Monsters (5 page)

I pick at the salad, choose wine over bread. It's a very dry white. Not much sugar, which is good. Around me, the conversation is picking up, turning to business.

“Who are you thinking for the lead?” the partner asks. I still haven't caught his name.

“Sarah,” Alan says. “Sarah Nixon.”

I look up because I know who this is. She'd be perfect. Tommy catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. I know he's asking if I approve, and I nod and look at him like,
Jesus, of course,
and he must get that because he kind of laughs. This is the first time Marie looks at me. She smiles like she hates me already.
Good.

She turns to Tommy. “And, of course, you'll be in it.”

He nods. “Frederick.”

I make a scoffing noise. “Are you serious?” He can't be serious. I shake my head.

Marie says, “Well, obviously you'll have to do
a
role.”

“I'll do that role,” Tommy says.

“Absolutely not.” There's no way he can do Frederick. It's insane.

“Are you saying I can't play it?” He smiles, but it's the kind of smile you'd give a child, the kind of smile that says,
Isn't she cute? Isn't she cute with the talking?

“I'm saying you shouldn't.” I take another sip. This wine is good. I feel like I should have more. “Frederick,” I say slowly, “is basically a pedophile.”

Marie sits back in her chair. Just the word has made her uncomfortable.

The partner speaks up now. He says, “I didn't realize this movie was about child rape . . .”

“It's not,” Tommy says, in a tone that very clearly states that the partner has not been invited to speak. He doesn't bother to look in his direction. He's still looking at me, and he doesn't seem to think that I'm cute anymore. “Don't do that. Don't dumb down the book to win an argument.”

“I'm just pointing out that you”—I wave my hand at Tommy—“are not what people want to imagine in that role. They want to see you looking handsome, maybe a little dangerous, but not so much with the raping of little girls, you know?”

“You know,” Tommy says slowly, “that's why it should be me. Because we don't believe in attractive rapists, do we? If he's attractive, how can it be rape? If he's so attractive, why can't he just find a living girl? I mean, the trope for a character like Frederick is that he's driven to it. He's the poor, rejected bastard who can't get laid. But that's not the story we're playing with here. It isn't about sex. It's about control.” He holds my gaze for a long moment.

I look at him. I look back at my wine. It's nearly empty, which is probably how I got into this mess. “I'm not saying you wouldn't be
good for the role,” I say finally. “I'm saying the role wouldn't be good for you.” I shake my head again. “I think it's a mistake.”

•   •   •

It's still early, even earlier back home, and I think I can catch the boys before they're off to sleep. “Are they still up?” I say when Jenny answers the phone.

“Yup,” she says. “Just finished brushing their teeth.”

It's only the second time I've talked to them since I've been away. Stevie is the first to get on the phone.

“I made my Christmas list,” he says. “But Ben says Santa might not find us at Noni's.”

“I already told Santa where we'll be. I sent him a letter last week.” This will be our first Christmas away from Omaha, without Michael, and the boys have been worried about it.

I want our regular Christmas,
Ben had said. As if anything's regular these days.

“I saw you guys built a snowman,” I say.

Jenny had texted me a picture, though I couldn't really see their faces. It could have been anyone's kids all bundled up for the snow. I recognized the jackets, of course, the mittens, the hats. Stevie in the green coat. Ben in the blue.

•   •   •

When I wake, it's still dark. I don't know what time it is. But I know the boys are two thousand miles away, and Michael's even farther and the truth of that feels too huge. It feels like a rock on my chest. I need to move, to get out from under it. I slip out of bed and roll out my yoga mat to stretch. I think about going for a run or a swim. I'm
afraid I'd get lost if I went out through the front gates, that I'd never get back in, but there's a treadmill out in the pool house by the sauna, and I think if I get on it and turn it as high as I can, I might feel better. I might be able to breathe.

When I make it to three miles, my lungs feel like they're working, like I'm filling up with air. Everything is arms and legs and air and space, and I fit inside it. I feel like it's closing around me like a neat little box, and I know where all the walls belong.

