In the Kingdom of Men

by Kim Barnes

  “Ever been to the Derby?” Ross didn’t wait for our answers but doubled his chin, took a sip of his julep. “Fastest two minutes in sports. Proud Clarion came out of nowhere to take it this year, thirty-to-one odds. Made somebody happy, but not me.” He held a lighter to Mason’s cigarette. “Bet you’re not a gambling man, are you?”

  “No, sir,” Mason said, “can’t say as I am.”

  “Just as well.” Ross bit the end off a big cigar and squinted up at Mason from the folds of his cheeks. “Guess Doucet’s the one’s got that vice.”

  Mason looked down, rubbed a thumb against his glass. “Guess we all have to have one,” he said.

  “Wife like yours, I might not need any other.” Ross kinked his lip my way, then reared back when he heard Candy come out the door. “Here’s the girl. I was beginning to worry. Your drink was losing its ice.”

  “I had to put Pebbles and Ross Junior to bed.” Candy flounced down in a drift of White Shoulders. “We’re going to dine al fresco,” she cooed at Mason. “Won’t that be romantic?” She turned to scowl at Ross. “Are you going to smoke that before supper?”

  “And after,” he said, bellowing his cheeks.

  “It stinks.” Candy pursed her mouth at the lip of her julep, sipped, and frowned. “How’s yours, Gin? I can have Henri make you a new one.”

  “It’s fine.” I took a quick swallow, tried not to wince at the bite of raw alcohol.

  She lit her cigarette, blew a stream of smoke. “Is Ruthie still in Rome?”

  “Another week or so,” I said.

  “She’ll have all new clothes.” Candy cut her eyes at Ross, pulled a pout. “I wish someone would take me to Rome.”

  “You got more clothes than you know how to wear.” Ross motioned to the low table. “Have some nigger toes.”

  “Brazil nuts,” Mason said, but kept his voice light. I obediently took a handful and busied myself cracking their thick shells, grateful for the distraction, until Henri stepped over to tell us that the first course was about to be served. We moved to the table covered with Irish linen and set with Nippon china straight from Japan, more crystal and silverware than I’d seen in one place. While Henri filled each of our bowls with a ladle of mushroom soup seasoned with sage that smelled like the rain-swept desert, I kept Candy at the corner of my vision, following her lead: this spoon, that fork. I bladed a pat of butter and moved it to my smallest plate before cutting it to spread on my roll. When she lifted her spoon, dipped it into the soup and away, brought it to her mouth in a precise trajectory, I did the same, resisting the urge to slurp, take in a savory mouthful. She tapped the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

  “I recognize that dress,” she said, and waved her spoon. “I had my eye on it, but Fawzi wouldn’t barter.”

  “I got a good deal,” I said. “He threw in a slip.”

  “You must have had Ruthie with you,” she said. “She knows how to Jew them down.” She squinted a smile as Henri positioned our salads and then an elongated silver platter holding an entire fish garnished with lemons and surrounded by onions and small red potatoes, a currant where its eye once had been. “It’s only hamour,” Candy said, “but it was all that was fresh.”

  We watched as Henri skinned and filleted the fish with the skill of a surgeon. I looked at Mason, who was sopping his soup bowl with bread, intent on his conversation with Ross about a new spike camp that had been pitched deep in the Empty Quarter. I touched his leg, but he ignored me.

  “Men,” Candy said sotto voce. “They’re animals, I swear.” She sat back as Henri filled our plates. The fish course was followed by miniature cups of lime sorbet, and I was relieved that the meal was coming to an end, until Candy eyed the way I ate the icy scoop in two bites. “Better slow down,” she said smugly. “We’re only halfway through.”

  Henri made room for the standing rib roast, a steaming boat of au jus, creamed horseradish, potatoes au gratin, new peas and pearl onions floating in cream.

  “Pile it on there, Henri,” Mason said, smacking his lips in an exaggerated fashion.

  “You’re liking that, aren’t you, Mr. McPhee?” Candy said.

  Mason swallowed a mouthful of potatoes. “Best meal I’ve had since leaving Texas.”

  “You’re just saying that.” Candy leaned toward him and offered her cleavage. “I’m sure that Gin is the best cook in the world.”

  “Gin’s got other things going on,” Mason said. “Yash is the one who takes care of the kitchen.”

