Stan eyed her with interest. “It’s been far too long. Sixty-six days, actually. But who’s counting?” He smiled at his own joke, unknotted the sash of his bathrobe and let it fall open. He was fully erect, with no boxers on.
Karen sidled closer. “You sure this doesn’t have to do with the fact that there’s another female in the house? The added estrogen in the air?”
“Nope.”
“Then why are you particularly hard?” she asked.
Stan touched the back of her neck, and Karen’s shoulders and arms went board stiff.
“Don’t you know?” he asked.
“Tell me.” As Karen said the words, her tongue felt thick in her mouth.
“Because you’re the best fuck in the city,” Stan explained.
She detested sex talk. And though her body and face continued with animation, in her mind Karen shook her head—no, no, no. The thing in her belly would produce the necessary words.
“You can do better than that,” the voice scolded. “That’s too much of a cliché for any kind of realism I’d ever believe.”
“Well then, let’s narrow that statement down and say you’re the best fuck I’ve ever had.” Stan sat back on the sofa, satisfied with his correction. “Better?” he asked, needing encouragement.
Karen managed to blink once, and her feet made an involuntary shuffle on the floor. Some sensation returned to her shoulders, arms, and fingers. Just enough for her to do what was necessary. She grabbed Stan by the penis and began to pull him toward the bedroom, like a stallion on a lead. Stan shrugged off his robe and, naked, followed her, slamming the bedroom door behind him with a kick of his foot. He lay on his back diagonally across the bed, while Karen began to undress.
“C’mon, you little bitch. Bring it here,” Stan demanded.
“Why’d you call me that?” the voice asked.
“Well, you’re certainly little. And I guess in the hip-hop vernacular, you’re my bitch,” he explained.
“Let’s get some things straight. I’m going to fuck you silly. And I might even give you a bruise or two,” the voice warned.
“Sounds wonderful,” he swooned.
“But don’t ever call me that again,” the voice cautioned.
Karen ripped off her blouse and bra, her breasts buoyant, nipples hard. She crawled on top of Stan and straddled him. Her insides now spun like a whirling dervish. Karen flew up from the bed. She spent the next hour pressed against the ceiling, watching her body below.
13
THE CITY, NOW ALMOST EBONY, HUMMED AT A flaccid pitch. Their bedroom at the back of the house overlooked the garden, and Junie’s lights from the level below provided a burnished glow to the room. Karen’s hovercraft body had made a soft landing from twelve feet above. She’d then showered and oiled her body. She’d massaged her fingers and her toes and rubbed a chamois cloth all over her skin. Her belly had receded to nothing and she felt her limbs reattach to her torso. Finally, she tested her voice, and it sounded reasonably familiar—like a sibling.
Karen detected strains of orchestral music seeping up from beneath the bed—maybe a Brahms symphony. The heartbeat of tympani rumbled across the support beams, up the bedposts, and fluttered into the mattress. Fresh from her ablutions and lying on the bed, she gathered the bedcovers close to her breasts and observed Stan as he dozed on his back. He always softened after sex; a defensive veneer would abandon his face. Karen examined Stan’s features from the side and noticed that his mouth was almost smiling. This rare time, when his obsessions loosened their grip, allowed for a benign neutrality between them, and this presented her with the possibility of accomplishing her real mission tonight. She lightly traced her finger along Stan’s eyebrows. “Darling?”
Stan’s eyes popped open. “Whoa, Nellie. What’d I do now?”
“Why do you always go to that place when I use an endearment? Please don’t screw this moment up.”
Stan tried to look the other way, but Karen pulled his face back toward hers. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m afraid.”
“Why? Of what?”
Stan seemed to weigh his answer. “Of everything. We’re not drinking, for one thing. And that girl downstairs—”
“Her name is Junie.”
“Okay—this Junie whoever. I’m still not sure this was a good idea. We’re stuck with her now.”
“Did it ever occur to you that her presence is one of the reasons that we’ve been able to stay sober for a few consecutive days? Maybe even longer, if we’re lucky.”
