Hints of Heloise (5 page)

But then he would be in some dopey airport hotel, with nothing but porn to keep him company. He wants the real thing, but he can't kid himself, he has no game left. The only way for him to have sex tonight is to pay for it, something he's never done. Okay, something he
says
he's never done. There have been a few furtive hand jobs here and there, on the way home from Baltimore, but nothing more because he's worried about catching something.

He pulls out a card given to him by a guy he met three weeks ago, a lobbyist employed by the company, who got a little loose over dinner and started talking about this amazing escort service in the Baltimore-Washington area. The card has nothing but a number and a set of initials: WFEN. Sounds like an AM radio station. His plane gets in at eight, if he's lucky, but he always fudges his arrivals, tells Meghan he's coming in at least two hours later. What if he just went to this place instead, telling Meghan that he was still in Atlanta? Ah, the beauty of cell phones, the liar's best friend.

The woman who answers the phone has an odd voice, a little toneless and loud. “Yes?”

“Is this…WFEN?”

“Yes.”

“I'd like to make…a date.”

“And how did you hear about us?”

“How…” He provides the name of the guy and there's endless clicking, like at an airline ticket counter.

“Name and birth date, please, along with the credit card you plan to use.”

“What?”

“We do not take new customers without a referral and all customers must be subjected to a criminal background check.”

“What if I want to pay in cash?” Meghan does the bills, no way he's putting this on a card.

“That's fine, but we still have to have a credit card on file.”

Even in his frustration, he admires the setup. Someone has thought this through. Plus, they're not asking for the security code, so he doesn't think they can charge anything, and if they did, it would be easy enough to get the charge off his card. And the lobbyist said the one he had was worth every penny, a real pro. Brian's just drunk enough to give his real name, although he lowers his voice while reading the card number into the phone.

“Wait, please.” He's put on hold, very pleasant jazz music to keep him company. The woman comes back on the line faster than most service reps, that's for sure.

“I'm sorry, we cannot take you.”

“Hey, that card is good.” Shit, has Meghan pushed it beyond the limit again? And he needs this, he has never needed anything more, he decides, than anonymous, nasty sex with someone who has to do whatever he says.

“We cannot take you.”

“Look, if you want another card—”

“We cannot take you.”

“Did something come up on the background check? It has to be a mistake because I'm clean as a whistle.”

“I'm sorry.” The woman hangs up, and when he redials, no one answers.

Seven hundred miles to the north, give or take, Heloise and Audrey sit in Heloise's refinished basement, the one where Heloise keeps her office, and look at the number on caller ID. Audrey opened a document on the computer as soon as she picked up the phone, per Heloise's instructions. But there was no criminal background check, no quick peek at credit records. The moment Audrey put the caller on hold, she summoned Heloise to the basement and asked her what to do.

“My brother-in-law,” Heloise says. “My fucking brother-in-law. What are the odds?”

“He would have been eliminated geographically even if he weren't a relative,” Audrey says. “He's within the ten-mile radius.”

Heloise won't take any client with a home address in her son's school district.

“I almost wish I could take him on as a client, give him to Staci down in D.C.,” Heloise says. “If Brian got rid of all that tension he's carrying, he might be a better husband and Meghan might not look so furious all the time. But I can't risk it. And, frankly, he can't afford it, based on what I know of that household's finances. If he wants sex, he'll have to sleep with his wife or settle for good old-fashioned adultery with someone at work.”

Audrey frowns. She has rather strict views on the sanctity of marriage, an interesting position for a woman who oversees the office of a thriving sex business. It is an even more interesting position for a woman whose hearing loss was caused by a vicious beating by her own husband, who also happened to be her pimp. Still, she was faithful to him, within the compartmentalized system that defined their relationship. She had sex with other men for money, but only her husband had her heart, and this remained true right up until the moment she killed him in the middle of another beating. Paroled a year ago, she was referred to Heloise by an old friend.

