Icarus. (20 page)

The ceremony was at a grandiose Catholic church in mid-Long Island; the party was at Joe's father's estate nearby. An elegant and tasteful affair. Perhaps five hundred people, maybe ten of whom were her friends. She knew that after the marriage those friendships would fade and, before long, disappear, but that was all right with her, too. She didn't care.

What she did care about happened while they were cutting the wedding cake.

He'd put the ring on her finger, they'd taken their vows. Their kiss was long and lingering and people cheered and applauded. They danced, a wonderful-looking couple gliding across the floor, then they moved to the table with the three-tier chocolate cherry creation. She picked up the knife, smiling and loving, went to cut the dessert, but he moved so quickly, his hand just shot out, grabbing hers, covering it. And suddenly she realized she couldn't move her hand, he was squeezing it, and very quietly he said, "Not by yourself. With me. We do it together. You don't do anything by yourself. Not now, not ever again."

For a moment she thought he was kidding. She smiled questioningly and said, "Honey, what are you…?" She didn't finish her sentence because she didn't have to. By then she'd seen the look in his eyes. And it terrified her. Made her knees buckle. He thought it was all the excitement. He thought it was the overpowering pleasure of the moment. But it wasn't.

What she saw when she looked in his eyes was: You're mine.

She'd become a possession. His possession.

They got on the plane several hours later, flew down to Peter Island in the Caribbean, where they had a spectacular four-bedroom villa overlooking the sea, on top of the hillside, with a cook and a maid and a chauffeur to take them to the beach or to town for shopping, all just for the two of them. They ate slowly and kissed and groped each other during the marvelous dinner, then they made love, slowly and lovingly. It was so wonderful she thought that maybe she was way off base; he had been joking when they'd stood at the wedding cake. The thought made her happy, so she kissed him, started babbling, just because she was so relieved. She told him what she'd been thinking about doing with the house, she didn't want a decorator, she would do it, if it took longer so be it, but they'd be sure to love everything that was around them And that's when he spoke. Said those words that chilled her to the bone.

"When we have our kids," he said, "the names are already picked out."

She didn't understand at first. But she stopped her babbling and just said, "What?"

So he repeated it. And when she looked at him, confused, he said, matter-of-factly, "I just want you to know that everything's decided already. Today, tomorrow, two years from now. It's already done. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She did indeed. She understood all too well. What he was saying was: You belong to me. That's what his eyes had said at the wedding, and that's what he was saying there, by the sea, while they were naked on the floor of the villa. It's what his eyes would always say now, and she knew it was true.

She did belong to him. And she hated it.

She hated him because of it.

She had her first affair the day before their first wedding anniversary.

It wasn't an easy thing to arrange, not at the beginning. She couldn't stay too close to home. But she'd gone back to school to finish her college degree and there, at NYU, in an undergraduate business class, she seduced her professor. He didn't know who she was, who Joe was, and the affair lasted a month until he found out. She didn't mind when he said he couldn't see her anymore. She was already bored with him. And she already knew she was going to get an A in the class.

It was not a spectacular affair, as far as affairs go, but it was exhilarating to her. Remarkably freeing. She went back to Joe with her mind at ease after that month, threw herself into the role of wife, knowing that he had lost a little piece of her, that she had regained just a small fragment of her own self.

Eighteen years later, she was older than Joe was when they'd first met. She was forty-four now and still having affairs. One a year.

She still looked great. Possibly even better than when she was twenty-six. Joe told her that all the time. He couldn't believe it. "Look at me," he'd say. "I've gained thirty pounds and my hair's as white as Santa's. But you…" And then he'd smile that same confident smile. "You look exactly the same. Even more beautiful."

Then his eyes would shine with pride.

And ownership.

Of course, her beauty wasn't without effort. She'd had a personal trainer for six years now. The latest one came to the apartment three times a week, sometimes even to the Long Island house, although usually when Joe was away. His workout was brutal. She ached constantly. But the results were splendid. Her body was back to what it had once been, before Joe, before the kids, before the eighteen years had somehow slipped away.

She was mad for the trainer. He was quite lovely. And he was gloriously young.

The first time he didn't show up for an appointment – he called to cancel early that morning – she pouted. She missed him throughout the entire day. She was unhappy. Several weeks later, he canceled again, a Friday session, and she was angry. Miserable. She didn't sleep that night and even Joe noticed that something was wrong. Her anger stayed with her all weekend, until she saw him again early Monday afternoon. Kid Demeter walked in the door and she was happy again. Relaxed.

After that, she began to think about him often. She would lie in bed, Joe curled up next to her, and she would be thinking about the boy. There was something special about him. As if there was much, much more to him than what she was allowed to see. And soon she had seen quite a bit.

Most of her affairs lasted no more than a month. That was all she desired. Anything more than that could get complicated and messy and she desired no complications or mess in her life. But her affair with the trainer had gone on for nearly a year now. And she was addicted. When he wasn't there, she craved him. When he was there, she dreaded his leaving. She bought him things, took him places, tried to please him, and the only subject that was off-limits was the future because he was young and she was not and no matter how spectacular she looked, she could not be a part of his future.

For them there was no future.

Which meant for her there was no future.

Sometimes, late at night, she forced herself to think about that. She made herself focus on what she would do if he ever left her.

The answer surprised her. And disturbed her. For she had no answer.

It was unimaginable.

It would never happen, she finally decided. Could never happen.

She owned him. He belonged to her. He was hers.

At last, she had her own possession. And one did not just let one's possessions up and go. Disappear. Who knew that better than she did?

No, being left was not acceptable. It was too horrible. Too painful.

Unimaginable.

– "-"-"THE ENTERTAINER She was very pretty. Muy bonita.