“That sounds like far-fetched psychobabble. Which disgusts me on every level. I don’t believe in luck. You know that. But I’m uncomfortable in my own home. And I have no idea what to say to her.”
“Didn’t you tell me she’d been upstairs for more CDs? You must have talked to her.”
“Yeah, I did. She seems to know a lot about art.”
“See? She’s not so bad, and it looks like you have something in common.”
“Well, let’s not get carried away. But I’ll grant you, she does appear to be intelligent.”
“Good. Now what else? You’ve not told me everything.”
“Well, it’s your sweetness tonight. I have to be honest; I don’t trust it.”
This unnerved Karen, because she was unaware of how she’d actually behaved. While she’d floated above the bed, the woman below did the usual things expected during sex. And Stan had appeared to be satisfied, at least from a distance. So, she had to wing it. “You never trust. That’s your nature. I’m used to it.”
“That weak reasoning may help you—”
“Stan, the way we are with each other—the jabs, the barbs—that’s not a compulsion. It’s a habit. You need to be able to make the distinction. Think of it as concrete that has to be chipped away in order to dissolve and then be reconstituted—”
“Please, Karen, you’re making us sound like a new construction project. Spare me the analogies. I detest them. They’re for those who can’t express ideas accurately.” Stan sat up and scooted back against the headboard. “Sorry for the lecture. Anyway, what were you going to ask me? Right after the ‘darling’ part?”
Karen turned over on her stomach to face Stan. “Okay. I have to tell you something and it’s already a done deal, so don’t get crazy.”
“I’m listening.”
Karen squeezed her eyes shut. “I’ve arranged for Patrick to start the renovation on Pickle’s half of the brownstone.” She opened one eye.
“Huh. Really? Why?” Stan asked, incredulous.
“We’re starting Monday.”
“That’s not ‘why.’”
“It’s been a long time, Stan.”
“Nope. I can’t allow it. I barely lived through our phase. And Pickle’s never seemed to care.”
“But he does care. And I have a sense that he might feel competitive. You know—Junie’s here and he’s not. He’d never admit to it, of course; he’s much too proud. So, I talked to Patrick about it this morning.”
Stan was still for a few minutes, and she held her breath as she watched him work it out.
“Does Patrick have the manpower? I don’t want this interfering with any of our jobs.”
“Patrick’s just fine. He agreed to it immediately,” she said.
“Okay. But only if you have his complete assurance.”
Karen silently let out her breath. “We’ve gone through the scheduling and have it worked out. And Stan? I want it to be a surprise, so don’t say anything to Pickle. I’ll tell him later in the week after I get all the details settled.”
“Lips sealed.” Stan made a “lock the key” motion to his mouth.
He tried to yank her back on top of him, but Karen pushed him away, rolled onto her back, and reached for the video remote. “Let’s watch the end of season two. Sue Ellen’s in the sanitarium when Bobby comes to visit, and she tells him that Cliff Barnes is the father of her unborn baby.”
Stan smiled. “Wonde
rful. Sue Ellen’s makeup. Lashes. Bronzer.”
They relaxed into the Ewing family saga. Karen strained to hear Junie’s music under the sound of Sue Ellen’s tears. Nothing came from below, so she focused on the tremble in Sue Ellen’s voice as she gradually revealed to Bobby her fatal secret, which would ultimately undo her and Cliff Barnes.
14
PICKLE STOOD ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum on Fifth Avenue at Eighty-Ninth Street. The swirl of the nautilus stood out as unique to any other building in New York City. Pickle stared at the top for several minutes and realized he was slightly jealous of the architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. Audacious: the man and his structure. Pickle and Junie had made vague plans the previous evening at the brownstone, and then, learning that she was an “artsy-fartsy” type from Lance, Pickle chose this museum for their first date. Now he wondered whether he could live up to the man, the building and the art. But he had to start somewhere.