“Better to use a street-level worker,” Audrey says, using the term Heloise prefers. “As long as he wears a condom. Don't you always say adultery is more expensive in the long run?”

“Indeed,” Heloise says. “Now who's out tonight?”

“Gwen, in Annapolis. The senator got a bill out of committee, and he wanted to celebrate. But he never goes late. The GPS shows they're already at the hotel and I expect her safety text within the hour.”

Audrey's phone buzzes at just that moment and the two women look down to see the message: “Babycakes.” Just as bondage freaks have their safe words, Heloise assigns each of her girls a silly, frequently changing term to text when a date ends. Between that and the GPS that each girl wears on the inside of a wide bangle bracelet—Ho-jacks, the girls call them—she hasn't had a problem. Yet. But that's the nightmare that looms largest, the fear that she will be summoned to the morgue one day, asked to identify one of her employees.

“That was fast,” Audrey says. “Even for the senator.”

“Well, getting a bill out of committee,” Heloise says. “It can be pretty exciting.”

She goes upstairs to read to Scott. He's getting too old for this, but Heloise argues that it's really for her, that she won't read the Harry Potter books if they don't read them together. She has a date at ten, but Scott will be tucked in by then, safe under Audrey's care.

TWO

W
hy did we let him sign up for travel soccer?” Brian asks, and not for the first time. “It's not like he's going to grow up to be, what's his face, Beckham. And it's such a drag on the household when he has one of these games out in butt-fuck, Maryland.”

Meghan, who actually thinks the same thing all the time, fixes Brian with a disapproving stare. “How does it affect you? The Marshalls are driving Michael, both the girls have already left for sleepovers, and I'm taking Mark to that all-day rehearsal for the regional band competition. By the way, his teacher says he's going to need a new trumpet next year, he can't keep using the school instrument.”

“Great, how much is that going to cost?”

“Jesus, Brian, who cares? You make plenty of money.”

“Actually, I don't.”

He stands up, carries his plate to the sink and rinses it, then puts it in the dishwasher, which is full of clean dishes, but never mind, Meghan knows a sign of the apocalypse when she sees one. Brian has occasionally removed his own dishes from the table, but to rinse it and put it in the dishwasher? Things must be very bad indeed.

“What are you saying, exactly?”
Pay cut, pay cut, pay cut,
she prays.
Please be a pay cut.
Or maybe a bonus didn't come through.

“I was fired.”

“When?”

“Almost ten days ago.”

Yet he has been putting on a suit every morning and driving away. “So where have you been—”

“Starbucks. I thought I would find something so fast that there was no need to trouble you with it. And I did get severance.”

“How much?”

“Jesus, Meghan, don't overwhelm me with your sympathy and concern.”

“
How much?
”

“Six months.”

“You'll find something new.” It's a question, a plea.

“Yeah, but—it's bad out there, Meghan. I may not make as much. We may have to move. Who knows?”

Who knows? Meghan knows. She knows what it's like to live in a house where money is tight. She knows what it's like when a family falls back a step, what it feels like to try to get by with less than one is used to, how it's almost impossible to catch up ever again.

“Clean the basement,” she says.

“What?”

“You have a Saturday free, you've been sitting in Starbucks for two weeks, doing nothing, while I run myself ragged—the least you could do is clean the fucking basement.”

“You know what, Meghan? This is way harsh, even for you. I lost my job, for no good reason. You're supposed to be on my side. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I have to take Mark to this thing. Which you knew. So don't blame me because I can't sit at the kitchen table and rub your head, talking about the job you lost two fucking weeks ago. We'll talk later. You promised to clean the basement months ago, so do it. It might feel good, accomplishing something. For a change.” She raises her voice, which has been a tight hiss for this entire discussion. “Mark! Time to go.” Then back to the hissing register: “There are boxes in the garage and the county dump is open until two
P.M.
on Saturdays. Don't forget that broken old computers can't go in the landfill.”

