Spotting an empty chair, I squeezed in between my brother Eugene and my cousin Donny. Uncle Sal was passing around the dishes of noodles and anchovies. Across the table, Aunt Delores and Aunt Louisa bent close, plunged into talk about their kids, while Great-Uncle Umberto argued politics with my father. It was like fireworks and cannons, the noise, but somehow we all managed to keep talking and eating, eating and talking.
Eugene snagged a handful of shrimp and popped them into his mouth. “Hey, sis.”
“Hey, yourself.”
A shriek directly behind my chair made me jump. “Antonio!” My cousin Lia scooped up my nephew Antonio and deftly removed the fork from his grubby hands. “You nutty kid. You might stab someone with that.”
Little Antonio screamed happily and squeezed his aunt, who carried him back to the kids’ table, singing a nonsense song. I thought she hadn’t seen me, but she gave me a passing wave before turning her attention back to Antonio.
Good, capable, dutiful Cousin Lia. None of the kids were hers, but she always ended up watching over the children at these things. Just as Aunt Juliette helped in the kitchen. Just as Uncle Sal always vidded the whole evening. Tradition, Sal called it. Like a thick knitted muffler that kept you warm, and sometimes made it hard to breathe.
And here came Sal, with a tiny new vidcorder in his meaty fist, swooping in between the tables. “Formaggio,” he cried. “Say cheese, Antonio. Oh my god, the kid’s gonna burp anchovies. Hey, Teo, did I tell you how these new vidcorders pick up smells, too?”
“. . . he’s shipping out next week, Delores . . .”
“. . . hear about Pauly and Anita getting back together . . .”
“. . . have some more noodles . . .”
“. . . I think I’ll have some salad . . .”
“. . . no more room on the table . . .”
“. . . always more room . . .”
More wine appeared in my glass, even though I didn’t ask for it. Cousin Donny winked at me. “Cheers, cuz.”
His face was sweatier than usual, and his muskrat aftershave made me gag when he leaned too close. I mumbled a hello-and-thanks and turned to Eugene. “So, how’s the new job?”
“Good enough. What about you?”
I shrugged. “Same as usual. Hey, do you know if Tess will show up tonight?”
Before my brother could answer, Donny leaned in. “Yeah, she’s coming tonight. She emailed Grandma about half an hour ago to say she’d be late. At least, I think she did. I was kinda busy.”
He leered at me, and I shifted my chair a couple inches back and away. That’s when I noticed the mesh glove on Donny’s left hand. “What the hell is that?”
Another leer. “Early Christmas present. Watch.”
He wriggled his fingers, and a funny look came over his face. Good god, I thought yanking my gaze away. I’d heard about those things, advertised on lurid X-rated websites. Cousin Donny hadn’t changed since we were eight and he tried to catch me naked in my bath on his camera-phone. Only now he’d figured out how to jerk off in public and not get arrested.
A loud popping noise caught everyone’s attention. “Umber-to!” came a cry from the kitchen. The next minute, my Great-Aunt Gabriella staggered through the doorway, wreathed in clouds of acrid smoke. “System crash!” she wailed.
I sighed. Last month, Great-Uncle Umberto had replaced all the kitchen appliances with the latest stainless steel AI models. Everything had sensors and links and touchpads and programmable features. It was all supposed to making cooking easier, but it turned out that the new AIs had a few bugs.
Cousin Nicci wiped her mouth with a napkin and slid from her seat. “No problem, Aunty. I know how to jig the system.”
Nicci, Gabriella, and Juliette vanished into the kitchen. The roar of conversation swelled up in their wake.
“Good thing Nicci knows her hardware,” Donny said. He was busy stuffing his face, using only one hand.
“Not like some,” Eugene said with a grin.
Donny had just opened his mouth to toss back an insult when the front door banged open. Tessa ran through, laughing and chattering, and exclaiming how cold it was outside. Her cheeks were ruddy, her black eyes bright with mischief. Dark hair tumbled from underneath her knitted cap, which sparkled with miniature Christmas lights. Oh, yes. Already my mood got better. I lifted my hand to wave, when I saw Cousin Lucia.
