In the Kingdom of Men (12 page)

“Want to try them?” Linda pulled one loose, held it out. I clipped it on, wishing I had a mirror.

Ruthie looked at Linda. “I thought your ears were pierced.”

“I’ve never gotten around to it.”

“You?” When Ruthie squinted at my lobes, I shook my head. She pondered for a moment, then pulled on her dress and slipped into her sandals. “Let’s do it.”

“What?” I asked.

“Pierce your ears.”

I looked at Linda, who looked at me and grinned. “Why not?” she said.

How could I answer? Because my grandfather said that only ruined women pierced their ears? Because I had to ask Mason first?

“Why not?” I echoed, and shook out my sundress, let it slide over my shoulders, felt the tacky catch of tanning oil, the prickle of sunburn. “Where?”

“Your house,” Ruthie said. “Yash can feed us one of his fabulous lunches.” She directed her voice at Linda. “Gin’s got a dream of a houseboy. Waits on her hand and foot.”

“My houseboy can’t cook worth beans,” Linda said. “All he wants to do is sit on the porch and smoke his stinky brown cigarettes. Maybe I need a new one.”

Ruthie motioned for us to follow her. “Come on,” she said. “We’re going to make this fun.”

I climbed in back, and we drove to the little
suq
, where we
found a pack of darning needles. The Arab clerks watched us openly as we tittered over our purchases, but I didn’t care, buoyed by the liquor and sun. A quick stop at Ruthie’s house, where Linda and I waited in the car while she ran in and returned with an armload of formal gowns and a jewelry case that she piled on top of me. When we pushed into the foyer of my house, hot and smelling like fruit salad, Yash stopped his meal preparations long enough to look from Ruthie to Linda and then to me. I attempted an encouraging smile that slipped sideways as I followed Ruthie and Linda into the bedroom. Ruthie stripped naked before I could step out of my sundress, and I kept my eyes averted as she considered the gowns.

“The midnight blue,” Ruthie said, pointing Linda to a floor-length dress with a plunging neckline and ruched waist. “I’m taking the red empire.”

I chose the emerald ball gown made of taffeta with a sweetheart neckline and three-quarter sleeves. Ruthie helped with my makeup while Linda pinned my hair. When I looked into the mirror, I hardly recognized the woman there: hair swept into a chignon, face full of color. Like the prom queen I’d never been.

Yash, wary as a cat, stiffened when we came back into the kitchen.

“We need
sadiqi
and clothespins and a potato cut in half,” Ruthie ordered. She struck a match and ran the flame over a large darning needle. “Who’s first?”

“I want to get it over with.” Linda scooted onto the high stool, the blue iridescence of her dress shimmering, and downed several swallows. I tipped my own glass, my throat burning. Ruthie clamped Linda’s earlobes with the clothespins Yash had mustered.

“We’ll leave these there for a minute,” she said, “and then you’ll be numb.”

“May I ask,” Yash queried, “what is happening?”

“I’m piercing their ears,” Ruthie said.

He moved closer as Ruthie removed one of the clothespins. “There will be infection,” he said.

“That’s what this is for.” She poured a saucer full of moonshine and dropped in two sets of studs from the jewelry box. “Are you ready?”

Linda took a long drag off her cigarette. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Ruthie pressed the potato half against the back of Linda’s left earlobe and positioned the needle. Yash’s eyes had widened, whether with horror or fascination, I couldn’t tell.

“Here it goes,” Ruthie said, and punched the needle through.

“Ouch,” Linda said.

“Almost done with this one.” She withdrew the needle, wiped the blood, and pressed a gold stud into the tiny hole.

“Ouch again.” Linda said. “Now it’s throbbing.”

“Keep drinking,” Ruthie said, and repeated the procedure on the other side. When she was done, Linda’s earlobes were red and beginning to swell. She slid from the stool, hiked her dress, said, “Your turn,” and wobbled toward the bathroom, taking her glass with her.

“One more drink,” I said, and took as much into my mouth as I could swallow.

“You do not have to do this,” Yash said.

I nodded as Ruthie applied the clothespins, felt them pinch and swing heavy at my jaw. “It’s fun,” I said.

He scowled. “This does not look like fun.”

“Hush,” Ruthie said. “She’s fine.”

He drew back, picked up his knife, and began slicing a cucumber. “It is not easy to prepare a meal in the face of such bloodletting.”

