They’re under, dear. They’ve submerged, haven’t they? They do that from time to time, Camila says. Time after time. Her eyes look all black in this light, her hair whips back and forth in the wind.
Corvus loses herself in sudden peals of laughter, and covers her mouth smiling. Muffled, she says, What the fuck am I doing here? She looks for the hippos in the water and shakes her head with no answer. The laughter hurts in a good way, right in the soft pit of her stomach.
I used to try really hard to get people to like me, Camila says. My whole life. I remember I was always this polite, accommodating little thing. Do you know what I’m talking about, my dear? The wind blows a little more calmly now.
Corvus feels a current between them, some kind of spark or connection, curious and generous. She chews nothing but teeth and asks, What do you mean?
Camila takes out a pocket knife, snaps the blade open, and slices the air around her. She says, I mean getting taken advantage of. I mean not getting your due, dear. Camila slices repeating figure eights in the ghostly fog and carries on the conversation as normal, playing with the knife. She says, I started to take care of myself. I was so tired of catering to the needs of other people.
Corvus nods absently, and she eyes Camila’s blade. Briefly, a little suspicion needles her neck.
I see that in you, Camila says. You have the walk of a defeated person. Camila spins the knife in the air but anticipates too early, and she catches the wrong end, cutting her hand. Camila says, I saw you tonight and I thought, Maybe this girl has seen something, maybe she is grieving.
Corvus thinks, I am grieving. She listens to the wind and points to Camila’s bleeding hand.
Don’t worry about it, dear, says Camila, shrugging off the sting. The blood drips in a small pool on the marble. She says, I became my own woman. I became this house, this mansion, this island.
Corvus asks, These hippos?
Watch it, dear, says Camila. Don’t be a smart-ass. Camila is still holding the wrong end of her pocket knife. What I mean is, I know what grief is, too. I can see it in you, she says. Camila’s face is visibly stricken, not from physical pain, but as though wincing from a memory.
Is that why you changed your name? Corvus asks. Amber said your name used to be Molly.
Ignoring her, Camila says, What I mean is, you can stay here on the island and be at peace. You can do anything you want here. If you can just leave things at peace, in the past. You can stay here.
Corvus says, Thank you, and stops herself from saying anything else.
Camila closes the knife and starts wrapping her palm with the scarf she has around her neck, already soaking up the blood. She says, I still can’t feel my face.
Corvus asks, What were you and Amber huffing when I was leaving for my walk?
Novocain, says Camila, no longer looking sad. I have tanks and tanks of it, she says. You can have some when we get back.
Of course, Corvus says, her voice breaking a little. They start walking back to the mansion. The air is frigid and biting, the water shimmers behind them like diamonds. Thank you, Corvus says, and she holds the front door to the mansion open, her hand shaking on the grip, the fatigue from the walk finally catching up with her.
No one else has been invited to this party, says Camila, and it’s wonderful, just the girls and no unknown variables. There is bubbly poured, glasses raised, and all the women are sprawled out on couches, watching wood burn in the fireplace. Corvus cannot help feeling like she now has fragile access to a lost portal or tiny hole in time, some place intimate and tucked away, uncharted and left alone by other people. It’s the same reason she has always loved bunk beds, treehouses, towers, and secret rooms and compartments: the privacy is perfect. Corvus imagines herself walking the perimeter of the island alone every day for years, walking in sunshine, rain, and snow, the calm lake on one side of her, old-growth trees and garden mazes on the other. In her mind’s eye, she can live here. She can be at peace here in her own way.
Fuck first, says Camila’s voice. We have to fuck first. Don’t you know about fuck first, dear?
Corvus turns around and sees Amber in the middle of a deep stretch, breathing deeply, her foot nearly arched to the back of her head: a yoga pose. Camila has her hands on Amber’s exposed, toned abdomen, looking as though she wants to melt into Amber. She looks really high.
Amber says, Sometimes after I’ve done this pose, I’ve cried uncontrollably for hours. With her eyes unblinking, Amber brings her foot all the way to her ear, and exhales through a small o in her mouth. Her pupils water and she looks sad. She says, I don’t know what it is. Maybe my childhood.
