This Vacant Paradise

by Victoria Patterson

  “I saw only your back”—his glance indicated the window. “I knew it was you.”

  She recrossed her legs and smiled. Her best strategy was to be simple, not a simple task. But when she met his eyes, she yielded to the desire to allow him to see her—whatever that meant, whoever that was, and for whatever it was worth—like letting out a deep intake of breath.

  He slid a barstool out and sat, his knee brushing against her thigh. Her plate was in his way, and he moved it down the bar. Settled, he made a slight gesture with his eyebrows, as if to say, Now what?

  She stole a glance at the businessmen, confirming that her chances had been lost by his male presence, and, not missing a beat, he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll pay.”

  His hand lifted as he attempted to catch the eye of the bartender.

  She placed her fingers on his arm, lowering it, and summoned the bartender by raising her forefinger.

  The bartender nodded and on cue began preparations for her second and final sour apple martini. “Uh, I’ll have a Corona,” Charlie shot out, and the bartender eyed him, as if to say, Maybe you will, maybe you won’t.

  Charlie turned his attention to her. “Shark Island?” he asked, as if she were beyond saving, but she knew it was an effort to disguise his attraction, and also to make light of the bartender’s likely snubbing of his drink order. “Why do rich people eat at restaurants with no originality? Where the food is as bland and as boring as their conversations.”

  His glance left her, and she saw that he was looking at the huddle of women at the other end of the bar. She struggled with a need to prove that she was different. Her bust and legs seemed to be her best hope, and she sat more upright on the barstool, to display these to advantage.

  He seemed to read something in her effort, and he laughed—a quick burst and then he was serious. She could feel him really looking at her.

  Blood rushed to her face and she did her best to hold his gaze, her body slumping into a disobedient ease.

  They were quiet, although she felt activity in their silence, as if they were speaking intimately, and she understood that something was vibrating between them. Wisps of conversation, laughter, a televised football game, surf music (“Wipe Out”) bombarded them—intrusive, suddenly loud.

  He pulled his wallet out, in an effort to lighten the intensity, and his eyes went down. “I don’t have the cash”—he paused, as if searching for the right words, and his eyes found hers again—“to get drunk enough to feel comfortable.”

  Chin on her palm, much like a child, she pretended to ignore Charlie as the bartender poured her martini from a silver shaker.

  ESTHER MIGHT NOT have agreed to a walk along Big Corona Beach with Charlie had she not wanted to spend more time with him. She was cautious, knowing how people gossiped. They needed to leave Shark Island before word got back to Paul, and Charlie had suggested a walk along the beach. Maybe it was the sentiments that stirred at Christmas, the lights and music and decorations, and the softening in her gut from her two sour apple martinis. Maybe she was weak, undisciplined, but she didn’t care just now.

  At the sight of Charlie, two ideas had come to her, one following the other. The first was that their meeting might have been not an accident, but a fateful coincidence; the second, a consciousness that she would allow herself this one indulgence, like eating a carton of ice cream or sleeping all day, before she got back to her hard work. She wore his blazer, a high heel in each pocket, and she walked beside him, silent and barefoot, along the slicked sand. She was tall enough to reach his chest.

  Wave upon wave rolled forward, broke, and gathered back—sand hissing. A pattern of fire pits blazed at the far end of the beach. Winter was her favorite season because there weren’t as many tourists. The air was dark and misty, an occasional coldness from the larger waves sprinkling her ankles and calves.

  She liked Charlie’s height, and the way his expression appeared troubled—nobly so. She didn’t want to be attracted to him, but it was natural, in the same way that she wasn’t attracted to Paul. One of the risks was involuntary intimacy: Charlie drew her in, made her lose track of her priorities.

  “My father,” she said, stopping to look at the piled rocks of the jetty, “used to tell me about all the people who drowned in the channel before they built the jetties.” Her heart gave a bound as she waited for him to react.

  His expression was serious and meditative. “Whatever you do,” he said finally, “you can’t marry Paul Rice.”

