by Kim Barnes
I hesitated. I didn’t know how to tell my own story, how to make sense of any of it. I felt like if I started pulling the thread, it would all unravel into a pile of nothing. Ruthie touched my knee.
“We’ve got time,” she said. “Start at the beginning.”
So I did. I told her about my mother’s illness and death, about my grandfather’s whippings. I told her about Mason and the only baby I would ever have. Ruthie dabbed at my mascara with her napkin.
“You’re in a good place to start over, Gin. We all are.” She held her cigarette to my lips, and I inhaled, felt the bite of tobacco. “Believe me, it could always be worse. The girls around here could be stoned for doing some of the stuff we did.” She lowered her gaze, ran one thumb around the rim of her glass. “My parents and brothers all died in the death camps. Everyone except me.” When I started to react, she shook her head. “Old news,” she said. “Maybe that’s why I like it here. Most of us have some grief we’re leaving behind.” She clinked her glass against mine. “Cheers,” she said, and tipped it back. “Now, let’s talk about something fun. Tell me a joke.”
I sat for a moment. “I don’t think I know any jokes,” I said.
“Then here’s one,” Ruthie said. “So Issy and Sadie were not having a good sex life. ‘How come you never tell me when you have an orgasm?’ asks Issy. Sadie looks at him and says, ‘Because you’re never home!’ ”
I cracked up, maybe a little too loudly because Ruthie straightened and peered at me, sly-eyed. “Don’t tell me,” she said, “don’t tell me you’ve never had one.”
“I have them all the time,” I said, then clapped my hand over my mouth, and we both fell back laughing. I jerked upright when I heard Yash step into the room.
“What do you have when a Pakistani is buried to his neck in sand?” he asked.
We shook our heads.
“Not enough sand.” He chuckled, then composed himself. “I’m going to market,” he said. “Is there anything that you need?”
“Oh, please.” Ruthie hiccuped. “Don’t get us started.”
He tucked his lips, but the smile broke before he could turn. Ruthie and I lay against each other, catching our breath, listening to his footsteps fade away.
“He’s a nice guy, Yash is.” Ruthie pushed herself back against the couch, rubbing her ribs. “He’d make someone a good wife.”
“He’s a better wife than I am,” I said. “I don’t do anything around here.”
“It’s what you do in bed that counts,” Ruthie said. She dragged her purse up off the floor, pulled out her compact. I took her wrist, peered into the little mirror.
“I look awful,” I said, and dabbed my mouth with her lipstick.
Ruthie looked at her reflection and sighed. “Next to you, I look like a dried-up old prune.”
“That’s not true,” I said, and focused on her eyes. “You’re beautiful.”
Ruthie cupped her breasts, let them drop. “Everything is heading south.”
“If I stick out my tongue,” I said, “I look like a zipper.”
“You’re like the French,” she said. “More than a champagne coupe is a waste.”
I fell back against the couch, plucked at the bodice of my gown. “Now what are we going to do?”
“I’ve seen all the movies,” she said. “Lucky promised he’ll take me to Under the Yum Yum Tree when it gets here. I just love Jack Lemmon.” She tilted against me. “We could go to the bowling alley and seduce the pin boys.”
I rolled my head to meet her eyes. “You could tell me what no man can resist,” I said.
She drew back and considered me for a moment. “What’s the nastiest thing you’ve ever done with a man?”
I tried to focus, felt my vision waver. “Mason is the only man I’ve ever been with.”
“I should have known,” Ruthie said. “Okay, then, what’s the nastiest thing you’ve ever done with Mason?”
I tipped forward a little, held my glass close. “We made love once standing up in the kitchen,” I said.
“That’s not nasty.” She chuffed. “That’s wholesome.” She tilted her head. “You really are that innocent, aren’t you?”
I gave a slow blink. “Weren’t you a virgin when you met Lucky?”
Ruthie’s face went blank for a moment before breaking into a smirk. “Oh, kid,” she said, “you’re a case.” She sucked in an ice cube, let it drop back into the glass. “You’ve got to keep them guessing or they get smug and then they’re boring.” She took a drag off her cigarette, cast her eyes to the ceiling, let the smoke out in a smooth stream. “What about fellatio?”
