by Annie Ward
Nina motioned us to a VIP entrance where, by paying the Macedonian equivalent of a few dollars, we were all allowed to enter before the surging horde of Macedonian night-clubbers pushing one another around in the velvet rope line that ran along a trash-strewn street crawling with shadows and, of course, dogs. Our preferential treatment did not go unnoticed, and the biggest out of a trio of muscular men in Diesel shirts, distressed jeans and bling shouted after us in a thick accent, “Go home, fuckeen Yankees, go fuck off and go home! You not wanted here!”
Nina gave him the finger and said to all of us, “Ignore him. Come on, let’s go now.”
Inside, it was a low-rent version of Ibiza, with pedestals, balconies, cages and trippy cartoons playing on an old-school film projector against walls splashed by strobes and lasers. Jo pointed toward a couple of men hunched over the bar in deep conversation and yelled above the music, “There’s Stoyan.” I looked over and saw her driver, who I recognized by the long black leather trench coat that seemed to be his permanent attire. She patted my shoulder. “I’m going to go say hi.”
Nina had joined a couple of her friends on a pedestal to dance and give everyone the occasional glimpse of her unusual undergarment, and I made my way to the bar.
Ian and Peter waylaid me before I could buy my own drink. “It’s on us, Maddie!” Peter shouted with a wink. “Vodka and Red Bull tonight.”
The DJ started bleeding into the current song with a remix of “Storm Animal,” and Ian, Peter and I headed for the dance floor. Within seconds Jo had joined us, bouncing up and down like a pogo stick. She and I broke off from the guys and flew around the floor like we were the only ones there because we didn’t care if we looked crazy or like sluts—it wasn’t our country on the brink of war, we had the money and the passports that could take us anywhere, and we were at the same time deep and incredibly shallow. We could do whatever we wanted and we did things that others wouldn’t do and we owned it like bitches. No wonder they hated us and we loved each other.
A half hour later we found Ian, Peter and Simon at a table in the corner. Our hair was sweaty and matted to our faces and necks. We slumped into the remaining two seats with our bottles of water.
Jo noticed it first. “What the hell happened?”
Then I saw it. Simon’s nose was swollen, and his lower face was ruddy from wiped-away blood. Ian had a fat lip.
“Not to worry,” Simon shouted over the loud, thumping bass.
“A little disagreement,” yelled Ian.
“These two decided to have a word with the three stooges from outside,” said Peter, his big blue eyes wide. He was clearly upset.
Simon leaned forward. “We were insulted. They thought we were Yankees! Hell no. Had to correct that.”
Ian said, “No, no, no. That’s not what happened.”
“Well, then, what was it?” I asked.
“It was nothing,” Ian answered.
Simon laughed. “They were calling you names!”
Joanna finally looked up. “What? Who? Us?”
Ian said, “Shhhhh. Simon, it doesn’t matter.”
“What did they call us?” Joanna persisted.
“American whores,” Peter answered, and I swear I think his voice cracked. “And Ian grabbed one of them. The other came at me with a knife!” Peter motioned toward the table, and sure enough, there sat a medium-sized knife with a wooden handle that I hadn’t noticed. “Ian and Simon started fighting with them, and it was me they pulled the knife on. Me!”
“He wasn’t going to hurt you, Peter,” said Ian, laughing. “He stabbed like this.” He grabbed the knife and made a poking motion with his hand while pulling a goofy face, much like a dainty fencer. Simon joined him laughing.
“None of the rest of you have children, do you?” Peter asked, rather disdainfully, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not funny.”
“Good grief, Peter,” said Simon. “Might be you’re in the wrong line of work, mate.”
“Where are they now?” I asked, glancing at the knife and then around the crowded club.
“They probably went home,” said Simon. “They weren’t pleased when we took away their butter spreader.” This caused more laughter from Ian and Simon. Peter stood up and walked away.
“You guys are a bag of dicks,” Jo said. “Scaring him like that ‘to defend our honor.’ That was dumb.”
“You see that, Ian?” asked Simon. “That’s why chivalry is dead.”
“Joanna,” Ian said, “they weren’t dangerous, okay? The guy with the knife didn’t even know how to use it. You’ve got to hold it like this,” he explained, tilting the blade down, “if you want to hurt someone, if you want to get the blade between their ribs and puncture the lungs. This guy was going to poke our pretty Peter Pan like a schoolboy with his pencil.”
“Oh my God, you fucking pervert!” yelled Simon, and they both practically fell out of their chairs.
“Cretins,” Jo said dismissively. “Psychos.”
“Certifiable, actually,” Ian said affably, recovering.
“Umm-hmm. Good for you.”
“Really. I was told by a doctor that I was crazy. By an army psychologist,” Ian went on, arms crossed over his chest, nodding toward Jo.
“Wow!”
“I was.”
“I believe you!” she said, as if he were a child.
“Maddie, would you care to hear my story?”
“Go on,” I said, scooting my chair in close to hear him over the new song, which had a bass beat slightly less alarming than the previous.
“On my first assignment to Africa, I’d been chosen to be deployed to Uganda to be part of a six-man team to look after British Ambassador Edward Davis.”