When Ruthie pulled the clothespin from my left ear, I closed my eyes, felt the raw coolness of the potato and then the hot sting of the needle. The throb was immediate, as though the lobe were
pulsing, inflating with fire. When the post of the earring popped through the tough tissue, my stomach rolled.

“Are you okay?” Ruthie asked.

I opened my eyes, swallowed the water pooling beneath my tongue. “I think so.”

“Take another drink. You’re almost done.”

It was all I could do to keep my seat as she pulled loose the second clothespin and positioned the potato. I looked at Yash, who shook his head and turned away.

“Here it goes,” Ruthie said. I winced, felt a cool sweat break out across my chest. By the time it was over, I was shaking. Ruthie lit a cigarette and placed it between my lips. “Good girl. Let’s go sit in the living room until lunch is ready.”

Linda was on the couch, the color back in her face. Ruthie dropped the Beatles album she had brought along onto the hi-fi, then plopped down between us, pulling at the waist of her dress as George Harrison sang about the taxman.

“Just keep swabbing your earlobes with alcohol,” Ruthie said. “In a few days, you’ll be all healed.”

Yash came in with what remained of the pineapple wine and a tray of chapati, dal, and fresh vegetables.

“No, thanks,” Linda said. “I need to get home and take some aspirin.” She waited until Yash had left the room, then lowered her voice. “He’s not like any houseboy I’ve ever seen.”

“Told you,” Ruthie said.

I smiled as though I had won some kind of prize. “He’s more like a friend,” I said.

Linda glanced at Ruthie, then back at me. “I wouldn’t let it get around,” she said, then gathered her purse. “I’ll see you two kids at the ball.”

“With the Moroccan?” Ruthie asked.

“You know they wouldn’t let him in,” she said, “any more than they’d let Yash walk through the door.” She pulled out her
sunglasses, touched my shoulder. “We’re like blood sisters,” she said. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

When latch clicked shut, I reached for the bottle, feeling like I had survived some kind of ritual. “Linda’s nice,” I said.

“She’s not ‘nice.’ ” Ruthie snapped a carrot between her teeth. “She’s smart and she’s beautiful. But I’ll tell you this”—she pointed the severed carrot—“if she ever lays a hand on my Lucky, I’ll snatch her bald.”

I tried to imagine Linda Dalton, smooth and polished as a racehorse, taking a shine to Lucky Doucet. I looked down at my bare feet, thought I saw drops of blood before remembering I’d painted my toenails red. I tried to focus, closed my eyes, opened them again.

Yash came in to tighten the blinds and stack a few more records on the hi-fi, Pat Boone crooning his love as Ruthie poured another glass of wine. She leaned back, lolling her head to the music. “So I’m a college student in Beirut, dating this putz named Reuben. Reuben the Rat, that’s what my girlfriends called him, because he had this sharp little face.” She crinkled her nose, bucked her teeth, then laughed and clapped as though to dispel his memory. “Anyway, we’re at this dance club, and in walks Lucky Doucet in his dress blues, out on leave. Bigger than anyone else in the room.” She reached for a piece of bread, dipped it in dal, kept talking. “He came right at me like no one else was around. Didn’t say a word to Reuben, just took my hand and led me to the dance floor. We didn’t stop until the club shut down.” She rocked forward, lowered her voice. “Then he took me to his hotel, pattering to me in that sexy Cajun French the whole time. We started the minute the door closed, right there on the floor. Made love in every corner of that room before the night was over. I never heard from Reuben again.” Her fingers traced the single strand of pearls at her neck, and she smiled, looked at me sideways. “Your turn. Tell me about Mason.”

I hesitated. I didn’t know how to tell my own story, how to make sense of any of it. I felt like if I started pulling the thread, it would all unravel into a pile of nothing. Ruthie touched my knee.

“We’ve got time,” she said. “Start at the beginning.”

So I did. I told her about my mother’s illness and death, about my grandfather’s whippings. I told her about Mason and the only baby I would ever have. Ruthie dabbed at my mascara with her napkin.

“You’re in a good place to start over, Gin. We all are.” She held her cigarette to my lips, and I inhaled, felt the bite of tobacco. “Believe me, it could always be worse. The girls around here could be stoned for doing some of the stuff we did.” She lowered her gaze, ran one thumb around the rim of her glass. “My parents and brothers all died in the death camps. Everyone except me.” When I started to react, she shook her head. “Old news,” she said. “Maybe that’s why I like it here. Most of us have some grief we’re leaving behind.” She clinked her glass against mine. “Cheers,” she said, and tipped it back. “Now, let’s talk about something fun. Tell me a joke.”