I scrunched my shoulders. I had never heard the word before, thought it might be somebody’s name, a character in a book I hadn’t yet read.
“You know, blow job?” Ruthie said. “Your mouth on his thingy? Lucky loves it. All men do.”
I sat silent for a moment, trying to imagine. “You just put your mouth on it?”
Ruthie picked up the empty booze bottle. “Watch.” She closed her eyes and let the glass slide in, then bobbed her head up and down, and I saw the pink of her tongue flick along the underside, circle the neck. When she licked her lips and winked at me, I barked out a laugh.
“See? That’s all you have to do,” Ruthie said. “Get your mouth on a man, and he’s yours for life.” She wiped the lipstick from the bottle and passed it to me. “Just imagine you’re sucking on a Popsicle,” she said. “You’re hot, and it’s melting.”
I swallowed the last of my drink, held my cigarette away from my face. The bottle clinked against my teeth.
“Fold your lips over,” Ruthie said, “like you don’t have a tooth in your head.”
I was making another attempt when the door swung open in a hot whirl of air. Ruthie and I let out yelps of surprise when Lucky swaggered in.
“What the hell?” he said. “You girls expecting company?” Mason stood beside him, looking at me like I had grown horns.
“Why are you home?” I asked, and touched my lips, swollen and raw, felt my earlobes burning. “What’s wrong?”
“They hauled us in for a meeting with the emir,” Lucky said. “You know the Saudis. Everything’s got to be on their time.” He gave Ruthie a squeeze. “Grab your wraps, ladies. The head honcho wants to meet the wives. We’ve got a real party to go to.” He swiped Ruthie’s flask, emptied it in one swallow.
Mason took in the table, the overflowing ashtrays, the empty bottle with its smear of red lipstick, then looked back at me. His eyes settled on my newly styled hair. “Guess we’re ready,” he said.
“But our clothes,” I said.
“You’re fine,” Ruthie said. “It’s a party, after all.” She threw me a scarf, and I attempted to tuck myself into some semblance of decency as we hiked our gowns and stumbled out to the Land Cruiser, where Abdullah waited, dressed in a fine thobe and crisp white ghutra. He looked at me quickly, then away as I climbed into the back between Mason and Ruthie, and I flushed with embarrassment, as though he knew everything I had been doing.
“Here,” Ruthie said, and held out a stick of gum. “Just don’t breathe on anybody.”
“Now, you girls remember.” Lucky threw the words back over his shoulder. “If the emir takes a shine, we got to give you to him. Ain’t that right, Abdullah?”
Abdullah’s face in the rearview didn’t change. “The emir is a man of great appetite,” he said.
Mason snorted quietly. When I moved my hand into his, he glanced at me, took in my hair, my newly pierced ears, then turned his eyes back to the desert. “I’m headed back out in the morning,” he said, his voice low.
“I wish you could stay,” I said.
He looked at me. “Do you?”
Ruthie leaned around me, her breath sweet with mint and pineapple. “Of course she does. We were just being silly.”
Mason looked from her to me, and I smiled, squeezed his hand, but he seemed almost bewildered, as though he wasn’t quite sure who or what t
o believe.
A mile outside the compound, a white tent as big as a house rose from the desert. In a roped area behind, I could see the milling of horses, hear their nickering calls. Abdullah led us from the Land Cruiser, greeting the other Arabs with elaborate kisses, holding their hands as they talked. I had never seen men kiss one another, never known them to show such easy affection to anyone, wife or child—and I realized that I was listing, my drunken buzz turning to a dull-eyed stare.
“Got some racers back there,” Lucky said. “I’ve got my money on that pretty gray mare. Fast-fast.” He repeated the words as though once were not enough to convey the extent of his meaning. “Bet you a sawbuck.”
Ruthie punched him in the arm. “You’d better not let anyone hear you say that. You’ll get us all caned for gambling.”
“Hell, these boys don’t know what real gambling is.” He chuckled and pointed his chin. “I’m going to check out my meal ticket. Watch your slips, ladies,” he said, and walked from the shadow of the tent.
