I hear JK’s voice coming up alongside me. “Yes, come on in, Best. Very excited to have you here.”
Stranger Woman, her skin like tempered dark chocolate, barely moves. Only her eyes angle toward me. Already, she’s not impressed. She remains seated, even though JK and Susie are standing.
“Make yourself at home,” JK says. She gestures to the chair next to the woman. I want to say something strong, unfazed: No, thanks, I’m good here. But it’s tense enough. I walk over to the white leather seat to the woman’s right, leaving enough space between us for our mutual disapproval to rest. “Best Lightburn, meet Joan Marx,” JK says. Her grin is a little too wide, eyes glassy, like she just took a toke.
Finally the woman moves. She stands up, her slim pigeon’s body bends at the middle, a smooth, shallow bow toward me. Her hair is in micro-braids and her makeup is too much. She’s dressed like the plainclothes detectives I see at the all-hours diner near my brownstone, but instead of a wrinkled silk tie to finish the look, she sports a large broach on her left lapel. It’s silver and shiny with raised, colored jewels. The control panel, I presume.
I float my hand out to shake hers. The grip is fine, but her hands are clammy.
Strike one.
JK sidles up next to me and touches my arm, gives it a light squeeze—more a soft pulsing—call it whatever, it’s her trademark nurture move, something she perfected in twenty-eight years of running magazines filled with disparate, desperate (and often disordered) personalities. It works; my heart rate is slowing. Her moves always work on me: the arm pulsing, the wink, the random clothing compliment in the hallway, and the masterful combo of all three. It makes Janice “James” Kessler seem approachable (but she’s not) and makes you feel considered (but you’re not).
Susie, still skittish, interrupts the tired magic trick and I get my arm back. “I’m actually a little nervous,” she says. “Maybe we should start. Sooner we do, sooner I can get that martini.” We all chuckle and mutter things, light, easy, like it’s being recorded for background noise on a movie. Stranger Woman is back in her seat, waxen and stiff. Before anyone has a chance to wipe the tight, cheap smirks from our faces, Susie takes a dramatic breath. “Okay. So, here’s the quick and dirty on our wonderful friend Joan here: She is the former deputy editor at Sports World Magazine and before that she was at New York News. And before that, she put in a tour of duty in local network news for a few years. And now here she is, ready to join our team, and we are absolutely thrilled to have her.”
I nod in her general direction. JK catches me and her smile dims.
Susie moves through a series of quick, weird tics, the last of which is rubbing the top of her pen. It’s annoying and awkward, like everything else about this meeting. If she removes her glasses next and buries them on top of her head, I might as well lean back, expose my neck, give them full access to my carotid artery. Maybe they’ll let their New Black One do the honors and have the first cut, although I can’t imagine JK being down with bloodstain patterns all over this whiteness. Master move, getting another black woman to do me, though. Who knew JK was so artful?
Another deep breath. “As you know, Best, I love this magazine. It’s the child I never had.” Susie pauses, looking down at her bouncing knee. “I’m immensely proud of it, and this experience—that’s the best word for it, really—it’s one for which I remain eternally grateful.”
Wait. This is a resignation letter. She’s leaving. Susie’s leaving and Robot Joan is taking her place. I didn’t realize it at first, but I’m shaking my head now as it clicks together. Talk about being clueless. Ten minutes ago, I was positive this meeting was going to be my last day at James. I was sure that The Mistake had somehow resurrected itself and was going to finally bite me in the ass. I had every detail planned too: whom I’d call first (Kendra, then my dad), where we’d go to drink right after (Seeks Same bar, the cornerest booth), and what my parting words would be to the entire edit floor of James magazine (something from either Jay Z or Biggie—this part was totally game time, but it involved the word fuck).
But this time, this whole thing, it isn’t even about me. Actually, now I’m pissed. I almost shit my pants, and for what? An intro to Robot Joan? At this point, either tell me how this changes my world here or break out those martinis you mentioned. Make a move, because I’m on deadline. The vagina waits for no one.