Really and truly. Es verdad.

Very, very pretty. Muy muy bonita.

She knew that she was, and she was more than willing to take advantage of it. How could she not? She saw how heads turned when she walked down the street, especially when she wore that little black skirt and the gray tank top, the one that just managed to reveal the thin ripple of muscle on her shoulder and down her back. And she knew that her body was superb, as good as it had ever been. Why shouldn't it be? She worked out two or three hours a day now, so her arms and legs were hard and thin, her stomach was cut and flat. Her breasts weren't large, but they were fine. Everyone told her to make them bigger, to have the surgery, all the other girls did, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. She liked her breasts, her little chi chis, liked that they were really her. She lost some customers because they were too small but she didn't really care. She wasn't going to start slicing herself up, changing herself. She really and truly would not do that. At least not yet.

Men wanted her, that was clear. And because of that she could get them to give her almost anything she wanted. Presents. Expensive dinners. Or just good old-fashioned money. One man, old, in his forties, probably, maybe even his fifties, with a paunch and saggy chicken skin on his chin and neck, wanted to give her an apartment. He was Indian, she thought. Maybe Arab. She wasn't sure. She just knew he was dark, much darker than her, and had an accent and that saggy skin. She already had an apartment, though, a nice one, with a view of the East River. It was the one thing she paid for herself. She liked paying for it. Really and truly. It made her feel grown-up and as safe as she could ever feel. So she told the dark old man that she didn't want his apartment. It was the only thing of any importance that she'd ever turned down. She thought it would make her feel good, turning it down, paying her own way, but it didn't. It only made her feel sad.

It made her sad, too, that she could get men to beg and humiliate themselves just to touch her. But it also excited her, made her feel powerful, at least for a while. When it was over, she'd just feel empty again. It was like when she was little. When her dad would come into her room at night, when everyone else was asleep. She saw what she could do to him. She would tease him and his eyes would harden; they wouldn't stare at her, they'd stare into her. She would run her little hand across his neck and call him funny names and she could feel him tense, but more than that, she could feel him succumb to her. She could tell that he liked her, even though he rarely said it. She could tell that he loved her, really and truly loved her, even though he never said it. She could tell, even at that age, that he wanted her for some overwhelming and incomprehensible purpose. He never said anything about that, either, but he didn't have to. She saw it in his eyes when they burned into her. He said nothing but his eyes said por favor.

He never touched her, though. He never got the chance. Her mother also saw the look in his eyes and one day said something about it. Soon after that, her father was gone. She was allowed to see him, but only when another grownup was present. At first, he came once a week. Soon, every two or three weeks. Then, less often than that. Finally he just stopped coming. Her mother said she was lucky. They were all lucky. Particularly so when, less than a year after the divorce, a new man came into their lives and her mother remarried. A wonderful man. A pillar of the community. A man devoted to his new family, her mother said. So proper. And good. And moral.

And white. So very white, which is why her dear madre thought he was so perfect. So clean.

But she wasn't surprised when her stepfather came into her room that first time, that night when everything changed. He had been nothing but kind to her. Helped her with her homework. Smoothed things out when her mother got impatient with her. She liked him fine, decided she could probably grow to love him. But she'd seen that same look in his eyes.

For favor.

Only he said it in English. Said it the way a white man would say it.

She wasn't unhappy when he got down on his knees and whispered that he'd do anything for her. He pleaded and cajoled and stroked her hair, so soft, so gently, and yet she knew that she couldn't pull away, that he wouldn't let her pull away. He'd do anything for her, he said, over and over again, if she'd only do one little thing for him. One little tiny thing that would make him so happy. So she did, that night and many nights after that. It always made him happy, just as he'd said, and she never felt ashamed. It thrilled her and made her proud. Until he'd go away and ignore her. Or worse, yell at her. And sometimes hit her. That was always in the daytime. Then he'd be back in the middle of the night, sorrowful and repentant and begging her to be his little girl and let him love her. She tried telling her mother but her mother wouldn't hear a word of it. Didn't believe her. Refused to even listen because it was impossible for this man to be unclean. So she stopped talking about it and just accepted it as a fact of life. She liked the pleasure and could put up with the pain. It went on for a long time, the begging and the yelling and the hitting and the loving. Until eventually it was no longer thrilling. Eventually it just made her feel empty, like everything else.

Really and truly empty.

When she first started her job, she didn't let the men touch her. Just teased them. And flirted, of course. Then, somehow, that stopped, the barrier disappeared, and they were grabbing her, pawing her, breathing hard and rolling their eyes back like they were having a fit. At some point, she realized that the touching meant nothing to her. So she allowed it. And while she would still get sad and empty, it was all somehow funny to her, too. When she would see them, so hungry for her, so hungry for everything, she would laugh. Sometimes to herself, sometimes right in their face. It never seemed to bother them, the laughter. As long as they got what they wanted. That was the number-one lesson she'd learned over the past three years: nothing matters as long as you get what you want.

She didn't know how long this life could go on. She feared that it would come to an end, and sooner rather than later. Because she knew something. She had a secret. A secret that terrified her. Really and truly frightened her. Kept her awake at night. Sometimes made her break into a cold sweat when all she was doing was sitting on the white, fluffy couch in her living room, having a cup of tea with her feet tucked under her. She was certain that no one knew this secret other than her. She was sure that no one even suspected it. But there it was, and she lived with it every minute, until it got bigger and bigger and now it gnawed at her day and night and scared her and made her sweat.

Oh, yes, she was pretty.

But she wasn't pretty enough.

Her nose was too large and pushed off to the side, ever so slightly. Her teeth were excellent, white and even, but her gums were too prominent. When her lips curled back, they showed too much of her pink gums and she hated that. It's why she rarely smiled.