No Such Thing as the Real World Read online

  4

  He never touches her. Sometimes she can see his hands trembling, but he never reaches for her. He holds them together or puts them to use. He cooks for her. Makes her breakfast after they return from the club. Toast and eggs. Sometimes huevos rancheros with warm corn tortillas that he presses out by hand. She sits on the counter and watches him work, his forehead notched in concentration. And then there are the moments when he just stares. As she is lifting the napkin to her lips or setting down her glass of orange juice, she feels his gaze. Unexpectedly. The verdant green of his eyes darkening with intensity until they are the color of old jade, and that is when she must focus on her feet. Placing them squarely on the surface of the floor. Feeling the solid ground beneath her. But he keeps his distance. Continues to ask her questions about who his brother had become in the years that they had lost touch. Two brothers in the same city, but never speaking. Fay wonders why they fell out with each other but waits to see if it will be revealed before she needs to ask.

  In the club he is protective. Shielding her from other men’s eyes. He blocks their view, and when she dances for him, he sits nearby, immediately standing up as soon as the song is over. She feels him watching her when she moves, feels his eyes traveling along the length of her body, and that is when she is sure of him. And yet, when she has had enough of the music and he brings her back to the darkness of his loft, he simply watches her eat and asks questions.

  “How is it?”

  She nods and spoons more of the oatmeal into her mouth. A ring of maple syrup lines the bowl.

  “Of all the things that I can cook, you wanted oatmeal tonight.” He sighs.

  She smiles as she stirs some of the syrup into the beige goop. “I like oatmeal,” she says. “It’s comfort food.”

  He leans forward suddenly and touches her arm. Fay jolts back, jerking her elbows off the table.

  He reaches his hand out to her, beckoning her to come forward. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just saw that mark.”

  Fay glances down at the light-brown oval birthmark near her elbow. When she was a small child, her father used to kiss that same spot and whisper that it had been given to her at birth by the lips of an angel. Fay had always believed him, feeling inwardly blessed and lucky until the day when her father didn’t return home. And then she knew he had lied to her, just as he had lied to her mother.

  When he continues to wait, his arm stretched along the length of the black marble, the blue veins beneath his pale skin exposed and mapped, she reluctantly places her hand in his. He turns her arm slightly to get a better look and then rubs the spot with his fingers as though he might clean it off like a coffee stain. She turns her head away at the gentle pressure of his hand holding hers. The slight scrape of his calluses as he touches the birthmark. How can his touch feel so different from someone who grew up with the same mother. The same father. In the same house. How can they be brothers, she wonders?

  “It’s like someone kissed you right there and left a smudge,” he says.

  Fay nods. “My father used to tell me it was a kiss from an angel.”

  He smiles. “Yes. Exactly.”

  “I used to believe everything my father told me,” Fay says.

  “I did, too.”

  “But then I found out that he lied.” She glances down at the mark. “The day my father left, all his angels fell to earth and became specks of dirt.”

  “You don’t believe in angels?”

  “No,” Fay says, and turns away so that he can’t see the lie in her eyes. “Tell me something: Why did you stop talking to your brother?”

  He studies the mark a moment longer before he carefully releases her hand, slowly pulling away as a lover might gently ease himself out of bed so as not to wake the other. She longs to grasp his fingers, to pull his hand back, but a shyness steals over her. A shyness that turns to terror at the realization. She cannot feel this way. Fay stands up quickly. She should have grabbed his hand when she had the chance. Grabbed it and pulled it to her.

  He studies his palms. “I took my brother to Thailand with me when I had to oversee the water treatment plant that was being built with the funds from my nonprofit.” He pauses and stands up. Begins to pace. Fay sits quietly waiting. He turns away and says, “He raped a young girl in the village, and we had to run before the authorities could catch up to us. When we got safely back to the city, I never spoke to him again.”

  An emptiness. A void. The words enter into Fay’s body, and the edges of her memory dissolve, flooding her thoughts until all she can see is the ghostly image of herself that night as she lay beneath him on the stairs in his apartment. She had wanted to be with him that night, she reminds herself.

