Little Bee

“You’re using the past tense,” I said. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“No?”

“No. Please, no.”

“Oh. I thought that’s what this call was about. I was thinking, That’s why she didn’t ask me to the funeral. Because this is the way you’d do, isn’t it, if you broke up with me? There’d be a preamble where you reminded me what a difficult person you are, and then you’d prove it.”

“Please, Lawrence. That’s horrible.”

“Oh God, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be angry with me. I’m phoning to ask your advice.”

A pause. Then a laugh down the phone. Not bitter, but bleak.

“You don’t ask for advice, Sarah.”

“No?”

“No. Not ever. Not about things that matter, anyway. You ask whether your tights look right with your shoes. You ask which bracelet suits your wrist. You’re not asking for input. You’re asking your admirers to prove they’re paying attention.”

“Am I really that bad?”

“Actually you’re worse. Because if I do ever tell you gold looks nice with your skin, you make a special point of wearing silver.”

“Do I? I never even noticed. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I love that you don’t even notice. There are plenty of women who care what one thinks of their jewelry.”

I swirled my G &T and took a careful sip.

“You’re trying to make me feel better about myself, aren’t you?”

“I’m just saying you’re not the kind of woman you meet every day.”

“And that’s praise, is it?”

“It’s relative praise, yes. Now stop fishing.”

I smiled, for the first time in a week I think.

“We’ve never talked like this before, have we?” I said. “Talked honestly, I mean.”

“You want the honest answer?”

“Apparently not.”

“I have talked honestly and you haven’t listened.”

Around me the house was dark and silent. The only sound was the rattle of the ice cubes in my drink. When I spoke, my voice had a break in it.

“I’m listening now, Lawrence. God knows I’m listening now.”

A brief silence. Then another voice carried over the line. It was Lawrence’s wife Linda, shouting in the background: Who’s on the phone? And Lawrence shouted back: Just someone from work.

Oh, Lawrence. As if one would throw in that “just,” if it really was someone from work. You would simply say, It’s work, wouldn’t you? I thought about Linda then, and how it must feel to have to share Lawrence with me. Her cold fury-not at the necessity of sharing, but at Lawrence’s naivete in imagining that Linda didn’t absolutely know. I thought about how the deceit must have acquired a certain uneven symmetry in their couple. I imagined the drab and ordinary lover that Linda would have taken in revenge-in spite and in haste. Oh, it was too awful. Out of respect for Linda, I hung up.

I steadied the hand that gripped my G &T and I looked over at Little Bee, sleeping. The memories from the beach swirled in my mind, inchoate, senseless, awful. I called Lawrence again.

“Can you come over?”

“I’d love to but I can’t tonight. Linda’s going out with a friend and I’ve got the kids.”

“Can you get a babysitter?”

I realized I sounded plaintive, and I cursed myself for it. Lawrence had picked up my tone too.

“Darling?” he said. “You know I’d come if I could, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Will you cope okay without me?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

“Oh, I daresay I’ll cope the way British women always used to cope, before the invention of weakness.”

Lawrence laughed. “Fine. Look, you said you wanted advice. Can we talk about it on the phone?”

“Yes. Of course. I. Look. I need to tell you something. It’s all got a little bit complicated. Little Bee turned up here this morning.”

“Who?”

“One of the Nigerian girls. From that day on the beach.”

“Jesus! I thought you said the men killed her.”

“I was sure they had. I saw the men drag her off. Her and the other one. I watched them being dragged kicking and screaming up the beach. I watched them till they were tiny dots and something in me just died.”

“But now, what? She just turned up on your doorstep?”

“This morning. Two hours before the funeral.”

“And you let her in?”

“Wouldn’t anyone?”

“No, Sarah. Most people would not.”

“It was as if she’d returned from the dead, Lawrence. I could hardly just slam the door on her.”

“But where was she, then, if she wasn’t dead?”

“On a boat, apparently. She got out of the country and came here. Then she was two years in an immigration detention center in Essex.”

“A detention center? Christ, what did she do?”

“Nothing. Asylum seekers, apparently they just lock them up when they arrive here.”

“For two years?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t believe her. Two years in detention? She must have done something.”

“She was African and she didn’t have any money. I suppose they gave her a year for each.”

“Don’t be facetious. How did she find you?”

“Apparently she had Andrew’s driving license. He dropped his wallet in the sand.”

“Oh my god. And she’s still there?”

“She’s asleep on my sofa.”

“You must be completely freaked out.”

“This morning I thought I was losing my mind. It didn’t seem real.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did, remember? Your nanny was late. You were in a rush.”

“Is she threatening you? Tell me you’ve called the police.”

“No, it’s not like that. She played really nicely with Charlie, all afternoon. He was Batman, she was Robin. They made quite a team.”

“And that doesn’t freak you out?”

“If I start freaking out now, I won’t ever know how to stop.”

“But what’s she doing there? What does she want?”

“I suppose she wants to stay here for a while. She says she doesn’t know anyone else.”

“Are you serious? Can she stay? Legally, I mean?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t asked. She’s exhausted. I think she walked here all the way from the detention center.”

“She’s insane.”

“She didn’t have any money. She could hardly take a bus.”

“Look, I don’t like it. I’m worried about you being all alone with her.”

“So what do you think I should do?”

“I think you should wake her up and ask her to leave. I’m serious.”

“Leave for where? What if she refuses?”

“Then I want you to call the police and have her removed.” I said nothing.

“Do you hear me, Sarah? I want you to call the police.”

“I heard you. I wish you wouldn’t say I want.”

“It’s you I’m thinking about. What if she turns nasty?”

“Little Bee? I don’t think she’s got a nasty bone in her.”

“How do you know? You know nothing about the woman. What if she comes into your room in the night with a kitchen knife? What if she’s crazy?”

I shook my head. “My son would know, Lawrence. His bat senses would tell him.”

“Fuck, Sarah! This isn’t funny! Call the police.”

I looked at Little Bee, fast asleep on my sofa with her mouth slightly open and her knees drawn up to her chest. I fell silent.