Beauty Read online

  Sheer, so sheer that a lace bra with silk edging needed to be sewn into it, and a pair of matching bikini briefs made to go with it. Most skirt lines start just above the hip, but part of Jeff’s genius is to drop it mid thigh, using long layers of the thinnest Bengali muslin he could find, which drape over the lace to the floor, extending into a short train. Just below the bra line, and just above the skirt line, there are strings of ribbon made of miniature flowers. They could be lotuses, but they have the innocent quality of the daisy.

  Critics declared that while Jeff dares to suggest the erotic, “Amy” is both sophisticated and elegantly balanced with both youthful purity and ancient spirituality.

  Today, for the first time since the Cape Cod trip, all of Jeff’s attention is on me. On this wedding gown—the one made just for me. I feel hopeful, as if I’m about to finally step into my real life. To celebrate after the fitting, I’m wearing an open gusset thong so we can fuck with the dress on if he wants. No one can tell by looking, so it’s discrete, and will be a wonderful turn on for Jeff.

  Which reminds me: I forgot to take the pill today. Yesterday, too. I better remember to double up tomorrow. Wouldn’t want a bun in the oven while I’m traipsing down the aisle. Then again, we are getting married, and it wouldn’t be so bad having a little Jeff inside me, would it?

  Jeff circles around me, his hand brushing over the lace, indicating to Mona in a matter-of-fact manner to take it in a bit here or a pinch there. From my reflection, I see the dark areolas around my nipples, which show through the lace. “You don’t think my mom will think it’s too risqué, do you?” I ask. “Chinese, especially the older generation, can be ultra conservative.”

  “Of course not,” he says. “She knows fashion.”

  “Yeah, but all her friends from Hong Kong and Taiwan will be coming.”

  I could already imagine the gossip: Scandalous! Naked. Can you believe?

  “Thank you, Mona,” he says, now, excusing her.

  She takes the pins from her mouth, sets them back in the box, and leaves.

  “You have the perfect body for this,” he tells me, cupping my cheeks in his palms. “I made it explicitly for you. You know that, right? The perfect dress for the perfect body.”

  I lean in for a kiss.

  “I love you, you know that, right?” he asks, shifting away.

  “I love you, too.”

  “Do you?” His eyes tear up.

  “Of course.”

  He sighs. Looks away.

  “What?”

  “It’s—” he stammers, “well, I—”

  He sighs again, moving behind to unzip me from the dress. The back opens, the lace slipping from my body. Maybe it’s the central air conditioning. I shudder, automatically clutching the dress to my body. We had an argument last night. We made up—or so I thought. Can he be having reservations about the wedding?

  But then why go through with the fitting?

  It’s too confusing. Why is everything with Jeff always so confusing? One minute hot. The next cold. So cold. There’s less than a week left. What do I tell Ma? Many of the guests have already flown in from Hong Kong, Taiwan, and the Philippines. I can already hear Ma crying, “What will people think?” Oh, the gossip. Heat rushes to my face.

  “It’s nothing serious,” Jeff says.

  I brace myself.

  “I spoke with the lawyer today, and he strongly advised, due to complications around the company and of course my ex—” Jeff brushes a loose thread from the cuff of his shirt. “He suggests we do a prenup.”

  It takes a moment for it to sink in. We are not breaking up. Everything is still okay. I swallow, and the rock in my throat gets lodged inside my heart. There’s a sudden, sharp pain, then nothing. “A prenup?” I ask.

  “The lawyer was saying it’s not personal,” he explains. “And I told him you’re not like that. You wouldn’t take it that way, right?”

  “No,” I hear myself say, “of course not.”

  “And we love each other,” he says, “which really is all that matters, right? You love me, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I knew you loved me,” Jeff says, hugging me tightly. “I knew you were different. I knew it wasn’t about the money.”

  “Of course it isn’t.”