Pickle leaned against the thick stone barrier to Central Park while he waited for Junie and, exhausted, yawned three times. He’d not slept more than an hour or two the night before. At three in the morning—fitful and anxious—he’d pulled out his penis and his cell phone and called Candice from Property. Over the next couple of hours, and only after Candice had given him two happy endings, Pickle was finally able to quiet his essential body part and sleep. Now, he imagined bags under his eyes and willed himself not to pull out his pocket mirror. Instead, he glanced down at the front of his shirt to make sure he was presentable. No stains. Well, there was always the comfort of knowing that he looked just like Stan, who, admittedly, was a handsome bastard.
Pickle appreciated the architecture and art of New York City, a fact he’d managed to keep hidden from Karen and Stan. When they discussed their business, or the latest art exhibitions they’d attended, Pickle understood the subjects, the aesthetics, even the history. This was a language they assumed he had no fluency in, and the fact that he’d hidden his knowledge over the course of their marriage, thrilled Pickle. Kind of like the secret satisfaction of sitting on the subway where two people suddenly break into Spanish to be private, but you know enough Spanglish to understand that the woman is fucking her husband’s best friend. Pickle smiled to himself at the thought: fooling Karen and Stan over and over. Still, to reveal nothing had been a hard-learned lesson—an inheritance bequeathed by his mother.
Their mother had noticed Stan’s emerging brilliance from very early on, as did most everyone. So, Pickle had been seen as the normal twin, and by extension, the lesser twin. When they were about ten years old, the school had selected twelve of the brightest students for a spelling bee. In these situations, Pickle was always included, deserving or not, because teachers didn’t want him to feel inferior or left out, time and again. Stan excelled beyond Pickle in all subjects, and this was their way of being kind.
Pickle and Stan sat next to each other in a circle with the rest of the students, while the parents were placed directly behind their child to be supportive, but unseen, partners. As the quiz began, the words were simple enough and most of the kids shouted the spellings in unison. This exercise was meant as a warm-up.
The room smelled of sour milk breath emanating from the children, and nervous sweat from the adults, who were understandably invested in their children’s accomplishments. Their faces belied a competitive streak—alternating glee and disappointment. Gradually, as the words became more challenging, the rules of the game changed. The children were now required to raise their hands in order to be called upon for the answer. And soon the bee was down to three students: Stan, Pickle, and a girl.
Pickle felt a sharp pinch to the back of his upper arm just as he was about to raise his hand to answer. He flinched, startled by that first pinch. Stan zoomed in with his arm and then the correct answer. Pickle’s eyes burned with tears, as he looked halfway back toward his mother, whom he noticed had moved her chair directly behind his.
The next word proffered produced the same result, and with it an understanding that a pinch from his mother equaled a victory for Stan. He might not have been able to ultimately beat his brother in the quiz, but he understood that he was not to even try. Not only would he receive a pinch, but surely even more confounding punishments from his mother when back at home.
Learning to hide smarts at a young age took an intellect of a different sort—from the secondary brain center in the gut. For young Pickle, perfecting this body-level intuition proved to be a coping mechanism that helped him survive his mother. He’d always held onto that backup intelligence, which he later honed into an ability to wrap himself in a blanket of his own secrets.
Pickle turned to see Junie walking toward him. Her hair was carved into a braid that slid down the side of her neck, the tufted end landing just above the crook of her elbow. With her face washed clean and not a hint of makeup, she radiated a simplicity that Pickle wanted to devour. He placed his hands on her upper arms, squeezing them in affection.
She gave him a wry smile. “I’m here.”
“I see that you are.”
“I almost didn’t come. I’ve been inside all week. But then just today I felt a small opening, or possibility, and I walked out the door.”
“I’m really glad you made it. But you’re not obligated to Karen and Stan, or me, for that matter. You’re free to do whatever you want. You know that—right?”
“Yeah, I know. But I’m grateful, because standing here right now feels almost okay.”
