Embassy Wife

by Katie Crouch

  Man, Amanda thought. The way she looks at him. I wish I still looked at Mark like that.

  “Sorry, darling, I’ve got Reginald over there,” he said, patting her shoulder. “I’ll see you back at the house. Nice to meet you, Amanda.”

  Mila, obviously hurt, avoided Amanda’s eyes.

  “He seems great,” Amanda said, trying to smooth over the awkward silence. “Hey, would you guys ever like to get together for a playdate? Like, we hang out as couples while the kids play?”

  Mila was horrified. “Watch the children … play?” she said incredulously. “Amanda. I cannot think of anything more dull. We do not organize things around our children. That’s awful.”

  And yet. Mila seemed interested in her problems. She would sit across from Amanda, her cappuccino or champagne sitting untouched on the table as she listened calmly, hands folded, to Amanda’s neurotic drivel:

  “I know sex is important to a marriage, but let’s just say my interest was drying up already. In Namibia, I’ve become Sossusvlei. Should I make myself go there?”

  Or:

  “My God, Mila, I’m dying of boredom just listening to myself. How do you do it? I need a fucking job.”

  When Amanda was done, Mila would take a sip, sit back, and say something like:

  “A jackal would eat its foot over being chained.”

  “Right,” Amanda would say. “Right. But wait. What does that mean?”

  “Your daughter is ready to grow. Give her room.”

  Mila told Amanda calmly that she had to have sex at least once a week if she wanted to be married. That sometimes it is a job to have no job. That we were all getting there, to the same place at different times, and she needed to enjoy the time she had with her husband and child. She said the word enjoy with delicious languidness, as if the very vowels were ripe peaches to be savored.

  “You’re an oracle,” Amanda said, after a second glass of wine.

  Mila smiled. “I am glad to have a new friend.” And then, to the closest white waiter around, “You, there. This coffee is far from hot, my friend.”

  In fact, the more she got to know Mila, the more interested Amanda was in Meg and Taimi’s friendship. At first she’d just been thankful that Meg had a friend, period. But today she was shamelessly eavesdropping as the girls sprawled on the trampoline, pointing at fake servants.

  “Pick up that garbage!” Taimi shouted at someone invisible.

  “And bring me my gown!” Meg echoed, a bit less stridently.

  At first Amanda had thought something was wrong because they were yelling, but when she took Meg aside, her daughter just rolled her eyes at the interruption and spoke to her in a tone she used only to express the utmost disdain.

  “Mom. We’re playing Rich Lady,” she said. “Of course we have servants.”

  Amanda decided to shelve the lecture on class and society for another time. She looked at the clock. Three o’clock. Time in Namibia did not exactly fly by. The truth was, she needed more to do. Guarding a rhino was nothing short of ridiculous, but—in the absence of anything else—maybe it wasn’t. What was so great about making phone apps, anyway? Why had she thought herself so important a year ago? Money? Why were rhinos any different?

  She slid her laptop over the counter in front of her and did a quick google.

  In 2016, 1,054 rhinos were poached in South Africa. More than three per day.

  Rhino horn has been fetching prices as high as US$50,000 per kg.

  Professional poachers have prior access to information about the farm they intend to target. They use tranquilizer guns, helicopters, and high caliber weapons.

  Many poachers have had military training.

  “Military training?” Amanda said out loud. Jesus. What was she getting herself into?

  The double beep that notified her of a car coming into the gate rousted her from her online session. It was Mark, back from a research trip. She closed the laptop and ambled out into the driveway. Mark rolled down the window. Amanda was struck by her husband’s tan, which brought out the warmth in his eyes. It was good for him to go away, she thought. Otherwise her daily annoyance with her new life got in the way of realizing just how appealing he was.

  “That bad in there?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just you’ve never met me in the driveway before.”

  “Oh. Well, I … missed you.”

  Mark looked surprised, and Amanda felt a rush of guilt. She knew she wasn’t affectionate enough. Sometimes she was so cold, she bordered on frigid. What would Mila do? she wondered, then leaned through the window and kissed him.

  “Taimi’s over for a playdate, though. So, yeah, maybe I did need a little air.”

