by Kim Barnes
Ruthie let out a cackle of relief, reached into her purse, and tapped out two cigarettes, her hands trembling.
“See?” she said. “I told you we’d have fun.”
I dropped my head back, blew a stream of smoke. “Not the kind of fun I want to have every day,” I said, even though it wasn’t true.
She bumped against my shoulder. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re the best.” When I ducked my head, pleased and a little embarrassed, she laughed. “Listen, meet me and Linda at the pool tomorrow morning. We’ll work on our tans.”
By the time we arrived back in Abqaiq, the adrenaline had drained away, leaving me with a pounding headache. Yash eyed me coolly when I dropped my bags to the floor, splayed on the couch, and kicked off my shoes.
“We went to al-Khobar,” I said, grinning. “The Virtue Police tried to catch us, but we got away.”
He lifted his chin, whether in disbelief or disapproval, I couldn’t tell. “You are welcome to freshen up a bit before dinner,” he said.
I watched him back into the kitchen, then gathered my shoes and bags and half swaggered to the bedroom. I laid out the swimsuit and spent an hour in the tub, shaving my legs, smoothing my heels. In the bottom vanity drawer, I had discovered an abandoned stash of Betsy’s makeup, and I lined my mouth with Strawberry Meringue, then opened a bottle of polish and painted my toenails Jungle Red. I couldn’t quit looking at them, pleased by the bright flash of color. I pulled on the bikini and appraised myself in the mirror, turning to see my naked shoulders, the bare expanse of each leg. “You’ve got gams like a filly,” Mason often cooed to me. “Want to take me for a ride?” I tucked my arms against my sides, hoping for more cleavage, stood on my tiptoes, sauntered back and forth, tipped my chin like Marilyn Monroe. I pulled up my hair, let it fall back around my face. “You’re such a tease,” I said aloud, and pretended a flirty laugh, leaned in until my breath fogged the mirror, and pressed my lips to the glass. The perfect bow, the ghosting condensation—I decided to leave it, just to see what Yash would do. Some part of me liked the idea of his finding it there as he cleaned, hesitating just a moment, maybe two, before wiping it away.
Chapter Five
Abqaiq buzzed with electric heat as I walked to the pool the next morning, the coolest hours already boiled dry. Mynah birds panted in the deep forks of trees, whistling their distress, sometimes mimicking the beep of a car horn. The Bedouin boy at the snack bar nodded as I passed, shyly offering his greeting, his eyes never lifting from that place where my sundress dipped toward cleavage. I wondered at the stories he must tell his friends—whether he spoke of the Aramco wives with admiration or contempt—and thought of Abdullah. How did he move between one world and the other, compound to tent to compound? Did he tell his mother of all that he witnessed or keep it from her like a teenage boy who took his visions to bed?
“Gin, over here!” I saw Ruthie, laid out on her chaise longue, sleek as a seal, Linda Dalton beside her, all legs and décolletage, a cigarette in one hand, a Pepsi in the other, her beehive perfectly coiffed. They waved me past a passel of children gathered in the shallow end, splashing and screeching their delight. A few of the young mothers raised their faces to see who I was, then dropped back to their magazines. I smiled down as I walked by, the knot in my stomach bunching. I counted the months, as I had done so many times before. Come June, my son would have been born.
Ruthie introduced me to Linda, who pointed at a bottle of coconut oil. “Help yourself,” she said.
“Thanks.” I sat on the longue and kicked loose my sandals, working up the courage to strip my dress. I looked at Ruthie and smiled when she handed me a soda.
“Just take it off,” she said.
I stood and turned in a half circle, trying to find the position that would afford me the greatest privacy before letting the dress fall. I folded it quickly and reclined on the longue, my arms crossed, the sexy confidence I had felt the night before gone.
Ruthie rubbed a bit more oil onto her already glistening thighs. “Linda was just telling me about this engineer from Morocco,” she said. “Sounds cute.”
“He’s rich,” Linda said. “Too bad he’s not white.”
“He’s whiter than some you’ve dated.” Ruthie pulled back her neck strap to check her tan line.
“Not close enough to take home to Daddy.”
“You don’t have to marry him, you know,” Ruthie said. “Why buy the pig when you can get the sausage for free?”
