The First Bad Man. Миранда Джулай

just what I call him. I might have made it up.”

      It sounded like he had pulled over. I wondered if we were about to have phone sex. I’d never done that before, but I thought I would be especially good at it. Some people think it’s really important to be in the moment with sex, to be present with the other person; for me it’s important to block out the person and replace them, entirely if possible, with my thing. This would be much easier to do on the phone. My thing is just a specific private fantasy I like to think about. I asked him what he was wearing.

      “Pants and a shirt. Socks. Shoes.”

      “That sounds nice. Do you want to tell me anything?”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “No confessions?”

      He laughed nervously. “Cheryl? I’ve arrived.”

      For a moment I thought he meant here at my house, right outside. But he meant Ralphs. Was this a subtle invitation?

      Assuming he was on the east side, there were two Ralphs he could be going to. I put on a pin-striped men’s dress shirt that I’d been saving. Seeing me in this would unconsciously make him feel like we’d just woken up together and I’d thrown on his shirt. A relaxing feeling, I would think. The reusable grocery bags were in the kitchen; I tried to get in and out without Clee’s seeing.

      “You’re going to the store? I need some stuff.”

      There was no easy way to explain that this wasn’t a real shopping trip. She put her feet on the dashboard, dirty tan toes in light blue flip-flops. The odor was unreal.

      After changing my mind a few times, I chose the more upscale Ralphs. We promenaded up and down the aisles of processed food, Clee pushing a cart a few feet ahead of me, her chest ballooning ridiculously. Women looked her up and down and then looked away. Men did not look away—they kept looking after they passed her, to get the rear view. I turned and made stern faces at them, but they didn’t care. Some men even said hi, as if they knew her, or as if knowing her was about to begin right now. Several Ralphs employees asked if she needed help finding anything. I was ready to bump into Phillip at every turn and for him to be delighted and for us to shop together like the old married couple we had been for a hundred thousand lifetimes before this one. Either I had just missed him or he was at the other Ralphs. The man ahead of us in the checkout line spontaneously began telling Clee how much he loved his son, who was sitting fatly in the grocery cart. He had known love before he had a kid, he said, but in reality no love could compare to his love for his child. I made eye contact with the baby but there was no resonance between us. His mouth hung open dumbly. A red-haired bagger boy hastily abandoned his lane to bag Clee’s groceries.

      She bought fourteen frozen meals, a case of Cup-o-Noodles, a loaf of white bread, and three liters of Diet Pepsi. The one roll of toilet paper I purchased fit in my backpack. On the drive home I said a few words about the Los Feliz neighborhood, its diversity, before trailing off. I felt silly in the men’s shirt; disappointment filled the car. She was scanning her calves for ingrown hairs and picking them out with her nails.

      “So what exactly do you aspire to, acting-wise?” I said.

      “What do you mean?”

      “Like do you hope to be in movies? Or theater?”

      “Oh. Is that what my mom said?” She snorted. “I’m not interested in acting.”

      This wasn’t good news. I’d been imagining the big break, the meeting or audition that would remove her from my house.

      Kale and eggs, eaten from the pan, I didn’t offer her any. Early to bed. I listened to each thing she did from the dark of my room. TV on, then padding to the bathroom, flush, no hand washing, a trip to get something from her car, car door slam, front door slam. The refrigerator opened, the freezer opened, then an unfamiliar beeping. I jumped out of bed.

      “That doesn’t work,” I said, rubbing my eyes. Clee was poking the buttons of the microwave. “It came with the house but it’s a million years old. It’s not safe, and it doesn’t work.”

      “Well, I’ll just try it,” she said, pressing start. The microwave whirred, the dinner turned slowly. She peered through the glass. “Seems fine.”

      “I would step away from it. Radiation. Bad for your reproductive organs.” She was staring at my bare legs. I don’t usually expose them, which is why they’re unshaven. It’s not for political reasons, it’s just a time-saver. I went back to bed. Microwave dinged, door opened, slammed shut.

      ON THURSDAY I SLIPPED OUT before seven o’clock to avoid Rick. Just as I stepped into the office, he called.

      “I am very sorry to bother you, miss, but there’s a woman here and she just asked me to leave.”

      I was surprised he even had my number, or a phone.

      “Excuse me, she would like to talk to you.”

      There was a bang, the phone was dropped, Clee came on.

      “He just walked onto your property, no car or anything.” She turned away from the phone. “Can I see some ID? Or a business card?” I cringed at her rudeness. But also maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.

      “Hello, Clee. I’m sorry I forgot to mention Rick; he gardens.” Maybe she would forbid him to return and there would be nothing I could do about it.

      “How much do you pay him?”

      “I—sometimes I give him a twenty.” Nothing; I’d never given him anything. I suddenly felt very judged, very accused. “He’s practically family,” I explained. This wasn’t true in any sense—I didn’t even know his last name. “Can you please put him back on?”

      She did something that sounded like tossing the phone on the ground.

      Rick was back. “Perhaps it is not a good time?”

      “I’m so, so sorry. She’s not well-mannered.”

      “I had an arrangement with the Goldfarbs . . . they appreciated . . . but perhaps you—”

      “I appreciate it even more than the Goldfarbs did. Mi casa es tu casa.”

      “What?”

      I had always thought he was Latino, but I guess not. In any case, it probably wasn’t a smart thing to say.

      “Please keep up the good work, it was a misunderstanding.”

      “The third week of next month I will have to come on a Tuesday.”

      “Not a problem, Rick.”

      “Thank you. And how long will your visitor be staying?” he asked politely.

      “Not long, she’ll be gone in a few days and everything will be back to normal.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      The ironing room and bedroom were my domain, the living room and the kitchen were hers. The front door and the bathroom were neutral zones. When I got my food from the kitchen I scurried, hunched over, as if I was stealing it. I ate looking out the too-high ironing-room window, listening to her TV shows. The characters were always shouting, so it wasn’t hard to follow the plots without the picture. During our Friday video conference call Jim asked what all the commotion was.

      “That’s Clee,” I said. “Remember? She’s staying with me until she finds a job?”

      Rather than take this opportunity to jump in with accolades and sympathy, my coworkers fell into a guilty silence. Especially Michelle. Someone in a burgundy sweater sauntered across the office, behind Jim’s head. I craned my head.

      “Is that—who was that?”

      “Phillip,” piped Michelle. “He just donated an espresso machine to the staff kitchen.”

      He