  Fay stands up. “I need some water.”

  “Let me—”

  “I got it.” She quickly walks over to the cabinet and pulls out a glass. She knows where everything is now. She knows the refrigerator will have neatly lined up bottles of fresh spring water and mineral water and wine and beer.

  Fay pours herself some mineral water, savoring the tiny bubbles. She concentrates on the fizzy sensation. He carefully approaches her as though she is standing on a tightrope. A balancing act of sheer will. He stops a few feet away. Fay waits to see if he will ask the inevitable question.

  “I have to leave in a few days,” he says. “It’ll only be for a few weeks, I promise.” He leans forward and rests his forehead on his forearm.

  The sun pushes over the edge of a neighboring building and pours in through the wall of windows. Fay stares at his hair, at the shy undertones of browns and reds scattered among the black and gray. A cacophony of midnight autumn colors that dance only under spotlight.

  “You’ll probably eat pizza every night,” he says, more to himself than to her.

  Shallow sips of air, her chest rising and falling in rhythm to the swirling dust caught in a beam of light. She stares at a painting on the far wall while he talks about where he will be going, what project he must oversee before he can return.

  “I can see you once more before I leave,” he says. “Can you make it Friday?”

  She nods.

  She can feel him studying her face. This need to constantly know what she is thinking has become familiar to her. She turns and smiles brightly. Too brightly perhaps.

  “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll still be here when you get back. It’s not like I got a million other things to do while you’re away,” Fay says.

  He begins to protest, launching into his speech about how she could be whatever she wanted to be if she put her mind to it. Her mind turns inward, but her eyes remain alert so he won’t know the difference. She has a call to make.

  5

  Fay sits on the bottom step of the stoop, her hand protectively spotting Luke as he pulls himself upright using the upper step as his prop. He has been trying to walk, and already there is a large knot by his ear where he hit the corner of the coffee table before he went flailing to the floor. He pats the step and smiles up at Fay. She smiles down in return.

  “Girl, what is that child doing touching that nasty sidewalk?” Andy yells from nearly the end of block as she strides toward them.

  “It’s not the sidewalk, Andy,” Fay yells back. “It’s called the stoop.”

  Andy is upon them in a leap. She sweeps up Luke and kisses him loudly on the neck before returning him stunned and confused back to the steps.

  Fay scoots over, and Andy sits down next to her.

  “Where your mom at?” Andy asks.

  “She went down to the grocery store.”

  Luke begins to crawl over Fay’s lap, headed over to Andy, his eyes focused on the bright round buttons of her coat.

  “Don’t let that child slobber on my clothes, Fay,” Andy says, her voice deepening for a second to her usual bass.

  Fay grabs Luke and glances over at Andy, noting the dark circles under her eyes.

  “You look like shit,” Fay says.

  Andy sighs and leans bac
k against the steps. “Thanks, girl. Just what I needed to hear. Damn hormones are messing up my sleep.”

  “You up your dosage?” Fay asks.

  Andy nods and opens her eyes. Her blue-tinted contact lenses swim in a pool of tears. “Why do they have to make being a woman so goddamn hard?”

  Fay reaches out and brushes the loose tendrils off Andy’s forehead. “It’s a hard club to join. That’s why you have to be fierce.”

  Andy straightens up and takes a deep breath. “That I am, love. That I am.”

  Fay turns her eyes back to Luke, who has managed to traverse all the way over to the railing and is grinning so hard, he begins to drool. Fay smiles. “I wish I could take a magic potion and be a girl again.”

  “Me too, baby.”

  “I never got that. Those years to be just free and happy. All I can remember is working. Either lugging around some stranger’s kid or helping my mom when she was trying to get that catering business going.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember when your mom was doing that.”

  Fay hits Andy’s arm. “You do not. We didn’t even know each other then.”

  “Yes we did. I moved downstairs from you when we were eight and your moms was flipping out because you had accidentally poured too much cornstarch into the pudding she was making for that wedding or something. I can still hear that slap.”