  They both laughed, but there was a stunned quality.

  “Maybe I like him,” she said.

  “That has nothing to do with anything,” he said.

  She saw a familiar silhouette—compact body—jogging barefoot in the sand, coming their direction, but she was unable to make him out in the dark.

  “I know that man,” she said uncertainly, peering at him, grateful for the diversion. The man stopped, dropped down, and did a series of push-ups on the ocean-hardened sand. After completion, he rolled to his back, and began a frantic series of sit-ups, elbows hitting his knees.

  “What’s he doing now?” Charlie asked.

  “I think those are calf toners,” she said, watching him rise and descend, from toes to flat feet—up down up down—quickly.

  After shaking out each leg, the man began jogging again, his looming figure coming closer, closer, his lycra-clad legs swishing, shirtless, until she whispered, “Jesus—Slick Rick: Grandma Eileen’s caretaker.” Her instinct was to cover her face, but it was too late. If she appeared to be hiding, it would be worse. Slick Rick was Grandma Eileen’s right-hand man. “Rick,” she said, as he slowed to a trot, his face lighting up in surprised recognition. “It’s too late to be jogging.”

  “She finally let me out,” Rick said. He stood before them in a wide stance, arms crossed over his chest. His biker shorts had a padded quality at his groin, and his T-shirt had been tucked into the elastic at his backside. “She’s a beast!” he said with a happy face. His chest was nearly hairless, only a fine T of curls arching over his nipples. She didn’t trust him, his earnestness and crazy stories—always telling stories. Privately, he talked to her as if she were his confidante. He’d done drugs with her brother, Eric, but with the help of methadone, he’d kicked his habit, while Eric continued to waste away.

  Even the way Rick had gotten his job was suspect: Rick’s best friend was Aunt Lottie’s hairdresser, and in the time that it took for Aunt Lottie to get her tips frosted, Rick’s position had been arranged. Did Rick even have nursing credentials?

  There was also Esther’s suspicion that Rick was gay, and this bothered her the most, not because she was against homosexuality, but because her father had been disowned for this very same shortcoming.

  Rick was already talking to Charlie, hand on his forearm, as if they were good buddies; he was a full head shorter. She listened halfheartedly to him telling a story about an elderly woman who had lived along the Big Canyon golf course. While sitting at the steps of the shallow end of her pool, she’d taken a golf ball to the head and had died soon after of a brain hemorrhage. He’d read it in the Daily Pilot. He’d also read about the leader of a cult who had died; there had been a scramble for his estate.

  “He was Buddhist,” Rick said. “The retreat was more like a resort. They played zennis instead of tennis and had massive orgies.”

  Charlie, laughing doubtfully, cast a questioning glance at her. She suddenly felt tired.

  “I’d better get back,” Rick said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Charlie’s an old friend.”

  Rick seemed to agree, because he said, “Yes indeedy.” He walked a few paces, then picked up his jog, elbows close to his sides.

  “That’s Eileen’s caretaker?” Charlie said.

  She nodded. She was accustomed to people’s alluding to the bizarre nature of her family. After her father had been disowned, they’d been forced to move, since legally their house belonged to Grandma Eileen. She�
��d watched her heartbroken father suffer, and had cared for him through a prolonged illness without the aid of her family, until his drawn-out death.

  Charlie looked away, toward the receding figure of Rick. Rick was taking long strides up the walkway that led to the beach, and then he was out of sight. Charlie looked back at her, discouraged.

  “Don’t marry Paul,” he said, as if there hadn’t been a break in their earlier conversation. She didn’t answer. She listened to the long gathering pause of the waves, the crash and rumble, and the collecting rush. Before it was over, another crash and rumble, another collecting rush.

  Paul elicited no passionate feelings and, at most, a general ambivalence, but she was determined to fall in love with him, at least on the surface.

