Beauty Page 16

  “We are gathered here today to join William and Amy in marriage,” the officiant says.

  I stare at the petite fleurs behind him. How innocent and sweet.

  “William, do you take Amy to be your wife?” the officiant continues. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”

  “I do,” William says.

  “Amy,” the officiant says, repeating the same words to me. I notice a loose thread on the lapel of his tan jacket. At some point, he must have stuck a pin through it, damaging the material.

  I get a strong urge to step forward and brush it away. Don’t, I tell myself.

  “…till death do you part?” he asks.

  “I do,” I respond.

  “Rings, please,” he says. Ben sets the gold bands on our palms.

  “William, ‘with this ring, I thee wed,’ ” the officiant says.

  William repeats what he said to me, then slides the ring onto my finger.

  “Amy, ‘with this ring, I thee wed.’ ”

  “With this ring, I thee wed,” I say to William, giving him his.

  “I now pronounce you to be husband and wife. Congratulations, you may kiss the bride.”

  William leans in, but I peck him on the lips and quickly turn to the boys. Alex is bent over, holding his head in his hands, a sign that he’s getting a migraine. Toby sits beside him, watching helplessly. Not a single aspect about this ceremony is like my first wedding, and yet it’s as if my body remembers the sadness and confusion, as if it were happening now. That girl, Amy. I mourn for her.

  I didn’t cry then. But I do now.

  A couple weeks after the wedding, Alex and I are at Jeff’s when I get a call from Maggie, my former boss at Monarch. “Would you be able to meet me for dinner tonight?” she asks. “I know you want part-time and I need a hand with sales. We can talk.”s

  Alex has eaten and bathed. Jeff will be home within an hour.

  “Sure,” I say. I’m not certain I want the job. It doesn’t pay much to be on the floor, but at some point, the boys will be more independent, and if I stay in the loop, I’ll know if and when a buying position opens up. I call William to let him know I’m meeting Maggie and to have dinner without me.

  “Where’re you going to eat?” he asks.

  “I’m not sure. She said she’d call around to see which restaurants are still taking reservations. She’ll text when she knows.”

  “SoHo,” William says. “That sounds fancy. You sure you’re not going on a date?”

  I laugh. “See you tonight, okay?”

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, I’m just messing with you.”

  We meet at a restaurant called The Dutch. It’s around the corner from the boutique. She arrives fifteen minutes late because she’s finishing up with a customer. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. What did he mean by that? I fret. All through dinner, while Maggie tells me about the position and other opportunities she sees in the near future, William’s comment curdles in my stomach and makes it impossible for me to enjoy my kimchi rice and chicken. Then, on top of it all, I feel a warm dampness in my panties. Shit, now? I excuse myself to the bathroom and confirm that, in fact, it’s my period. Luckily, I have tampons in my purse.

  Returning to the table, I ask the waiter to pack my meal to take home, but I’m so distracted that I forget it on the table.

  Forty minutes later, I pull up to the house. The light in the living area is on. I figure Toby’s watching TV, but when I come through the door, it’s William on the couch. Empty, crushed beer cans litter the coffee table and floor.

  “How was dinner?” he asks.

  “Good, but I forgot to bring home my kimchi rice.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “The job. I think it might be nice to start working again. Part-time, anyway.”

  “Which restaurant?” he asks. “What time did you meet?”

  “Reservation was at 6.”

  “You sure about that?” he asks. “Because I called the store at 6:10 and spoke with Maggie.”

  “Were you checking up on me?” Dread spreads like a rash over my body. “You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

  “You were with Jeff, weren’t you?”

  “Oh my god, are we back to this again?”

  “Just tell me.”

  I turn and walk away.

  A week later, I’m in bed reading when William approaches to make up. I give him the cold shoulder. “Come on,” he says.

  “Just leave me alone.”

  “Come on, baby,” he coos. He kisses my neck.

  “No, I’m tired of this, William. I mean, what’s wrong with you?!”

  For a moment, he seems like he might morph into The Hulk. He squeezes my cheeks in his hand. “Don’t ever say that again,” he says. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

  “Get off me.” I shove him away.

  He looks at me, his face red and nostrils flaring. Then, he pins me down by the hips. He tears off my panties and tries to eat me out. I’m frigid, as frigid as can be, and I visualize my body to be a hollow, empty cavern. I feel nothing. It means nothing. He seems all the more determined, desperate, even, and I find myself smiling viciously. He can lick and bite me until I bleed, but I’m already elsewhere. He has no access; he can’t touch me. There is the old term “dead fish”; that’s what I am.

  “Oh, yeah?” he says. He forces his fist between my legs, thrusting furiously over the G-spot. My body tenses, then suddenly releases as if all the anger and rage inside me gushes from a prism between my legs. I scream, the sound as naked and raw as my heart. My soul. I feel it now. Sliced open, laid bare.

  “That’s right,” he says, his nostrils flaring. He unzips his pants, entering me with a blow so violent, I hear myself yelp. He fucks using his dick like a fist. When he’s done, he collapses. “Look what you made me do,” he sobs, punching the pillow.

  I lie there in so much pain I can hardly breathe, suffocating from grief and shame.