Gently letting her hands go, Camila says, That’s quite dark, my dear.
Corvus asks, What were you talking about, Camila? Fuck first?
Oh, yes. Itinerary, says Camila. She leads Marco to a door in the kitchen that leads to the basement, where the studio, filming equipment, props, and sets are kept, where Marco likes to sleep, and Camila shuts him inside. The door is padlocked, but not completely soundproof: Corvus can hear Marco obediently climbing down the stairs. Camila taps the door and says, We’ll be down there soon enough.
She says, Contracts. Drugs. Champagne. Feast. The first video. Camila counts with her fingers, hovering an open hand at the end of the list of things to do. Amber and Corvus watch her curiously. While talking, Camila pours dry food into six silver dog bowls.
Camila says, I have every drug in the world, just ask. Don’t be shy, dear. Also, I am a masterful chef, and tonight, I am cooking all of us a feast. I’m thinking four or five courses just for the fuck of it. We can drink, get stoned, and then go out to my Jacuzzi on the rooftop.
Corvus and Amber look at each other silently and smile.
Camila snaps her fingers and appears serious. She says, But I have a rule: we have to fuck first.
Amber starts laughing but keeps it muffled with her hand.
Instead of eating all that food, drinking, and smoking first, I like having sex first, to get it out of the way, Camila says. And in that order, the sex won’t be as gross and bloated and blurry afterward. I swear by it, dear.
Corvus says, No, that’s really smart.
So I figured, says Camila, we can go downstairs and have some fun, shoot our first video together. I can show you my directing style and how we operate here, and we can go from there.
Corvus looks at Amber, but realizes Camila is addressing her directly. Hesitantly, Corvus says, Okay. Contracts?
Camila walks over, hands Corvus a dog bowl, and rubs her bare shoulder. She says, We can do the paperwork after the fun.
Amber leaps in the air, her hair blooms and falls. Her bare feet make a faint squeak on the kitchen floor.
Camila says, Here, dear. Let’s each get two bowls and bring the food to the dogs. We can start filming right after.
She unlocks the padlock and goes down first, followed by Amber and then Corvus. Immediately, walking down the steps, Corvus can see the basement is much larger than she imagined, and still under construction. She sees spare pieces of plywood abandoned on the floor in random piles, tarps, and a wheelbarrow of cement. Each room leads to another; Camila turns on more lights, revealing more doors. She says, Let’s leave the bowls here. I want to show you the studio.
There is a blue door and a black door. The black door opens to a larger room, what appears to be a small black box theater. Nothing is inside: the walls are painted black, the acoustics in the room are sharp and crisp. Camila says, We’re going to the studio next to this one. It’s a black box too, but the cameras are there, and the beds and toys are all set up.
Camila opens the blue door, letting Amber and Corvus go in first. There are booths and white curtains set up, with a bed and camera inside each empty porn set. The space looks more surgical than erotic. Corvus turns her head and sees all six dogs asleep in the corner of the theater. She smiles and says, There they are.
With a bright smile on her face, Amber walks over to the sleep
ing dogs, approaching one of the sets. Behind her, the white curtains move open and a figure appears. The figure steps out from the curtains and there is a smack in the air. Amber’s head knocks forward as she collapses to the floor. Through the open curtain, Tim stands staring at Corvus, holding a broomstick, Amber unconscious at his feet. The broom handle is made of solid gold.
Corvus says, Holy shit.
Camila screams, Tim! What the fuck did you do to my dogs? Camila stands blocking the only exit. Her pocket knife shows in the palm of her hand.
Corvus says, Holy shit.
Tim says, Relax. They’re only asleep. They wouldn’t stay quiet so I used tranquilizers. Tim pulls one out of his pocket and takes the red cap off the needle point. He looks Corvus in the eye and says, I know what’s going to happen to you. But you don’t.
