Anthropology of an American Girl (74 page)

“Jimmy Landes? He’s still down in Florida.”

“Better find somebody new.”

Rourke shakes his head. “Nobody’s like Jimmy. I’d rather go it alone.”

“Well, as I like to say, everyone is replaceable.”

“Not everyone,” Rourke says.

Mark hangs his head and studies the tabletop as though he is taking an exam. He is exceedingly drunk. His tongue protrudes when he talks, making me think of Venus flytraps. Once Denny told me flytraps have throat hairs that are stimulated by motion, that’s why they eat only living things. The movement is important because they get just about six meals per lifetime. “Can you imagine,” Denny said, “wasting one of the six on a twig or a rock or something?”

“Be right back,” Mark says. He stumbles to a stand and staggers into the shoulders of the crowd.

I look at Rourke exclusively. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him exclusively. Earlier in the day, he was in a room full of people. Men. Cops. Earlier in the day he knew nothing about Mark, about what Mark had done, about how far I’d fallen, how weak I was.

“It’s strange,” I say. “Do you feel strange?”

“Little bit.” His words slip like pebbles across ice, shooting off and away as they are dropped. His eyes are adamantine, like black diamonds. He leans across, and the glasses make way, parting like a sea. There is a song playing.

He presses into me, knocking forward, his hands locking down my shoulders. My arm tears a little, I make a sound—“Oh”—shooting out, and I bite down hard on my lip accidentally drawing blood. We kiss, and
the red seeps in. The taste of him is sweet. He pulls back, an inch, less, the thickness of paper.

“Is that how you kiss him,” he says, foully, like I am foul.

Maybe it’s all the alcohol or just the flavor of blood stitched to the perfume of his saliva, but I feel something animal. I wonder what it would be to kill him. If I held a knife, would it be easy to employ? I think of the virile final feel, the passage of his influence. His throat, turning limp, hot as he collapses into me like a dying gargantuan thing, like an anvil plowing.

I have to get away, so I pull myself up and head to the bathroom. The floor heaves beneath me as I walk through a slough of saloonish greens and browns. Mark glides past me in the opposite direction, not even noticing. In the bathroom I decide to vomit. Alicia says it is easy, which it is. The liquor shoots out,
plop, plop
, and then a barrage of plops, and, okay, I feel better. I wipe icy paper towels on my face and my neck and rinse my mouth with water.

At the bar, I ask for a lemon wedge, and I stand there, leaning, eating it. Mark and Rourke are toasting; I cannot imagine to what. Living in a world with men is like being in the center of a ring with hands spinning you in a circle. It’s like being spun, three-quarters one way, one-half the other, one full time back around. Wherever you land, there’s another set of hands. Men like you to believe they are dangerous when typically they are not. How can they be dangerous when there are so many things they want that they won’t talk about? When secretly you want a thing, you make mistakes.

I thank the bartender for the lemon.

He gives me another one and says, “Anytime, sweetheart.”

I’m not a sweetheart, I’ve never been a sweetheart, but it’s nice of him to call me one and to remind me that things don’t always have to be that way. Someday maybe I will be someone’s sweetheart and that someone will take me to Great Adventure on a Saturday in June and camping in Vermont and he will buy me running shoes for Christmas. I return to the table and wonder what would have to change before I could become a sweetheart. Something big would have to change, I think.

——

Rourke parks far enough away from the entrance to the building that none of the neighbors will see Mark, who is passed out in the front seat.

Rourke steps out of the car and offers me his hand, helping me out of the back. He comes around to the curb with me and he leans on the rear fender, quietly regarding the quiet street. I lean too, gripping the trunk to anchor myself. In Rourke’s face there is a light. It brightens, it dims. I don’t know where the light is coming from. The west, I think. I look for the river. I don’t see it, though it’s not far. There is hissing from the sewer beneath us; blasts of smoke skulk around our ankles.

“So,” I say, “next Saturday.” I try to speak without slurring; I hear myself trying.

He doesn’t answer. His arms are folded against his chest. I look at his arms in wonder; I think of me inside the ring of them, of him inside me. It’s been years. How many women have there been? For some reason I can’t stop thinking of the volatile mechanics of his sex, of him fucking other women—though I suppose just one would be bad enough. Actually, one would be worse. One gives me an indication of how he feels about Mark.