“Oh, Susie,” JK blurts out. “This is so bittersweet, I know.” She turns her head toward me. JK looks legitimately sad. “As you may have already guessed, Susie is leaving us, leaving the company; back to the world of transformative long reads and spellbinding stories in hardcover. We’ll be making the official announcement later, but we wanted to let some senior staff in on the news first. And I know you and Susie have such a wonderful relationship, Best, but I’m sure you’d agree that we’re all going to miss her.”
I should say something. That was my cue.
“Well, I am really surprised and also really excited for you, Suze.” I turn my chair away from Robot Joan. Of course, it squeaks. “You’ve been my mama bird here for so long. JK’s right: We’re all going to really miss you, miss your spirit, miss your New York crazy anecdotes, and all that warm wisdom you share with us every day. And I’m going to miss our talks—I’ll treasure them.”
I hit all the right notes. Tears are pooling at the base of Susie’s eyes. And JK’s face is flushed. They exchange warm looks. The sincerity of it all curbs the weirdness that has been muscling through the room since I stepped in. I steal a glance at Joan. She’s still in greetings-people-of-Earth mode.
Oh shit. She looked right at me. I must be smiling because she is trying to do the same now, but hers is crooked.
Clearly, this android is last year’s model.
CHAPTER 2
Temptation is high tonight. I want to call Grant. All it would take is an easy tap on his little photo—the one I took of him sleeping in my bed—and it’d be ringing. He would answer too. But I can’t call him. He needs the space. And honestly, I want to talk about me, not him or the progress of his mental state. I want to tell him about Susie’s good-bye party. It was maudlin and tacky, but he always liked Susie Davis-Wright and especially my renditions of her wild Did I ever tell you about the time stories, complete with a spot-on impression of her delicate, lady-baby voice. He’d want to know that she escaped the nuthouse. Though I probably should stay away from talk of cuckoo’s nests.
Mainly, I want to tell him about the Robot, with her tacky pinstripe man-suits she seems to fancy and those loose braids and nonexistent hairline. And I want to laugh at her, with him. I want him to help me plot out exactly how to destroy her, before she does me. I want us to come up with vile rumors—just egregious shit—to spread about her. Grant would be so game for all of it. His mastery of subversive passive-aggression and other dark arts have left me in awe of him countless times. But before we could even get to all the Robot fun, we’d have to trudge through the other woolly parts, the part about him getting better, about when he thinks he might come back to New York. We’d have to get through the us part, which would end up being a wrestling match, with Grant left bloodied and further bruised.
After the accident, I saw a family therapist here and there. Dr. Monfries was able to ferret through all my shit, through my anguish, and string together a theory. He said it was a pattern, my behavior—a glaring one. He even had some heavy, hyphenated word for it, though I never committed it to memory. Knowing what to call it didn’t matter much then anyway. It wasn’t quite manic, he said, and calling it a phase or acting out was dismissive. After the tragic disconnect (also Dr. M’s words), I’d have these desperate moments—urges, really—where I wanted and needed to be physically close to someone, preferably a stranger and male—any category, color or creed. It wasn’t always about sex. Sometimes it meant sitting close, like creepy-close to some man on the Metro or practically pressing myself up on him in an already-crammed elevator. The men never objected, but I knew how to p
ick them.
The sick and damaged part of this pattern came in when, on a dime, the thirst would vanish and all I wanted was to be left alone. That hardcore, don’t-touch-me-or-I’ll-scream level of left alone. I didn’t even want to overhear someone else breathing near me. And these men, poor pawns, would be so confused, so frightened and unsure of what to do with me, this spiraling girl now pushing them away with all the force she could gather. And by force, I mean I’ve slapped many faces, punched chests, scratched and kicked and pummeled wild and blind, a dervish of heartbroken, angry energy.
This pattern started a few weeks after the funerals and ended rather abruptly when I decided to move to New York. Dr. Monfries said it had a lot to do with my making a decision for change. I didn’t care why it ended. I was just relieved that it did.
None of it matters anyway. Grant probably had to turn over his cell phone weeks ago, and I’m damn sure not calling his uncle’s landline. This week has already squeezed my brain enough. I’m no glutton.