  Candy fluttered her hand. “Houseboys just get in the way of good home cooking.”

  “I like Yash’s cooking,” I said. Something about the way they were talking made me feel like I wasn’t even there.

  “I’m a meat-and-potatoes man myself.” Ross leveraged his belly, patted it fondly.

  “We’ve still got dessert,” Candy said. “Cream puffs and fresh berries.”

  Henri dutifully appeared with the pastries, each powdered and wearing a little skirt. I worried mine around its lacy plate, sure I couldn’t eat another bite, but Mason licked at his so lewdly that I blushed. He washed it down with black coffee and took the cigar Ross offered, biting off the end and spitting it away as though it were an everyday thing.

  “Bring us some more of that hooch, boy,” Ross said to Henri. “Don’t bother with the fancy stuff.” He leaned in. “I’ve got a joke for you. So this Texan walks into a bar …”

  “Oh, God,” Candy groaned, “not this one again.” She held her hand to the side of her mouth. “Don’t listen, Gin. It’s nasty.”

  Ross squared himself up. “Texan goes into a bar and hollers, ‘Drinks all around! My wife just gave birth to a twenty-pound baby boy!’ ”

  Candy rolled her eyes and looked away.

  “Now,” Ross said, “everybody in the bar is happy as hell, congratulating ol’ Tex, marveling at the size of that baby, saying, ‘We sure do grow ’em big in Texas!’ which is true.” Ross chomped down on an ice cube. “Week later, here comes Tex back for a beer. Bartender says, ‘Tell me, Tex, how much does that boy of yours weigh now? Must be big as a bull.’ Tex shakes his head, all sad-like. ‘Down to twelve pounds,’ he says. Well, now the bartender is worried. ‘Is he sick?’ he asks. ‘Has he had the diarrhea?’ Ol’ Tex takes a big swig of beer, wipes his mouth, and smiles a proud-daddy smile. ‘Nope,’ he says, ‘just had him circumcised.’ ”

  Ross rocked back, laughing so hard he choked, but Candy repositioned herself, cocked her shoulders. “I thought we were going to be civil tonight,” she said, and tipped her chin toward Mason. “Ross has big news, you know.”

  Ross’s guffaws lapsed into a winded whoosh. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. “That’s right,” he said, and blew his nose. “Thought we might talk about what comes next for you and your little gal here.”

  Candy looked at Mason, the shadows of her face flickering into a flirty smile. She drained the last of her julep and motioned to Henri for a refill.

  “Now”—Ross buckled his brow, grew more serious—“some might say you don’t have the experience. Some might even say you should have been the one sent out instead of Swede Olson.” He grunted as though pained. “Burt Cane, he thought you were something special, and that’s worth a lot in my book.”

  Mason took the drink that Henri offered, set it down.

  “I know you’ve got your sympathies,” Ross said. “You’ve told me your concerns, but you know as well as I do that productivity is our top objective.” He worried a molar with his toothpick, sucked it clean. “We’re training the Saudi boys, getting them educated, easing them in. Bring them along too fast, they’ll founder like a horse on spring grass.”

  Mason worked his jaw, looked at me, then back at Ross.

  “Well,” Candy said, “are you going to tell him or not?”

  Ross pulled a big puff from his cigar. “McPhee, I’ve made my decision. I’m putting you up for promotion to assistant drilling superintendent.” He
reached out, slapped Mason’s shoulder. “Play your cards right, son, and you’re on your way to the big house.”

  Candy bounced and clapped. I attempted a smile, but all eyes were on Mason, who broke into a wide grin and raised his glass before taking a long pull on his cigar. In that moment, he wasn’t the man I had married but somebody else—a man on his way somewhere I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, someone I wasn’t sure I could trust anymore. I sat forward in my chair.

  “Maybe we should take some time to talk about this,” I said.

  Mason’s grin faltered, but Ross crooked his cigar. “That’s right,” he said. “I want you all or nothing, McPhee.” He cocked his mouth. “And you don’t want to be letting this little girl get too far away from you. Young bucks will be on her before you can say scat.”

  Candy stared at Ross like he had dropped in from outer space, then broke into movement all at once, pushing back her plate, tipping her glass until the ice hit her teeth, lighting a cigarette, and waving it at me.