  “Well. Cheer up. I stopped at that weird shop on Nelson Mandela and got us a fancy bottle of Shiraz.” Mark held up the bottle with one hand and opened the car door with the other. Only, as soon he stepped out, he tripped. Amanda heard the shattering of glass and saw her husband on the ground, purple wine seeping out from under him.

  “Shit,” he said. “See what happens when I try and do something nice? How do I manage to fuck everything up?”

  “It’s okay,” Amanda said automatically. Though she couldn’t help thinking it was a fair question: Why did Mark fuck everything up? And how could she possibly save their marriage when she was so damned annoyed by him all the time?

  “We have plenty of wine,” she said feebly.

  “Yeah, but this was from Drakensberg. I picked it out after hearing this guy drone on and on about varietals—”

  “Where’s Drakensberg? Germany?”

  “I thought we could drink it and then … I don’t know…”

  “Run naked through sprinklers?”

  Mark smiled at her in a surprisingly tender manner. Were his eyes misting over? Oh God, and she’d been such a bitch lately. She was immersed suddenly in an entire new onslaught of guilt.

  “That was fun,” he said softly. It had been the night of their wedding at a plantation outside of Charleston, after the last of the guests had staggered home. Having already overused the honeymoon suite and all of its tubs, sinks, and surfaces, they’d been sitting out on the balcony wrapped in sheets when the sprinklers suddenly shot on. The smell of the water hitting the grass, the percussive shushing, had awoken something in them both.

  “Let’s go,” Mark had said.

  Let’s go. Mark used to always say that, and she had blindly followed. But he never seemed to anymore. Because where would they go? Back in time?

  “Thanks for reminding me of that,” Mark said. “I’ve had a really shitty day.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll make you a martini or something,” she said, but neither of them moved. “We could still do the drunken sex part, you know.”

  “Now?”

  Amanda bit her lip. Once a week! Mila had commanded. Okay, then. She grabbed Mark’s bag and went to the kitchen. Forgoing the drama of martinis, she poured two vodkas over ice, with a little extra for good luck. Then she unlocked the device drawer and took the iPad into Meg’s room.

  “One Littlest Pet Shop,” she said. “That’s it.”

  Taimi smiled. “Thank you for letting us enjoy video entertainment, Mrs. Evans. May I have some juice?”

  “Amanda, go get Taimi some juice. Mommy and Daddy are doing some work. We’ll be out in a little bit.”

  She went into the bedroom and locked the door to find Mark already naked and waiting under the sheet. He had been doing that lately, and it made her want to jump out of the window. Was it the clinical nature of it? Or the presumption? Amanda took a long draw from her drink.

  “Always wear shorts, okay?” Mark said, running his hand up her thigh. “Like, every day. Even when you go back to work.”

  “I guess if Zuckerberg can wear a hoodie, I can wear running shorts.”

  Through the wall, they could hear the prattle of a preteen cartoon. Oh my God, I am so going to take Fluffy down before the Big Finale …
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  “That doesn’t sound like PBS Kids.” Mark always forbade all media, except in emergencies, which this sort of was. And if he did allow Meg to watch, then it was supposed to be quality public television programming or something archaic and charming like, say, National Velvet.

  “Yeah, I let them watch trash,” she said. “They’re eating candy and drinking rum. What are you going to do about it, Officer?”

  “Come here, beautiful.” As he pulled her onto the bed, she cringed a little. “I love you, you know,” he whispered.

  Oh God. She should just drop it. Mila would drop it. She couldn’t, though.

  “Why are you naked already?” she blurted. “Don’t you think that takes the … throw-down out of it?”

  He looked at her blankly. “I don’t know. I was hot. The bed looked nice. What?”

  “But what about foreplay?”

  “You never want foreplay.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t. You always just want to get to the sex part.”

  “Only at night. When I’m tired.”

  “I can put my clothes back on, if you want.”

  “No, that’s okay. We only have one Littlest Pet Shop.” Amanda pulled off her shirt and shorts and got in next to him.