  Fay’s knuckles brush her cheek. “Yeah, that was a bad day.”

  Andy hugs her from behind. “Come on. All those years made you a hard-ass. And without you pushing me all the time to be myself, where would I be?”

  “You mean, if I hadn’t beaten up every kid who made fun of you, where would you be?”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about. Damn, hard-ass. Yeah, where would I be if you hadn’t been my bodyguard?”

  Fay leans back into Andy’s arms and smiles at the memory of the two of them walking the streets like they were some tough shit. They had been so young. If only they could have stayed girls for a moment, a lifetime, longer.

  “What’s happening with you and the man?” Andy asks.

  “Nothing,” Fay says, and quickly reaches out to grab Luke before he can use the railing to make his way up the steps. Luke arches his back and cries when Fay lifts him up.

  “What do you mean, nothing?” Andy yells over the crying.

  Fay stands and rocks Luke to sooth him. “He just wants to talk all the time. And cook for me.”

  Andy flings up her hands in laughter. “First time inside and you manage to land a hausfrau.”

  “He’s no housewife, and if you would come inside with me, you could see for yourself,” Fay says, setting Luke back down on the steps.

  “You know my night in the Roxanne room is on Sundays. All them preachers ready to unwind after shouting the gospel all day.”

  Fay keeps her eyes on Luke and says quietly, “I need something, Andy.”

  Andy runs her large hand down the length of her wig. “What you got in mind?”

  “Something to knock him out.”

  “That’s easy enough.”

  “Nothing crazy, Andy,” Fay says.

  Luke lets go of the step, his chubby legs locking into place, and he stands there, looking up at Fay with wonder.

  Fay whispers quickly, “Look, Andy, he’s standing.”

  Andy turns just as Luke loses his balance and falls on his butt. Andy clicks her tongue. “Yeah, baby, get used to it. That’s what life is all about.”

  Fay picks him up and kisses him gently on the forehead. She whispers so that only he can hear. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here.”

  6

  They leave the club earlier than usual. Fay leans against him and lifts her chin to the door. He immediately gathers their coats. He doesn’t disguise his annoyance at the club scene, but he goes because she likes to dance. They walk out the side entrance into an unusually warm winter night. The snow pushed to the edge of the sidewalk has begun to melt and pool into the cracks and dips of the uneven pavement. Fay stops at a particularly large puddle, pondering how best to navigate around it in her open-toed black heels. He has walked into the street to see if he can spot any cabs in the distance. When he turns back to signal that there is one coming, he sees her dilemma. He steps quickly over to her side.

  “I think I can hop over,” Fay says.

  Without a word, he sweeps her up in his arms, and as he gallantly steps over the water, he loses his footing, almost dropping her before he rights himself and lets her down on the pavement with a grunt. The gesture is sudden. Unexpected. Ridiculous. Fay begins to laugh. She tries to steady herself on her heels.

  “That was not smooth,” she says, looking up at him.

  “You’re heavier than you look,” he responds.

  She makes a muscle and points down at her biceps. “All muscle, baby. I could destroy you.” She doesn’t tell him how she got to be so strong. How carrying Luke up four flights of stairs to the apartment, especially now that he is getting to be a toddler, creates muscles that never existed before.

  He takes her hand and leads her to the street, his other hand flagging down the cab coming toward them. The cab stops, and as he opens the door for her, he whispers, “I’m already destroyed.”

  She silently slides into the cab.

  Fay waits the entire night before she has the opportunity to drop the tablet into his tea.

  “Why do you like that green tea so much?” she asks as he is fixing her a sesame bagel and whitefish. He starts to decorate her plate with cucumbers and tomatoes. He calls it garnishing, but she knows it’s a way for him to get vegetables on her plate.

  Gently, he slices the tomato. “It’s an oolong tea, and I like the buttery aroma of it. And the flavor is rich but clean.”

  “Can I try some?”

  He looks up at her in surprise. “Really?”