Lovely Lucia, who wore a bright red cashmere dress that barely covered her thighs. Uncle Teo called her the family angel, but seeing her slip an arm around Tessa’s waist, I thought she looked more like an imp.
Not fair. Not even really true.
“What’s the word, Tess?” someone called out.
“Serendipitous!” Tess replied with a laugh.
I closed my eyes, feeling sick. Oh yes. I could just imagine how Tess picked that particular word. Next to me, Eugene muttered something about some cousins being idiots, but I ignored him. He knew about me and Tess. Everyone did. But the last thing I wanted right now was pity.
One good thing about family dinners: you eat. And if you eat, no one bothers you. So I loaded up my plate with the baked flounder and noodles with cheese and spinach bread, and with my aunts and uncles and cousins and parents all chattering over and around me, I ate. But all that time, I could see Tess and Lucia flirting with each other, bumping shoulders and giggling and who knows what else.
Just like Tess and me at Thanksgiving. Or my parents’ anniversary celebration last week. Or . . .
. . . or that lovely luscious first time. Through a bright haze of tears, I could see the images, like ghosts over today’s feast.
Tess giving me secretive smiles all through the Labor Day picnic. Tess cornering me in the second-floor guest room, after Aunt Juliette’s birthday party, where I went to fetch my jacket. Hey, she whispered. Don’t leave yet. I have a present for you, too. And before I knew it, we were wrapped up in each other, Tess giving me nibble-kisses over my cheeks and lips and throat, until my knees turned into water and we both fell over into a pile of leather and wool coats . . .
“Presents!” called out Uncle Teo. “Time for the gift exchange!”
Shrieking even louder, the littler cousins thundered into the living room. My mother and Aunt Juliette and Lia stayed behind to clear the tables, while Uncle Teo took charge of handing out gaudily wrapped packages, some of them smothered in ribbons, and Aunt Delores trailed after him, picking up discarded wrapping paper, and writing down who gave what.
Nothing ever changed, I thought, rubbing my forehead, which ached from the heat and the noise. Cousins yelling and laughing. Cousins drinking too much. Cousins pretending that tonight was the best night of the year. Part of me wanted to see where Tess and Lucia had gone. Part of me knew better.
A whiff of roses wafted past, sweet and soft. “Hey,” murmured a voice in my ear.
Cousin Lia knelt beside me, a tumbler of water in one hand. “You look like you could use some aspirin,” she said.
I shook my head. A mistake, because my headache-addled stomach gave a lurch. Without saying anything, Lia wrapped my hands around the tumbler. For a moment, our hands made layers, mine cold, her warm and soft and strong.
“You filled up my hands,” I said, stupidly.
“So open up.” She popped two aspirin deftly into my mouth. “Now drink the whole glass full. Want some coffee, too?”
“No, thanks.”
When I finished off the water, she took the glass, but lingered a few moments. She wore her dark brown hair coiled around her head, but a few strands had worked loose – tugged free by the irrepressible Antonio, no doubt. Lia tucked one curl behind her ear. “So. Any good presents?” she asked me.
I shrugged. “A couple. The usual.”
Lia gave me a crooked smile. “Nothing ever changes. Sometimes that’s a good thing. Sometimes . . .”
“Yeah,” I said, standing up. This time, my stomach didn’t protest the sudden movement. “Well, I think I’ll go home.”
&nb
sp; She said nothing more, but when I came back with my coat, I found all my presents neatly packaged into one, easy-to-carry bag. Lia herself had vanished.
Soft brown shadows, threaded with light. Rippling, as though stirred by a woman’s quick breath. Soft lips grazed my cheeks and throat and breasts. The spicy scent, warmed by skin and sweat, filled the air. Maura, Maura, Maura, oh, yes, that’s exactly where . . .
I woke late and miserable. A sour taste coated my tongue. That would be from the glass of straight bourbon I drank after I got home. A headache lurked behind my eyes, which felt grainy from the wrong kind of sleep.
No wonder I had such bad dreams.
Remnants of those dreams flickered in and out of recall, along with little flames of warmth that teased me in all the wrong places. I groaned. Cousins. I’m sick of them.
And there would be more cousins today. More aunts and uncles and gossip. Great-Aunt Gabrielle and Juliette would have had started cooking at dawn for the Christmas Day feast. There would be gnocchi, of course. And roast turkey. Asparagus drowning in a buttery death. Not to mention Aunt Louisa’s fabulous apple pies.