•   •   •

When Marie comes out for breakfast, she comes from the right. I don't know this house well, but I know the only room down that hall is Tommy's, and I think,
Fuck.
Whatever, it's none of my business. I really don't care. She'll be gone by this afternoon anyway.

Tommy is sitting at the head of the table reading a newspaper, and as she walks past him, Marie stretches her hand out, brushing his shoulders in this lingering gesture. He doesn't look up, but she doesn't seem to mind. The dress she's wearing is this soft linen shell, sleeveless, and it just floats over her body. I think she must live in a yoga studio. She sits down across from me and smiles.

“Good morning,” she says brightly, and I think,
Yeah, I bet,
but I smile anyway.

“There's coffee,” I say.

“Oh no.” She shakes her head a little too emphatically. She looks around at Daniel. He's standing at the counter, checking something on his phone. “I'll have some green tea,” she says, like he was just waiting to take her order. “Very hot.”

This little muscle in Tommy's cheek tenses, but he doesn't say anything.

“Sure,” Daniel says, “absolutely. Let me just get that for you.” He sets his phone down and picks up a mug. He comes back in a few minutes and sets it in front of her. “Watch out. It's very hot.” He catches my eye and raises one eyebrow behind her back.

“So, I understand you're from Nebraska,” she says, putting a little emphasis on
bras
.

“My husband was.”

“And you don't like it?” She takes a sip of her tea but startles. She seems to have burned herself.

“No, I like it,” I say. “I'm just not from there.”

“Hmm.” She doesn't seem to care where I'm from now. She seems to have really been hoping it was Nebraska. “Well, maybe all this will be your ticket out.”

“I'll keep my fingers crossed,” I say.

•   •   •

The investors left hours ago, and no one else seems to be around. In the living room, there's a wall full of books, and I finger my way through the titles. I take one finally and curl onto the couch to read. I read and read and read. It's a beautiful book, the kind that makes me a little jealous. All the pieces are lining up, and I can see the ending coming, but it doesn't even matter. A book like this isn't about the plot.

“Hey,” Tommy says, and I look up. I hadn't even heard him come in. “You like that?” he says, gesturing toward the book.

“I do,” I say. “It's great.”

He drops onto the opposite couch on his back, throwing his legs up over the arm of it. “Have you read any of his other work?”

“No.” I shake my head.

“That one's the best, definitely. Probably the darkest too.” He smiles. “Not dark like your book, but close.”

“My book isn't dark. It's a constructed examination of gender and power.”

He laughs. “You're so full of shit.”

“What?”

“Your book is so raw. But then in person? Totally zipped up. I just expected you to be more . . .” He shakes his head. “I don't know. But that was like half a bottle of scotch to get you to open up.”

“Go to hell,” I say, and I stand up to go.

He holds one hand up defensively. “I'm not criticizing you. I mean, I see you're just holding shit together. I get it. I do. I'm just saying the result is”—he waves his hand in a circle like he's taking in all of me—“a little uptight.”

I throw my hands up. “What do you want me to do with that?”

“I don't want you to do anything. I'm just telling you. Jesus. Don't get all worked up.”

Half a decibel I raised my voice, and already I'm getting this. I smile, soften my tone. “So what you're saying is you want me to share my feelings more, except for those times when my feelings might make you in any way uncomfortable?”

He laughs. “That would be perfect. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” I say. “How do you think I stayed married so long?”

•   •   •

“So he makes this monster, and she's beautiful, right?” Joe leans back, spreading his arms wide along the back of the loveseat in that sort of pose men use when they're trying to make themselves look bigger.

“Right.” I nod.

“So why's he keep chopping her up? Replacing parts? I think that's why this scene isn't working. I don't see the motivation.”

“He's not satisfied,” I say. “Women are held to impossible standards, so even though the moment he finishes making her, he calls her his new Eve, his Aphrodite, he's also noticing all these things he wants to change about her.”