  She shrugs. “Sure, why not? Does it have caffeine in it?”

  He raises one shoulder. “A little. Not like coffee, though.”

  She picks up the delicate miniature cup and pretends to take a sip. When he turns to pull the bagel out of the toaster, she slips in the tablet and places her palm over the mouth of the cup, grabbing the entire thing and giving it a quick shake. The tea burns her skin, but she focuses on melting the tablet quickly. She sets the cup back on the counter and checks to make sure everything has dissolved.

  “How was it?” he asks as he turns back around and places the bagel on the plate.

  “It was good,” she says.

  He glances at her before picking up the cucumber to finish with the garnish. “Did you take a second to smell the aroma?”

  She shrugs. “Sure. Butter. A hint of nutmeg.” She grins.

  “It’s not a cookie,” he says, and slices perfect, almost translucent, green circles of cucumber.

  She focuses on eating her sesame bagel quickly, but in her peripheral vision she watches him sipping his tea. She wonders how long it will be before he begins to feel the effects. Andy said it was a tranquilizer, but what did that mean? Will he fall asleep right here in the kitchen? Will he start to get sleepy and move to the sofa or the bedroom?

  “You’re going to choke if you keep eating that fast,” he says.

  “I’m starving,” she says with her mouth full.

  He gestures toward the tomatoes and cucumber. “Come on, at least try a little bit with the bagel. It won’t kill you to eat something healthy.”

  Fay grabs the entire neatly lined row of cucumbers on her plate and shoves it into her mouth.

  He begins to laugh. “That wasn’t quite what I meant, but I suppose it’ll do the trick.”

  Fay watches him stifle a yawn.

  “When are you leaving?” she asks.

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Should I go and let you sleep?”

  He shakes his head and starts to protest, but another yawn overwhelms him. “Sorry, I’m just feeling exhausted all of a sudden.” He pushes away from the island and blinks quickly. “I w
anted to burn you some of my music so that you could listen to some good stuff for once. Maybe when I get back, we could go to some other clubs.”

  She nods. He has talked about going to jazz clubs. Maybe catching a concert. She listens while staring at the empty teacup in his hands, his fingers absentmindedly caressing the smooth porcelain. She thinks about the drug coursing through his body. This is the only way. The only way. The sudden hum of the refrigerator makes her aware that the room is silent. Fay lifts her eyes.

  He is staring. She waits to see if he will suddenly pull away or turn his back. Do something, anything to break the tension and keep her at a distance. Or will he yield? She steps toward him. A band of panic narrows his eyes. “I should burn you those CDs,” he says quietly, but he remains standing in place.

  She takes another step.

  The teacup in his hands begins to tremble.

  She takes another step and reaches out to take the cup from him. He slowly releases his grip. She sets the cup on the counter, her eyes never leaving his. Slowly, she rises up on her tiptoes and leans forward, her forehead brushing against his lips. She moves her face slowly, as though she is dancing for him at the club. Her temple. Her eyes. She can feel his lips parting, the gentle push of his tongue as he tastes her skin. Her heart contracts for a second when he lifts her up and she realizes that her feet are no longer on the ground. She is floating. Floating. She closes her eyes and raises her lips. And she knows that from this point on, every kiss will taste incomplete without the lingering salt of tears.

  In the bed he refuses to let her undress, only wants to hold her. He strokes her hair, and she can smell the toasted sesame of her bagel clinging to his shirt mixed with the evergreen scent of soap on his skin. His fingers press into her scalp as though he can feel her thoughts, and he begins to mumble about why she needs to go home. And then, slowly, she feels his body relaxing. His arm twitches. She waits a few minutes longer and then carefully she moves.

  She takes off only his shirt and covers his pants with the sheet. She strips completely and positions herself almost on top of him without covering his face. She reaches over and turns on the lamp. With her camera phone extended as far as her arm will allow, she begins to take pictures. One after another, moving and angling her body for better shots. Finally, when she has enough photos, she gets up. He flings an arm across the pillow. She turns off the light and dresses quickly.