The Dangerous Kind & Other Stories (5 page)

M
arcus
couldn’t get near her at the funeral. She was at the moving center of the universe, an ethereal gravity well. People pulled in close and pushed in closer and he allowed the crowd’s currents to carry him to the edge of her horizon. He didn’t want their reunion to occur in the middle of the rabble. 

He wanted to see her again alone, so he arrived at midnight and circled the house, looking for a light. The paparazzi seemed to have given up hounding her. Maybe they knew the excitement was over for the day or they were still filing their stories from the circus that was the funeral home. He glimpsed her silhouette in the window, sleek and tall and untouchable…or at least not touchable anymore. He had been denied her so long he felt something akin to hunger. 

She was watching the ocean, probably dreaming of faraway places she would soon visit again. He wondered if he would ever see any of those places. 

He thought he’d be angry, but when she opened the front door he was in love again. “I heard you were back in town,” he said.

“As I recall, that’s why I left this place. You couldn’t walk outside without everyone gawking at you and talking behind your back.” She looked him over. He sucked in his gut a moment too late.

“Can I come in?”

She waited a beat too long, letting him see her debate.

“I won’t bite,” he said.

“Unless I ask you to. I remember.”

She stepped back and waved him in. After he passed her, she leaned out and looked left and right. There wasn’t anyone with a camera in sight. The advantage of a place as small as Poeticule Bay was that strangers stood out from the locals.

He pretended to be oblivious to her apprehension. “You look great,” he said. 

“It’s what I do for a living.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I’m not a whiny bitch about it to anybody, but between you and me, it would be great to cut loose and have a cheeseburger sometime.”

He looked around the shabby living room. He recognized the tattered plaid chair and three gaudy floor lamps. It was easy to peg her uncle as a bachelor who bought his furniture at garage sales. He remembered the old green couch.
Things age,
he thought,
when you aren’t looking.

“Sorry to hear about your Uncle Joe. He was quite the hero around here.”

“He was a pig,” she said. “No pun intended.”

“I heard his cruiser crashed into a tree because he was in a rush to get to a fire.”

“Yeah, to direct traffic around a fire. Doesn’t sound very heroic.”

“His partner was killed in the crash, too, so don’t talk that way down at the General.” He meant the General Store. When she was sixteen, he bought her a popsicle at the General, just for the thrill of watching her slowly suck it. He often replayed that memory of her melting a popsicle with her full lips and hot tongue. 

“The last time I saw you — ”

“The last time you saw me I was Betty Jane Minor,” she said. “Please, call me Asia. Betty Jane is dead. I killed her on the boat ride away from here the day after graduation. You want a drink? Have a mojito with me.”

There was a well-stocked bar in the corner of the room complete with a small fridge. He watched her mix the drinks. He remembered how she always had to push her long black veil of hair out of her eyes to read and write in her notebooks at school. It was a detail he thought must have been forgotten, but there it was and as he watched her he realized her perfect hair didn’t move anymore. It couldn’t get in her way because, he supposed, it was now sprayed in place. He’d seen her on TV in small roles and in a couple of movies that were pretty bad. He had watched her over and over again and it was all he could do not to stand up in the middle of the theater and announce to all the teenage boys drooling over her ass and cleavage, “I used to tap that!”

She held out the drink. A cluster of charms at her wrist made the glass tinkle. 

“Nice bracelet.” His eyes lingered over it: diamonds beneath a variety of hanging charms.

“You want it?”

“Uh…no.” 

“I’ve got a charm on here for every country I’ve visited. It seemed important for a while. Now it seems kind of pathetic, like I’m trying to hold on to something that’s gone.” She let cool eyes run over him and he felt smaller. “Is that why you’re here, Marky?”

“I changed my name, too, sort of. It’s Marcus now.”

“Right. I heard!
Marcus in the Morning
.”

“Yeah. You hear the show?”

“No.” 

His face betrayed him. He masked his disappointment too late.