“Easy for you to say.” Linda rolled to her stomach and undid her top, let the straps fall to each side. “You don’t eat pork.”
“That puts me with the majority here,” Ruthie said. “You’re just a common infidel.”
“There’s nothing common about me, Miss Ruthie.”
I took a sip of Pepsi and listened to their banter, fascinated by the easy give and take I had never heard between women. I remembered Carlo Leoni and looked around the pool, wondering how many of the women he had bedded.
“Don’t forget to turn over, Gin,” Ruthie cautioned. “You’ll broil instead of bake.”
The thought of rolling to my stomach, exposing my backside, filled me with misery, but I did it anyway, hooking my fingers in the elastic legs of my bottoms to gain an inch more coverage.
Ruthie snorted. “You’re funny.”
“Leave her alone.” Linda, her cheek against the chaise, sounded drowsy. “She’s shy.”
“Look at her,” Ruthie said. “How could you ever be ashamed of that body? I’d be showing it off every chance I got.”
“She’s not you,” Linda said.
“She’s repressed,” Ruthie said, “just like you.”
Linda raised her head. “You think I’m repressed?”
“Well, maybe not you.” Ruthie pulled a Thermos from her beach bag, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and filled her pop bottle. “Ginny Mae?”
I hesitated before handing her my soda. “Just a little, please.”
“That’s what we all say. Drink what you want, and I’ll finish the rest.” She tipped the Thermos, then tucked it back in her bag. “If no one sees it, it doesn’t exist, just like everything else in this place.”
“What’s the word on Katie Johnson?” Linda asked.
“Candy says nervous breakdown.” Ruthie sucked on her cigarette. “I say home abortion.”
“True?” Linda asked, although she didn’t seem surprised.
“What do you think?” Ruthie blew a stream of smoke from the side of her mouth. “She’s fifty if she’s a day, with six kids already. I’d just kill myself and get it over with.”
Linda clucked her tongue. “You have to admit that Clyde’s still got it.”
“Clyde needs to keep it in his pants.” Ruthie looked at me. “Linda decided it wasn’t worth having a husband just to have children. It’s very enlightened of her.”
“Shut up, Ruthie,” Linda said.
“That’s what you told me.”
Linda flipped to her back, her top falling away to reveal a full breast and pink nipple. I looked down until she got herself fastened. “What are you and Lucky up to these days, anyway?” she asked.
Ruthie lifted her sunglasses. “Short leave in Bahrain, then Christmas break in Ceylon. Joey is going to meet us for Hanukkah.” She gestured to me with her lighter. “You and Mason need to start thinking about where you want to go. The company will fly you anywhere. Every two years, you get a full month’s home leave.” She smirked at Linda. “That’s when we’re supposed to reconnect with the mother country.”
“Right,” Linda said. “Why would you go back to the States when you can go to Morocco?” She rested her arm across her eyes. “How about your husband, Gin? He’s offshore, right?”
“Ten more days,” I said. The liquor made me feel light-headed, a little giddy. “Seems like forever.”
Linda peeked one eye my way. “You’ll get used to it. There’s more than enough to do around here. The problem is what not to d
o.”
“Boy, that’s the truth,” Ruthie said. “The wives who spend their hours making spaetzle are nuts. Lucky knows better than to expect me to meet him at the door, all cooey.” She snapped her eyes like a doll. “ ‘Here’s your martini, dear, and your slippers, and dinner is on the table.’ Blah. He’s lucky if he can find me at all.”
“He just follows the trail of booze bottles,” Linda said.
“Funny.” Ruthie waved her magazine. “All I know is that when he gets home, he wants food, sex, and sleep, not necessarily in that order, and if I don’t give it to him, someone else will.” She cocked her head my way. “You’ll want to keep your eye on Mason, especially around Candy.”
I felt my scalp tighten. “Mason would never …”
Ruthie sucked in her cheeks. “There are some things no man can resist.”
“Like what?” I asked.
She crooked a grin Linda’s way. “More wine, more time, we’ll talk.” She pushed on her sunglasses, brought up her magazine, and I was left to the lull of the sun, the pleasant hum in my ears. I closed my eyes, drifted in and out with the rise and fall of the children’s laughter until Ruthie swung her feet to the ground. “You’re getting pink, Gin. You’ll have good color for the ball.”