She stares him down and he drops his head, shuffling off to the basement. She checks her watch. “Mark!” This is her second-warning voice, louder than the first but still not angry. The children know what Brian has just been reminded, that it's Meghan's softest voice that is to be feared. Funny, because she's never gone beyond that voice, so what is it that they fear, what power do they assign to her? Mark comes bounding down the stairs, ready for the battle of the bands. It will be a long day, and once he's with his friends, he won't want anything to do with Meghan. He certainly won't stop to think what the day is like for her, how it feels to sit for hours in the drafty arena in downtown Baltimore, with only a library book, a mystery from the library, to keep her company. And the girls are giggling with friends while Michael is chasing a soccer ball down a muddy field somewhere in Western Maryland, and there are Melissa's fucking Crocs again, or maybe Maggie's, left in the middle of the mudroom floor.

“Mom, why are you shaking?” Mark asks.

“It's cold for March.”

 

B
RIAN GOES UP AND DOWN,
up and down, up and down. He considered stopping as soon as Meghan left the house. Who does she think she is, talking to him that way? But the chore is a good distraction and, fuck her, she was right: he feels as if he's accomplishing something for the first time in weeks. Months, actually.

But as the morning turns into afternoon, he begins to lose his enthusiasm. How did one family ever acquire so much crap? Why do they have all these broken camp chairs? A box full of board games that are missing key pieces? In the early going, he thought there might be money to be made, that they would have a yard sale or maybe take things to one of those stores that sells your stuff on eBay, does all the grunt work. But it's all junk, worthless. It makes him feel even worse, the fact that he's been living on top of this storehouse of crap, and he doesn't really seem to be making any progress. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Wasn't there some story about a guy in hell who has to do this? He has a beer, checks in on the NCAA tournament. Okay, why not another? He looks for some food, but most of it requires at least minimal preparation, and he doesn't want to go out, so he returns to the job. Really, the stuff seems to be breeding, there's more of it now than when he started. He comes up with a box full of mysterious hardware, screws and those Ikea wrenches and a broken towel rack. He can barely see over the top of the box, but he does hear the garage door opening. Footsteps in the hall.

“Meghan?” he says, assuming that the person he can't see on the steps must be her. Maybe she sneaked home to make up, he thinks. God, when was the last time they had sex in the afternoon? He gets hard just thinking about the possibility of some quick, ordinary sex with his wife. It is the most erotic thing he has considered in ages, better than the porn sites he sometimes checks out on his laptop, always remembering to erase his cache. He doesn't need a stranger or anything extra. He won't need to imagine he's with someone else. All he wants is to get on top of his wife and go at it. Maybe make it nice for her, too, if there's time before she has to go back to the band practice thing.

“Hey, Meghan,” he says, “give me a hand with this.”

She does, in a sense. She presents him with two hands, thumping them hard on the chest, as if beginning CPR, and sends him flying backward down the steps, screws and towel racks and Swedish wrenches racing him to the bottom. He sprawls like a starfish, looking back at her, amazed, his mind trying to catch up with everything that has happened, and all he can think is,
So I guess we're not going to have sex, after all.

 

H
ELOISE IS MAKING
S
COTT LUNCH,
glad that his one weekend obligation, soccer, is behind them. She encourages him to do everything he wants—soccer, music lessons, art classes at the Baltimore Museum of Art—but she prefers the quiet afternoons, when there is nothing on his schedule and they simply steep in each other's company, watching television, running errands. She tries to make Saturday dinner an event—Around the World with the Lewis Family, she calls it—and tackles new recipes from different countries. She's going to make Thai food tonight, and she won't have to cut back on the spice for Scott's sake. His mouth is as inquisitive and open as his porous little mind, keen to try new things. He is such a satisfying companion in every way. She has to remind herself that he won't be with her very long, that she has only a few years in which he will find it acceptable to spend Saturday night with his mother.