Mason tilted his head to where a group of American men, bolstered by pillows atop a low platform, sat drinking coffee.
“I’d better get in on that powwow,” he said. “Remember to stay with the wives.”
I shuffled closer to Ruthie. “He’s mad at me,” I whispered.
“That’s just business,” Ruthie said. “You’ll learn to tell the difference.” She stood on her tiptoes, looked to where Lucky and a corpulent Arab man in richly colored robes stood, watching the horses. I saw them bend their heads in discussion, Lucky gesticulating to the gray mare, whose coat shifted from dark to light, like hammered silver in the sun. “That’s Alireza, one of the bigwig Saudi merchants,” Ruthie said in a hush. “I hope if he’s betting, Lucky wins.”
“I thought gambling was against the law,” I said.
“Arabia is like anywhere else,” she said. “If you have enough money, there’s nothing that’s not legal.”
I tried to redirect my attention to where the Aramco children knelt in rows, their mothers hovering close, scolding misbehavior, the emir laughing from his elevated chair. Near the front, Candy Fullerton stood over Ross Junior, scowling and pinching his shoulder. Pillbox hat, box jacket, A-line skirt—prim and proper as a Sunday-school teacher. She glanced at me and Ruthie in our formal gowns, and her eyes widened in disbelief.
“Wear it like you mean it,” Ruthie said, and adjusted her bra strap.
I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my taffeta pleats as the emir rose and began making his way down the row of women and children, greeting each one with genuine kindness. He was a big man and seemed little in need of the even larger bodyguards who flanked him, their glowering made more ominous by the bandoliers, rifles, and swords that hung from their shoulders and hips. “Slaves from Africa,” Ruthie whispered. “They’re free but loyal.” I swallowed my gum, watched as Ruthie gave a slight curtsy and the emir wished good health on her father and her sons, his voice deep and clear.
“Thank you,” Ruthie said. “Ashkurak.” The emir smiled broadly and had just turned to me when one of his advisers whispered in his ear and directed him toward the viewing platform.
“I need to find Lucky,” Ruthie said. She spied him near the end of the course, where a loud group of drillers hunched and swaggered, shielding their bids.
“You go ahead,” I said. “I’m fine.”
She hesitated for a moment. “Just stay close,” she said, “or Mason will have your hide and mine too.”
I worked my way through the crowd of men—workers still in their khakis, administrators in dress shirts and black ties, important-looking Arabs in white thobes—their words and laughter melding into a single language. It reminded me of a revival, the believers pouring in from neighboring congregations, an enormous white tent blooming amid the stubble of an empty field, the noisy chaos of cars and kids and dogs and, as the evening steamed toward night, the holler and stomp of praise. The spirit descended like a heavenly dove but took up residence with a fierceness that belied its promise of peace: men launched from their seats, trembling and shouting at the top of their lungs; women high-stepped to the altar, heads thrown back, dancing until they fell and lay convulsing with the gift of laughter. Holy Rollers, they called us, but only once did I see anyone roll, and that was Brother Fogarty, who not only rolled but did handsprings up and down the aisle, the tail of his shirt flapping until he flipped to a stop, straightened, pulled out a comb, and smoothed his hair, speaking in tongues all the while. At the end of one long night’s service, he was nowhere to be found, but because I was small, I had squatted down and discovered him snoring beneath a pew. Sister Fogarty had given me a stick of Black Jack gum for my troubles, but the taste of anise had made my throat burn, and I had added the wad to the bottom of the children’s bench, only to be discovered in the act by my grandfather, who took me back to the church the next afternoon, handed me a knife, tipped the bench, and sat me on the floor, where I pried at the archipelago of petrified gum for hours, wishing that I had left Brother Fogarty where he lay.
A pair of blond saluki hounds barked at the edge of the racetrack as I edged closer. Alireza, the merchant Ruthie had pointed out, blocked my view, and I stood on my tiptoes, squinting through the choking dust that hung in the air mixing with the tarry smell of manure. The horses bunched and spun, their necks arched and tails flashing. Bays and blacks, grays and chestnuts, and a single silver mare, the one Lucky had his eye on, high white hocks and speckled belly setting her apart from the other horses. The Bedouin jockeys in their short robes were lining up their mounts, readying for a bareback run down the slapdash track cordoned off with rope and flags. I felt someone behind me, heard Abdullah at my elbow.