Pickle knew what that felt like. “Almost okay” was better than shitty and worse than not bad. He was just about to roll that deflating thought around in his mind, when nature came to his rescue. The sun broke out from behind clouds and fell on Junie’s face—like a Rembrandt painting with the pearliest of shimmers usually dedicated to his rendering of slick oysters. Grateful, Pickle laughed at this mental image, and scrutinized all her freckles, like the Milky Way.
“What’s so funny, Pickle?”
“Oh nothing, I was just thinking about something fishy.”
Junie perked up. “Fishy! Not me, I hope. I’m not a fishy type.”
“No, you’re not fishy. Wanna see some art?”
Pickle pointed to the museum and her eye followed his gesture.
“Yes. Art would be fantastic.”
They jaywalked across the street and Pickle gained them entrance with his membership card. Beginning at the top of the spiral, Pickle and Junie then drifted down for about an hour, silently pointing when the urge crept up. They were quiet with each other and Pickle was encouraged that she wasn’t a talker. No words were needed in a building like this, not about the art, or anything else.
Cezanne, Gauguin, Braque, Klee, Degas. Each artist caught their interest through differing brushstrokes that seemed perfectly suited to the colors and forms within the frames. They stopped at the Kandinsky titled Seven Circles. Elemental and spare, the black background drove into a visual infinity. Junie traced the outline of the frame with her finger. Turning to Pickle, she wondered aloud, “Why is everything in life divided into squares?”
Pickle looked back up to the top of the spiral, where they’d begun, and then faced Junie. Her eyes, worn out, told him that she expected him to tell her the truth—which meant there was already a burgeoning trust between them. He somehow found the courage to risk an answer that might cause her to regret even asking this question.
“Squares are my friends,” he said.
Junie smiled at his unexpected and surprising declaration.
“They interest me because they’re a geometric volume with an implicit memory,” he further explained.
She gave him a puzzled look and Pickle couldn’t believe he was about to share his private understanding of the world with a virtual stranger.
“Most people stop at corners and simply turn right or left. But I see those corners as my chance to pause and reflect, or question—maybe even regret.”
Pickle pointed to the top of the spiral
and twirled his finger. She laughed, possibly expecting a joke.
“Circles are different. They propel us forward and we can choose to move quickly or slowly. But if we have the urge to stop, it’s from our own volition. So, the very nature of a circle doesn’t imply either going forward or stopping. In the world, it’s known as taking responsibility for our actions, which is a scary concept for many people. That’s why I love this museum. It’s a circle and only the art, what we see and are moved by, is meant to stop us.”
Junie’s eyes welled up and she laid her head against Pickle’s chest. “Oh God, Pickle. How could you know that I needed those words right now? For someone to say something that wasn’t soothing? Just hard and true.” She paused, not looking at him, but stayed close. “All the trouble I’ve caused everyone. You must think I’m such an idiot.”
He pressed his face into her orange hair and breathed deeply. Grapefruit. “You’re no trouble. You’re certainly no idiot. And that was an obnoxious lecture. It’s just that I’ve thought about these things and I don’t get to say what’s on my mind a hell of a lot. I’m preaching to myself more than to you. C’mon. Let’s go.”
They walked the few blocks to the Eighty-Sixth Street crosstown bus and rode together to the West Side. Pickle resisted the impulse to chat and Junie, also quiet, seemed content to just be with him. When they neared the brownstone, Pickle stopped at the corner.
“You won’t come in?” she asked, but he knew she was being polite. And he’d had enough too, which was a surprising realization for Pickle.
“I have to get uptown.”
She walked down the block, waving to him without turning her head. Pickle stood watching her, making note of her small hips, swinging arms, and narrow shoulders. Then he noticed that her left foot was badly pigeon-toed, and he suddenly felt gutted out. Her parents, apparently, had not made sure she was acceptable to the public at large. That was the very least a parent could do—should do. To make certain the child began life on level ground and equal to others, with feet that were straight and aligned and proper. He watched her foot and its strangled slant until she let herself into the brownstone. Fix the damn foot, people, he muttered to himself.
Pickle’s Progress Page 10