“I’ve only been in town a day or two,” she said. Her smile was kind. The silence stretched out like the room’s air pressure was building up, pressing in on them and pushing them apart at the same time. He sat on the couch, hoping she’d join him. Instead she sat on the edge of the chair opposite him, seemingly ready to pop up and run in case of emergency. “Sorry I missed your show,” she said. “With the funeral arrangements, things have been busy.”

“No big deal... Speaking of big deals, I heard your dad is negotiating something that has to do with the Olympics, so he sent you to the funeral instead. True?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Actually, I guess I read it online.”

“Dad’s not doing so well. He’s got something called phantom appendage syndrome.”

He gave her a blank look.

“Yeah, I know. No one’s ever heard of it. Basically, he had a stroke last year and since then he thinks he’s got an extra leg. I mean, he knows he doesn’t actually have another leg, but he can feel it there and it gets in the way so it’s hard on him to move around. Getting to the bathroom he has to scrabble sideways, like a human crab. It’s really kind of funny to see…the first time. Then it’s a curiosity and after that it’s a huge pain in the ass. Air travel is out of the question, so he’s taken up a hotel floor in Dubai and doesn’t see anybody. He talks on the phone all day and watches CNN and the stock market crawl. That’s about it.”

“They’re talking about him like he’s the new Howard Hughes.”

“You ever see the Leonardo DeCaprio movie?”

“
The Aviator
.”

“Yeah. It’s more interesting and fun when it’s compressed into a movie that only lasts a couple hours. Marty should have gotten the Oscar for that one, though. Instead the Academy gave him the Oscar for the next one, which wasn’t nearly as good.”

“Marty?”

“Scorsese.”

 “Right. Knew that. I just never heard anyone call him that before.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Listen to me.
Heh
. I never really thought I’d make it but I was really lucky.”

Being an heiress must have sped things along,
he thought.

“At first I was starstruck by it all,” she said, “especially when you see them all at once for the first time at awards shows. Actors are kind of crazy. It’s all the unemployment between jobs and waiting for the phone to ring and wondering if you’re done and it’s time to go away. The other thing that makes you crazy is all the people you’re responsible for while you’re between gigs.”

“So you don’t get starstruck anymore?”

“After you get used to seeing them at all the same bars and parties, they’re just people.”

“
Just
, huh?”

“Sure. Remember when I was just Betty Jane Minor, daughter of an oil rig engineer?”

“You were never just anything,” he said, taking a long swallow. “And I’m feeling very…rural right now.”

“Sorry.” She gave him a helpless shrug.

“Don’t be. I’m sorry about your dad. I always liked him.”

“Thanks. He always hated you, but you know why.”

“I understand better now that I’m older. When he caught us that night out in the boathouse—”

“Yeah, I know!” she said. She laughed. He didn’t recognize the sound she made when she laughed. Something had changed but he couldn’t say what.

After her laughter died down she ran her tongue over her teeth. That, he remembered. Another silence filled the gap between them and he nursed his drink, making it last. 

“You and I have unfinished business,” she said.

He watched her face, trying to decode what had once seemed an easy read. He couldn’t read her anymore. Whatever had happened to her in the fifteen years since he had last seen her, he didn’t like.

“I never said goodbye,” she said.

He made a face and shrugged. “Oh, that’s all watery shit under the bridge now.”

She was about to say something more but when he waved her off, her shoulders relaxed and she gave him the gift of a sweet smile. “Thanks. Back home they make you grovel for the slightest infraction, and what I did to you wasn’t a slight infraction.”

“You left,” he said. “I understand that. I’m been trying to achieve escape velocity since high school, too. The mistake I made was that I should have chased after you.” 

Her jaw hardened and he hastened to add, “Hey, we were just kids. It wouldn’t have worked out. I understand that now. Still, if I had come after you, you would have kicked me out eventually, but then I would have still been somewhere far away from here.”

Her face softened. It made him feel warm. A lock of his hair fell over one eye and he thought of the summer of 1989 when he developed a tic, flicking hair out of his eyes every few minutes. For a moment he felt much younger.

“Marky…uh,
Marcus
, I want to tell you something.”

“I don’t mind Marky when you say it.”

