by CD Reiss
“The doctor said no stress. That’s stressful.”
“Is he taking all his rejection meds?”
“Yes.”
“Eating right?”
“Yes.”
“Is he exercising?”
I sighed, frustrated. She was building a case, and the jury would find in her favor. “Jogs miles and miles a day.”
“Is he not taking care of himself in any way possible?”
“He’s a model citizen.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I love him, and I don’t want to lose him. That’s the problem. When are you going to tell him about the Swiss thing?”
“Tomorrow I’m going over to your place to get some things signed. I’ll bring it up then. Be scarce.”
“Okay.” What I said with that “okay” was that she’d better do it or I would blurt something out in the bedroom. We’d agreed that it should be presented as business, and Margie was business, but after one more day, it would feel like withholding.
“What did you get him for his birthday?” Margie changed the subject.
“I wrote him a song.” As soon as I said it, I knew the song was wrong. It was about a flat compromise over a house. I’d written it before he’d reclaimed me, and I suddenly hated it.
Margie’s sigh was audible over the traffic. “You’re a good wife. It’s almost sickening.”
chapter 10.
MONICA
The morning of Jonathan’s birthday, I woke him by putting his cock in my mouth, and he twisted me around and put his mouth on me at the same time. He didn’t even say good morning before I came, groaning with his dick down my throat.
“Monica, you didn’t ask.”
“But, wait, we’re in scene?”
“Get up and stand by the window.”
I had to write him a new song, and dinner was at five. I was already cutting it close. I wasn’t a particularly quick songwriter. Since we’d both collapsed without fucking the night before, this could go on for hours.
But I couldn’t hesitate. I wasn’t afraid he’d beat me harder. I was afraid he’d think I didn’t want to play. So I stood, already naked, and faced the back patio. I wanted to do this and do it hard, then write the song, because I had no idea what I wanted to write. I had no idea what to say except everything.
“Put your hands on the glass.”
I leaned forward and put my fingertips on the back doors. Behind me, I heard his belt buckle clink and his fly zip as he put on his pants.
“Whole hand. Come on, Monica. Commit.” He spanked my ass playfully.
I put my whole palm on the glass and stretched my back.
“Open those legs.” I did, and he pressed on my lower back until my ass was all the way up. “Good.”
“Thank you.”
He nonchalantly went out the back door and looked out over the ocean. The salt breeze blew his hair back. Then, as if noticing something for the first time, he played with the bamboo stalks in the patio’s stone planter as if they were strings on a harp. Then he stood in front of a pot of rattan. It looked just like any other potted palm in Los Angeles. He’d had it brought in a few days ago to block a sliver of view from the beach. He’d insisted on rattan, and from what I’d heard on the phone, he had to go see it personally. I’d had no idea what his problem was. I didn’t know if it was some obsessive pickiness he’d inherited from his new heart that hadn’t yet had the opportunity to show itself or if it was something I simply had never known about him.
But my king wasn’t impulsive. He bent one of the leaves and snapped out his pocketknife, which also just happened to be in his jeans. He cut off a branch and stripped off the leaves.
He stood right in front of me on the other side of the glass door, as if he were in a different room, as if I couldn’t see him. He rolled the cane around in his hands, then across them, inspecting it for I didn’t even know what.
He walked back in the house with the switch. “Now,” he said from behind me, “I think we’ve talked about your orgasms before, and who owns them.”
“You do.” I looked out the window. Without him in front of me, I felt exposed, my breasts hanging, ass up.
“No one can see you.” He slapped my ass.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you believe me?”
“I want to.”
He swatted me with the rattan switch, lightly, as if testing. Then he did it harder. It was no thicker than a pinky, and that second time, it made a whipping sound before it landed with a crack. Then he did it a little harder.
I sucked in my breath.
“How is that?” he asked.
“Good, sir.”
He cracked it again, at the topmost fleshy part of my ass. The sting was incredible, searing me. I felt as if my flesh was opening. Then he did it again, an inch or so below the last stroke. I let out an mmm sound, biting my lips. And he did it again. There was a rhythm to it, a slow build as he worked his way down to my knees, searing pain leaving blossoming pleasure in its wake. Two taps to aim, one to awaken the skin, and one to make me scream in pain, and it went thwap thwap thwap THWAP. thwap thwap thwap THWAP. thwap thwap thwap THWAP.
***
In the little studio in the guest house, the piano keys went tap tap tap TAP. tap tap tap TAP as I searched for the notes. I shifted in my seat. Jonathan had given my ass and thighs plenty of aftercare, but I wouldn’t be comfortable for a couple of days. I’d think of him and his mastery of me whenever I sat or walked, which was the point.
I had only a few hours, and I was slow. Slow with words and clunky with melody. I missed Gabby. She made things work in minutes. I’d write a poem to the snap of my fingers, and she would tap out the rhythm and embellish it until we had a song. Not every song was good, but at least I knew what I was dealing with before ten minutes had passed.
But by myself, I had a hard time. I thought the work was good in the end, but I wasn’t producing well under pressure. I didn’t even know what the song was about, except time.
