere.”
Mr. Bell eyed her.
“Maybe I should be going.”
“Aw, no, sugar. You look hot and tired. Don’t tell me you walked up that big hill?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t so bad.”
“Well, you coming in the house to cool off. Get you a nice lemonade or something.”
“I think I should . . .”
Before Daphne could protest, Pie grabbed her firmly around the arm and led her into the coolness of the house. Inside, Mr. Bell made a hard right and retreated to the den. Pie guided a relieved Daphne to the master bedroom where Lady Bell was packing boxes for the move.
“Mrs. Bell, look here, one of Trisha’s friends.”
Lady Bell, in a pretty, bright pink sundress with her gray hair in a matching ribbon, looked up smiling. Delighted at the interruption, she crossed the room and surprised Daphne with a hug.
“Trisha should be right back. She’s out finding more boxes for our move.”
“I really don’t mean to impose.”
“You’re not imposing in the least. Let me get you some lemonade.”
Daphne shrugged and followed the two women to the kitchen.
* * *
The backseat full of boxes, Trisha couldn’t see anything out of the rearview mirror. Everything annoyed her; the beautiful day, cool and windy, white clouds capping the mountains, the stupid move, and especially the fact that Jordan hadn’t arrived like he said he would to help out with the heavy lifting. Dad was supposedly doing fine but she had serious doubts about the doctor’s judgment. Last week she saw him slip into the bathroom, shut the door, and have a shouting match with himself. Trisha was so stressed that some nights she woke herself with the sound of her own teeth grinding.
At the house she struggled to get boxes out of the SUV, then arrange them into a balanced stack, higher than her eyes. She managed to walk to the door without tripping or dropping anything, but her fingers fumbled around endlessly trying to find the chime. Finally, she did, and she waited for help, but none came. Disgusted, she dropped the boxes and unlocked the door. She called out but no one answered. More disgusted that they had cut out, she started back to the car for more boxes, then she he
ard their voices out by the pool, and another voice that was only vaguely familiar.
“Your friend is here. You sure she can be trusted?”
Startled at the unexpected sound of her father’s voice, she turned to see him with the damn golf club.
“What friend? You mean Jordan?”
“I mean the white young lady with the short hair.”
“I don’t know any young white ladies with short hair.”
“Maybe she isn’t white. What do you call it, Creole?”
“I don’t know anybody who fits that description. Are you sure it’s not Mama’s friend?”
Mr. Bell’s face fell slack.
“They’ve finally broken in,” he said, running faster than she could remember him doing.
He flung open the screen door and ran through the backyard to the pool where Pie and her mother were having drinks with a young, short-haired white woman.
Daphne!
Trisha sprinted by Mr. Bell and stopped directly in front of Daphne, who seemed to be having a fine time with Lady Bell and Pie. Daphne looked much different, almost bald, thinner—too thin, like she hadn’t eaten in days, and sickly pale as though she had been shunning sunlight since Trisha had seen her last.
“What’s going on here!” she said, directly to Daphne.
Lady Bell was surprised at her daughter’s tone.
“Daphne’s been telling us of her travels. She’s on her way to India.”
“India?” Trisha repeated with relief, but it was short-lived because Mr. Bell approached with golf club at the ready.
“She’s working for them. She’s the one who’s been listening! She’s the one who’s been listening to me,” Mr. Bell shouted.
“Ain’t nobody listening to you,” Pie said, gruffly.
He immediately calmed down; paranoid or not, Pie wasn’t going to humor him.
“Dad, I know her. She’s a friend from school. She took a class with Jordan.”
“Well, I had to drop.”
“Oh,” Trisha said, looking more pleased than she wanted to.
Deflated, Mr. Bell retreated into the house after a mumbled “Excuse me.”
“We’re not moving,” Lady Bell said to Trisha.
“What? How?”
“I haven’t cleared it with your father yet, but Daphne wants to rent the guest house.”
All the Trouble You Need Page 13