  Once they fell into their motions, she had to admit they had pretty good sex. She still loved Mark’s rower’s body; it was softer now, but she could still excavate the former version with her hands. He knew she liked it with him on top, moving up and down slowly so that she could press the headboard with her hands and rock herself back and forth until she came. They didn’t always do it that way. She thought of herself as a generous lover—though her patience had waned with age—so she would still (occasionally) bend over a couch or flip Mark over so that she was on top, causing her breasts to bounce in the way that he liked. Yet those couplings always felt like a show to her. Actually, they were a show, she thought now. She never came when they had sex that way, but she’d pretend she did, so as not to disappoint him.

  Is that normal? she wondered now, before she actually did come. Do all women pretend sometimes? Do all marriages require acting? Or does it mean our relationship is dead?

  She knew who would have the best answer. Mila. She would ask her the next time they had lunch.

  They ate outside, under Mark’s favorite tree. Taimi had informed them that her father’s assistant wouldn’t be fetching her until eight, so the little girl joined them to make an unfamiliarly even table. Amanda liked this, having four at dinner. She had always wanted a second child, and Mark had always wanted another, but no baby had ever materialized, so that seemed to be that.

  They’d already downed plenty of vodka, but she went ahead and made the martinis anyway. They had tagliatelle with pesto and a Caprese salad she’d made earlier. For the moment, she was doing the very best she could to pretend Namibia didn’t exist.

  “Thank you for this lovely food,” Taimi said as she sat down. “And let us thank God as well.”

  “Good idea,” said Mark.

  “And Jesus.”

  “Now you’re going a little far.” Mark spooned the tagliatelle onto the girls’ plates.

  “It is green,” Taimi said, looking at it curiously. “Is there no meat?”

  “Not tonight,” Amanda said. “This is Italian.”

  “We’re going skiing in Italy next year,” the little girl stated.

  “Wow. So what does your mother like to cook?” Mark asked.

  “My mother does not cook.”

  “Your dad?” Meg asked.

  “The maid.” Taimi swirled the pasta onto her spoon and pushed it into her mouth. “Strange color. Hmmm. Yet this is very delicious. Yes, I do say so.” Taimi nodded with curt approval.

  Mark looked over at Amanda with slightly raised eyebrows. “So, looks like you girls worked everything out, eh?”

  “Dad,” Meg hissed. “We don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Sit up straight,” Mark said. Meg’s face grew red with frustration. “And pull your chair in.”

  “Mr. Evans, we did indeed get through our differences. I am no longer angry that your daughter struck me in the face.”

  Meg giggled. “Nice one.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  “And how was the crime scene?” Amanda asked, trying to remember the German thing he had to investigate.

  “What?” Mark’s tone was so sharp, all three of them snapped to attention.

  “The statue or whatever.”

  “Oh.” Mark scowled and looked at his plate. “It’s not that bad. Just vandalized by some rightfully pissed-off Nama kids.”

  “The minister of health is from the Nama tribe,” Taimi said, her mouth full of pesto. “He has a very nice villa. I like their swimming pool. It is on the roof.”

  “Ah,” Mark said. “Taimi, I forgot that we are dining with a minister’s daughter.”

  “Indeed. My father is the minister of transportation. In charge of all of the roads.”

  “Very nice. I’d love to talk to him.” Mark looked at Amanda. “I wonder if he could do anything about the damned Boer drivers.”

  “Dollar,” Meg said. She leaned in toward Taimi. “They have to give me a dollar every time they swear.”

  “Swearing is untoward and common,” Taimi said.

  “I agree, Taimi,” Amanda said. She turned back to Mark. “So what were you doing, exactly?”

  “Talking to people. Research. About the damned Nama holocaust.”

  “Dollar,” Meg said.

  Taimi sat up straighter. “What holocaust? That sounds untoward also. I will ask my father to address this.”

  “What does untoward mean?” Meg asked.

  “Bad,” Amanda said.

  “That’s okay, Taimi,” Mark said, looking a little nervous. “We should let your father focus on transport.”

  “He is very powerful,” Taimi said sagely.

  “Must be a good feeling.”

  “And he has a mistress.”

  “I thought we were done talking about mistresses,” Amanda said quickly, knowing that it was impossible that any man married to Mila would ever have one.

