Esther is closing her eyes against her tears when she becomes aware of a scratching at her arm and Mother Mona standing beside her. Mother Mona, tall as a man, with her painted jowls and her forked fingernails—the source of the scratching—and her silver eyes that travel Esther now, everywhere but her eyes. “You,” she murmurs, in a voice Esther hasn’t heard before. “He’s calling for you.”
WASHINGTON, DCVEE
The Queen’s Offense
She is still swaggering when she enters the room. She stops when she sees Alex’s face, his inflamed eyes and pinched nose. On either side of him, men stand, as if part of an audience. They’ve removed their jackets. Some have removed their ties. They are clearly, as a group, very drunk.
“Vee.” Alex smiles. He walks toward her and, for an instant, she relaxes. But his smile is for the men—it dissolves the instant his mouth reaches her ear. “I can explain later,” he murmurs, “but I need you to do something. I need you not to ask questions.”
“But—”
“Sh. No questions.”
The men are talking, fidgeting, glancing at Vee and Alex, glancing away.
She waits. This is some kind of game, she thinks. Alex has made some kind of bet.
“Take off your clothes,” he whispers.
Vee giggles; she can’t help it. The alcohol is drifting downward now, leaving her head sober, her stomach sick. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking. I need you to take off your clothes, all of them, and walk in a circle around the room. That’s it. That’s all I’m asking for.”
“Alex.”
“Vee.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Just the opposite. I know you can do that.”
“Not in public.”
“This is our home.
“Alexander.”
“Vivian.”
His hand is on her thigh, lifting her dress. She stops it by taking it in her own and squeezing. She is afraid to swat him away.
“What’s going on?”
“No questions. I’ll explain later.”
“Explain now.”
“Please.”
Please. His icy voice merging with his sex voice. Vee’s head seems to depart her body, float upward into the haze of cigarette smoke. She is all animal. She smells Alex’s breath, alcohol gone sour with panic. She sees that the velvet drapes have been hastily drawn, their tassels left askew on the carpet. She sees two choices: play dead, or run.
Alex looses himself from her grasp with one swift pull and he moves around to her back. He breathes in her ear: “Don’t think I didn’t notice what you did with your collar. Come on, baby. Come on, my little slut.”
He starts to unzip her dress.
Vee’s eyes lose focus. The bank of men in front of her wobbles. Her dress begins to drop from her shoulders—the fabric peels away, still molded to her shape. The shape of shoulders, the shape of breasts. She is aware of air on her skin, between her breasts. She imagines turning the moment over on him now, walking out of her dress freely, and with grace.
“Yeah,” Alex breathes. “Yeah.” His voice all sex now, his confidence back; not only will he make her do it, he’ll turn her on. She sees her back hitting the kitchen floor, feels his knee between her legs, hears Suitcase Wife’s voice, not a gentleman. Who is this man? He is everything she’s known him to be and he is a stranger. Something snaps in Vee—the deer realizing its camouflage can only go so far, understanding that its life is at stake. She feels her spirit stretching toward the ceiling, reaching for the women upstairs.
In the moment that divides this life from the next, Vee spins out of Alex’s reach. Go fuck yourself, she says, so quietly she only hears it in her heart. Louder, to the room, she says, “Go fuck yourself.” She sees the pull to her zipper dangling in Alex’s hand. It’s over. She will not wear this dress again.
BROOKLYNLILY
Another Marriage
Later, when the girls are finally asleep and a puttanesca is simmering on the stove, Adam gets home. He sniffs the air and kisses her. They sit down to eat. She has set the table with adult placemats, the better wineglasses that require handwashing, matching cloth napkins. She is happy with the meal, not only because she was able to pull it off in fifteen minutes and it tastes good but because puttanesca means “the whore’s pasta,” a fact she knows but suspects Adam doesn’t. She lights candles, and Adam laughs.
“What, are you trying to seduce me?”
“Yes,” Lily says, laughing back, though their laughter, his and hers, like old matching robes, deflates her. The fisherman wouldn’t laugh, she thinks. Hal wouldn’t doubt. He wouldn’t even eat. He would push back his chair, carry her to their bedroom, and screw her whether she thought she wanted it or not. Ugh. Apparently it’s a bodice-ripper she wants, a man who will lay claim to her, do to her as she will one day warn her daughters not to let men do to them.
They eat. Lily works to regain her optimism. Adam’s beard is already thick from that morning’s shave, and she thinks about how she will enjoy that, and how, tomorrow, she’ll carry his roughness around with her, a raw cheek, a scrape down her stomach, and enjoy the charge she gets, not only from the lust-memory but from the secret—it’s the secret that will arouse her, the secret of