Linda sat up. “Who’s going?”
“We are,” Ruthie said. “Come with us.”
“Maybe.” Linda swallowed the last of her Pepsi.
“I like your earrings,” I said. I’d been admiring the little coins that dangled at her jaw.
“Want to try them?” Linda pulled one loose, held it out. I clipped it on, wishing I had a mirror.
Ruthie looked at Linda. “I thought your ears were pierced.”
“I’ve never gotten around to it.”
“You?” When Ruthie squinted at my lobes, I shook my head. She pondered for a moment, then pulled on her dress and slipped into her sandals. “Let’s do it.”
“What?” I asked.
“Pierce your ears.”
I looked at Linda, who looked at me and grinned. “Why not?” she said.
How could I answer? Because my grandfather said that only ruined women pierced their ears? Because I had to ask Mason first?
“Why not?” I echoed, and shook out my sundress, let it slide over my shoulders, felt the tacky catch of tanning oil, the prickle of sunburn. “Where?”
“Your house,” Ruthie said. “Yash can feed us one of his fabulous lunches.” She directed her voice at Linda. “Gin’s got a dream of a houseboy. Waits on her hand and foot.”
“My houseboy can’t cook worth beans,” Linda said. “All he wants to do is sit on the porch and smoke his stinky brown cigarettes. Maybe I need a new one.”
Ruthie motioned for us to follow her. “Come on,” she said. “We’re going to make this fun.”
I climbed in back, and we drove to the little suq, where we found a pack of darning needles. The Arab clerks watched us openly as we tittered over our purchases, but I didn’t care, buoyed by the liquor and sun. A quick stop at Ruthie’s house, where Linda and I waited in the car while she ran in and returned with an armload of formal gowns and a jewelry case that she piled on top of me. When we pushed into the foyer of my house, hot and smelling like fruit salad, Yash stopped his meal preparations long enough to look from Ruthie to Linda and then to me. I attempted an encouraging smile that slipped sideways as I followed Ruthie and Linda into the bedroom. Ruthie stripped naked before I could step out of my sundress, and I kept my eyes averted as she considered the gowns.
“The midnight blue,” Ruthie said, pointing Linda to a floor-length dress with a plunging neckline and ruched waist. “I’m taking the red empire.”
I chose the emerald ball gown made of taffeta with a sweetheart neckline and three-quarter sleeves. Ruthie helped with my makeup while Linda pinned my hair. When I looked into the mirror, I hardly recognized the woman there: hair swept into a chignon, face full of color. Like the prom queen I’d never been.
Yash, wary as a cat, stiffened when we came back into the kitchen.
“We need sadiqi and clothespins and a potato cut in half,” Ruthie ordered. She struck a match and ran the flame over a large darning needle. “Who’s first?”
“I want to get it over with.” Linda scooted onto the high stool, the blue iridescence of her dress shimmering, and downed several swallows. I tipped my own glass, my throat burning. Ruthie clamped Linda’s earlobes with the clothespins Yash had mustered.
“We’ll leave these there for a minute,” she said, “and then you’ll be numb.”
“May I ask,” Yash queried, “what is happening?”
“I’m piercing their ears,” Ruthie said.
He moved closer as Ruthie removed one of the clothespins. “There will be infection,” he said.
“That’s what this is for.” She poured a saucer full of moonshine and dropped in two sets of studs from the jewelry box. “Are you ready?”
Linda took a long drag off her cigarette. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Ruthie pressed the potato half against the back of Linda’s left earlobe and positioned the needle. Yash’s eyes had widened, whether with horror or fascination, I couldn’t tell.
“Here it goes,” Ruthie said, and punched the needle through.
“Ouch,” Linda said.
“Almost done with this one.” She withdrew the needle, wiped the blood, and pressed a gold stud into the tiny hole.
“Ouch again.” Linda said. “Now it’s throbbing.”
“Keep drinking,” Ruthie said, and repeated the procedure on the other side. When she was done, Linda’s earlobes were red and beginning to swell. She slid from the stool, hiked her dress, said, “Your turn,” and wobbled toward the bathroom, taking her glass with her.