“Ed-vard Davis,” said Simon with a touch of fanfare. “Ooh la la!”
“Yes, indeedy. I was looking forward to it. I did my pre-deployment training, and then my team had to be examined and approved by a psychologist. He gave us a test. Have you ever wet the bed? Are you afraid of the dark? Have you read Alice in Wonderland? Write an essay about your family.
“Afterward, the doctor showed up and said, ‘I’d like to interview Corporal Wilson.’ The rest of my team instantly went, ‘Ooohh.’
“The doctor was very polite. I sat down and he said to me, ‘I’m happy with your answers. It’s your family that I’d like to talk about. I see you are the youngest of ten. Now, there has been a study done on chimpanzees. The dominant male and the dominant female have a baby and they love it and they play with it. Then they have another baby, and the second baby doesn’t get as much love and attention. By the time they have their last baby, they’re not interested whatsoever in it. They never feed it. They allow it to be bullied and beaten by the other chimpanzees. Did this happen to you, being the last child?’”
Suddenly Ian stood up. I instinctively leaned back. I was uncomfortably aware of the knife still lying on the table. He held up a fist. “And I said, ‘Are you trying to say that my mother is a bloody chimpanzee?’ Apparently, I’m a sociopath because my mum didn’t love me enough? ‘My mum loved me, okay? You want to see some sociopathic behavior, I’ll treat you to some if you say one more fucking word about my mum! Where I come from we don’t talk about women like that!’”
I took a deep breath and glanced at Joanna, who was staring at him with such naked hatred that I suddenly felt nervous. On my last visit it was hugs and laughter between them. Something had gone rotten.
And then Ian’s face went back to its normal color. He smiled amiably and sat back down in his chair and started toying with the knife with his left hand. He sipped almost daintily on his vodka Red Bull. “What a cheeky fucking bastard, that arsehole. The guy was like ninety years old and believed everything that he read. He was a fucking loon and I hope he dropped dead.”
Joanna was no longer looking at him. She slumped the
re in her metal chair, moving her bracelets up and down her arm. When had she become so withdrawn and remote? So tight and coiled, like a tiny, poisonous, gorgeous snake. Oh and her eyes. Olives and almonds. Reptilian.
Suddenly I was very unhappy. We’d been so close. We knew everything about each other. It was starting to seem like that was no longer the case.
Joanna’s eyes rolled up and took in the table. Me, hunched and looking grief stricken for no apparent reason. The men, bloodied, pleased and preening. And then she was back. She stood and said, “I’m going to go dance.” It was clear that she was not asking me to come with her.
And dance she did, by herself, while everyone watched.
MADDIE
Eight weeks before
Cami J is at the door.
She is punching the buzzer like she wants her finger to break.
Now she is backing up into the front yard and making the gesture for “call me” up toward the windows. This is way beyond unprofessional. This is ridiculous. Go away.
I can’t deal with this right now. I’m officially not home.
Charlie and I are sort of hiding behind the Yucca tree that basks in the light let in by the balcony while I watch and he plays. Cami J is a force of nature, honestly. I admire her. I really do. And, I love our sessions. I find them invigorating, challenging and even sometimes amusing. But I can’t go back to see her until I’ve done some serious thinking, so I’ve had to cancel this week’s session. She’s not happy. She’s in a frenzy over her newfound fear for my well-being.
I’m not happy either. I’m looking at the latest emails from Ian’s ex-girlfriend, Fiona. She’s the woman who was on the other end of Ian’s frantic text messages years ago in Macedonia, and believe it or not, she’s still in our lives. In those days, she was always threatening to kill herself in order to make him stay. Now she’s got some new strategies for trying to get him back. This has been going on for quite a while now, and honestly, I’m sick of it.
I’ve always known that Ian has two computers. One strictly for work, and another far more powerful one for his graphically intense video games. I’ve also always known that he has two email addresses. Again, one strictly for work. The other one is very old, from back in his newbie army days.
[email protected].
I laugh every time I see it. Every time.
However, it was only while he was away on the assignment before this one, after a few mysterious and somewhat troubling letters had arrived in the mail, that I decided to try to hack into his messages.
In the tiny space on the other side of the Yucca tree Charlie is rifling through the plastic bags of all kinds of paracord that Ian has had delivered. He can’t make a bracelet yet, but he’s not terrible at a simple braid and he would rather play with all the colored rope than any expensive normal toy I’ve ever gotten for him. He particularly loves to pull the cords open to unravel and inspect the magic threads inside.
Through the palm fronds and the French doors to the Juliet balcony I am watching Cami J march across the street to Wayne’s front door. No answer. Big surprise. She is wearing her usual combination of yoga pants, sandals and scarves. Wayne is going to think she’s a drug-addicted prostitute, no doubt; he has so little interaction with anyone who doesn’t own a truck and a shotgun.
Eventually I go back to my task. I am scrolling through the most recent arrivals at [email protected].
It took me a while to get access to Ian’s old army email. First I tried his two desktop computers. It was easy to open his work email on those, but I’m not the least bit interested in lengthy reports for big oil companies on whether or not it’s safe to lay a pipeline across the tribal desert in Yemen. (Hint: It isn’t.)