My stomach ached just thinking about all that food. First the Turns, I decided. Then aspirin and warm ginger ale, followed by coffee. Neck and shoulders creaking, I levered myself upright. For a hideous moment, my balance tilted, as though I were navigating the world underwater. No more bourbon, I swore. Especially not after white wine.
A needle-hot shower helped ease the stiffness, and the medicine settled my stomach well enough that I could face the morning. Coffee mug in hand, I shuffled into my living room, where I checked my v-phone, skimming through the voice and text messages left by half a dozen relatives. When I came to the end, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.
You expected a call, didn’t you? Idiot.
No, I expected – a good-bye, perhaps.
I sighed and let my face soak in the scent and warmth from my steaming coffee. Maybe, just maybe I could skip Christmas dinner this year. No. Bad idea. Aunt Delores the human vid-machine would never let me forget. Besides, Grandma Rosalie looked awful frail the night before. I didn’t want to miss any time with her.
Another mug of coffee. A leftover raisin bagel steamed into life. (Like me, I thought, inhaling the coffee.) I rifled through the bag with my gifts, the one Lia had so thoughtfully packed for me, and started making my own notes for thank-you cards. Three identical gift cards to BooksNBytes. (Those from my brother.) A thermal scarf with solar heating threads woven into the yarn. (That from my Aunt Carlotta.) A mini vid-card with a flash of my youngest niece laughing. A bottle of cheap air freshener from Donny. (Idiot, I thought.) DVDs. Movie tickets. Refrigerator magnets. A bottle of my favourite perfume.
Then, at the bottom, underneath a layer of green tissue paper, I found a square black envelope. Hmmmm. No name. No imprint. How odd.
I sliced the flap open and pulled out a thick rectangular card, glossy and black, with a wafer-thin connector port around the edge. As I tilted the card back and forth, silvery dots coalesced into letters that glided across its surface, only to dissolve as they slipped over the edge.
Je Ne Sais Quoi.
Joyeux Noël.
Choissisez nous pour le ravissement.
I parsed the first message. “I know not what” Huh? What was that supposed to mean? Some sort of joke? No, wait. That had to be the name or catchphrase for the . . . the whatever this card was for. And Merry Christmas was obvious. The third one, I had to struggle with, and finally retrieved my dog-eared French dictionary from college.
Choose us for . . .
My throat squeezed shut. That last word meant delight, or ravishment, or seduction. Tess, I thought. Tess making a very bad joke. What was she thinking? Or was this her idea for a good-bye present?
I flung the card into the wastebasket and went back to my thank-you notes, but my hands shook so badly, I had to rewrite three cards. And typing emails was not an option. Not in our family.
Finally I gave up and pressed both hands against my eyes, listening to my pulse beat a tired tattoo.
I’m lonely.
Of course. It was Christmas. Tess had taken up a new lover. And here I sat, in my tiny apartment, where every metal-framed designer print, every muted colour and expanse of polished wood suddenly felt like an anti-choice. No wonder I felt an odd vertigo going between here and Great-Aunt Gabriella’s house crammed with knick-knacks from the 20th century.
Vertigo. Another of Tess’s recent favourites.
I sighed again. Another four or five hours, and I would be immersed in that old-fashioned world again. Facing Tess and Lucia. Maybe it was a kind of good-bye present, but there was only one way to find out.
I flipped open my cell and dialed the familiar number. One chime, two, three. Maybe Tess wasn’t even home.
“Hello?” said Lucia.
I took a deep breath. “Hey, Lucia. It’s Maura. Is Tess awake yet?”
“Urn, yeah. Are you mad?”
“Maybe. But that’s not why I called.”
“Then why – Oh, never mind. Hold on a minute.”
A muffled conversation followed between Lucia and Tess. Before I could lose my nerve, the cell changed hands. “Hey,” Tess said. She sounded wary.
“Merry Christmas,” I said. “Yes, I’m unhappy. No, that’s not why I called. This might sound stupid, but did you sneak a gift card into my bag last night?”