  Jeff kisses me. I keep my eyes open. Maybe it seems he will, too, but he doesn’t. His eyes remain shut until he shifts back. He helps me out of the dress. I stand in front of the mirrors, naked except for the panties and three-inch strap sandals. Jeff handles the dress reverently, clipping it between his fingers as if it’s as delicate as tissue paper. He leaves to find Mona. Her workroom is at the end of the hall. I dress into my T-shirt and skirt. Jeff returns with a large manila envelope from which he produces the document. There’s enough paperwork to make a book of it. The lawyer has tagged all the places needing my signature with red Post-it arrows. I don’t understand any of the legalese.

  Jeff hands me the pen. “Here,” he says, indicating where to sign. “And here.”

  I sign.

  Afterwards, Jeff tells me he has a few more things to finish up at work. If I want, I can wait. Otherwise, he’ll meet me back at his apartment, and we can go to Red Farm, my favorite restaurant, for dinner. I say I’ll meet him at home. I still have a laundry list of wedding errands.

  But as soon as I step outside into the street, I feel as if I stepped into a fog. The subway is only two blocks away. Everything feels too raw, and yet, muted at the same time. The sidewalk is crowded with people rushing home from work. Traffic’s thick. A cab honks. The subway is two blocks away. I pass boutiques and restaurants, a yoga center, bodega, and a gym. People talk with one another. They work out. Shop. Laugh.

  I get on a train heading to my own apartment, but midway, I feel claustrophobic and jump off, walking aimlessly until I find myself at the restaurant where Rick works. I haven’t seen him since we broke up. In fact, I haven’t seen any of the men I was dating. I place an order with the new hostess up front, and, not seeing Rick anywhere, ask if he is working tonight. She calls his extension and sends me to his office at the back. The room’s cramped by an oversized wood desk and chair and a bookshelf containing seasonal odds and ends: Mardi Gras masks and party supplies, Valentine Cupids and red hot candies, Christmas lights and star-shaped candle fixtures, Halloween decorations. There’s also an ancient printer and copier, as well as a shelf dedicated to organizing the couple hundred menus, all separated by color into the dozen different renditions. Open on his desk is an oversized account ledger and a stack of receipts.

  Rick pushes the chair into the corner to make room for me. He sits back. The seat creaks beneath his weight. “How was the wedding?” Rick asks, getting up and squeezing past me to shut the door. “I saw something about it in the paper.”

  “It’s the end of this week.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “I was just at the fitting.”

  He smirks. “I’m sure the dress is beautiful.”

  “It is. He designed it for me.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  I describe the dress to him. “Yow,” he utters, his hands at my waist. We shift positions. It’s swift, even comfortable, like an old, familiar dance. “I’m sorry I don’t get to see you in it,” he says.

  “You’ve seen me in other things.” Heat rushes to my face. Rick has a fetish for tall boots, buckles, lace and ribbons. He is one of the few guys I’ve ever been with who enjoys getting me off more than actually coming himself. “Um, how’s Shadow?” I ask.

  “I had to take her back to the pound,” he replies, shaking his head. “It just didn’t work out, you know? The landlord nearly evicted me.”

  “I bet.” With all that howling whenever a woman sleeps over, it’s no wonder. “Getting a dog. It’s gotta be a good fit.”

  “I
sn’t that the truth,” he says.

  He probably couldn’t find anyone else stupid enough to walk her for him, I think.

  “Nobody tells you getting a dog’s like getting married,” he says. “You wake up, it’s there. You come home, it’s there. You go to sleep, it’s there—“

  “You fuck—”

  Rick makes a whistling sound through his teeth. His blue eyes bug out, a characteristic Chinese consider unlucky. “That was some crazy shit, wasn’t it?” he laughs. I laugh along, but as soon as I do, a trap door swings open inside me. Hot tears swell to my eyes, catching me off guard, and then there’s a hurt so big, so sudden, I’m crying. I’ve never cried in front of Rick before, and in the back of my mind, I know I’ll regret it, but at the moment, it’s happening and it’s too late to stop.

  “No,” he says, drawing me to him and kissing the tears from my eyes. “This won’t do.”

  But I can’t stop.

  The more he sees my heartbreak, the more he needs to make things better. He needs to love things right. Rick kisses my neck, moves his hands up my legs. It has been more than a year since we’ve had sex, and now, his fingers grope the lace hungrily, stumbling upon the hidden slit. He unzips his jeans. His penis isn’t long. It’s stubby, thick and full. His testicles contract into hard candies.

