World Gone Water (11 page)

He jumps out of the car, leaving the door open. “Yeah?”

“You're pathetic,” I say.

“What?” He cups his hand to his ear, still walking toward me.

“Is two hundred enough?” I ask.

“Oh man, that'd be great,” Robert says, putting his hands together like an altar boy.

“How about three hundred?”

“Oh, no.” Robert shakes his head. “That'd be too much.”

“Two hundred might not be enough, though.”

“It's plenty.”

“I think five hundred would be better,” I say, nodding my head to make the decision final. “Yeah, five hundred.”

We stand, looking at each other. “Man, you're jerkin' me around,” Robert says, realizing something.

“No, really, it's right here,” I say, opening my wallet. “Just take it.”

Robert approaches me slowly, peering ahead as if afraid of stepping off a high cliff, his feet dragging loudly against the pavement.

“Just take my wallet,” I say, folding it up and holding it out.

In the instant Robert reaches out, I grab his arm and whirl him around, slamming him into the side of my car. Too stunned to say anything, Robert tries to get his balance, but I kick him in the stomach and he quietly falls over.

“You shouldn't …
take
…
money
…
from
…
strangers
.” I get in his face. “You fuck.”

Robert looks like he's sorry, that he'll never do it again, but this in no way satisfies me, and I prove myself to Jane and the world as a Great Defender by kicking wildly, and I keep kicking and kicking and just as Robert starts to scream, I hear a car pulling around to the side of the bank and I stand up straight, smoothing out the front of my shirt, feeling the sweat underneath, thinking,
Oh, God, Jesus, it's a cop
; but instead it's a white limo, idling. For a moment the whole earth is quiet. I can't jump in my car and drive away, since I'm blocked by the limo. Robert is writhing on the asphalt on the driver's side.

A chauffeur gets out and opens one of the limo's doors. A guy dressed in Bermuda shorts and a Duran Duran concert T-shirt steps out, looks over at us, looks away, steps up to the ATM. When Robert doesn't yell for help, I look down at him and see how badly I've fucked him up.

Another door opens and another guy gets out, dressed in a tailored suit—I can't tell if it's blue or black—and he looks so impressive I have to wave and smile.

“What's this?” he asks.

The guy at the ATM looks over at us.

I feel like this guy could really understand my anger, so I explain, pointing at Robert, “This guy was taking money by the freeway.” I'm gasping, and the guy is trying to understand me. “He was slapping this girl around who wouldn't give him money.”

“No, I didn't,” Robert protests, crumpled in the fetal position.

“Yes, you fucking
did
,” I yell. I'm so freaked out by the limo, the limo driver, the guy at the ATM, and the guy who is practically standing on my shoulders that I can't remember if that's exactly what happened, even though I'm pretty sure it is.

“Scumbag,” the guy says, spitting on Robert.

“Let's go,” the guy at the ATM calls out, and just as I'm about to
say something polite like “Thanks for stopping by” or “Nice to meet you,” the guy standing next to me kicks Robert in the head, once, twice, until Robert is unconscious.

All I can think is,
This guy isn't even sweating
, and his grin makes me step back.

The limo pulls away slowly, flowing through the outside teller channels. I jump in my car, maneuvering around Robert, trying to follow the limo, but the limo gets lost in traffic.

Slowly I start toward JSB's office, the walls of the hallway lined with framed posters of past ad campaigns for Buckley Cosmetics, twenty years' worth. Sunlight wafts in from the rectangular windows above me. I stop in front of Talie's mother's layout, the one introducing her as the 1971 spokesmodel, her face peeking out from behind her long brown hair. She is dressed up like a mermaid, submerged in very blue water, her hair floating behind her, the words “World Gone Water” in black print floating around her. I'm staring into her eyes, wondering about the exact moment JSB decided that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. I begin to move away from the poster, watching Talie's mother's eyes as they follow me down the hall until I am out of sight.