“There's that,” Tommy says, pressing one palm in my direction. “I mean, that's a very real theme, but in terms of plot, there's also the fact that when she opens her mouth, nothing good comes out. She's fucked-up on the inside, and Frederick still thinks he can fix that.”

Joe leans forward onto his knees. “Trust me, I see the appeal of cutting out a woman's tongue. That's a good scene. I like that scene a lot.”

Tommy laughs. “He doesn't want her quiet. He just wants to control what she says.”

“Frederick is the inversion of Frankenstein,” I say. “Frankenstein doesn't want the responsibility of being a god to the creature, but that's exactly what Frederick wants. He wants her to worship him, and she won't.”

“Does he want her to worship him?” Tommy says. “Or does he want her to love him?”

“To Frederick?” I shrug. “Same thing.”

Tommy shakes his head. “See, that's where we're getting stuck. You're so fixated on what he represents. There's no complexity to him. He wants worship. He wants sex.” He kicks his feet up on the table, closes his eyes. “Let go of the symbolism for five seconds and let him be a person.”

“I wouldn't mind a little worship,” Joe says, half under his breath.

“Yeah, it's not as fun as you'd think,” Tommy says.

•   •   •

I've promised to stay for ten days, but I think, if we can just get finished, I can leave, I can get out, and I mention this to Tommy after dinner. He's pouring me another glass of wine.

“You want to go home?” he asks.

“Feels like it's time.”

“Miss your kids?” He hands me the glass and sets the bottle down on the terrace wall. We're both resting on the wall, looking out, though it's too dark to see much of anything. I'm listening to the waves.

I kind of laugh, but it's a sad laugh, and I shake my head. “I don't know what I feel. I do, but then I don't. It's hard to be around them these days.”

“Yeah. I get that,” he says. He has a daughter, a teenager, and I know this. Everyone knows. Her mother's an actress. Famous. More for having Tommy's daughter than anything she's done on her own. I feel strange knowing all of this already. “My daughter,” he says. “I hate it when she's with her mother.” He takes a drink. “But I also hate it when she comes to live with me.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.” He sighs. “When she's around, I feel like I'm on, like I'm playing a part.” He's quiet for a long time. “My dad was pretty shitty,” he says finally. “I don't want that for her, you know? So ever since she was a baby, I've been like, ‘Here is a scene in which I play a good father.'” He shakes his head. “Doesn't come naturally, you know. It doesn't feel real.”

I don't mean to say it, I really don't, but it comes out anyway. “That was me as a wife sometimes.”

I can feel him watching me now. He puts his hand over mine, rubs
his thumb lightly across the back of it, but he doesn't say anything, and I don't turn to look at him, and after a minute, he pulls his hand away. I think that's probably a good thing. I think it's probably for the best.

•   •   •

I get home late, just after ten, and Jenny is waiting, though the first one to greet me is Bear. He wants me to pet him hello, and so I do, scratching under his chin and behind his left ear.

Tomorrow's a school day, and the boys have been asleep for hours. I wanted them home though. I wanted to look in on them sleeping in their beds, so Jenny brought them here.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thanks for taking them.”

“You owe me,” she says, but she doesn't mean it. She closes her book, sets it in her lap. “So tell me everything,” she says.

“It was surreal,” I say. Jenny's sipping tea and there's a kettle of hot water still on the stove. I pull a mug from the cabinet and drop a teabag into it. “I mean, Tommy DeMarco.”

She already knows he was there. I told her over the phone. Still, she shakes her head like she doesn't believe me. “That is insane,” she says. “It's like . . . it's like something out of a movie.”

“Literally. He is literally something out of a movie.”

“It's insane,” she says again. “Is he as hot in person?”

“Oh god. Yeah. Definitely.” I dunk the bag in and out of the water. I almost smile.
I kissed him,
I could say. I wonder what she would think about that.