“Well,” I continue, my head swinging a bit. “Good luck.”

Him not moving. “You’ll be there.”

“I won’t be there.”

“You’ll be there,” he repeats.

“I don’t think I—” I wave one hand, ending there.

“Mark won’t let you miss it. He’s betting I get killed.”

Carlo steps out to help the Morrisseys unload luggage and sleeping children from their car. The kids are two and four with matching bear slippers. Carlo looks over and notices me and gestures; he’ll be right over.

“And if I refuse?”

“You won’t. Rob needs you.”

“Rob needs money. I have no money.”

Rourke shrugs. “You
pull
money.”

“And you?”

“Me? I pull a crowd. I fight and go home. I’m like you. I’m helping a friend. I don’t care who wins.”

Carlo’s footsteps. Him jogging over, waving apologetically. Together
he and Rourke hoist Mark from the front seat, and when they stand, Mark sags down, hanging out at the knees and in at the chest, like a scarecrow. “Got him, sir!” Carlo declares, and Rourke ducks, leaving the two to shuffle off into the overbright lobby.

I turn to Rourke, tipping in, taking hold of his shirt. The front of me on the front of him, my face by his chest. I breathe in. I study him. I feel for the remains of other women—memories of breasts, of legs, quivering throats and swollen lips, the smell of them, the taste. I should be able to find his memories, the chain that they make. But when I touch him, I find the same man I touched the first time I touched him, only now there is no openness. That’s because I closed it—closed him. In feeling for others, I simply find myself.

He looks back, unflinchingly. I don’t mind. I don’t mind to lose a little grace when by his eyes I possess so much. “You’re wrong, Harrison,” I say, using his true name for the first time ever. “I
do
care who wins.”

In the morning Mark rolls off the couch. Immediately he talks. Everyone says it’s good to talk, but frequently those who do are no better off than those who don’t.

“What the fuck was that all about?” he says, rubbing his head.

I check my watch. Rourke is awake. Thinking, not talking. By now he’s at the gym; he’s already been running. Eight miles, ten miles.

“What a fucking idiot,” Mark says on his way into the kitchen. “Showing up like that.”

Despite his hangover, he looks fine, like an antique. He has begun to gray prematurely, and the new pewter tinge suits his doggish capitalist charm. Any woman would be happy to have him. He punctures a can of tomato juice, fills a glass, and drains it. He peers at me through the framed passage over the hygienic white counter that separates the kitchen from the dining room. The counter is bare. Mark does not allow things on counters. No fruit, no papers, no vases, no dish rack.
Dish racks harbor bacteria
, he says. That’s why there are no sponges, only paper towels. In public restrooms he flushes with his elbow and pulls towels from the dispenser before he washes his hands. One for turning the faucet, one for drying.

He lays the glass in the sink and wipes his mouth. “Did he
confide
in you? Did he tell you that he doesn’t
care
who wins? That he’s just doing Rob a
favor?”
He approaches me, coming around. “Don’t be stupid. There is no fight. There’s a scam, a fraud, a hustle. It’s pre-arranged. Harrison’s taking the fall. That’s why he came last night. To prepare you. It’s gonna kill him to get beaten. But Rob’s in too deep with the wrong people—he has to have a guarantee. A loss is the only way he can guarantee the outcome. He asked me for the money, but I told him I can’t get involved. Believe me,” Mark says, “I’ll do my part. I’ll fill the house. But I have a reputation to uphold. I have
you
to think about. That’s why, after this, that’s it. We’re done with this ghetto crew. We can’t walk into our future dragging this shit behind us.”

Mark is in front of me; we’re face-to-face.

“Harrison’s an animal,” Mark states, “just like his murderer father. Did he tell you that his father was a murderer? Of course not. Because he’s a liar. He lied to you all along.” Mark reaches out quickly, but I don’t blink my eyes. He slaps his hand around the back of my neck and folds me into his arms. “I feel bad for you, sweetheart, I really do. He lied about everything.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes. I see that now.”

T
he day of the fight he fucks me very hard, like he knows it will be the last time. “Shit,” Mark says when he is done, “you are a sweet taste in the mouth.”

The Cougar is double-parked outside Astor Place haircutters. I toss my bag through the open window onto the front seat. I get in and shut the door and Rob takes off.

