Monsters (18 page)

“Can we just go?” I say, pulling my hand away, and I can hear the tone in my voice. I don't mean it, really, but it is kind of sharp.

“Hey,” he says. He grabs my hand again, but this time he's got me by the wrist. “I don't know what your problem is, but you have been acting like a fucking bitch all day.”

“Tommy,” I say, and I try to pull away, but he's not letting go.

“No,” he says. “I have been nothing but good to you, Stacey. I don't need this shit.”

He does let go now, starts the car, turns in his seat to look out the rearview window as he backs out. He pulls forward to the edge of the lot, and stops, waiting to pull out.

“You hungry?” he says. His voice is softer now, and he sets one hand on my thigh.

I still don't want to talk to him. I have nothing to say. But there's no point in fighting. There's no point starting an argument with him, so I say, “I don't know. Are you?”

•   •   •

I fix my hair, touch up my makeup in the room upstairs. Sarah's coming for drinks after dinner, and she's bringing her husband, who is apparently really powerful but all behind the scenes. I think he might
be a studio exec or maybe he just finances shit. I don't know. I can't follow half of what Tommy tells me, but from what he says, they're loaded, crazy rich, and they live way out of town, in Colorado or something on some kind of ranch, and they don't have any kids.

I sit on the bed I don't sleep in and call the boys to say good night. Their bedtime is minutes away. I'd almost forgotten the time difference and missed them entirely.

“Thanks for being my kid,” I say to Ben, and he says, “Yeah.”

When I hang up, I catch up on a few other messages and e-mails and a voicemail that turns out to be from Phillip. He says, “I know you're in California, but I wanted to say I hope we have a chance to have coffee again soon. Or dinner. Maybe we could have dinner when you get back.” I think,
Maybe.
I do like him, and the voicemail is sweet.

When I come down, they're already in the living room. I can hear Sarah laughing. She sounds like a bell. I walk in, and she throws her arms up, walks toward me. “Stacey!” she says, and she hugs me. “Come meet John.”

John does not look the least bit imposing, and he's not exactly handsome, just regular, nice. He's sitting on the couch, and he doesn't stand up to greet me, he just lifts one hand in a sort of wave. It doesn't feel rude though. It feels better, normal, like none of us have to be on our best behavior.

•   •   •

Tommy's opening another bottle of wine, which is good because my glass is almost empty. All day, my nerves have felt like cut glass under my skin, but now everything is softening again.

“So we're on location, we're . . . was it in France?” Sarah looks at Tommy.

“Honey, I don't even know what story you're telling.” He pulls the cork out and holds the bottle up to me, raising his eyebrows. I nod.

“Anyway, we're on location, and we're staying in this little local inn,” she starts again.

Tommy groans. “Sarah, come on, not this one.” He covers his face with his hand, shakes his head.

She waves him off and leans toward me like I should be on the edge of my seat. “And we get back from dinner one night, and the crew is all packing up, but it's like, we're not done, we have a week left of shooting, and we're all like, ‘What the hell is going on here?'”

“Sarah, Jesus, can we not?” Tommy says as he fills her glass. He glances up at me with this look that says,
Sorry.

“And the owner comes out, and he's screaming at us in French, which I of course don't speak, so I'm still totally confused, but I think, like, someone hasn't paid him or we've broken some family heirloom.” She pauses, she purses her lips for effect. They form a little pink bow. “But it turns out, our friend Tommy here has been fucking his little girl.”

“Okay.” Tommy holds his hand up. “You say ‘little girl,' but clearly she was an adult. I think she was actually older than me.” He looks at me and sort of smiles apologetically. “And this was, what, twenty years ago?”

Sarah makes this face like,
Don't look at me.
She says, “I'm just filling in your backstory. I'm revealing your motivations.”

“Motivations,” he scoffs. “We were in the middle of nowhere. I was just looking for a way to pass the time.”

“Tommy”—John cuts in, and we all look at him because he hasn't said much all night—“is probably the loneliest man I know.” He gives Tommy this knowing nod. “But he gets laid an awful lot, so that's something.”

Tommy laughs this short, single-noted laugh. “You guys are killing me.” He holds the bottle up, refills John's glass. “I think we need a statute of limitations on Sarah's mouth.”

