Then one afternoon, one of those perfect days that can make you feel lonely, I heard the light engine of a car, but it never came up the hill. It parked at the bottom, almost inside the start of the trail, under a tree that would scrape its hood. The car was Alice’s Prius. My heart leaped.
Thankfully, Eleanor was at work. I watched out my window and saw Alice’s long legs in a pair of tiny spandex yoga shorts, climbing the hill, crossing the big ravine, until she was out of my eyeline. From the window I couldn’t see the door of River’s yurt. When I found the courage to step outside, I saw no one. She hadn’t come for me.
Back inside I waited, trembling, for several hours. I thought to leave the house, but I needed to see her, to confirm where she’d been. At dusk, when I saw her finally descend the hill, I noticed that her previously ponytailed hair was undone.
I left to pick up Eleanor from work. Alice’s car was now at the studio. She taught a seven p.m. Ashtanga class.
Over the next two weeks, as my stomach grew and Eleanor’s need expanded throughout the house, stifling me more than the heat ever could, I observed Alice come to River’s yurt six times in total. There may have been more visits while I was at work. The first time she stayed overnight, I vomited into the toilet of the tiny bathroom, where the smell of Eleanor’s menstrual blood filled the air. I’d bought her dog waste bags and told her to triple-bag her large, thick pads but, like the child that she was, she forgot.
I was devastated, jealous on many levels. For one, the fact that they seemed to never go on dates, leave the house, like all each wanted and needed was the other’s young and perfect body. I couldn’t get it out of my head that it could have been me in there with him had Eleanor not blocked me that time he came to my door. That, even though he was immature, his body and his energy were a great salve. But, more than anything, I was crushed that Alice had left me so cruelly and substituted this boy for me. The feeling of wanting to be her, of wanting to possess her body and her strength—but mostly her past—intensified to a point where I couldn’t bear it. I felt again the urge to kill her, to kill myself. I knew I was going to kill something.
What had begun to torture me most was the idea that she didn’t care that I saw her. Yes, she parked down below, hidden partly by trees. But it was a half-assed gesture.
The fifth week of Eleanor’s stay and Alice’s withdrawal from my life, I made a decision. I returned home from work and cut Lenny off at the pass as he approached. He asked about Eleanor and I told him she had a bad cold. I told him I was feeling ill, too, and I didn’t want to give him something that might lead to pneumonia. He asked me if I hated him. There is no need to tell people you hate them. No need to confront them. I would advise you to lie in wait until you take your revenge.
But he placed his hand on my arm softly. The expression on his face was plaintive.
—Joan, he said, I have been waiting to finish my story.
I noticed he was wearing the watch. I tried not to look at it. I told him to wait a moment, then I went inside to get a carafe of water. I told Eleanor to stay. She hated it when I did that. She hated to feel separate from me.
I returned to Lenny. It served me to know more.
—Thank you, Joan. There isn’t anyone else.
It was a role I was used to. Last woman standing. Lenny poured himself some more vodka. I placed my hand over my glass with fanned fingers, as my mother used to do. Lenny placed the vodka down.
—Go on. I remember where you left off. I was appalled.
—After that day, he continued, I was filled with self-recrimination. The rage had cooled, and in its place an awesome guilt took root. Lenore had grown despondent over the most recent failed conception. I refused to take responsibility. I didn’t say a word. Like a child, I sulked. It was the summer, with nothing to do. I reread Goodbye, Columbus in the café where you work. I ate anchovy filets from the can. That day at Sandstone I’d been as ugly as I think anyone can be. I’d taken the love of this beautiful woman and just—
He made a crushing motion with both hands.
—Several times I walked onto the beach at night toward the rolling ocean. I never believed in God, but I asked the ocean, the universe, to take me. To swallow me whole. I laid myself down at the shoreline. But it turned out the ocean didn’t want me.
—The white man’s burden, I said.
—I’m sorry?
—You’re a white, wealthy male. Once you were a young, white, wealthy entitled piece of shit. Now you are old and you have the diseases you should have.
He nodded. He appeared suddenly chastened.
—Yes, I know, Joan. I understand. And I’m telling you this terrible thing I did. Not to absolve myself. But to sacrifice the last thing I can.
I nodded, but my rage was so intense at that moment I imagined it issuing from me in a bear-shaped vapor and killing the man. It was the female rage that builds for decades. I thought of the day I watched two skinny teenage boys playing Ping-Pong in the rec room of the hotel where I cleaned. I watched as another cleaning woman, Anna, heavy, with four children and a broken back, vacuumed
