The First Bad Man. Миранда Джулай

so that my eyes were forced to meet hers.

      “I’d appreciate it if you told me when you have a problem with me, not my parents.”

      “I don’t have a problem with you,” I said quickly.

      “That’s what I told them.” And we stayed like that. And Phillip knocked again. And we stayed like that. And Phillip knocked again. And we stayed like that. And then she let me go.

      I opened the door just wide enough to slip out.

      When we were safely out of the neighborhood I asked him to pull over and we looked at my wrist; there was nothing there. He turned on the interior lights; nothing. I described how big she was and the way she had grabbed me and he said he could imagine she might squeeze a person thinking it was a normal amount of squeezing, but to someone delicate like me, it might hurt.

      “I’m not really delicate.”

      “Well, compared to her you are.”

      “Have you seen her recently?”

      “Not for a few years.”

      “She’s big-boned,” I said. “A lot of men think that’s attractive.”

      “Sure, a woman with that kind of body has a fat store that allows her to make milk for her young even if her husband isn’t able to bring meat home. I feel confident about my ability to bring meat home.”

      The words milk and fat store and meat had fogged up the windows faster than leaner words would have. We were in a sort of creamy cloud.

      “What if, instead of going to a restaurant,” Phillip said, “what if we ate dinner at my house?”

      He drove like he lived, with entitlement, not using the blinker, just gliding very quickly between lanes in his Land Rover. At first I kept looking over my shoulder to check if the lane was actually clear or if we were going to die, but after a while I threw caution to the wind and sank back into the heated leather seat. Fear was for poor people. Maybe this was the happiest I’d ever been.

      Everything in his penthouse was white or gray or black. The floor was one vast smooth white surface. There were no personal items—no books or stacks of bills, no stupid windup toy that a friend had given him as a gift. The dish soap was in a black stone dispenser; someone had transferred it from its plastic container to this serious one. Phillip put his keys down and touched my arm. “Want to know something crazy?”

      “Yes.”

      “Our shirts.”

      I made a shocked face that was too extreme and quickly ratcheted it down to baffled surprise.

      “You’re the female me.”

      My heart started swooping around, like it was hanging on a long rope. He said he hoped I liked sushi. I asked if he could point me toward the restroom.

      Everything in the bathroom was white. I sat on the toilet and looked at my thighs nostalgically. Soon they would be perpetually entwined in his thighs, never alone, not even when they wanted to be. But it couldn’t be helped. We had a good run, me and me. I imagined shooting an old dog, an old faithful dog, because that’s what I was to myself. Go on, boy, get. I watched myself dutifully trot ahead. Then I lowered my rifle and what actually happened was I began to have a bowel movement. It was unplanned, but once begun it was best to finish. I flushed and washed my hands and only by luck did I happen to glance back at the toilet. It was still there. One had to suppose it was the dog, shot, but refusing to die. This could get out of hand, I could flush and flush and Phillip would wonder what was going on and I’d have to say The dog won’t die gracefully.

       Is the dog yourself, as you’ve known yourself until now?

      Yes.

      No need to kill it, my sweet girl, he’d say, reaching into the toilet bowl with a slotted spoon. We need a dog.

      But it’s old and has strange, unchangeable habits.

      So do I, my dear. So do we all.

      I flushed again and it went down. I could tell him about it later.

      We ate without talking and then I saw his hand shaking a little and I knew it was time. He was about to confess. I must have sat across from him at a hundred meetings of the board, but I had never let myself really study his face. It was like knowing what the moon looks like without ever stopping to find the man in it. He had wrinkles that carved down from his eyes into his cheeks. His hair was dense and curly on the sides, thinner on the top. Full beard, messy eyebrows. We smiled at each other like the old friends we on some level were. He exhaled a long breath and we both laughed a little.

      “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk with you about,” he began.

      “Yes.”

      He laughed again. “Yes, you have probably gathered that by now. I’ve made a big deal out of something that is probably not such a big deal.”

      “It is and it isn’t,” I said.

      “That’s exactly right, it is and it isn’t. It is for other people, but it isn’t for me. I mean, not that it isn’t a big deal—it’s huge, just not—” He stopped himself and exhaled with a long schooooo sound. Then he lowered his head and became very still. “I . . . have fallen in love . . . with a woman who is my equal in every way, who challenges me, who makes me feel, who humbles me. She is sixteen. Her name is Kirsten.”

      My first thought was of Clee, as if she were in the room, watching my face collapse. Her head thrown back, a husky heh, heh, heh. I pressed my fingernail into a paper-thin slice of ginger.

      “How did you”—I tried to swallow but my throat was completely locked—“meet Kristen?”

      “Kir—like ear”—he touched his ear, a pendulous lobe with a tuft of gray hair sprouting from the hole—“sten. Kirsten. We met in my craniosacral certification class.”

      Heh, heh, heh.

      I nodded.

      “Amazing, right? At sixteen? She’s so ahead of the game. She’s this very wise, very advanced being—and she comes from the most unlikely background, her mom is totally out to lunch and involved in drugs. But Kirsten just”—he gasped with pained eyes—“transcends.”

      I pretended to take a sip of wine but actually deposited the spit that was collecting in my mouth.

      “Does she feel the same way?”

      He nodded. “She’s actually the one pushing for consummation.”

      “Oh, so you haven’t . . . ?”

      “No. Until recently she was seeing someone. Our teacher, actually. He’s a young man, much closer to her age. A really neat guy—in some ways I think she should have stayed with him.”

      “Maybe he’ll take her back,” I offered.

      “Cheryl.” He suddenly put his hand on my hand. “We want your blessing.”

      His hand had a heat and weight that only real hands do. A hundred imaginary hands would never be this warm. I kept my eyes on his blocky, primitive fingernails.

      “I don’t know what you mean.”

      “Well, I want to, and she wants to—but the attraction is so power ful that we almost don’t trust it. Is it real or is it just the power of the taboo? I’ve told her all about you and our relationship. I explained how strong you are, how you’re a feminist and you live alone, and she agreed we should wait until we got your take on it.”

      I spit into the wine again. “When you were explaining our relationship, what did you say?”

      “I said you were . . .”—he looked down at my red knuckles—“someone I had a lot to learn from.” With a firm push he pressed his fingers between my fingers.