  “I want to be a mistress,” Meg said. “Like Mistress Bonfamille in The Aristocats. She has a huge house in Paris and the cats all have their own beds.”

  “Her name is Madame,” Taimi said. “I just saw that movie.”

  “I want to be a madame, then.”

  “The Aristocats is quality entertainment,” Mark said. “I would watch that with you. What do you say?”

  “We’re going to play,” Meg answered flatly. “May we be excused?”

  “Not until you clean your plate and eat a tomato,” Mark said.

  “Dad,” Meg said. “I have a guest.”

  “Tomato.”

  “I have eaten all of my tomatoes,” Taimi said. “Though I think this practice is somewhat cruel. What if her tummy is full?”

  “What—”

  Amanda reached over, plucked the tomato off Meg’s plate, and popped it in her mouth. “Go,” she said.

  Mark shook his head as the girls pattered away and shut the door to Meg’s room.

  “Mandi. Why do you do that? You undermine me every time.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You do. Now you’re the nice one. And I’m the asshole. Again. She doesn’t even like me these days. I can’t even get her to watch a damned movie with me.”

  “Her friend’s over.” She began to pine for slightly more vodka. “Just let her be.”

  “Excuse me,” Taimi said. Amanda and Mark turned to see the girl standing there, looking at them with wide eyes. “May we please have some juice?”

  “No juice,” Mark said. “Too much sugar too late at night.”

  “Christ.” Amanda sighed. “Just let her have the fucking juice.”

  “Oh my,” Taimi said. “I believe you owe Meg one dollar, per your swearing game. That makes three. If that is U.S. c
urrency, that would be about three hundred and sixty Namibian. My father taught me to convert.”

  “We mean Namibian dollars, Taimi. Here.” Mark dug into his pocket and handed the little girl the coins. “Put it in the jar. When’s your mom coming to pick you up?”

  “I believe she’ll send the driver. Eight o’clock.”

  “Okay, well, go get your juice. And tell Meg we’re watching The Aristocats.”

  “That will be very enjoyable,” Taimi said. She looked at Amanda expectantly. “Glasses, please?”

  Amanda poured them two crystal glasses of juice—stemware Mark never let Meg use. As they watched Taimi disappear down the hall, Mark got up and cleared his plate.

  “I just can’t help feeling that you hate it here,” he said. “That you hate me for bringing you here.”

  “I don’t hate you. And I don’t hate it here, actually. It’s…” Amanda glanced down at the pool, where a pair of frogs seemed to be fornicating. She got up and leaned against a pillar. “Okay. I do hate it here. But mostly I just feel stuck, you know? I miss my job. I miss American things. Going to the store and buying miso.”

  “Miso?” He threw his plate into the sink with a clatter and came back out onto the veranda.

  “Shut up. I’m here. We’re here. For you. So just … please tell me you’re making great strides on your book. Please.”

  “I am!”

  “Can I read it?”

  “Look,” Mark said, his cheeks flushing. “Look. Life is not terrible, okay? You get to live like this”—Mark gestured to the house—“and live in a fascinating place.”

  Amanda groaned. “Do you notice that’s what everyone calls Namibia? ‘Fascinating’? It’s like calling the weird sister ‘interesting.’”

  “Well, I happen to think it’s gorgeous. I’m just saying, I’ve never heard you be a whiner before, Mandi.”

  “Because you took everything away from me!” Amanda burst out. The vodka had firmly taken hold of them both. “I never wanted to be this person, this … carpooling woman who sits around waiting for her kid to get done with lessons! I went to business school, for Christ’s sake. And it’s not like we’re so flush, either. We should be putting money away for Meg’s college, and I’m just sitting here.”

  Amanda hadn’t been looking at Mark as she had delivered her alcohol-induced soliloquy; she’d been peering at the garden, trying to come up with the words that would make him understand they needed to go home. So when she heard the sound of the metal chair toppling over, she could only think he’d tripped again. But as she turned to look at him in the darkness, the chair was still skittering across the terrace from being kicked, and her husband, her mild-mannered, adorable husband, had both fists clenched and was looking at her like he might want to kill her.