Girl in the Rearview Mirror Page 13

  We lay in silence. His clock clicked, turning over a minute. He sighed. “Fine.” He reached and switched on the nightstand lamp. Blinded, I put my hand over my eyes.

  “I’m getting a glass of water,” he said.

  “No, stay.” I opened my fingers to let the light spill in slowly.

  “What is it, Finn?”

  “I want to explain what happened at the gala.” My voice was hoarse, as if I were still drunk. “I assume you saw me with Guy. Maybe you remember him? We met him at a party once.”

  Bryant didn’t reply. His jawbone was tight as rope.

  “You saw us together, right? That’s why you left without saying anything.”

  “I have some manners. You were enjoying the party.”

  “Bryant—”

  “Actually, I shouldn’t have let you make a scene. The Martins don’t need any more gossip.”

  “You’re being harsh.”

  He pounded the mattress in a tight, angry gesture. “Come on, Finn. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. You came with me and hooked up with some frat boy.”

  “I did not!”

  “I have an early flight,” he said.

  “You don’t trust me.” I blinked back tears, furious.

  “Not after you humiliated me in front of my boss. In front of our peers. No.”

  I’d been touching him, but now I drew back and hugged my knees to my chest. Guy hadn’t gone to the party to talk to me. He’d gone to contaminate me.

  Bryant glanced at the clock. “It’s late. I’m exhausted. I have to be up in three hours. What is there to say?”

  “It’s not what you think,” I said. “Guy has a sister. Iris.”

  “So?”

  “Do you remember on the Fourth of July, when Amabel told me a woman was following her?”

  “Not really.”

  I let that go. “Her name is Iris. She’s been hanging around lately.”

  “What do you mean, hanging around?”

  “She wants to talk to Philip. I guess they know each other. She told me—”

  He snapped awake. “No, no, no. Stop.”

  His vehemence confused me. “I don’t think you understand. It’s a big deal. It could affect the election, the Senator.”

  Bryant’s face—usually taut with interest, eager to absorb any Martin anecdote I had to share—was serious and stern. “I don’t want to know. Really. It’s none of my business.”

  I was desperate to tell him, as if unloading onto him would take the pressure off me. “But we always—”

  “No, Finn. Seriously.” He shook his head tightly.

  Perplexed, I sat back, chewing my lip. Bryant always wanted to know about the Martins, even small things. I wondered if the Senator had told him some part of the story, or warned him against talking with me.

  The anxiety and guilt of the past week returned to me. Briefly, in the frenzy of the gala and the leering threat of Guy, I’d forgotten the reality of the afternoon. Packing Amabel’s clothes. Marina grimly leaving Philip. Today was already Saturday. On Monday, what would I do? When would they be back? If only I’d talked to her about Iris, or to Philip, or even Bryant, earlier. Before she was packing her suitcase and driving away. I’d even washed her vodka glass at the sink, rinsed away her lipstick. As if I could make it so it never happened.

  “You shouldn’t get involved in the Martins’ business,” Bryant was saying.

  “I didn’t mean to,” I said, defensive. “Iris brought me into it. I tried to warn Philip—” Seeing his expression, I wavered.

  “Finn. The Martins are not your family. They’re not your friends.” He grabbed my foot and shook it. “Don’t you see? These people are using you to get to them.”

  “I don’t have a choice. If you heard her story, you’d know what I mean.”

  “I don’t want to know. That’s what you say. Sorry, I don’t have access to their personal lives. When you saw her brother at the party, you should have called security to throw him out. Period.”

  “He would have made a scene. I was trying to keep him quiet.”

  “Come on, Finn. The Martins have lawyers on retainer. They don’t need you to protect them.”

  His grip on my foot was too tight. I flexed, and he let go.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you knew how to handle this kind of thing.” Bryant got out of bed and stood in front of the balcony doors. From the back, he looked boyish, his hair pushed up from the pillow, boxers loose on narrow hips. “Philip will be mad, but he likes you.” He scratched his scalp. “Here’s what you do. First, stop contacting them. Iris and Guy. Never mention them again. Act like you never met them.”

