I will have the lamb, says Jude.
Miller nods. The same.
The steak, I say. Medium.
Molly politely orders the chicken, and the waiter goes away. I take a drink of my water and decide to ask for a big glass of gin as soon as the bastard comes back. Jude has not fucked Miller, yet. I pat my psyche down, wondering if I care. Molly is staring at me.
How long have you two been together? she says.
Oh, I say. We’re not really together.
What does that mean?
Yes. What does that mean? says Jude.
Molly leans forward, her elbows on the table. Her mouth is red with wine and falling slightly open and I can just see the tip of her tongue. Her gray eyes are sharp and I wonder if she ever tortures Miller, if she ever fucks with his mind. I wonder if he ever thrashes awake beside her, his arms wild and twisting in the dark because he is unable to breathe and when he tries to pull her small strong hands away from his throat there’s nothing there, if she then kisses him and tells him that he’s only dreaming. I wonder if he ever wakes in the morning to find her naked and crouched beside him, studying him in the first blue breath of light as if he were not her lover but a strange new insect that crawled into her bed.
We aren’t married, I say.
Molly shrugs. That hardly matters.
I wonder if he ever feels like an insect she may or may not impale on a slab of foam.
And we have been separated for…a while.
Why’d you split up?
You ask a lot of questions.
Does it bother you? says Miller.
Why did we split up? says Jude. I would like to know.
I slouch low in my chair. The three of them are like wolves and it occurs to me that evolution is a funny business. I don’t particularly want to tell the kidney story. It never goes over well and anyway it’s not nice dinner conversation. Paul Newman is getting his ass kicked good and proper. The waiter hovers at the edge of my peripheral vision and I turn to face him with what I hope is a friendly smile.
I would like a large glass of gin, please.
Excellent choice, he says. Would you like that mixed with something?
No. Thank you.
Jude smiles at the waiter, apologetically.
Anything else? he says.
Champagne, says Molly.
The waiter fucks off and I turn to Jude.
What was that?
What, she says.
That look. The look that says my poor stepbrother is retarded.
You are so paranoid.
He wants to change the subject, says Miller.
Paul Newman is digging his own grave in the prison yard and in a minute one of the guards will tell him to fill it again and start over.
Answer the question, says Jude.
I smile at her. I despise couples who fight in public, I say. You know that. But in about two minutes I’m going to politely tell you to shut the fuck up.
I look at Molly and she smiles, as if to encourage me. Molly seems very relaxed and I wonder if she’s not drifting on a private little ocean of prescription tranquilizers. Now the waiter arrives with my gin and I decide he’s not such a bad guy. I have four inches of gin in what looks like an actual jelly jar, a big one. I take a drink and watch as he tries to open the champagne. He looks uneasy, our waiter. His upper lips is damp with sweat. He’s having a spot of trouble with that bottle. The four of us are staring holes through him and I imagine the vibes coming from this table are nasty. After what seems like forever he pops the cork and slithers away and I feel relieved for him.
I raise my jar.
To the truth, says Miller.
Which truth?
Come on. Tell us how it is to live with Jude.
I stare at him. It gets weird sometimes. One day she drags me into a public bathroom and hands me a gun. I ask her what the gun is for and she tells me to kill the man in the blue suit and meet her outside in five minutes. Then she asks if I want to get a latte.
Miller nods, sympathetic.
And for my birthday one year, she took me to Mexico City for the weekend. What a sick time that was. Our second day in the city, she turned to me on the street and gave me a mask. What is the mask for? I said. Didn’t I tell you? she said. We’re going to rob this bank. And then we’re inside the bank and everybody is freaking out and I don’t know what to do because I never robbed a bank before and I don’t speak Spanish. And then Jude shoots the little blind bank teller because she won’t stop screaming.
What the hell are you babbling about? says Jude.
Huh?
That was a bad dream you had, she says. You were sleeping right next to me. I remember the night you dreamed that.
Well. That is peculiar.
You and I never robbed a bank together, says Jude.
False memory. I got hit in the head a while back.
Interesting, says Miller. The artificial flashback. A feeble attempt by the subconscious to cover something more painful.
I wonder would anyone notice if I went ahead and bit off a chunk of my jelly jar and swallowed it whole. On the wall above us, Paul Newman is a wreck. He’s in worse shape than me, anyway. He’s crawling before the guards like a dog, begging them not to hit him anymore and I think, what we have here is a failure to communicate.
eighteen.
TWO HOURS LATER WE ARE FLYING ACROSS THE BRIDGE in a silver Mustang and I am glad it’s not a convertible because sometimes the elements are just too much to bear. Not quite midnight and there is very little traffic. Jude is leaning against me, her head on my shoulder. I don’t think she’s sleeping but I have this funny idea that she is happy, or possibly nervous. But surely she is not nervous because this is what she wants. Molly drives with the cold manic fury of a girl who grew up in a household full of boys. I am tempted to ask her about her childhood but I stop myself. I don’t want to talk to her in front of Jude. There is no music in the car, no conversation. Miller is silent in the passenger seat and I imagine he is contemplating the velvet.
Over the bridge and through the hills. We are going to Miller’s house.
By the by. The remainder of our dinner party passed without relevant incident. Or nearly so. I knocked over a bottle of champagne around the time Paul Newman was shot in the throat, but Jude managed to make the waiter feel so hot and guilty about it that he gave us another one on the house. None of us got particularly drunk and no one asked me any more difficult questions, and I refrained from demanding another jelly jar of gin. Jude kept trying to talk about the film, but Miller wasn’t having it. He wanted to wait until we got home.
Home.
I was informed over creme brulee and coffee that Jude and I would be staying with them for the duration of