There was a moment’s puzzled silence, then, “Oh no! I forgot to bring yours. No, God, I . . . I got you a book. I’ll bring it tonight. Really. Urn, what kind of gift card?”
I clapped a hand over my mouth and shook with silent laughter. Tess. Dear, forgetful, eternally curious Tess. “Something from a place called Je Ne Sais Quoi,” I told her.
“Je Ne Sais Quoi?” Her voice scaled up. “Oh. My. God. Someone loves you, Maura. That’s the spiff new techno-spa that just opened last month. Très expensive. Hey, maybe Donny gave you the card.”
I shuddered. “What a horrible thought. Thank you for mentioning that possibility.”
“You’re welcome,” she said brightly. “See you tonight.”
Cousins, I thought, as I clicked off the phone. Still shaking my head over Tess, I fished the gift card from the wastebasket. This time, when I tilted it just right, a cell number appeared, shimmering like raindrops against the black surface. So. A treat with no name, and therefore no strings attached. And just for me. Did it really matter who the giver was?
Still not certain, I called the number. Amazingly, they were open, and when I described the card, the woman gave a soft laugh. “Ah, yes. Our Christmas treats are quite popular. You might even come today if you like,” she said with a velvety-dark purr. “You will need one hour, no more. We guarantee total relaxation.”
Good God, I thought. But curiosity ran all through our family, and one hour gave me plenty of time before Christmas dinner. Better than staying here and feeling sorry for myself.
I brushed my hair, changed into better clothes. Then, armed with directions from MapQuest, I drove to the new Ninth Square project downtown, where a cluster of boutiques and expensive restaurants had appeared during the summer. Parking, usually nonexistent, was no problem today.
And there, between a coffee shop and a chocolatière, I saw a discreet illuminated sign that said Je Ne Sais Quoi.
The front door hissed open as I approached. Oh very nice, I thought, noting the fresh orchids in the windows, the chocolate-brown carpets, the tasteful photographs of landscape stills from all over the world. There was no particular scent in the air, just a fresh clean aroma that made my skin prickle with energy.
“Good morning, cousin.”
I jumped. Behind the reception desk sat my cousin Lia, dressed in dark blue wool trousers and a darker blue silk shirt, and with her hair pulled back in a shining brown cascade.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
She laughed. “Working between semesters. Didn’t Aunt Delores tell
you? Oh that’s right. You left before she started her recital of who did what and when. So what are you doing here?”
I hemmed a bit, sounding like Tess. “Urn, mystery present.”
She grinned. “Those are the best kind. May I have the card please?”
I handed it over. Lia inserted the gift card into a slot on her desk. Her eyes widened slightly. “Here,” she slid a clipboard with a pen over the desk, “fill these out while I check the equipment.”
Equipment?
But Lia had disappeared through an arched doorway. I skimmed over the form’s questions. Name, address, profession, classical or jazz or other, favourite books . . .
I jotted down the answers, wondering if I could answer these same questions for Tess. Or if she could do the same for me. Families. We hardly knew each other, in spite of crowding together every week or two. My cousin Lia, for example. At family dinners, she tended kids and acted the good niece. It was easy to forget she went to grad school for microbiology, and was heading for a research job. Then again, we all slid into different skins at those affairs. Me. Lia. Eugene. Even Donny, in his own weird way.
Lia reappeared and took the clipboard from me. “Go through here,” she said, pointing to a doorway on my left, “and into dressing room number three. You’ll find robes and slippers, if you want them. Remember to put the mesh suit on first if you want the light massage.”
Mesh suit? Light massage?
Puzzled, I went through the doorway Lia indicated, and down a short hallway, which ended in a plain octagonal room. Four white doors faced me, all of them closed. The dressing rooms, obviously.
I opened the door labelled “three.”
Oh, my.
No wonder Tess had squeaked. Antique prints hung on creamy beige walls, polished wood edged the ceiling and doors, and when I stepped inside, a dusky rose-coloured carpet cushioned my footsteps. But it was definitely a dressing room, with a shower stall, locker, hooks for my clothes, and a padded bench before a table stocked with brushes and combs and other toiletries.
The door swung shut behind me, and a woman’s voice said, “If you wish to use the locker, touch the fingerprint pad with your index finger and thumb. This will key the lock for your visit.”
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica Page 54