  And what was love, anyway? She’d been in love with Kelly Toole when she was a sophomore in high school and he was a senior—a water polo player, with a protective smile and a sleek body (he shaved all his body hair, for speed) the same size as hers, so that they were like twins. They spent hours together and she lost her virginity to him, happily.

  She thought she would die of heartbreak when he left for Dartmouth. Four months later, when he came home for a visit, he was stubborn and arrogant, with the energy of a bully, and the most passion he had was for the Kappa Alpha Phi fraternity and his equally brutish fraternity brothers. As soon as he kissed her, she knew that he’d been with other women. He even tasted different. He said that instead of being his girlfriend, she could be his “special friend”—translation: He could have sex with her and with other women. They had a horrible fight and breakup.

  Nursing her ego, she vowed to see through her emotions next time, to the core of a thing. She cried for what seemed like months, and then, as if on cue, she got the Epstein-Barr virus. The whites of her eyes turned yellow. It took over a year to recover. She’d lost her way a couple of times since then—to no good fortune (literally), but never quite as fatally as with Kelly—as if kicked in the head, out of balance. Love, then, was a broadened irrationality, an amplified susceptibility, and a guarantee of disappointment. She needed to be practical about love, because love was impractical.

  And the scales were tipped on the side of men. She believed in equality between the sexes, but she was a realist. Females put so much effort into advancing in a male-dominated world that their looks and personalities suffered. And she’d lost time taking care of her father. Charlie didn’t understand the temporal reality of a woman’s desirability.

  Charlie looked at her, dismayed. “What is it you want?” he asked. There wasn’t anger in his voice, only a direct and genuine curiosity.

  She wanted to give him a lucid answer, but the question made her wince. Emotions, especially when it came to desire, seemed complicated, and she wondered how anyone ever navigated them.

  He squinted up at the sky, as if, since she hadn’t answered his question, he might find something there.

  “I’m afraid,” she said. She hadn’t meant to speak.

  He stared at her, letting her words settle. She liked that about him—she could tell that he was really listening.

  “Of what?” he asked.

  She considered. “I’m afraid,” she said, “of being poor.”

  He laughed. Her face must have revealed her hurt feelings, because he launched into an explanation: “It’s just that I thought you’d say something like, ‘I’m afraid of death,’ or, ‘I’m afraid of suffering,’ or, ‘I’m afraid of going insane.’ Or maybe, ‘I’m afraid of not being loved.’ Or how about, ‘I’m afraid of not fulfilling my potential’?” He kicked at the sand. “Or, ‘I’m afraid of having children or not having children.’ God, Esther. I don’t know. How about, ‘I’m afraid of aliens attacking Earth!’ Or even, ‘I’m afraid of nuclear war.’”

  “I watched my father die,” she said. “I watched him suffer.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “I’m afraid of being poor,” she said, “because then you’re uncomfortable and suffer and you can’t afford children and they suffer and you might go insane and you don’t have the means to fulfill your potential, whatever that means. And if aliens attack us or there’s a nuclear war, I’m afraid of being poor because who’s going to get away? The rich will be on the first spaceship to Mars. They’ve already paid for their seats.”

  He was staring at her. A different kind of look had entered his expression—melancholy and concern.

  “How’s that?” she asked. “Is that better?”

  “I’m worried about you,” he said, trying to sound casual, but she could tell that he was startled.

  “Well, I’m not worried about you,” she said, looking him in the eyes. “Mommy and Daddy already paid for your seat.”

  He didn’t answer and she couldn’t resist prodding, albeit gently, almost kindly, “Didn’t they? Huh?” She took hold of his hand and swung it lightly. “You’re all set, aren’t you? First class, window seat.”

  BACK IN CHARLIE’S Honda Civic parked alongside the curb, Esther lowered her passenger seat and sank with it, resting her head and gazing at Charlie, who watched her in return. He lowered his seat to match hers. His window was cracked so that they could hear the waves crashing in the distance, softly, and he had the heater on low. Her feet were still bare; her toes felt the warm blow of air.