  My drunken energy had evaporated. I wanted very badly to lie back and shut my eyes. “They’ll find me.”

  “Call the police. Call me.”

  I imagined pulling out my cell phone and dialing Bryant. Iris would laugh. She wouldn’t be put off.

  “Finn?” Bryant said.

  “What else?”

  “Never mention any of it to the Martins. Don’t even apologize for the guy at the party. Stay quiet for a while. Be unobtrusive. Polite.”

  “Marina’s gone,” I said. “It might be too late.”

  “She’ll be back. Marina isn’t going to let her marriage break up. Don’t worry.” He kissed the top of my head, then hugged me, pressing my face to his stomach. “I’m glad you told me. This could have gotten much worse.” He brushed my hair back from my face. “I’m sorry I was angry. I didn’t know what to think.”

  Through the thin cotton of his boxers, I felt him harden at the pressure of my chest. I kissed his belly button. He was so warm, alert, I felt like I was the one who’d been sleeping. I wet my lips and ignored my thirst. He rested his palm on the back of my neck and murmured to me. I wondered how Amabel had spent her day. Where she was sleeping. I wondered what Marina was doing. I wondered whether Philip was still awake, thinking about his mistress or his wife.

  Bryant wound my hair around his fist and laughed.

  After, I brushed my teeth and heard the TV come on. Sports shows always sounded the same to me, men’s voices speaking over one another. I changed into Bryant’s big Princeton shirt.

  In bed, he reached for my hips and pulled me into him. I knew even though he was tired he wouldn’t sleep until he could bring me off, too, so I slipped off the borrowed shirt. The cool air met my skin, and Bryant tucked me back into his warmth. His hand traveled across my stomach and his fingers curled into me, and for an instant I was back on the dance floor, kissing Guy. I closed my eyes and flipped through memories of sleeping with Bryant. In this bed dozens of times, dressed and undressed and somewhere in between; in his car at an empty park and a drive-in and once in the parking garage; at a hotel room in Tucson, leaning over the balcony railing in my dress while he stood behind me, an old man in a swimming cap traversing the pool below like a slow white manatee, gazing up bewildered at my sudden cry.

  I succeeded. In minutes, Bryant’s breathing slowed. For a long time I listened to the chatter on TV. I was thirsty but too lazy to move. Finally, I crawled out of bed and went down to the kitchen. The fridge was bare. I opened a bottle of orange Gatorade and hunted through the drawers until I found a packet of airline peanuts, digging into the oily bag and licking the salt from my fingers. I went upstairs and stood at the threshold of Bryant’s room, watching him sleep in a curled shape, spooning no one. I felt sick with guilt, like I’d manipulated him. Except tonight I’d been honest. So why did I feel this way? Dirty and ashamed.

  Eventually I slept. My dreams were terrible sharp fragments of the day, things I should have stopped or prevented: Marina leaving, Philip hanging up on me, Guy handing me a heavy glass. I wanted to do things differently, but they were fixed, unchangeable. I saw myself rinsing Marina’s glass, setting the house right, curling my hair. My usual instinct to escape disaster by pretending it had never happened at all.

  17

  At noon, I sat on the Martins’ front s
tep and emptied my purse on the ground. I rummaged through wallet, phone, Band-Aids, crayons. On my shoulders, my hair hung heavy as a fur pelt; I impatiently scraped it into a ponytail.

  My copy of the house key was gone.

  I stood too quickly and saw black. My head ached so badly even my eye sockets hurt.

  I rang the doorbell. Rang it again. I thought of Iris standing here last week, the house rising before her, mysterious and forbidden.

  Philip opened the door. “Finn?” He peered behind me, to the driveway. “It’s just you?”

  “I forgot my keys.”

  He looked as hungover as I felt. His eyes were pink and small in his face, as if they’d withdrawn to avoid light. His skin was dry and colorless. He wore a gold ASU shirt, deeply creased and tight across his chest, the devil mascot faded.

  “You’re letting the air out.” I moved in past him and shut the door. He smelled like dust, and I realized his shirt was one Eva used for cleaning and kept folded in the laundry room. He must have grabbed it on the way to the door.