Ten years. It had been impossible to talk about that length of time without impaling myself on it. It was so far off, and tomorrow. It was a lie, because it could be so much more if he took care of himself and played by the rules. Even after his heart gave out, if the doctors saw he ate right and took his medicine, he’d get another heart if it came available. It had been done. And was it really ten? Because there was a very healthy guy in Wyoming who had had his for a record-breaking twenty-five years, and there were new advances in anti-rejection meds every day and and and… .
None of that would matter if he was dead. So I’d planned for that eventuality by girding myself, day after day. It would hurt. I would be in the hospital again, crying over him, alone, vulnerable, and scared. A shaft of ice already stabbed my spine whenever I passed Sequoia Hospital, and the knowledge that one day soon, I would go back for the same reason froze me in panic.
All I did was pray for him. The first six months of our marriage had been one big prayer without end, amen.
I couldn’t get control of it by running or staying, and he wanted children. Children. I’d lost my father, and it had crushed me. But Jonathan wanted to have children and disappear when the oldest was nine. Or eight. Or who even knew. Left with a hopeless mother who had lost the love of her life. No amount of money could cure that.
And now, six months later, with his breath in my ear and his sexual dominance reestablished, was anything solved? No. Nothing was. But God damn if I was going to sing him a birthday song about a house because it was the only thing we could agree on.
He was better than that.
We were better than that.
I had a few hours to write him a new song. Not about how much time we had. Not about all our failings, but about what we meant to each other. About how fulfilling and worthwhile those ten years could be, if I stopped squinting into the distance at the end of them.
Tap tap tap TAP. tap tap tap TAP.
chapter 11.
Jogging. Herbal tea. Rabbit food. Jesus Christ, how had I survived six months without making my wife beg for mercy? I stood in the driveway, looking at our house from the street, for the hundredth time. It was deep in and behind a wall of roses, but who could see? From what angle? If I fucked her on the back patio, were her shaking tits visible from the public part of the beach? Could they hear her scream next door?
The low-slung, mid-century glass box was so well-designed and so well-placed that unless we kept the lights on and fucked against the window in a certain part of the bedroom at night, we couldn’t be seen. I’d known that from the second day. But it felt as if we were exposed, and she liked that.
That morning, before she’d slinked off to the guest house to tap on the practice piano, I’d taken her against that window. Her handprints were still on it, like two frosted starfish. She’d put her hands against the glass when I told her to, ass out, legs spread almost but not quite wide enough. I’d stuck my fingers in her.
“No one can see you,” I’d said then slapped her ass.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you believe me?”
“I want to.”
I’d caned her hard and thoroughly until my arm ached and she was a groaning mess. It was her way of telling me she trusted me but needed that shade of doubt. It brought her so close to orgasm, I barely had to touch her with my dick before she came.
I might even learn to like this house.
“What are you doing in the middle of the street?” said a voice from behind me.
I didn’t turn around. I knew my sister’s voice better than I knew my mother’s. “You should call before you show up.”
Margie was hanging half out of the window of her Mercedes and waving for me to get out of her way into the driveway.
“I’m a newlywed, you know,” I said.
“We had an appointment.” She pulled in, and I followed on foot, letting the gate close behind me.
I opened the door for her when she stopped. “We did. I forgot.”
She got out, yanking her briefcase free of the passenger seat floor. “You shouldn’t have fired your assistant before you were finished with your business.”
“I’m sick of calendars and commitments.”
She made a thick sound that could have been interpreted as a harrumph, except that was too passive-aggressive for my sister. If she had something to say, she’d never let a vocal tic replace a well-placed barb. I led her inside.
“You want something?” I asked, opening the fridge.
“Nice place,” she said, putting her briefcase on the island bar. “I almost went to the old one. Up in the hills.” She snapped the briefcase open.
I got her a glass of water with no ice, and she thanked me as if she’d actually asked for it. But she didn’t have to. I knew her at least that well. I opened a bottle of water for myself. I was off Perrier. Carbonation was on the No Intake list.
“Is it what you expected?” I asked.
“I expected a house cut in half with masking tape,” she answered, taking papers out and laying them in neat piles on the granite.
“Did I make it sound that bad?” I had leaned on Margie the most since the surgery. I’d never talked about my emotional life before, but I had to now or I’d break. Margie was my valve, because she was honest and straight, and she knew when to shut the hell up.
“For two people suffering from post-traumatic stress? I think you’re doing great. Not that I have anything healthy to compare you to.” She clicked a pen and handed it to me. “Sign where I put yellow tabs. Initial on the purple.”
I started from left to right, signing away about ten years of my life. The business I’d rebuilt for Dad in repayment for silence over Rachel. Twenty-two to thirty-two—over a billion and a quarter in assets in a managed trust. He could have it. Sale of the hotels, except K, where I met Monica. I wasn’t ready to let that go. Another half a billion in real estate to a trust Margie would manage and share. After all the sales, my responsibility would be to do nothing but take care of myself.
“You think you might get bored?” Margie asked when I was halfway through the stacks.