“He left a message he wanted to see me,” I tell JSB's secretary, and she nods that he's in and smiles. The double doors to the office are open and I feel the air become cooler as I step forward, the Oriental rug muffling my footsteps, the light from the picture windows causing me to squint. When my eyes adjust, I see the back of JSB's head, his hair trimmed tight. He is staring intently at the desert-landscaped inner courtyard, watching two speckled birds just outside the window. Boxes stacked in the corner lean pathetically
and I feel myself begin to pity him. I stick my hand in my pocket and jingle my keys, warning him that I am coming up behind him.

“Hello, JSB,” I say.

“How are you?” he finally says, swiveling around in his chair, looking me over, up and down.

“I'm fine,” I say, not smiling.

A grin spreads across his face and he jumps to his feet. “I've got some news for you,” he says. “I'm getting married.”

“Really?” An automatic response. I get that familiar feeling that I'm misunderstanding something. “When?”

“Next month,” he says. He's actually beaming.

“But I thought …” I start. “The other day …”

“We're really in love,” he assures me. “Will you stand in my line? Be my best man?”

“Of course,” I say.

“And I want you to initiate a promotional contest for the new line of cosmetics,” he says. “You can handle it. Just organize a party and make sure we get a winner. I'm going to fight this bankruptcy. I'm not giving up.”

“Okay,” I say, and it's a long time after I've left his office before I can even comprehend what any of this means.

The dinner Talie has prepared is laid out on a small table in the corner of the formal dining room at Arrowhead. Penne pasta steams from a porcelain bowl; the single candle is reflected in the oval faces of the two china plates and silverware. “This is fabulous,” I say.

“We're having a date,” Talie says breezily, which explains her request that I wear a suit. She spins playfully, showing off her strapless black gown.

For the first time since Jane left, I sense that I won't go to bed with a gray feeling pulsating through me.

Talie tells me I look fabulous too and kisses me on the cheek. “A couple of us from the cotillion have been doing these mock dates,” she tells me. “You know, to learn how to weed out bad men. I told you I joined the Phoenix Cotillion, right?”

I nod, vaguely recalling her telling me about joining what sounded like a girls' finishing school held on weekends at the Phoenix Cultural Center. “What's the sign of a bad man?” I ask, pouring a dark cabernet into her glass.

“There isn't one sign,” she says. “It's an accumulation.”

“What kinds of things do you talk about on these mock dates?” The pasta sears the roof of my mouth and I wince, flush it down with wine.

“The gentleman is supposed to lead the conversation. A lady punctuates with witty interludes and thoughtful asides,” she says, quoting something. The echo created by the vast darkness of the dining room forces us to calibrate our words to low humming.

I tell her about Jane, lying that I don't really care that she's gone. I consider telling Talie about utopian love, about how Jane and I were a model couple, but her newfound stock in the conventional keeps me silent.

“Did you think you might marry her?” Talie asks, pointing up her beliefs.

I shake my head no. “Do you think you'll marry Dale?” I ask.

“No,” she answers. “There's something bad about him. But he'll do until someone wonderful like you comes along.”

“I'm not so wonderful,” I say.

“You're a gentleman,” Talie says, embarrassing me. “You're gentle and giving and, most importantly, considerate. Everything good stems from consideration,” she points out.

“You're the only one who thinks so,” I say.

“Actually, I did sort of meet someone like you,” Talie says, giving up on her pasta. She pours us both another glass of wine.

“Really?” I ask.

Talie's secret lover's name is Frank, and Frank is a corporate attorney, which sounds like the cat's meow, and I get very excited for Talie, until I find out he's married, has two children, and lives in Scottsdale. Frank didn't call Talie like he was supposed to when his wife went out of town, which is why I was invited to dinner.

“You should see his little girl,” Talie says. “She is so adorable.”

“Are you sleeping with him here?” I ask.

“No, only when his wife is out of town,” she says. “At his house.”

We sit, not drinking, not eating, sharing our frustrations like we did when we were sophomores together at Leone Cooper High, before I transferred to Randolph.

“Is Frank a great guy?”

“Yeah.” She nods, smiling. “Frank's a gentleman, too. He makes me feel at ease, you know?”