  The Masters Class

  Florida’s so humid and hot the cab windows drip with condensation. We arrive at the hotel by 7 PM. Since we left New York, the boys have yet to stop arguing. As I check in, Alex grabs a bag of chips straight out of Toby’s hand. Alex is thirteen. He should know better.

  “Hey,” Toby yells, “Those are mine.” Alex has a longer reach. He holds the bag up, down, behind his back. Toby reaches this way and that, trying to snatch it back.

  “Give it to him, Alex,” I order. He ate his Doritos on the plane.

  Alex shoves the last of the chips into his mouth.

  I gasp. “That’s it—no phone tonight.” Ever since he discovered he can game again, it has turned into an addiction. He’s trying to make up for lost time.

  “What?!” Alex says. “It was just a couple chips. I’m hungry!”

  Toby punches him.

  “Enough!” I shift my body between them, grabbing them by the front of their T-shirts. “Phones,” I order. “Now!”

  The boys glance around self consciously at the people gawking at us in the lobby. Toby hands his phone over begrudgingly, but Alex stands with his arms crossed over his chest, refusing to budge. “Fine,” I mutter, turning and walking away. “I’ll call Verizon and shut off your data.”

  “No!” Alex moans.

  We pass a glass wall that overlooks the pool. The boys stop. The pool is abuzz with people. I notice a hot tub at the far side. “Can we go swimming?” Alex asks.

  “Please?” Toby adds.

  “We’ll see,” I say, heading to the elevators. “We have to eat and unpack first.”

  As soon as we get into ou
r room, I wash my hands and face, use the rest room, and leave the unpacking for later. We have dinner at the hotel restaurant. Keen on going to the pool later, the boys come together for a common cause. They order burgers and share the ketchup. When Toby finishes his fries, Alex even offers some of his own. I’m enjoying a Caesar salad, but get paranoid that lettuce may get stuck between my top front teeth. The right is an implant and food tends to linger along the gum of the crown. It’s happened so often that I’m now in the habit of brushing and flossing after meals.

  After we eat, I tell the boys we can go to the pool as long as we get back to the room by 10. They agree. Tomorrow, they’ll be at Disney all day with a hotel sitter. I’ll remain at the hotel with Ben for The Masters Class, a self development workshop that supposedly focuses on how to create the life you want.

  We return to the room to change into swimsuits and flip flops. Alex brings along his football. The pool has emptied out significantly. Alex and Toby jump into opposite ends and practice throwing spirals. Before long, other boys join in. A gaggle of girls appear. They’re fully developed, dressed in the latest bikinis; they make the boys look like babies.

  I soak in the hot tub. William and I wed one year ago, but it has been so suffocating, it feels more like eight. My lawyer’s serving him the divorce papers tomorrow. I’m relieved the boys and I won’t be there for it. William can put a hole in the wall if he wants; I’m fine as long as I don’t have to be there to witness it.

  Ben texts he’s delayed at La Guardia.

  “You’d better be here by tomorrow,” I respond. “This was your idea.”

  Ben went through this program several years ago, and just like everything else he does well, worked his way up to being a Master. For the next week, he’s my Master.

  According to the signage we passed on the way to the pool, two conferences are being held at the hotel this week: The Master Class Workshop and The Florida Health Insurance Consortium. Clusters of men, some in their 30s and 40s, others mostly in their 60s, arrive around 9 PM. Some of them team up with the kids, and before long, they’re chicken fighting in the pool. Some of the others join me in the hot tub. We exchange pleasantries. One of the younger guys, probably in his 30s, reminds me of Rick. Maybe it’s because of this that I feel a strange charge between us. His name is Tim. He has brown eyes, and like Rick, he also has the stocky physique of a weight lifter. I would gladly converse with him, except that Ma calls, and I’m forced to get out of the water to speak with her.

  “How can you be so stupid?” she asks.

  “Oh, hi, Ma, and how are you?” I say, removing myself to the furthest beach chair from the pool. She’s upset about the suitcases I dropped off at their apartment. She knows what that means.

  “Have you thought about this? Really thought about it?”

  “Ma, please.”

  “Do I have to remind you how old you are?” she asks. “Ai, you have no idea how lonely, Amy. Now, you will see. Ni chi ku.” Taste bitterness.

  “Look—there’s a lot you don’t know, Ma.”

  “What do I need to know? You tell me.”

  “This is the right decision. I should never have married him.”

  “But you did.” She makes a sucking sound through her teeth. “Divorce, divorce. Tell me—who will want you now, mh?”

  “Me,” I say, finally.

  Ma makes a throaty sound, something like laughter, but tinged with bitterness. She’s angry I’m not more. She can’t boast about my accomplishments; instead, she has to hide her shame.

  “Look, I have to go,” I say. It’s nearly 10 PM. “I have to get the boys out of the pool.” I explain that we’re in Florida, at which point she asks, “Why is that boy with you?”