  “I can’t,” I say.

  In one motion, he lifts me, perches his weight at the edge of the desk, and brings me down onto him. We both sigh. The fabric shifts between us. It’s distracting and yet stimulating at the same time. I hang there on him, my legs not reaching the floor, afraid to move, afraid to not move. Jeff, the wedding, Ma. There’s nothing I can do. I feel so helpless, so sad. Rick rocks, the fullness of him touching the many aches and desires, lost wants, abandoned hope. My body cups around the base of his penis like a mouth. Our bodies cling together, awakened by the lace between us, and then he leans back, tipping me toward him. Something snags. Maybe the sound’s coming from inside me.

  My entire body tenses, and then all at once, it breaks open. It’s the cool ionic spray of a waterfall over my skin, the tingling sensation stretching to the tips of my fingers and toes. And yet it’s charcoal hot and so sudden and violent that, while Rick clamps a hand over my mouth to mute the sound, he, comes, too, a range of emotions surging through him and appearing over his face. Desire. Desperation. Rage. Release.

  Then, it’s over. I’ve never felt uglier nor emptier. Nor more starved.

  Later, Jeff arrives at my apartment bearing flowers and takeout Chinese. The smell of food nauseates me. While we watch TV, he whispers all the things he wants to do to me tonight and all the things he wants me to do to him, but I pretend to fall asleep so I won’t have to say no.

  A Wedding

  “Oh.” It’s all I can manage. Jeff is best man at his friend’s wedding. All well and good, except tomorrow night is the rehearsal dinner, and I’m not invited.

  “The restaurant she chose is really intimate,” he explains as he spoons the last of the spaghetti into a container. “They have to limit it to close friends and family.”

  It’s 7:30 PM, Thursday. We’ve eaten, so I scrape the plates, rinse the dishes, and stack them in the dishwasher. Jeff hands me a pot. I make room for it in the dishwasher. Basically, I’ve survived another week with Alexander, our two year old, but am being denied the get out of jail free card.

  “I could have sworn I told you,” he says.

  “No,” I say, locking the dishwasher. “You didn’t.”

  Do I look like the fucking babysitter? I want to yell. I’m sick of being the fucking sitter. The part that hurts most is that I actually know the groom. He is one of Jeff’s designers at work, one of the guys who has been with him the longest. He came to my wedding with his former girlfriend. Back when I used to go to industry events with Jeff, I used to see him often.

  The house is quiet all of a sudden. Too quiet.

  “Alexander?” I rush into the living room. He’s got the dog by the tail and is dragging her across the floor. She’s a Shih Tzu, a wee little thing, and yet she doesn’t yelp or even whine. Instead, she stares with googly eyes.

  “Hey!” I yell, freeing her from his grasp. She scampers away, her tail tucked between her legs. I brush off the long locks of hair caught between Alexander’s fingers. “Don’t do that again, you hear me?”

  Alexander rips free, races into the den, and yanks a rack of DVDs from the shelf. The stack clatters to the floor. Instead of being propelled forward to catch them, however, my body goes slack. I look on helplessly. I could run after him. I could clean it all up. But, what’s the point? Nothing’s going to stop him. The shit’s not about to end.

  Alexander picks up The Lion King. “Watch,” he says.

  I shake my head no. “Time for bed.”

  “Now!” He stamps his foot. “Watch now.”

  “Brush teeth,” I say.

  Alexander’s face reddens and puffs. He pitches the DVD, which hits my right shin, and runs away. I sigh and throw up my hands.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Jeff says, picking up the DVD and moving to the den to gather up the rest.

  “I don’t,” I say. “Actually, I’m taking him to get evaluated next Monday.”

  Jeff looks at me, confusion twisted in his brows, and I realize he was referring to the wedding.

  “I mean Alex,” I explain, and then I’m wondering about the rehearsal dinner again: Is it me? Am I just being insecure? Because this is personal, as personal as it gets.