“Nice haircut,” he says. “Reminds me of the old times out in Montauk.
You gotta check out this French flick,
Breathless
. Jean Seberg plays this little American girl with chopped hair and Jean-Paul Belmondo’s cut really tight.”

He bounces in his seat as he drives. The night is hot and Rob likes when it’s hot. That’s because he’s a Leo, and Leos are sun kings, and Napoleon was a Leo. On Rob’s chest is a new tattoo—inside the globe of a plankton-green sun, it says
Roi de Soleil
. He got it in New Orleans, at Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras tattoos bring luck. I switch on the radio.

The car turns widely off Houston and onto the Bowery. Outside my window the skies are marbleized blue-black, like out of mythology. Skies like a storm is coming, only no storm is coming. Skies that make you homesick, only there is no home. When we hit Delancey Street, the prostitutes tap the hood of the car. They wave to Rob.
Hey
.

“A case of mistaken identity,” Rob says to me. “I mean it, baby, I swear.”

In the Cirillos’ driveway, Rob’s sister, Christine, says, “Everybody in the pool. That’s the law.” Christine works the watch counter at Bloomingdale’s. If you want a watch, go to her. “I’m giving you five minutes, Evie,” she warns. “A grace period. Then I’m coming to find you.”

The first time I went to Rob’s parents’ house, I made the mistake of heading for the front door. “What are you,” Rob asked, “the mailman? The last people to go in that way were relatives from Italy.”
It-lee
.

The back door by the barbecue leads to the kitchen, which is full of aunts and grandmothers and elderly female neighbors. You can see the ladies through the screen, briefly making contact, like flies against a window. Arms to the elbows appear to hand off trays of peppers and sausages to fry.

Mrs. Cirillo works the grill. “In most families, Eveline,” she explains as she flinches into the charcoal smog to flip a rack of ribs, “this is a man’s work. But, what happens is, Dom gets to talking and everything burns.”

“I’ll do it, Ma.” Rob grabs at the tongs. “C’mon.”

“No, Robert,” she says, “take care of the company.”

From the upstairs bathroom window I can see the family swept up in a sort of insular and happy confusion that is enviable but that can’t possibly last. Christine has everyone running in the water to make a whirlpool, while Rob’s father leans wearily on the ladder, spraying non-comers randomly with the hose.

“Christine’s the ambassador of the pool,” Mr. Cirillo calls out. “I’m the artillery.”

In the far corner of the yard, Joey hovers protectively over his wife, Anna, who sits sideways on a lounge chair feeding the baby, who’s almost five now, though they still call him “the baby,” and their older son, Charlie. Everybody pretends that Rob is no good and Joey is the family man, but Joey’s the one they worry about. Rob’s lawlessness has a complementary decency, but Joey’s righteousness is forced, like he’s bored of it, like any day he’s gonna snap. There’s another brother, in L.A., Anthony, good-looking. No one mentions Anthony; there are no pictures—except one buried deep inside Rob’s wallet.

Joey removes his shirt and adjusts the band of his shorts. “C’mon, Charlie. Let’s go swamp Aunt Chrissie.”

Directly beneath the bathroom window is the back porch and the keg, and Rob filling pitchers. I can see the top of his head. Christine splashes at him. “Rob. Get
ova
here.” Without even looking, he steps casually to the side so the water can’t reach, like he knows the exact measurement from the pool to the keg.

“Forget about it,” Joey taunts as he climbs the ladder behind Charlie. “He won’t let Evie see him in a suit.”

“Nonsense. Robert hates to get wet,” Mrs. Cirillo chides. “He always has. He’s like a cat.”

“In my day a kid never passed up water,” Mr. Cirillo says. “It’s not natural.”

“What do I want to get cold for?” Rob says. “It’s been a long winter. I’m just starting to heat up again.”

When I come back out, I join the tangle of bodies, strollers, and pocketbooks clustered around the tables in the driveway. Christine’s Dominican boyfriend, Ray Peña, is passing out clear keg cups high to the brim with daiquiris decorated with umbrellas and naked ladies. Rob says the plan is to get people in the
betting mood
.

“Big bets are already down,” Rob explained to me earlier on the car ride over, “but ringside is critical. You can really rake it in ringside.”