“Yes. But I don’t know what to do about it.”
“There’s this thing I heard about. You might be interested. Could kill some time. Definitely burn through some cash.”
“Go on.”
“In Switzerland. They’re really close on an artificial heart.”
“No.”
“It’s made from tissue. It doesn’t need an external battery,” she said.
“No.”
“They need a lot of money for development, but you have it.”
“Am I speaking the wrong language? No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like the Swiss. The cheese offends me.”
“Nice answer. Got a reason that makes sense?”
I put down the pen. I knew my mouth was set because I felt the tension in my jaw. “What would be the point? To get my wife’s hopes up when it won’t work? Then I die anyway? The sooner she starts coping with it, the better.”
She pushed the pen toward me. “Finish up.”
I got back to signing at the tabs. Full signature for yellow. Initials at purple. “I have the Arts Foundation to run. That’ll keep me busy.”
“Yeah. And you don’t have to waste your time hoping for anything. You don’t have to build a future.”
“I’m the one who wants kids.”
“That’s not a future if you’re dead. That’s called a legacy.”
I checked the details and flopped the last contract closed. “Just like a lawyer to get hung up on semantics.”
“Just like a man.” She restacked her papers, clacking them against the counter. “You just want to piss on the world one last time like it’s a fire hydrant you’ll never see again. I don’t blame her for holding out on you.”
Coming from anyone else, I would have been enraged. But Margie’s love was so unconditional, I didn’t know if she could ever say anything to make me truly angry.
“You know this is not about legacy,” I said.
“Not consciously.”
“It’s about Monica.”
“The everlasting gift of your DNA? Way to woo a girl.”
I laughed. I had nothing else for her. I couldn’t even explain myself to myself.
“It’s nice to see you laugh, little brother. I thought they’d transplanted your sense of humor there for a while.”
“Are you staying for lunch? I could stand to be insulted for another hour.”
“Sorry.” She plopped the papers in her briefcase. “Some of us have to work.”
“I have a thing,” I said. “For the birthday dinner later. I need you and Sheila to help.”
She raised an eyebrow at me while she snapped the case closed. “A thing?”
“You’ll like it. It involves jewelry.”
“I hate jewelry.”
“You’ll like this.”
chapter 12.
MONICA
I exited the studio in the mid-afternoon, completely unsatisfied with my work. I went into the kitchen and, seeing as Jonathan wasn’t around, reached for his box of pills.
I didn’t know where I’d picked up the habit of thinking it was all right to count someone’s meds. From living with Gabby, maybe. Jonathan had Laurelin to monitor him, make sure his medication was taken, and help him mind his Ps and Qs. That didn’t stop me from peeking in his little plastic box with the days of the week on it.
Too many sets and subsets of pills. No wonder he needed a medical professional.
“Stop it¸” I told myself, snapping the box shut.
I pushed it back into the corner between the toaster and the fridge, but it was too late. The medicines had a smell, and they brought it all back. The inevitable images of him dying in that fucking hospital, his heart breaking right out of his chest. The colors of the hospital lounge carpet, the paint, the cafeteria, th
e recovery room, all of it flashed before me. I closed my eyes as if that would block out the smells and colors of those weeks.
“He’s fine,” I said to myself. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” Jonathan came in from the patio, slick with sweat and ocean water. He’d been jogging.
“Stop tracking sand all over the floor. Look at this mess!”
“Why?” He grabbed my waist and pulled me into him. “Afraid it’ll scratch your back?” He pushed me into the kitchen island and bit my neck at the curve.
“Don’t leave a mark!” I pushed him away, not that it did anything. “We’re going to Sheila’s and—” I couldn’t finish when he stuck his hand between my legs and yanked my pants down by the crotch. “We just did it,” I groaned. I could have ended the California drought with what flowed between my legs.
“Define ‘just.’” He unceremoniously pulled up my shirt and grabbed a nipple. My body went on high alert.
“I’m still sore.”
“That’s how I like you.”
I pushed him away for real. “I don’t want to use my safe word for stupid bullshit, Drazen, but back off. I’m making a snack. What do you want?”
He smiled, taking the hint but not believing me. “You, with butter and jelly.”
“I have a baguette left from last night.”
“Fine.” He pulled my shirt down.
“You should have protein. An egg or something.”
“There’s enough protein in my morning shake to create an entire mammalian species.”
I kissed him gently. “You should try the bread with the chimichuri.”
“Hell, no.” He opened the fridge and leaned into where the condiments hung out. His running pants hung low on his hips. “I see you looking at me,” he said, still rooting around the back.
“You’ve gained weight.”
“These are my fat pants.” He smiled, shutting the door and putting the goods on the counter.
I unscrewed the cap on the hot sauce and ripped off a piece of baguette. “Try.” I dipped the bread into the sauce, but I got as little as possible. I wanted my husband to get over the spicy food thing. I knew it embarrassed him. I held it up. “Come on, I made this with my own hands, with my mother. Think of the generations of women who have perfected it for the sake of this one moment in time.”