•   •   •

John kisses me on the cheek, his hand on my elbow. “It was nice meeting you, Stacey.”

Over his shoulder, I can see Tommy and Sarah making their goodbyes, which seem ridiculously overdrawn for people who are going to see each other tomorrow. Sarah's clearly drunk. She has Tommy's face in her hands, and they're talking very close.

“Those two,” John says, turning to stand next to me so we're facing the same way, “they've known each other since they were basically kids. It used to make me crazy, but they're like brother and sister.”

“Hmm,” I say, smiling at him with my best
Why are you telling me this?
face. I cross my arms in front of me, look at the floor.

Tommy glances up then and sees John waiting. He takes Sarah by the shoulder, starts moving her toward us, and when she's close enough, John takes her arm and Tommy lets go. She's like a baton in a relay, and once John has her, he keeps her moving. Tommy closes the door behind them and when he turns around, he throws his hands up like,
Fuck, whatever.

“Wow,” I say. “That was very entertaining.”

“Not my fault,” he says. “You know you wouldn't have to listen to all that shit if you weren't so secretive. If she had any clue there was anything going on between us, she'd have the decency not to tell those stories.”

“If she had any clue, I'd be one of those stories, Tommy.”

“No, you wouldn't.” He laughs. “Sarah likes you. I mean, she'd tell
people, yeah, but I'd be one of the stories she tells about you. That's very different.”

“Yeah, that's a lot better,” I say. “Besides, you know I don't care.” I uncross my arms, dig my thumbs into my pockets.

“Really?” He crosses the foyer, reaches through my arms to grab me by the ass and pull me against him.

“It's not like I'm learning anything new. You are a dirty, filthy whore, but whatever, I'm used to it. I don't give a fuck what you do.”

Maybe I've had too much wine though. Maybe I don't quite pull it off because Tommy just sort of looks at me for a minute, and so I smile, and I shrug, and I say, “What?”

•   •   •

I sit down at the edge of the bed, finger through the screens on my phone to set the alarm for six. Sadie has school in the morning. If I'd taken five minutes longer this morning, she would have caught me coming out of Tommy's room. I don't want to cut it that close again.

“Isn't it a little late to be calling the boys?” He crawls into the bed behind me, wraps one arm around my waist.

“I'm setting an alarm for the morning.”

“You are not.” He laughs. “I can't believe it.”

I set the phone down on the bedside table. “I have to be up before Sadie.” I know the point he's trying to make, but I'm pretending I don't.

He pulls me back onto the bed and crawls over me, pins my wrists with his forearms, wraps his hands around my throat, and he pushes my chin upward with his thumbs. He kisses my neck. “I'm so good for you,” he says. “I'm like anxiety medication. You need me like a fucking drug.”

“Jesus, Tommy, you're ridiculous.” But I don't bother trying to push him off. I couldn't if I wanted to, and I don't actually want to anyway.

“How are you gonna go back to Omaha? How are you ever gonna sleep?”

“I'll find someone else,” I say, and Tommy laughs. He says, “No, you won't. Not like me.”

•   •   •

Tommy has a call after dinner, and Sadie and I crash out in the living room reading. Well, I'm reading. She's perched in her chair with her phone and a book that she's barely looking at. I sit sideways, look over the back of the couch at her. “What are you reading?” I say.

“
Ariel
,” she says, and I think,
Shit, Plath?
but of course. It makes sense.

I raise an eyebrow. “Right. ‘The boot in the face,'” but she doesn't seem to get the reference, and I think,
Really, with all your issues, you're sitting there with a poem in your lap called “Daddy,” and that's not the one you're reading?

“I like ‘Morning Song,'” she says.

“About the baby? That's a beautiful poem.”

“Yeah,” she says in this kind of sigh, and something about it makes my stomach clench, and I just think,
No. Oh god. No.

“I was so crazy when the boys were babies.” I really emphasize
so
, and I shake my head. “All those hormones, they really mess with your head. They make you do stupid things.” I try to make my voice really soft, really safe. Then she starts to cry, and she's telling me everything, and by then I'm sitting on the floor in front of her, holding her
hands, and she says, “Please don't tell my dad,” but of course both of us know I don't have a choice.