PART TWO
LIFE WITH PERRY
CHAPTER 1
IT’S A MOMENT THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENS TO HER: SHE CAN trace back to how she used to be. She remembers being afraid of almost everything: walking home by herself at night, being poor and stuck and awkward, making small talk. But the fear doesn’t happen now and she’s on her own separate plane. She doesn’t care. It’s an amazing thing: meeting someone, making a connection, letting someone talk to you. Corvus ends the conversation with the boy she doesn’t know by getting up, carefully browsing and choosing a new record, and dancing by herself in the middle of the room. The song beeps in her chest, and Corvus gets lost in her own dancing, the thrill of no special occasion. The dance floor lights up, and other bodies swarm around. The hardwood floor vibrates beneath her feet to the bass, signals and tingles rise to her brain. The boy watches from the couch a little openmouthed, as Perry enters the room with two drinks, Michelle right behind him.
They all live together: three roommates, two lovers, one household. Michelle starts dancing like she was already here, surveying the ether. Corvus keeps dancing and touches Michelle’s ear and says, Sometimes, life gives you a moment. Michelle rolls her eyes and barely nods.
That boy over there was trying to flirt with me.
Michelle asks, Which boy?
Perry sits on the couch next to the boy and lights a cigarette. The music is at a rise, and the bodies ahead of them in the smoky dark sway, bump, and grind against one another. Corvus backs up and pushes Michelle against the vibrating wall. They mouth the chorus together.
The boy says, Hey. What the fuck. He coughs from the cigarette smoke.
Perry leans back on the couch and tries to pull his phone out of his pocket, but his pants are too tight. The phone makes a square bulge in the denim and Perry gestures at the shape. He says, Pants are too tight.
The boy says, Dude. We’re inside. He keeps coughing.
Perry says, I live here. This is my house. I pay a mortgage.
The boy says, Okay.
Okay, says Perry. Perry drinks from his cup and looks ahead.
Michelle, close to Corvus’s ear in the fuzzy dark, says, I think that dude is talking to Perry.
The boy rubs his hands together and says, You should be mindful about your guests. He waves away the smoke.
Perry slowly turns his head around and says, I don’t know you. Smoke cycles through his mouth and nostrils.
Radiating with a temper, the boy clenches his fists. He tries to lunge at Perry but is stopped by heavy hands that hold him down on the couch, heavy hands from heavy men standing up above him. The boy looks up behind him and the men look dead serious, one gripping and digging deeper into his shoulder.
Perry says, See, that’s the thing about privilege.
The boy grimaces in pain and grips his chest; the men lift him off his seat effortlessly, deadpan and serene faces on both of them. The boy’s feet are off the ground, his shadows are kicking.
Perry says, It makes you feel like the world is for you. And the world is not for you.
The boy mouths, What?
The man with the softer grip says, The world is not for you, son.
They carry him out the back door to the street, opening the door with his head. Perry leans back and says, Thanks, to no one in particular. The lights dim. The next song on the record is even louder, and there are more bodies, more stomachs, more legs and thighs. Perry isolates the noises and hears the pop song and the sounds of traffic outside simultaneously. Corvus sways to the couch and leans her head on Perry’s shoulder.
She says, Hi.
He says, Hi.
After two more songs, Corvus closes her eyes, and Michelle walks over, sits close, and rests her head on Corvus’s shoulder, speaking nonsense before passing out almost right away. The wind blows to no end, down to the very last drunk-ass guest.
She wakes up dreamless in the black, opening her eyes to sunlight on her face, her favorite way of waking up. This is the third night in a row Corvus has fallen asleep in the living room. She wakes on the futon that she never pulls out, and this time there aren’t small piles of people scattered all around her. Instead, just Michelle is sleeping soundly on her shoulder, which makes Corvus smile, but Perry is nowhere to be seen. She stretches and straightens her back on the couch cushions without waking Michelle and looks around for signs of Perry. But there’s nothing, not even a trace from last night’s party: the place has already been tended to and tidied. Immaculate and clean. He always does this, she whispers.
Books are straightened and grouped by color, the floors and tables are swept, and fresh tulips appear in recycled wine bottles on every other windowsill. There’s a small cookie jar shaped like a happy gnome full of leftover cocaine, pill bottles, and loose nuggets of marijuana that Perry leaves on the coffee table with a handwritten note: I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU. TURN THIS NOTE OVER.