Ian puts his gaming laptop in its case under his desk when he leaves on assignment. It was pass code protected. Luckily Ian is a sentimental old soldier who uses his army regimental number as the password for half his devices. I didn’t know what his army number had been, but I did remember him telling me that it was stamped on his war medals, which he’d thrown into a drawer in the basement where they were gathering dust. It wasn’t long before I was privy to his online antics. And his old email.
So now I am looking at photos of Fiona’s pierced clitoris and silver-studded shaved outer labia. My favorite, though, would have to be the one where she is on all fours. She is looking back at me with a sweet and sunshiny smile as she uses one hand to pull back and reveal her creamy bleached butt crack. These are all new improvements apparently, designed to lure Ian away from his wife and child. I have to admit, I would find it hard to compete with this.
I mark the email as unread. Oh fuck you, Fiona.
Then Charlie is at my side and I have to slam the laptop closed. He is pointing across the street at Wayne’s front door swinging open. “Look, Mommy. Wayne Randall is letting in the lady you don’t like.”
“I like her,” I say. I watch, rapt, as Wayne ushers Cami J into his house. “I just don’t want to see her right now.” I wonder what Wayne’s disabled wife will make of this heavenly peacock-colored lady songbird who has just fluttered into her hospital and vomit-flavored home. “I’m trying to figure some things out right now, Charlie. I need to make some important decisions, and I need time to think.”
He blinks. What the heck am I doing? This is all way too much information for Charlie. I sigh. Aside from my mom and dad I’ve got no one really to talk to, and sometimes I suppose I treat him as more of an equal than I should. At least I didn’t tell him all the truth. I didn’t tell him that the message underneath Fiona’s bare bottom was, “It’s not too late to get rid of that boring bitch and choose me.”
“Okay,” he says finally, and then returns to his paracord braiding project. I pull up his shirt and tickle his back.
How long will Cami J stay inside Wayne’s smelly house?
Could she get in trouble for coming here? For speaking to my neighbor?
I think she could.
I picture the two of them huddled together in his garage, examining all the birdhouses he’s built and whispering things about me and Ian.
MADDIE
2001
Joanna first told me about Fiona that night in Skopje at Club Lipstick. While Simon and Ian prattled on boastfully about their knife fight, Jo returned from the dance floor and touched my arm. She leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Come to the bathroom with me.”
I got up and followed her. As we walked we saw a surge of agitated clubbers shouting and pushing as they headed to the outdoor patio. We cut through them and continued on into a bathroom with six hole-in-the-ground toilets separated by thin plywood barriers. It was crowded with drunk teenage girls, but Joanna barged through them to the last stall and slipped in as a girl slipped out. She handed me her purse and didn’t bother with the door. After throwing up twice she said, “I have some tissues in my bag. Could you grab them?”
I handed her the packet of Kleenex and put my hand on her back. “Are you okay?”
“I did some shots with Stoyan at the bar. They were horrible. I’m fine now.”
She leaned her butt against the filthy bathroom sink, her hands plunged into the front pockets of her orange corduroys. Jo was dressed like a backpacker who shopped at Goodwill, in a retro button-up shirt with layers of necklaces and bracelets stacked thick. She looked about sixteen. “So, I did something dumb.”
“What?”
“Right after your last visit I went out with these guys, and we went to see some horseshit heavy-metal band and I got wasted. At the end of the night I asked Ian if he wanted to come back to my place.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God, okay.”
“I know, crazy, right?”
“What did he say?”
Jo looked down and spun one of her silver rings around her finger. She cl
eared her throat and shook her hair back. “He said no. Let’s just say I didn’t take it like a lady.”
She laughed, and I managed something fake that sounded almost like I was laughing with her.
“Turns out he has a girlfriend. Her name is Fiona. That’s who he’s always texting. She was in the army with them, military police also.”
“He has a girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
Military police also? “Kind of out of nowhere,” I said.
“That’s funny, because guess what? She showed up out of nowhere, and that’s how we all found out.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. We were hanging out at the Irish Pub. Me, Hillbilly Buck, Stoyan and the other British bodyguards. And this woman walks up.”
“And it was her?” I asked, spellbound.
“Ian nearly fell out of his chair.”
“What did she look like?”
“Exactly like you and me, crossed with Juliette Lewis in Natural Born Killers, except with giant tits and if we had ‘bat-shit crazy’ tattooed on our foreheads.”
“Shut up,” I said. “Seriously?”
“Yeah,” said Jo, nodding emphatically. “The bitch tried to trip me.”
“What?”
“Yeah. She did. She sat down with all of us and was being really cute, excited about how she had managed to surprise Ian, and when I got up to go to the bathroom she tried to trip me! I’m telling you, she put out her leg at the last minute while I was walking by. Like a ten-year-old in the lunchroom.”
“God! Why would she do that?”
Joanna studied me in a weird way, as if trying to figure out where she knew me from. “No idea,” she answered.
“So she flew into Skopje? Without telling him?” Despite the fact that I came and went from this dangerous country as I wanted, the realization that there was another woman who dared do the same filled me with an inexplicable fury.