“Okay. When I left, it wasn’t about you and I should have told you more at the time. Now it’s all going to come out. It’ll be splashed all over the papers tomorrow, so I guess this is my chance to tell someone without them reading about it first. It makes a lot of sense that you’re here so I can tell you. I like the symmetry of it.”

He relaxed and sat back, feeling for the first time that she wasn’t going to kick him out at any moment. “Tell me.”

“Today at the gravesite, I thought I was going to finally put something to rest. Not Joe. He can burn in hell. I mean, I thought I’d have closure.”

“I don’t know about the idea of closure,” Marcus said. “It’s been years since you left and here I am with you again and I still want to call you Betty Jane. Asia is someone else who belongs to everyone else. Do you really believe in closure?” 

“I’ll never know now. Last night I wrote out pages and pages. I raged at everything I could remember about what Joe did to me. I poured out my heart about being a scared little girl. My dad was away a lot, so I was at Uncle Joe’s mercy a lot. The last period of school was always the worst because I knew I’d have to go home and almost every night he’d come into my bedroom and…what could I do?”

“I wish you had told me. I…we could have done something, maybe.”

“Doubtful. He was a cop. It rarely works that way, anyway. I’ve talked to my therapist about it. You see pretty little girls at every school and a whole bunch of them have uncles who prove to them they’re too pretty for their own good.”

Marcus shifted in his chair, opened his mouth but nothing came. Her eyes were wet. He wanted to go to her but didn’t know if he should. He knew her when she was a human. How could he console a goddess? He didn’t feel big enough to try.

“You saw what the paparazzi did?”

“Yes. I was there.”

“The second before I did it, I felt so powerful. It felt like such a dramatic stroke of genius. That line of hard-faced cops with their shaved heads was ahead of me, each throwing a clod of earth on the coffin and when I took those pages out of my purse to throw in the grave, I felt like I was getting the last word or something. It was supposed to be such a grand gesture. And it was supposed to be a mystery forever.”

He had seen it all and it had turned his stomach. The line of photographers behind a black velvet rope were clicking away, taking picture after picture, dollar signs racked up with each click. She was impossibly chic in black, as if she had stepped airbrushed off a magazine cover. Her eyes were hidden behind huge sunglasses and, for once, her full lips were a thin line.

When she threw the letter into the grave, there was a gasp from the assembled that was swallowed in a whip of wind that carried the pages up, up and off to the grasping hands of the vultures behind the velvet rope. They scurried and leapt and grabbed up every page and ran for the woods. Some of the cops bellowed after them but did not move. She stood and wept, a delicate creature among drooling Neanderthals. Her great rage had led her to win a moment’s small satisfaction and now she stood on wobbly knees, broken and violated again. She grieved not for her pedophile uncle but for the death of the last vestige of her privacy. She wept loudly. A few photographers, not as quick as the others to grab the pages from the wind, stayed to click away, freezing her pain digitally for the world.

He hadn’t gone to her then. He stood in confusion instead. 

She was crying again and she came to him now. She sat in his lap and buried her face in his neck and sobbed like a child. 

They sat there for a long time. Her crying blocked out any cogent thought. Finally all he could say was “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” He apologized for every starstruck, jealous nobody who wanted to see a goddess brought down. 

When she pulled away from him, she gave his shoulder a sisterly squeeze. It seared him. She stood up and rearranged her black dress. There was something regal about her as she stood up. She rearranged her face to erect a shield of dignity.

“I need another drink. You want one?”

“You sit down. I’ll get it.”

He strode to the bar. “What’ll it be?”

“Screwdriver. OJ’s in the fridge.”

As he reached for the fridge handle he spotted the dead mouse in the trap. “Jesus!” He stepped back instinctively. “You know you’ve got a dead mouse here?”

From her seat she made a dismissive wave. “I know. I know. The house is infested. All the traps are full.”

“All?” he said. He looked down at the mouse and saw that a line of ants had taken the little mouse’s eyes and were ferrying rodent meat away as he watched. His stomach threatened to rise up in revolt against his vision.