  “I’m in the poolroom,” he said, padding down the hall. “It’s not so ungodly bright in there.”

  The room was as cool and dim as a bank vault. Wooden blinds sliced the sun to thin stripes. Where they fell across the Turkish carpet, they illuminated flashes of gold thread in the deep blue weave. A pool table stretched across the room like a bed, an overhead lamp spotlighting the plush wool. In the shadowed corner, a pair of leather chairs slouched. I followed the stink of bourbon to a broken glass in the sink.

  “Have you been here all night?” I asked.

  He grunted. “More or less.”

  The cue lay across the table amid scattered balls, mostly stripes. He’d been playing against himself. A bottle of beer sweated on the rail. I lifted it and dried the wood with my palm.

  He took the bottle from me and tossed it into the garbage. “Want a drink?”

  I declined and perched on the arm of a chair. “Have you heard from Marina?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” He went to the other side of the table. His movements were jerky, irritated. When he made his shot, the stripes scattered aimlessly. He vengefully ground chalk into his cue. “Grab me another beer, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  The mini-fridge under the sink was well stocked. With my hands busy, I found I could talk. “I’m sorry about last night.” I pried open the bottle. White smoke curled out. “I didn’t want anything to do with Guy. He wouldn’t leave me alone.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. He watched me coldly.

  “Must be a common problem for you.”

  I laughed stiffly, as if he were teasing, and handed him the bottle. He tipped it back, silent, assessing the table. He leaned again and his shoulder shot forward. A ball sank into the pocket with a shudder.

  I turned the bottle cap over, its teeth biting my palm. I wanted Philip to carry us along, as he always had. I wasn’t used to being at odds with him, and I’d have preferred anger, an outright argument, over this chilly distance.

  When I’d started working for the Martins, I’d been enamored of Philip. Dressing for work, assessing myself in the mirror, I’d imagined how he’d see me. Driving to Ocotillo Heights, my car panting as I sped, I turned my music up and let the wind take my hair in its fist, because if he was there he’d find my wildness appealing.

  He was rarely home when I came over, and when he was he didn’t say much to me. But he watched me, I knew it. Then one morning, as I mixed pancake batter at the kitchen counter, he touched my shoulder. His fingertips grazed my collarbone as he lifted his hand away. I pushed the spoon against the bowl, the batter rippling. He poured a coffee and ducked onto the balcony. The sun nuzzled the folds of his shirt. Sipping, he gazed out at the brown and yellow valley. Maybe he saw the hidden flickers of green, as I did, undertones in the cacti’s leather skin and the dusty palm leaves. I tapped my fingers to the faucet, wetting them, and flicked droplets at the frying pan. They sizzled and danced over the iron.

  For a while, the flirtation, or whatever it was, continued. He touched the top of my head when I sat on the floor coloring with Ammy. Pressed the small of my back when we came to a doorway at the same time, cupped my hip to move me from a drawer. It felt at once rich with meaning and silly. Most days went by with nothing at all, but the anticipation was nearly as good.

  Now, the bottle cap digging into my palm, the question—Why her? Why Iris?—wanted to blurt from my mouth.

  Instead, I watched Philip reset the balls. I dug into the nearest pocket and brought up two solids, cool and clicking in my hand. He dragged the rack over the felt.

  “You must have something to say, to bring you all the way out here with a hangover. And, I imagine, an angry boyfriend.” He reached over and plucked the bottle cap from my hand, tossed it into the sink. “Why don’t you sit?” He gestured to the low club chair.

  I sank into it, the leather cool and springy against the bare backs of my legs. I’d worn a thin sundress, and now I felt conscious that I’d chosen it carefully, the flattering blue, the way it hugged my skin.

  Instead of resuming his game, Philip leaned against the table and stretched his legs so his crossed ankles were just inches from my feet. I watched his face, tired and drawn and petulant around the mouth, but still golden, the noble nose, the athlete’s grace. Still handsome, and more so because I felt I could slice through his courteous charm to the real Philip beneath, ironic, easygoing, obliging, hungry.