“You didn’t get your chance to meet the emir,” he said. He looked from beneath his eyebrows at the men who turned to stare, including Alireza, and I realized how far I was from the other wives.
“Please,” Abdullah said, and directed me away, separating the onlookers like he was parting the sea. When I saw Mason watching us approach, I steadied my step, suddenly more sober as Abdullah worked us forward until we were front and center before the emir. Abdullah offered a few lively words of introduction, and the emir rose to his full height and peered down at me.
“How do you do, Mrs. McPhee?” he asked, and shook my hand.
“How do you do, Mr. Emir?” I responded. I didn’t know how to curtsy, but I caught up my gown and gave a slight bow.
“Are you enjoying the festivities?” He rested his fingers together.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, then raised my eyes in earnest. “I love horses,” I said.
He smiled and dipped his head. “Please, won’t you join us?”
Mason peered at me, on his face a mix of concern and consternation. I was glad when the shot of a pistol turned our attention to the track, and everyone stood to see. The horses swung and lunged forward, riders close against their necks. A roar went up from the racetrack, and Abdullah clapped loudly, shouted a few words of Arabic, then bent close to my ear.
“The emir’s horse will win the day,” he said. “Fortune for us all.” I heard the distinct voice of Lucky let out a whoop, saw the gray mare crossing the finish line a length ahead of the field.
“What are you doing?” Mason stood at my elbow, his voice low. “You’re supposed to stay with the women.”
For a moment, I met his gaze, but when I saw Abdullah look away as though embarrassed, I dropped my eyes. “I just wanted to watch the races,” I said.
Mason let out a hard breath, nodded to Abdullah. “You go ahead and take her on home. I’ve still got some business.”
“But I don’t want to go home,” I said.
Ruthie came up beside me, crooked her arm. “Come on,” she said. “I’m ready for a drink.” I hesitated, but Mason was already talking with some of the other men. As Abdullah led me and Ruthie to the Land Cruiser, she leaned in close, whispered, “I wonder what he wears underneath that robe,” but I wasn’t in
any mood for more jokes. I sat in the back, crossed my arms, and stared straight ahead, a sharp resentment rising along with the crankiness that came with a hangover. “I wish we could have stayed longer,” I said, louder than was necessary, my eyes on Abdullah’s face in the rearview, but he didn’t look up.
“You’re just a kid,” Ruthie said. “Forget the drink. I’m ready for a nap.” She rested back her head, looked at me, her eyes half-lidded. “Listen,” she said quietly. “It’s the transitions that are hardest. When Lucky comes in off tour, we always have to fight at first, but then we get to make up.” She reached for my hand, gave it a squeeze. “You’ll get used to it.”
Abdullah let Ruthie off at her house, and I kept silent as we rounded the corner and idled to a stop in front of my door. Even with the heat, I didn’t want to go back into the too-close rooms. I shifted in my seat, looked to where the sun edged the horizon. “Do you have a horse?” I asked.
He sat stiff, his eyes forward, and now I wondered whether he was mad at me too. He cleared his throat, and I realized he wasn’t angry but nervous. “My family once had a fine mare,” he said carefully. “Her name was Badra. She was born beneath a full moon.”
“Did you break her?” I asked.
His face came fully into the rearview—the face of the confident man who had first picked us up at the airport. “Our horses are never broken,” he said. “They are raised alongside us like siblings.” His dark eyebrows relaxed. “My father would say, ‘Children of mine may hunger and thirst, but never my mare.’ ”
I rested my head against the glass. “I wish I had a horse,” I said.
“But you have a stable of horses.”
“The Hobby Farm?” I said. “Those funny pants?” I looked out my window to where the fence broke the plain. “I want to ride out in the desert,” I said, “like you do.”
He held back a smile, pressed his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Perhaps Badra.”