I should just go to Flavio’s showing. Fashion photographers are always a worthwhile distraction, and Kendra’s been talking about Flav’s big night for a solid month. Not going means having to endure her live-texting me the entire event—with her pretty pictures of all the pretty people. Flaking on this is not an option. If Kendra called the shots, I would be soaked in vodka or some other distilled beverage most nights. After everything with Grant, she made it her duty to keep me occupied and out of my low-lit living room. As she sees it, any evening I’m not stuck at the office working late (in super-stealth mode) on this honor killing, I need to be in some carved-out hole in the Meatpacking District with her, Flav and the fabulous bunch, a bar glass at my lips. But I don’t need that level of distraction. It’s wasted energy. I miss Grant—mostly in the middle of the night—but I’m not in danger of slipping under. I’ll survive. That’s what I do, apparently.
eta woman?
Ken, don’t freak. Still at office. Might not make it. Sor-rryyyy!: -(
wtf?? not freaking but still wtf. said youd come you know flav loves u&yr smart mouth. tell that robot who’s boss and bounce. She don’t own u.
All right, Tupac. I’ll see what I can do. Sorry for real.
Save the sorrys &get yr fine azz over here. Many cute ones. Totally ungay.
Ok, ok. Be there soon.
I’ve convinced myself that it’s somehow easier to not give Kendra the full truth. Sometimes it’s dumb stuff too, like telling her I’m still at the office instead of admitting that I just don’t want to go. But it’s the larger things, the lies of omission—those are the parts I feel shitty about. Kendra and I have been friends for five years, we speak or text at least fifteen times every day, but she doesn’t know about my brothers, about the accident—she thinks I’m this only child with a classic, small-town escape story. Kendra’s a born and bred New Yorker. When we first met at that coffee shop and she asked, “So what’s your story?” I had already tucked away my other life, that fractured life with two brothers and one vile night, its bitter residue streaked over everything. I had assumed a new existence. The previous five years were not just a blur; they had completely vaporized. Instead, I served up the cliché: I was just a blank page in a simple notebook, looking to make it in the Big Apple. The full truth is, Kendra really doesn’t know anything about me. She doesn’t know this despicable brute walking around as her best friend. And in my mind, it’s better that way.
BREAKING! Lindee’s coming! SHOCKING!! Shes in car service not too far fm yr office want her 2 scoop u?
That *is* shocking. Is she bringing rotten tomatoes?
LOL!! IKR??!! Text her to scoop u she wld do that for u &only u.
No. Walking to train now.
Soooo youre coming! Yasssss!!
Calm down. Still need to go home first. Calling Tyson to fix my face.
Glam down, bishh!! see u ltr!!!!
The evil twin is going? Now I actually do have to come up with a good enough lure to get Tyson over here. Jesus. It all really does spin into a web.
I met Grant through Tyson. He was doing the makeup on Grant’s indie film. They got on well and Tyson said he knew we’d hit it off too. “I just like him for you, May,” Tyson said. Like him for you. As if he were a pair of shoes or shade of lipstick that works on me. Tyson always introduces me to the “chill ones.” Grant was definitely that.
When he swooped into Mo-Bay’s, late and winded, it was clear. Everything that Tyson had raved about was true. Grant was cool. He was funny and smart and fine as hell. That face, flawless. Radiant and expressive, beautiful and refined. There was this old-school mystique and glamour about him; it drew you in, compelled you, made you deeply curious to know more, it made you want to talk to him—and only him—the whole night. Oh, and of course, he’s Canadian—Vancouver—which is why Tyson said he’d bet his Beyoncé tickets that we’d click in the first place. And we did.
Tyson described him to me, down to the tiniest detail, weeks before our meet-cute at the restaurant.
“I’m going to say this, May,”—Tyson Turner likes to call his women friends May, or Sally May if they’re over forty—“and you need to hear me: Grant King’s skin is organic maple butter for the gods.”
Tyson also likes to lead with the quality of a person’s skin.
