Succubi

because his point was legitimate. Part of it was she didn’t want to be married until she knew she was occupationally secure.

But was that really the problem?

What’s wrong with me? she thought.

«« — »»

Getting Melanie to dress appropriately had been like pulling teeth. “Yes, you’re going,” Ann had ordered. “And, no, you can’t wear leather pants and that Rob Zombie T shirt.” It had been Martin, of course, who’d convinced her. “Conforming to conformity is a statement too, isn’t it?” he’d asked. Melanie had then actually put on a dress without another word. “I feel like a yuppie,” she’d said, grinning as the hostess had seated them by the window. The Emerald Room was indeed the best restaurant in town. The state legislature had their power lunches here every day while in session, and brought plenty of lobbyists for dinner. The governor appeared weekly, and the county executive often came in late. Any celebrity who happened to pass through town always wound up here via the recommendations of other celebrities. Stallone was once overheard remarking to a producer: “Preeminent grub.”

“What exactly does being a partner mean, Mom?” Melanie asked.

“It means I share in all the firm’s profits.”

It also meant sharing in all the responsibilities, but Ann wasn’t worried about that. She’d snagged their biggest client, Air National, herself, and had managed to hold on to them twice as long as any other firm. It was a sleazy acknowledgment, but the best thing about representing an irresponsible airline was that they paid any amount to get out of hot water. What partner meant most of all, though, was more delegation, and that meant more time she could spend with Martin and Melanie. From now on it would be the associates who scrambled over interrogatories till 3 a.m. Maybe now things would evolve into the domestic solvency she knew she needed. Maybe now they could be a family.

The maitre d’ expertly reeled off the day’s specials and left them to peruse leather bound menus.

“How’re things going at school?” Ann asked.

“Okay,” Melanie meekly replied. Okay meant no D’s on the horizon. She was a smart girl but just couldn’t adjust. Before Martin, she’d been cutting class, failing all her subjects. But then she beamed: “I’m gonna get an A in my art class.”

Art, Jesus, Ann thought. “Melanie, art isn’t going to get you very far in this world.”

“Rembrandt would probably disagree with that statement,” Martin said, and discreetly scowled at her.

“What I mean, honey, is that art doesn’t usually make a good living. Art never sells till after the artist is dead.”

Martin was still scowling. “Your mother’s right, Melanie. Peter Max only makes $500,000 a week. Last year Deniere sold a twelve inch canvas for seventeen million. A person could starve on that kind of money.”

There I go again, Ann thought. Martin’s jovial sarcasm was his way of objecting to Ann’s negativity. What Melanie needed was maternal support, not criticism. More and more she feared Martin was totally right, that Melanie’s maladjustment stemmed from a lack of such support. Ann’s own parents had been infuriated by her decision to attend law school. “Lawyers are sharks, liars,” her mother had said. “It’s not a job for a woman.” “You’ll never cut it as an attorney, Ann. It’s too tough out there,” her father had assured her. Ann doubted that she’d ever been hurt so badly in her life, and now she felt worse. How many times had she hurt Melanie with similar ridicule?

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said, but it sounded terribly fake.

Martin quickly changed the subject with more comedy. “What kind of dump is this? No chili dogs on the menu.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” Ann said. “I’m sure they’ll bring your foi gras and Beluga caviar on a hot dog roll if you ask them.”

“They damn well better unless they want me to start tipping tables over. And they better bring me catsup for my fries too. “

Melanie loved it when Martin poked fun at the establishment, or at least where the establishment ate. But Martin turned serious when they deliberated over appetizers. “Jesus.” He leaned forward and whispered. “The poached salmon costs seven bucks. That’s a lot of dough for an appetizer.”

“Don’t worry about it, Martin,” Ann assured. “This is my celebration dinner, remember? Cost is no object.”

“I don’t want an appetizer,” Melanie said. “I’d rather have a beer.”

“You’re too young to drink beer,” Ann reminded her.

Then Martin: “I’ll have the oysters Chesapeake. That’s two bucks cheaper than the salmon.”

Ann didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Would you get the fucking salmon and shut up? she felt like saying. I just got a forty thousand dollar raise today. I think I can handle a seven-dollar appetizer! “I’ll order for everyone,” she said instead. “It’ll save trouble.”

A beautiful redhead took their orders, as robotic attendants brought bread and filled their water glasses. Martin and Melanie chatted about local art shows, during which three different opposition attorneys appeared to congratulate Ann on her partnership. This surprised—even startled—her, the enemy camps acknowledging her success without so much as a hint of jealousy. “You seem to be quite the talk of the local legal world,” Martin suggested when Melanie excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

“It’s a strange feeling.”

“I’m very happy for you,” he said.

He was, she could tell. So why wasn’t she? Ann felt skewed; making partner still felt numbly distant. Why? “I’ll be home more now,” she said. “I’ll be able to get Melanie off your back a little.”

“Ann, she’s a great kid, she’s no trouble at all. I think she’s really starting to come out of her shell now.”

“No help from me.”

“Would you stop? Everything’s working out great, isn’t it?”

Actually it was. Ann just didn’t understand why she didn’t feel that way herself. Everything was working out.

“Are you all right?”

“What?” she said.

“You look pale all of a sudden.”

Ann tried to shake it off. She felt pale too. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ll snap out of it.”

“You’ve been working too hard,” Martin suggested. “It’s no wonder. And then this nightmare business…”

The nightmare, she thought. The hands on her.

“That’ll work out too—you watch,” Martin said, and sipped his Wild Goose lager. “It’s all stress related. All the hours you put in, plus worrying about Melanie, it gangs up on you. Harold’s a great doctor. I know a bunch of profs at the college who see him. The guy works wonders.”

But was that really the answer to her problem? Ann wasn’t even sure what her problems were. Beyond the great window, the city extended in glittery darkness. The moon suspended above the old post office; it seemed pink. Ann was staring at it. Its gibbous shape fixated her, and its bizarre pinkness.

“Mom, are you okay?” came Melanie’s voice.

Now they were both giving her long looks. “Maybe we should go,” Martin said. “You need to get some rest.”

“I’m fine, really,” she feebled. “Once I eat something, I’ll be fine.”

Ann had to force herself to act normal, but everything distracted her. Subconscious ideas of reference, Dr. Harold had called it. Image symbolization. Even irrelevancies reminded her of the nightmare. The glass candle orb on the table. The pretty hands of the waitress as she set out their appetizers. The fleshy pinkness of Martin’s poached salmon, like the pink flesh of the dream which seemed the same eerie pink as the bulbous moon beyond the window. The moon looked bloated, pregnant.