  “I can’t believe,” she said, “I can’t believe you have to think about it.”

  “Now, sugar.” Ross gave a sideways smile. “I’m sure they’ll make the right decision.”

  Candy pinched her lips around her cigarette, the tick of her shoe coming faster. “Maybe it’s Gin who thinks she can do better.”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but Mason cut me off. “If I commit to this job, I commit all the way. A lot of good men have given the best years of their lives to making this place work, and if I say yes, I mean to be one of them.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Ross said.

  Mason relaxed back, fingering his cigar, but I set down my drink. I couldn’t stand another minute of Ross, of Candy, not even of Mason. “We really need to go,” I said.

  Candy’s eyes flashed in the torchlight. “I’ve seen your pictures in the newspaper, Gin. They’re very nice. You should have brought your camera.”

  Mason glanced at me, murmured his agreement, relieved to move the conversation along. “I told her she should send some to National Geographic.”

  “Ask her where her camera is,” Candy said.

  Ross beetled his brow. “Here, now. Let’s have some more sadiqi juice.”

  “Ask her,” Candy said.

  Mason peered at Candy for a moment, then slowly moved his eyes to mine. “Where’s your camera?” he asked.

  I held Candy’s gaze. For a heartbeat, I thought I might lie, but it was her smirk that made me more angry than afraid. “I gave it to Carlo Leoni,” I said. “Security confiscated his.”

  Candy slanted her mouth. “Ross told me that you were right in there with the action, Gin, just you and Carlo, running around the desert in Ruthie’s Volkswagen. Must have been loads of fun.”

  I looked at Ross, who screwed up his face like an apology and scratched a thumbnail across his forehead.

  Mason sat still for a moment, then carefully stubbed his cigar. “We’re keeping you folks up awful late.” He stood with Ross and shook his hand. “If you’re offering me the promotion, I’m saying yes right now.” He turned to Candy, pressed her fingers between his. “That was a blue-ribbon dinner, ma’am. Mighty fine.”

  Candy cocked her hip, said, “Any ol’ time, Mr. McPhee,” then cut her eyes at me. “You haven’t even asked how Pat is doing. I know he’s dying to hear from you after all the fun you two had at the ball.”

  Before I could answer, Mason gave a final nod good-bye, gripped my elbow like a rudder, and piloted me to the car. We sat in silence as he throttled us home, working the stick shift like he was levering iron. When I started to speak, he held up his hand.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “If you’ll just listen to me, I’ll tell you the truth.”

  “What the hell makes you think I want to hear it?” He punched the Volkswagen around a corner and hit the curb in front of our house. “You’re going to bollix this up for everybody.”

  He slammed his door, ignored mine, and I followed him across the grass, dragging my wrap through the dew. “Maybe you would rather have Candy for a wife,” I said loudly. “I saw the way you looked at her. She’s nothing but a tramp.”

  He turned, his face flushed. “You’re acting like you don’t have a lick of sense in your head,” he said. “You’re starting to make me crazy.”

  “Crazy?” I said. “You think I’m making you crazy?” I slapped my chest. “What about me, Mason? You don’t know what it’s like, being stuck in this place day after day.”

  “From what I’m hearing, you don’t either.” He banged open the door, and I trailed him through the living room and into the bathroom, where he pulled off his shirt, stripped his belt, then cranked the shower. “You’ve got this big house, nice furniture, Yash waiting on you hand and foot. What more do you want?”

  I peered at him, let my hands drop. “You’ve changed, Mason,” I said. “I don’t even know you anymore.”

  His mouth hardened, and he took a step toward me. “I’m still the same guy I was the day we got hitched,” he said. “I’m the guy who is working his ass off so that you can get your hair done and buy your jewelry and wear your pretty clothes. I’m the one who is paying for this roof over your head.” He pointed his finger. “You’d better look in that mirror if you think that I’m the one who’s changed.” He glared at me for a moment before turning to the shower.

  I stood, staring at the curtain he pulled between us, and felt my anger turn to a paralyzing helplessness. I looked at myself in the mirror—my mouth drawn down, my shoulders slumped. The marble floors, the double closet with its cache of new outfits, the enviable bidet—I hated it all. I willed myself to move into the bedroom, to go through the motions of readying for bed, to take off my clothes, pull open the dresser drawer, and take out a fresh nightgown.