  “I’m sorry about the party,” I said. “I should have called you as soon as Marina left.”

  He passed me the bottle. “Your throat is dry.”

  The beer was sharp. I gulped it and covered my mouth with a palm, felt the kiss of carbonation.

  “Tell me about Iris,” he said. “That’s what you want to talk about, isn’t it?” He cocked his head and stared me down.

  “I met her about a week ago,” I said. “She said she used to work at the restaurant. I didn’t recognize her. She’s tall, skinny. Red hair.”

  He made an impatient jerk of his hand. “Go on, Finn. Who is she, what’s the problem?”

  “She’s pregnant.” I spoke in a rush.

  His neck snapped back when I said it, and I thought he’d protest, but he only grunted, Go on.

  Rows of metal studs dotted the chair arms; I ran my thumb over them. I told him Iris had said she was eight weeks along, that they were in love. I left out some details, like that she’d been at Amabel’s school and the house.

  “And what does she want from you?”

  “She wanted me to persuade you to talk to her. I’d never have gone along with her, but I hoped I could talk her out of it. Having the baby, I mean.”

  “So you believe her?” His tone was light, as if he didn’t care either way.

  In my rush to get his forgiveness—for that’s what I wanted, I realized, even though I’d thought I was angry with him—I’d blundered past this. I stared at his ankles, where the hair was thinned from dress socks. “Not at first. I thought she was lying. Just after money or attention.”

  “But you believe her now.”

  “She showed me an ultrasound.” I dug the envelope from my purse.

  He took it and turned to hold it under the light. His hands were still in spite of the hangover, in spite of the image he held.

  “I’m sorry,” I found myself saying. I shut my mouth.

  He didn’t reply. I wondered if he’d seen this hard proof before, or if he’d hoped Iris was lying. I wondered if he was remembering Amabel’s ultrasound, the happier notice of life gathering itself. I wondered if he saw the white specks against the black as his duty, or an interloper to be wished away.

  “I don’t think it’s too late,” I said. “At first she seemed to believe you had a future together. But I saw her last night, and I got the feeling she’d get rid of it if you gave her a little money.”

  “And how does she look? Does she look pregnant?” He spat the last word.

 
; “No.”

  “Still smoking every five minutes? Still going around half naked?” I could feel his contained anger, but I couldn’t decipher his thoughts. He wasn’t doing anything reasonable: denying everything, for instance, or crumpling up the ultrasound.

  “Philip, she told me she was going to post this online if you don’t talk to her. She said she’d tell the whole story—soon. She said she’s tired of waiting.”

  “Come here.” He pressed the ultrasound flat on the table. “What do you see?”

  I instinctively wanted to avoid it, hide it in my purse. Focusing, I saw nothing, really. A froggish shape, perhaps a head.

  “Where’s the date? Where’s her name?” He flicked it. “She can post this online all she wants. Some friend probably gave it to her.”

  I picked it up and sank back in the chair. He was right. The image was anonymous and flimsy, like a picture print from Walmart. Still, she carried it in her purse, a ticket into Philip’s house, a pass to speak with me, Marina, anyone she wanted. Obviously it had some power.

  Philip sat back against the table. “You aren’t satisfied.”

  “I’m relieved.” My skin was slick against the leather. “But then who is she? What does she want?”

  “I never said she didn’t know me. What did she tell you, that we met at my restaurant?”

  I nodded.

  “She wanted a job. She was young, but Vic liked her, so we gave her a chance.”

  I shivered. Goose bumps rose on my legs. I hugged my knees. “That’s more or less what she said.”

  “She was refreshing to talk to at first. Like you. So one day we got a drink after work. No big deal.

  “She had the idea to go to some club. We had a couple drinks, and I drove her home. The whole time we were in the car, she watched me. We got to her place, and she jumped on me. Stuck her tongue in my mouth. Next thing I know she opened my pants, pulled up her dress. I pushed her off. I was rougher than I meant to be.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I would never tell this to anyone I didn’t trust, Finn.”

  I nodded. The scene sounded unpleasantly realistic. I could imagine Iris’s impulsive, dramatic gestures, her presumption of her power.