I sat for a moment. “I don’t think I know any jokes,” I said.

“Then here’s one,” Ruthie said. “So Issy and Sadie were not having a good sex life. ‘How come you never tell me when you have an orgasm?’ asks Issy. Sadie looks at him and says, ‘Because you’re never home!’ ”

I cracked up, maybe a little too loudly because Ruthie straightened and peered at me, sly-eyed. “Don’t tell me,” she said, “don’t tell me you’ve never had one.”

“I have them all the time,” I said, then clapped my hand over my mouth, and we both fell back laughing. I jerked upright when I heard Yash step into the room.

“What do you have when a Pakistani is buried to his neck in sand?” he asked.

We shook our heads.

“Not enough sand.” He chuckled, then composed himself. “I’m going to market,” he said. “Is there anything that you need?”

“Oh, please.” Ruthie hiccuped. “Don’t get us started.”

He tucked his lips, but the smile broke before he could turn. Ruthie and I lay against each other, catching our breath, listening to his footsteps fade away.

“He’s a nice guy, Yash is.” Ruthie pushed herself back against the couch, rubbing her ribs. “He’d make someone a good wife.”

“He’s a better wife than I am,” I said. “I don’t do anything around here.”

“It’s what you do in bed that counts,” Ruthie said. She dragged her purse up off the floor, pulled out her compact. I took her wrist, peered into the little mirror.

“I look awful,” I said, and dabbed my mouth with her lipstick.

Ruthie looked at her reflection and sighed. “Next to you, I look like a dried-up old prune.”

“That’s not true,” I said, and focused on her eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

Ruthie cupped her breasts, let them drop. “Everything is heading south.”

“If I stick out my tongue,” I said, “I look like a zipper.”

“You’re like the French,” she said. “More than a champagne coupe is a waste.”

I fell back against the couch, plucked at the bodice of my gown. “Now what are we going to do?”

“I’ve seen all the movies,” she said. “Lucky promised he’ll take me to
Under the Yum Yum Tree
when it gets here. I just love Jack Lemmon.” She tilted against me. “We could go to the bowling alley and seduce the pin boys.”

I rolled my head to meet her eyes. “You could tell me what no man can resist,” I said.

She drew back and considered me for a moment. “What’s the nastiest thing you’ve ever done with a man?”

I tried to focus, felt my vision waver. “Mason is the only man I’ve ever been with.”

“I should have known,” Ruthie said. “Okay, then, what’s the nastiest thing you’ve ever done with Mason?”

I tipped forward a little, held my glass close. “We made love once standing up in the kitchen,” I said.

“That’s not nasty.” She chuffed. “That’s wholesome.” She tilted her head. “You really are that innocent, aren’t you?”

I gave a slow blink. “Weren’t you a virgin when you met Lucky?”

Ruthie’s face went blank for a moment before breaking into a smirk. “Oh, kid,” she said, “you’re a case.” She sucked in an ice cube, let it drop back into the glass. “You’ve got to keep them guessing or they get smug and then they’re boring.” She took a drag off her cigarette, cast her eyes to the ceiling, let the smoke out in a smooth stream. “What about fellatio?”

I scrunched my shoulders. I had never heard the word before, thought it might be somebody’s name, a character in a book I hadn’t yet read.

“You know, blow job?” Ruthie said. “Your mouth on his thingy? Lucky loves it. All men do.”

I sat silent for a moment, trying to imagine. “You just put your mouth on it?”

Ruthie picked up the empty booze bottle. “Watch.” She closed her eyes and let the glass slide in, then bobbed her head up and down, and I saw the pink of her tongue flick along the underside, circle the neck. When she licked her lips and winked at me, I barked out a laugh.

“See? That’s all you have to do,” Ruthie said. “Get your mouth on a man, and he’s yours for life.” She wiped the lipstick from the bottle and passed it to me. “Just imagine you’re sucking on a Popsicle,” she said. “You’re hot, and it’s melting.”

I swallowed the last of my drink, held my cigarette away from my face. The bottle clinked against my teeth.

“Fold your lips over,” Ruthie said, “like you don’t have a tooth in your head.”

I was making another attempt when the door swung open in a hot whirl of air. Ruthie and I let out yelps of surprise when Lucky swaggered in.

“What the hell?” he said. “You girls expecting company?” Mason stood beside him, looking at me like I had grown horns.

“Why are you home?” I asked, and touched my lips, swollen and raw, felt my earlobes burning. “What’s wrong?”