  “Because he is,” I say, as Toby lobs the ball over his opponent. “Now, I’ve got to go, okay?” As soon as I get off the phone, I give the boys a two-minute warning. Neither is happy about it, but they come when called without drama. The three of us are showered, unpacked, and in bed within half an hour. Both boys fall asleep almost immediately. My eyes feel dry and sandy. My body aches. And yet, I can’t sleep. Why can’t I sleep?

  Suddenly the hotel phone rings. I grab the receiver before it wakes the boys. “Ben?” I ask.

  “No, it’s Tim,” the voice says. “From the pool.”

  “Oh, hello, Tim from the pool.” Does he realize it’s nearly 11 pm?

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” he asks. “I have a fine bottle of Merlot.”

  At one point in the hot tub, a younger woman wearing a neon tangerine one-piece joined us. The two were speaking when I left. “If you’re looking for Orange, I think she’s in room 1208,” I say. Her room is directly across the hall. His is next to mine.

  “No,” he says. “It’s you I’m looking for.”

  I’m awake at this point. Wide, wide awake.

  I change into a cover up and go next door for the aperitif. Half a glass into the visit, he kisses me. Just leans over as if to get something on the table, and kisses me. He smells of shaving creme and chlorine.

  With everything going on with William, I draw away.

  “Look, I’m really flattered, but…” The reason I’m in Florida for The Masters Class is to develop myself and gain control over my life. Not the other way around.

  “Relax, it’s okay,” Tim says, sitting back on the couch. He’s hard. I pretend not to notice, but he looks at me and the energy is suddenly there. I can feel him; a deep tingling sensation. “You have an incredible body,” he says.

  “That’s sweet of you to say.” I shift to my feet. “I better go.”

  He gets up. As he moves past, his body brushes against mine. He leans to peck me on the cheek but then places a smacker full on the lips. He’s a good kisser, gentle at first, almost teasing. His tongue reaches into my mouth, caresses and circles my tongue. He presses his body to mine, dances me to the bed and scoots me onto the mattress. His hands move up my legs.

  “You’re a runner, aren’t you?” he asks.

  “No, not really.”

  “A dancer.”

  “Actually—”

  In one swift motion, he tugs the panties to my ankles. “Woah—” I say.

  He dives between my legs, working magic with his mouth. Instantly, the tension lifts. I fall back and give into the pleasure.

  “You’re like honeysuckle,” he says. “You ever taste honeysuckle?”

  Holy shit.

  He moves up, pushes his tongue into my mouth. The taste is familiar: Sweet, almost tangy, a hint musky, and with a pinch of salt. He slides inside me, filling me up exactly as I had imagined. Maybe it’s the weight of him in all the right places, because he barely moves, and yet it’s like my entire body expands into a million stars twinkling across the night sky.

  Late morning the next day, Ben takes me through yet another Master Class exercise. We’re standing in the hallway outside the conference room.

  “That,” Ben says, pointing at a wall sconce. It has an aged, silver finish with a mesh-screen shade. Flame-shaped bulbs flicker like candle light. “So, for this next exercise, what you’re going to do is feel into it,” he says.

  “Feel into it,” I repeat, because I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Um, it’s a light fixture.”

  “That’s correct.” Ben laughs. “It’s a light fixture.”

  I glance around, half expecting someone to tell me this is all part of some elaborate, crazy scheme, just to video my reaction. “You’re on Candid Camera,” he’ll say. Or, “You’ve been punked!” There are two hundred other participants milling about, either inside the hotel staring at wall sconces, oversized paintings, and hotel signage, or outdoors in the heat, seemingly mesmerized by benches, coconut trees, or the fountain separating the hotel from the beach and the vast ocean beyond. As crazy as all of this seems, no one else seems to think so. Is it me? />
  “I don’t know if all of this—” I wave a hand at everything going on around us “—is really my thing.”

  Ben tips his head. “This is a chance to dig deep. Get to the root of things.”

  “It’s just—” I stop. “I mean, shallow is working for me just fine.”

  He watches, and as usual, without judgement, which makes me feel smaller and more superficial than ever. In a matter of fact tone, he rattles off a mental list: “Two marriages, both to abusive men, then two divorces, two children—a son, who, until a few years ago, you thought might be out of wedlock even though you were actually married at the time, and the other, your step, who prefers you to his biological father because the guy is controlling, manipulative, and has major anger management issues.” His gaze is so intense, heat rushes to my face. “I’m sorry, darling,” he says, his voice softening, “but shallow, or however you want to label it, is not working for you ‘just fine’.”

  “When you put it that way,” I say.

  “Sweetie, I know this is all foreign to you. A lot of it was to me, also, when I started. But give it a chance. I’ll show you. It’ll click, I promise.”

  Another Master hurries over to Ben with her student. “May I get your opinion?” she asks. Ben steps aside. They speak in hushed tones, but it’s obvious what the situation is. Her student is a twenty-something-year-old male who is, without a doubt, totally baked. He’s got blond hair. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, the lids puffy and drooping. “Hey,” he says, his eyes half closed as he speaks. I get Ben’s attention, mouth the word “bathroom,” and turn to go.

  In the conference center bathroom, I brush and floss my teeth, pushing and pulling the waxed string between my real front tooth and the porcelain implant beside it. All of a sudden, something snaps.