•   •   •

I stash Sadie in her room, literally tuck her into bed, and I have her put a movie on her laptop and put her earbuds in. I'm not exactly sure how Tommy's going to take this, but I know there will be yelling. Before I leave, I push her hair back from her face and kiss her forehead. “You're gonna be fine, honey,” I say, and she smiles, but it's a sad, weepy smile. I might be lying.

When I walk downstairs, Tommy is in the living room on the couch, reading. He has a glass of bourbon in front of him on the table. I can't decide if I should wait for him to finish it, or if that would be worse. I sit down on the couch, facing him, crossing my feet up into my lap, and I hold my ankles with my hands.

“Tommy,” I say, “we need to talk.”

“Jesus, you look serious. Should I get the scotch?” He tries to laugh, but I put my hand on his arm and say, “Stop.”

“Goddamn it, Stacey.” He sighs, looks at the ceiling, rubs one hand across his jaw. When he turns to look at me he looks disappointed, almost angry. He looks exactly how I'd expect him to look if I were to sit him down and say,
This is what I want, Tommy. This is what I need from you.

“We need to talk about Sadie,” I say, my tone a little colder than it should be.

“What?” he says.

“It's about Sadie,” I say, a little softer because it is about Sadie and it's going to get bad.

His jaw tightens, and he sits up straighter. “She's not cutting again?”

When he says this, he reaches across to grab my arm, and I shake my head. I look down at my hands and try to catch my breath.

“Jesus Christ, Stacey. Just tell me.”

I look up, and I give him this look like,
God, I'm so sorry.

He closes his eyes. “Is she pregnant?”

“She was,” I say, and I look down again. Right now, I would rather be literally anywhere else. “I don't think she's doing okay.”

“A fucking abortion?” It comes out in a whisper. I nod, or at least I think I do. My neck feels stiff. Tommy just stares at me. “Are you telling me my daughter had an abortion?”

He drops his head in his hands. He's sort of rocking forward and back. I set one hand on his shoulder, and he leans toward me like he's going to lay his head in my lap, but then he doesn't. He sits straight up.

“She's fifteen, Stacey!” he yells, like this will change anything. “She's fucking fifteen!” He braces his foot on the edge of the coffee table and kicks it over. His glass hits the floor and shatters. There are shards of it everywhere. I don't have any shoes on. It's going to be hard to get out. Tommy stands up, kicking the table again.

I try to fold myself smaller. I try to tuck myself away.

“Fuck!” He holds his head in his hands, stalks back and forth across the room. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” On the last
fuck
he throws his fist into the wall, and I'm pretty sure it comes out bleeding.

I sit on the couch, my arms wrapped tightly around my chest, and listen to him leave. I don't know how long I wait. A long time. I hope I wait long enough. The floor behind the couch looks safer. I swing my leg over the back of it, walk in a wide circle, and manage to avoid all the glass. I walk to the bar and pull the vodka from the small freezer beside the wine fridge, and I pour myself a lot of it. I swallow
it fast. I'm afraid of stalling, of losing my nerve. I set the empty glass on the bar and walk out through the kitchen to the glass door at the back of the house. I'd heard it open and close when Tommy walked out. The stone tiles are cold against my feet, but I walk out anyway. Tommy's sitting at the edge of the pool, his head in his hands, and I sit down next to him.

It takes a minute to get my voice to work. “I got pregnant,” I say, “the night I met Michael.”

“Ben,” he says like it's not a question, and I say, “No.” I turn my head to look at the water. “Not Ben.”

“I didn't even know him,” I say finally. “And then I was pregnant. I had this whole plan for my life.” I take a deep breath. “It's funny because Michael was such a problem solver. Whatever went wrong, ever, he was just like, ‘This is how we'll fix it.' And then I had this huge fucking problem before he was around to help me deal with it.” I look over at Tommy, and I see that he's looking at me, and I try to smile. I pull my knees up, rest my head on them. “It's just not easy, you know. Right decision or wrong, it's not fucking easy. And she's just a baby, Tommy. She's just a little kid.”