  “Didn’t you already speak with the pediatrician? Didn’t he say everything’s okay? Alexander’s hit all his, what’s the word, markers?”

  “Milestones,” I say. “That’s true, but, really? I mean, what does he know? He doesn’t live with the kid.”

  Jeff watches me, something between patience and pity coming over his face. I can feel him straining to keep his composure. “He’s a good kid.”

  “I’m not saying he’s bad.” My voice trembles. I notice a Thomas the Tank Engine sticker stuck on the neck of the floor lamp. With my fingernails, I attempt to pick and peel it away. “I’ve never said that.”

  “He’s a boy, Amy. Boys are rambunctious by nature. They need to run and jump and shoot things. I wasn’t so different.”

  “Really? Did you already have a concussion by the time you turned two?”

  “Accidents happen.”

  “Whatever,” I sigh, shrugging it off. “Forget it.” My attention flitters back to the stupid wedding. Maybe I am overreacting. After all, it’s just a wedding. Ceremony. Reception. Maybe, just maybe, I won’t bother going. Ever since we moved out here to the suburbs, I rarely get to see Ben or my other friends. Finally, here’s my chance. Why should I waste it on people who obviously don’t care, or possibly don’t even like me?

  “Look, why don’t you call the new sitter tomorrow night? Maybe get a massage?” he offers.

  “A massage,” I repeat. Like, really? Six months ago, I got a call from our previous sitter exactly 15 minutes into the film I was watching. She was frantic.

  “Forget I mentioned it,” Jeff says, waving me off.

  “Considering the fact that Alex nearly bit the girl’s hand off—”

  “Will you please stop exaggerating.”

  “Her hand was bleeding through the towel, Jeff.”

  “Yes, and god only knows what she did to Alex. Bennett said his nanny set his kid on the hot radiator. The kid had burn marks on his legs.”

  “That’s awful, but—”

  “Damn right, it’s awful. It’s criminal. And remember how withdrawn Alex became?” This is true. I found Alex upstairs in my studio, cowering behind a dusty, headless mannequin. Since the pregnancy, I’ve been blocked creatively, and rather than draping it with muslin, I drew intricate, paisley-like arrangements with tailor’s chalk, embellishing it with silver-tipped
, ball head pins.

  “We need nanny cameras,” he says. “That would put us at ease.”

  I stare at the transparent figure reflecting back at me in the window—hair asunder, sweats, slouched over with discouragement. “Yeah, maybe,” I say.

  Jeff stacks the pile of DVDs on a higher shelf, then settles onto the couch.

  My mind swarms with a mishmash of random, nagging thoughts. Call Georgie about Ma’s birthday gift. Add “sugar” to the shopping list. Ask that new mom in the playgroup for the name of her pediatric allergist. Call the tree company to test the towering oak hovering directly above Alex’s bedroom.

  There’s something inside me, something important I need to say right now, if only I could figure out what it is. Only three years ago, I was an aspiring designer fresh out of grad school. I combed through fashion collections, reading up on various designers and working straight through the night, testing fabrics, cutting, pinning, and sewing. Often, I’d still be there to watch the sanitation trucks do their early morning pickup. I pored over drawings with friends, savoring delicious cups of coffee while we took turns commenting on each other’s work. We gossiped about lovers and partners, talked about books and movies, and discussed life—what it was, and what it possibly could be—as if we were at the beginning and it would last forever.

  But then, Jeff and I moved to a house in the suburbs.

  “A boy needs space enough to throw a football,” Jeff said.

  “You don’t even like football.” I wasn’t happy. I was just beginning to get some “new designer” attention in the industry. But, I didn’t say anything. What could I say? My belly grew larger and more bloated each day. Suddenly, I was fat and ugly. Something to be hidden away, and in truth, I was okay with hiding. I had a secret. The pregnancy occurred around the time I messed up taking the pill. It was only one exchange with Rick compared to the many I had with Jeff, so chances were Jeff was the father, but I didn’t know for certain. Maybe Jeff sensed it, somehow, or maybe he fell into his old patterns. He started to look elsewhere. He came home reeking of sex and Coco Mademoiselle.