Talie's always given me great tips about how to treat a woman, and I log this one in. “Where does he take you?” I ask.

“Take me?” she repeats.

“You know, what do you do?”

“We generally just meet at his place,” she says.

“Oh.”

“Oh what?” she asks, anger in her voice.

“Nothing.”

She closes her eyes. I surprise myself by reaching out and touching her face. Her skin is warm and smooth, and as I stroke the tiny invisible hairs on her cheek, she smiles. Her smile disappears and she opens her eyes. “I know Frank's just another user,” she says.

“But you're in love with him,” I say.

“I don't understand why he stays with his wife,” she says absently. “I mean, can you?”

Wax spindles hang from the candle, which has been steadily melting between us.

“He's just having his cake,” I tell her. “Forget this guy.”

Talie looks away and I start to pull my hand away from her face, but she grabs my wrist, holding it steady while rubbing her cheek against my outstretched fingers. She stands suddenly, pressing her fingertips on the tablecloth for balance. I stand too, a reflex. She slips her arms under my jacket, clasping her hands at the small of
my back, resting her head on my chest. She sighs dramatically, like Jane used to, and I embrace her, stroking her hair like I would Jane's when Jane was suffering.

“I should probably go,” I say.

“I need you to stay,” Talie says, pleading. She kisses me, tracing my lips with her warm tongue. I close my eyes, knowing if I stay, I'll be that much farther back on tomorrow, but Talie has always been stronger than me and I feel her hand inside my now unzipped pants. Talie reaches over and pinches out the candle with her fingers and she leads us out of the darkness, toward her bedroom, where tomorrow is farther away than the past.

Jon, a photographer for
Stylish
magazine who is in town to shoot the print ad for the new line of cosmetics, forgets to give me the password to get into Sylphs. Consequently, I get into a fight with the doorman, almost knocking him on his ass before Chandra Moses, one of the models hired for the campaign, arrives with another model I recognize from the head shots JSB approved, and I push my way inside behind them. I touch the photo of Talie inside my jacket that I want to show Jon.

We spot Jon at a table on the upper deck with two other models, Belinda and Alisha, and as we climb the wrought-iron stairs, I look down on the dance floor, watching the bodies swirling below me on the black concrete floor, the yellow lights cascading down on them. A free-fall sensation overtakes me as a woman passes behind me. The scent of her perfume is pungent enough to draw me away from the railing.

Introductions are made. The model with Chandra is named Kyle and has gorgeous black locks that bounce whenever she shakes her head. I have a difficult time not staring at all the cleavage that surrounds me, unlike the panting beasts who are circling our table three and four and five times to get a glimpse.

“I tried to get the whole balcony,” Jon yells unnecessarily, and we wait for the end of this statement, but Jon just shrugs.

Alisha is listening to the conversation between Belinda and Kyle, of which I can make out only the names of perfumes, and I watch Alisha's eyes, childlike and empty as they drift out of the conversation and her gaze floats around the balcony, sizing everything up. I smile when Alisha glances over at me, trying to create some kind of conspiracy between us, unsure if Alisha even knows who I am, but she doesn't smile and simply looks away.

Chandra excuses herself and the men in her wake follow her exit.

“Did you hear about the place that does cosmetic cloning?” Belinda asks.

“That place outside the city?” Kyle asks.

“Yeah, at the Clinique de Hollywood,” Belinda says. “They can make you look like someone else. All you have to do is bring in a picture … like getting a haircut, you know?”

“Is that legal?” I ask.

“It's just
plastic surgery
,” Kyle says.

“The woman I saw on TV looks like Marilyn Monroe now,” Belinda says.

“God, who would want
that
?” Alisha asks.

“Who would you be, then?” Belinda asks.

“I wouldn't even do it,” Alisha says. “I think I look just fine.”

“You do,” Jon agrees. Belinda and Kyle look around, making eye contact with the men who are by now two deep. They flash winning smiles and Kyle even goes so far as to pout, giggling about it with Belinda. The guys nudge one another when Kyle looks away.