“One more drink,” I said, and took as much into my mouth as I could swallow.
“You do not have to do this,” Yash said.
I nodded as Ruthie applied the clothespins, felt them pinch and swing heavy at my jaw. “It’s fun,” I said.
He scowled. “This does not look like fun.”
“Hush,” Ruthie said. “She’s fine.”
He drew back, picked up his knife, and began slicing a cucumber. “It is not easy to prepare a meal in the face of such bloodletting.”
When Ruthie pulled the clothespin from my left ear, I closed my eyes, felt the raw coolness of the potato and then the hot sting of the needle. The throb was immediate, as though the lobe were pulsing, inflating with fire. When the post of the earring popped through the tough tissue, my stomach rolled.
“Are you okay?” Ruthie asked.
I opened my eyes, swallowed the water pooling beneath my tongue. “I think so.”
“Take another drink. You’re almost done.”
It was all I could do to keep my seat as she pulled loose the second clothespin and positioned the potato. I looked at Yash, who shook his head and turned away.
“Here it goes,” Ruthie said. I winced, felt a cool sweat break out across my chest. By the time it was over, I was shaking. Ruthie lit a cigarette and placed it between my lips. “Good girl. Let’s go sit in the living room until lunch is ready.”
Linda was on the couch, the color back in her face. Ruthie dropped the Beatles album she had brought along onto the hi-fi, then plopped down between us, pulling at the waist of her dress as George Harrison sang about the taxman.
“Just keep swabbing your earlobes with alcohol,” Ruthie said. “In a few days, you’ll be all healed.”
Yash came in with what remained of the pineapple wine and a tray of chapati, dal, and fresh vegetables.
“No, thanks,” Linda said. “I need to get home and take some aspirin.” She waited until Yash had left the room, then lowered her voice. “He’s not like any houseboy I’ve ever seen.”
“Told you,” Ruthie said.
I smiled as though I had won some kind of prize. “He’s more like a friend,” I said.
Linda glanced at Ruthie, then back at me.
“I wouldn’t let it get around,” she said, then gathered her purse. “I’ll see you two kids at the ball.”
“With the Moroccan?” Ruthie asked.
“You know they wouldn’t let him in,” she said, “any more than they’d let Yash walk through the door.” She pulled out her sunglasses, touched my shoulder. “We’re like blood sisters,” she said. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
When latch clicked shut, I reached for the bottle, feeling like I had survived some kind of ritual. “Linda’s nice,” I said.
“She’s not ‘nice.’ ” Ruthie snapped a carrot between her teeth. “She’s smart and she’s beautiful. But I’ll tell you this”—she pointed the severed carrot—“if she ever lays a hand on my Lucky, I’ll snatch her bald.”
I tried to imagine Linda Dalton, smooth and polished as a racehorse, taking a shine to Lucky Doucet. I looked down at my bare feet, thought I saw drops of blood before remembering I’d painted my toenails red. I tried to focus, closed my eyes, opened them again.
Yash came in to tighten the blinds and stack a few more records on the hi-fi, Pat Boone crooning his love as Ruthie poured another glass of wine. She leaned back, lolling her head to the music. “So I’m a college student in Beirut, dating this putz named Reuben. Reuben the Rat, that’s what my girlfriends called him, because he had this sharp little face.” She crinkled her nose, bucked her teeth, then laughed and clapped as though to dispel his memory. “Anyway, we’re at this dance club, and in walks Lucky Doucet in his dress blues, out on leave. Bigger than anyone else in the room.” She reached for a piece of bread, dipped it in dal, kept talking. “He came right at me like no one else was around. Didn’t say a word to Reuben, just took my hand and led me to the dance floor. We didn’t stop until the club shut down.” She rocked forward, lowered her voice. “Then he took me to his hotel, pattering to me in that sexy Cajun French the whole time. We started the minute the door closed, right there on the floor. Made love in every corner of that room before the night was over. I never heard from Reuben again.” Her fingers traced the single strand of pearls at her neck, and she smiled, looked at me sideways. “Your turn. Tell me about Mason.”