  What was it about seeing my unmentionables there, so neatly folded and carefully arranged, that broke the spell? The cold despair that had numbed me gave way to a rage that seized me like a fit. I jerked the drawer from its slides, turned it upside down, and dumped it on the floor. I kicked my underthings into a maelstrom of nylon and satin, straps akimbo, leg holes gaping, my slips lacing the lamp shades, my stockings flagging the curtains. I moved to Mason’s underwear drawer and scattered his boxers and T-shirts and socks across the room. I heard the shower turn off, Mason step out. He came up behind me, pulling on his pants.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rising into a higher key. “Stop.”

  But I couldn’t stop. The dresser emptied, I moved to the closet, ripped shirts and skirts from their hangers, winged our shoes against the walls, then turned my attention to the bed. I snatched the sheets from their moorings and dragged the blanket down the hallway like the skin of an animal, Mason following a few steps behind, hollering for me to stop, just stop. I paused at Betsy Bodeen’s tapestry, the unicorn in its pen, and jerked it to the floor, scuffing it beneath my bare feet until the threads frayed. The record albums were next—Buddy Holly, Petula Clark, The Supremes sailing obliquely against the blinds. The couch pillows whumped to the floor, cushioning the crystal ashtray but not the ginger-jar lamp, which shattered into a dozen scarlet pieces. Had the shades been open, the neighbors might have seen me in my all-in-all, raging from room to room like the madwoman I had become. I didn’t pause to think of Yash, all his hard work come undone.

  “You’re acting like a spoiled brat,” Mason said. He made a grab for my arm, his grip tight enough to hurt. “When are you going to grow up?”

  I turned on him. “Do you want me to grow up? Is that what you want me to do?” I jerked my arm away. “What if I told you that I made love to Abdullah?” I said. “How would that be? Maybe I’m not your little girl anymore.”

  It wasn’t the anger in Mason’s face that made me wish I had held my tongue but the shock of pain that took its place, as though I had slid a knife between his ribs—his mouth an open wound.

  “You’re crazy,” he said, as though he was truly confounde
d. “You’re plumb crazy.”

  His confusion fed mine, and I hit him in the chest with my fists, not like the girls in the movies, but as hard as I could, like I was driving nails, and it knocked the breath right out of him. He stood stunned for a moment, then grabbed my shoulders and shook me like a rattle. I pushed away, stumbled to the floor, and Mason straddled me, pinning my arms.

  “Get off,” I demanded. I wanted to spit, to bite him so hard that he bled.

  “Tell me it’s not true,” he demanded. When I wouldn’t answer, he leaned down, his hot breath in my face. “Tell me.” I growled into his mouth, bucked my hips and twisted my legs, but I couldn’t budge him and felt the shame and frustration stinging my eyes.

  “I hate you,” I said. I gritted my teeth, bit the words into pieces. “I hate you.”

  He went still, and his grip on my wrists loosened. He straightened slowly, moved his weight to his knees, then stood. I looked up to see him peering down at me, his eyes dark with hurt.

  I pushed myself up and ran to our bedroom, slammed the door, and curled on the bare bed, feeling like I might shatter into a thousand pieces. I was sure that I heard the front door open and close, Mason leaving the house, going somewhere I couldn’t follow. Maybe he would go to Ross, I thought, tell him to ship me out, that I was no use to anyone anymore. I heard the seconds of the clock louder than the thrum of desert crickets huddled against the still-warm foundation and then the steps in and out of the kitchen, the hi-fi click on, Sinatra start in low.

  Twenty minutes, maybe thirty, I lay listening, hoping for the sound of Mason coming down the hallway to say how wrong he was. I imagined what I would say: Don’t touch me, go drink your whiskey, just leave me alone. And then, as the air in the room cooled, I thought I might allow him to lie down with me, warm me against the chill. Finally, miserable and shivering, I pulled on my robe, felt my way through the dark, and found him sitting bare-chested on the couch, the liquor bottle close at his side, the ember of his cigarette growing bright, then fading again. There was something about seeing him that way that made me feel sick inside. He was a man that any woman would want, wasn’t he? Working so hard to do what was right. “A real keeper,” Candy had called him. Why was I always getting in his way?