  They stared at each other for some time without speaking, a complicated and weighted silence between them. She was aware that there was something in her expression that the darkness couldn’t conceal, something soft and desiring, and that it matched his expression.

  “You still live with your grandmother?” he said, breaking the silence.

  She took it as a rhetorical question, reclined her seat further, as far as it would go, closing her eyes with a feeling of release.

  The edge of his hand was against hers, but thankfully, she knew that he wouldn’t try to hold it.

  AS CHARLIE DROVE her back to the Fashion Island parking lot, she persuaded herself that nothing of consequence had passed between them. Their parting was amicable, and she felt him watching as she unlocked the door of Grandma Eileen’s BMW, settled herself inside the car, and started the engine.

  3

  WHEN ESTHER WAS a girl, the second level of her father’s house had an expansive balcony that overlooked Newport Harbor, clear to the jetties extending like two outstretched arms to the ocean. From the balcony on clear nights, she liked to imagine she could fly across the bay, past the jetties, over the ocean, circling the red bell buoy and its blinking ruby of a light—the barking sea lions vying for space on its swaying surface—all the way to Catalina. Her father slept in his bedroom, her brother slept in the room next to his, and often, she would move through the darkened house with the comforting knowledge of their presence.

  The banister to the ground floor had a curved mahogany handrail, and she would run her palm along the smooth surface. On the wall behind the staircase was her family’s portrait, like a photograph, but with the rougher texture of a painting—she, her father, and her brother sitting on the rocks of Little Corona Beach, waves in midcrash behind them. When she’d posed, the sharpness of the sea rock had hurt her thighs, but she’d smiled directly at the cameraman; and then she’d heard her father: “Beautiful, Esther. Beautiful.”

  On the cream-colored walls of the living room were oil paintings. One in particular she would pretend was her mother. The background was dark, almost black, and the side of her mother’s figure emerged like a phantom. Her mother’s face was turned away, her hair gathered in a loose bun. Her skin was milky, with a flushed undertone. She gave her mother different names: Lucretia, Vanessa, Elizabeth. She was sure that her mother was crying, turning her face for this reason, because she’d given up Esther. Sometimes it was torture, or the threat of death, but no matter what tragic misfortunes, she had trouble convincing herself that her mother’s reasons were valid.

  She never told her father. He claimed that he’d been fortunate to adopt her; she was special and diff
erent. She was better than anyone, and she should never forget it. He gave similar explanations to her older brother, Eric, who coped by caring less. He hated their father, for no reason.

  She made up for it by loving their father even more. She didn’t mind that he was not married and that he didn’t have girlfriends, was beyond that. Besides, she wanted to marry him—she wanted to be with him always.

  When she tried to remember her first two years, before he’d adopted her, she saw nothing but a dark red color, and a vague emptiness expanded in her chest and stomach, unending. The feeling terrified her. She resolved not to try anymore.

  Sometimes when she looked at her father, a burning sensation would catch at her throat, dissolve through her body, as if traveling through her blood. Later, when she was old enough to understand, she knew that this was because she loved him.

  SHE WAS EIGHT years old, crouched underneath the family portrait late one evening, peering between the rails of the stair banister, when she witnessed her father kissing his tennis instructor, Scott. She pressed her face between the rails, her silky nightgown gathered between her legs.

  Darkness hung around the men, blurring their bodies, but she could see that her father’s hands were at Scott’s arms. She was aware, even as she watched, that what she saw was secret. Her father said something in a hoarse whisper, his voice barely rising to her—it sounded like I need you.

  The men were near the front door, and she wanted Scott to leave. She wanted her father to be talking to her. When the men’s faces came together, for a shocking second she thought they were trying to eat each other. When she realized they were kissing, she bit the inside of her cheek, making it bleed.

  Back in her bedroom, she wanted to squeeze the image from her mind, but it was etched permanently inside her. She tried to understand. No one had told her that such a thing might be possible.