Corvus turns the note over to read the same message and smiles. She digs into a rogue bag of potato chips and finds the last good one and licks the salt from her fingers. She knows where he is, so she doesn’t call for him. She waits for the sound and finds it: keys bouncing on a lanyard, tapping against a coatrack. Whenever Perry runs on his treadmill, nearly the entire basement shakes, and he always leaves his keys in the same place: hanging on the coatrack where the cheap plywood floor is the weakest. Still licking her fingers, she opens the door to the basement and gets a vague feeling of déjà vu as she crosses the threshold; the dim lights are already on downstairs.
The keys tap gently against the wooden coatrack, little jingles, and a Michael Jordan bobble head bobbles on a coffee table. The TV is turned to mute playing the news: a car is on fire and causing heavy traffic downtown. Perry is running hard on the treadmill, unaware she’s there, and Corvus sits on the staircase watching him. She can hear soft hip-hop music from his earphones. Pretzel, her old cat, comes up to her quietly, and then purrs in place the moment she gets to Corvus. She leans against a wall, signals for Pretzel to come to her lap, which always works, Pretzel is a good girl, and watches Perry run, sometimes glancing at the news on the TV, or sometimes staring straight through everything at nothing at all. She waits for him to finish, warm with Pretzel cuddling her.
The machine slows down as Perry takes a deep breath and starts to walk for his cooldown. He takes his earphones off, leaving them to dangle from his shirt, and wipes his brow with his sleeve. Perry never sounds like he’s hyperventilating, even after running six miles, and Corvus enjoys watching his triceps and listening to him breathing.
Corvus says, Hey.
Perry’s head whips back, still walking on the treadmill.
He says, Hey, honey.
Perry leaps off the still-moving conveyor belt and pushes the red button. Although he’s not out of breath, his shirt is drenched, and he smiles when he sees her in full view in the stairway. After so many years together, he’s still excited when he sees her. The sad man has a happy face.
She comes closer and Perry warns her, I’m really sweaty. Corvus hugs him even harder than she had wanted to and smiles against his chest. They walk over to the couch near the mute TV: an ambulance drives off scr
een. Pretzel jumps up between them, still purring, making eye contact with each of them.
Perry says, I love animals.
Oh, yeah?
Yeah, Perry says. I love animals. I’ve been watching a lot of videos lately of animals displaying empathy or great sorrow. Like there was this one Rottweiler that wouldn’t leave his dead brother’s side. It was like ten minutes of this dog nestling against another dog’s corpse, and he wouldn’t budge. Whimpering.
Corvus says, Poor boy.
Perry says, It makes me sad when I see human traits in animals, the same traits I feel like I don’t see in humanity anymore. It makes me feel like we all want something we’ll never have. Perry keeps rubbing Pretzel’s chin and zones off into the wall.
She looks at him and considers him and says, I love you.
I love you, he says.
Corvus picks up a frame with a photograph from when they first met. There is still some cocaine stuck to the glass. She says, Look at us. Look at all the weight you’ve lost. Pretzel jumps off her lap and runs away, a furry guided missile. I wish you would quit smoking, though, she says.
Perry gets up and grabs the keys on the lanyard off the wall. He says, Don’t you have work soon? I can drive you.
I can walk.
No, honey, I can drive you. No trouble.
Are you sure?
Yeah.
Thanks, honey, says Corvus.
Walking up the stairs, he says, You know, I’m making good money now. You don’t have to work anymore.
Corvus looks at him and holds the door open. She says, I like to work. From the kitchen, she can see that Michelle is still asleep on the couch, so she whispers, Hey, who were those two guys from last night? They kicked out the loser.
The tall men?
Yeah.
I think they’re fans of the play. They were talking to me about some fan club earlier in the night.
Corvus smiles and blushes and says, That’s funny. Really?
Perry laughs and says, Yeah, I couldn’t believe it. They told me they had my back forever.
King of Joy Page 8