“Not a blemish, not a scratch. Then there’s that body: lean and cut-up like the best steak. I’m talking Kobe beef, honey. And you didn’t hear this from me, but homeboy is packing serious pipe too. That’s what those lesser bitches in wardrobe keep telling me, like I can do something about it.”
His body was pretty impressive; that’s true. And I’m not even into all that stuff. Make me laugh, don’t have back hair, smell freshly showered most days, and know the difference between it’s and its—listen, you’re halfway there with me, mister. The fit body-muscle thing was never make-or-break in my books. I’ve slept with the fatty, as well as the scrawny, the shorty, and the black Hulk before. Interchangeable, all of them. The short guy edges out by a nose, though, because he really puts his all into it, and does the most with the least. But then sex was never really high on my list of things. After a few close calls, my actual first time was in college, and it was gross. Not the bloody, fumbling, dispiriting part. I’m talking solely about the guy here—I’ll call him Darren, because his name was Darren. Darren Andre Wilson. He was one of six guys in my Women in Media class, and the only black one. Darren was earnest and he took his time trying to get in my pants. He liked me; I knew that for a fact, and it was the reason I enlisted him in Project Virginity-free. I needed to get it over with, and he was cute and kind and uncomplicated.
The actual moment I became a woman was decent enough. Darren wasn’t a jerk or incompetent. Where he really fucked up, though, was the narrow shit stain that he left on my sheets. I didn’t see it until I was about to crawl back in the bed after walking Darren partway down my dorm hallway. It must have been three in the morning when—whammo—skid mark staring me in the face. I dashed those soft, unsuspecting yellow gingham sheets in the garbage at the other end of the hall that instant, and slept on two bunched-up duvets on the floor next to my bed for the rest of the month. Couldn’t shake the smear. Darren dropped the class posthaste. Maybe it was the back-to-back Ds he got on his term papers. Maybe it was the nickname that started trailing him: Shitty Sheets. (What? I told one person.)
With Grant, things got going early—as in, that first night after we stumbled out of Mo-Bay’s. I didn’t even have much to drink that night. Neither did he. We were talking and laughing about everything as we walked, aimless. How much we missed ketchup chips and Harvey’s fries and Vachon pastries—Passion Flakie for me and for him, a tie between Jos Louis and Swiss Rolls. This wasn’t an accurate tie, I insisted, since the latter in his snack-cake list was basically a smaller, rolled-up version of the former. He told me about his enduring goal to bring Major League baller Fergie Jenkins’s autobiography to the big screen, and that when his wallet was jacked
last year, he was in a near-dissociative state of panic wholly because his commemorative Fergie Jenkins stamp was in it. And I told him about my enduring crush on Michael J. Fox as well as my categorical reasons why Canada Post needs to hurry up and honor the man with a stamp too. Grant bet me that he could get a cab to stop for us extra-fast if he sidled up next to the dumpy blond woman standing on the corner nearby. He was right.
We slid into the car, across the warmed seats, sitting close enough that our heads gently knocked together a couple of times as we skimmed potholes. Then, while we were heading over the Brooklyn Bridge, it started. Hands and lips and gropes everywhere. By the time we got to my floor, we were on the floor, then the couch, on the counter, up against the fridge, bottom of the bed, in the shower. It was hot and sweaty and good. He stayed over. (Not my style.) I called in sick. (Also not my style.) We made breakfast together early that next morning and ate it sitting tucked beneath a pillow fort he made on the living-room floor. We lay there, tangled up like vines, and watched old game shows for hours. It felt good with Grant then. It felt normal. But it was never going to work. I’m not built for that.
When he called me the next week I was a little surprised. I was sure that he had only put my number in his phone because his Canadian insides would not allow him to treat me like some throwaway hookup. Appearances.
“Hey. It’s Grant.”
“Hey.”
“I know. I didn’t wait the customary—what?—ten days before calling, but I want to see you again. So, I’m calling today.”
I smiled, but slid the phone speaker away from my mouth. He’s an actor. They’re trained to pick up on even the slightest nuance. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Do you want to come hang out?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay. We’re doing this, we’re playing that game?”
The Thunder Beneath Us Page 2