The First Bad Man. Миранда Джулай

ducked into view. When he saw me he brought his giant fingertip right up to the camera—I quickly pointed at my own camera. We “touched.” He smiled and moseyed away, offscreen.

      “What was that?” said Jim.

      AFTER THE CALL I THREW on my robe and strolled into the kitchen. I was tired of hiding. If she was rude, I would just roll with it. She was wearing a big T-shirt that said BUMP, SET, SPIKE IT . . . THAT’S THE WAY WE LIKE IT! and either no bottoms or shorts completely covered by the shirt. She seemed to be waiting for the kettle. This was hopeful; maybe she’d reconsidered the microwave.

      “Enough hot water for two?”

      She shrugged. I guessed we would find out when it came time to pour. I got my mug out of my bin: even though the sink was full of dishes, I had continued using only my set. I leaned on the wall and kneaded my shoulders against it, smiling lazily into the air. Roll, roll, roll with it. We waited for the kettle. She poked a fork at the layers of calcified food on my savory pan as if it were alive.

      “It’s building flavor,” I said protectively, forgetting to roll for a moment.

      She laughed, heh, heh, heh, and instead of growing defensive, I joined her, and laughing somehow made it funny, truly funny—the pan and even myself. My chest felt light and open, I marveled at the universe and its trickster ways.

      “Why are you laughing?” Her face was suddenly made of stone.

      “Just because—” I gestured toward the pan.

      “You thought I was laughing about the pan? Like ha ha you’re so kooky with your dirty pan and your funny way of doing things?”

      “No.”

      “Yes. That’s what you thought.” She took a step toward me, talking right into my face. “I was laughing because”—I felt her eyes move over my gray hair, and my face, its big pores—“you’re so sad. Soooo. Saaaad.” With the word sad she pressed her palm into my chest bone, flattening me against the wall. I made an involuntary huh sound and my heart began to thud heavily. She could feel this, with her palm. She got a revved-up look and pressed a little harder, then a little harder, pausing each time as if to give me a chance to respond. I was getting ready to say Hey, you’re about to cross a line or You’re crossing the line or Okay, that’s it, you’ve crossed the line, but suddenly I felt that my bones were really being harmed, not just my chest but my shoulder blades, which were grinding into the wall, and I wanted to live and be whole, be uninjured. So I said, “Okay, I’m sad.” The kettle began to whistle.

      “What?”

      “I’m sad.”

      “Why would I care if you’re sad?”

      I quickly gave a nod of agreement to show how completely I was on her side, against myself. The kettle was screaming. She pulled her hand away and poured the water into a Styrofoam cup of noodles—not appeased, just revolted by our affiliation. I walked away, a free woman on rubbery legs.

      I curled up on my bed and held my globus. What was the name of the situation I was in? What category was this? I had been mugged once, in Seattle in my twenties, and that had had a similar feeling afterward. But in that case I had gone to the police and in this scenario I couldn’t do that.

      I called my bosses in Ojai. Carl answered immediately.

      “Business or pleasure?” he said.

      “It’s about Clee,” I whispered. “It’s been lovely having her, but I think—”

      “Hold on. Suz—pick up! Clee’s making trouble! Not that phone—the hall one!”

      “Hello?” Suzanne’s voice was almost inaudible through the crackling connection.

      “You’re on the crappy phone!” Carl shouted.

      “I’m not!” Suzanne yelled. “I’m on the hall one! Why do we both need to be on at the same time?” She hung up the hall phone but could still be heard distantly through Carl’s phone. “You get off the phone, I’ll talk to Cheryl alone!”

      “You’ve been snapping at me all day, Suz.”

      Suzanne picked up the phone but paused before putting it to her mouth. “Can you go away? I don’t need you monitoring my every move.”

      “Are you going to offer her money?” Carl said in a whisper that seemed louder than his regular voice.

      “Of course not. You think I’m just handing out—” Suzanne put her hand over the phone. I waited, wondering what there was to argue about since they both agreed I should not be offered money.

      “Cheryl!” She was back.

      “Hi.”

      “Sorry about that, I’m not having fun in this marriage right now.”

      “Oh no,” I said, although this was the only way they ever were, like this or loudly entranced by each other.

      “He makes me feel like shit,” she said, and then to Carl, “Well, then go away—I’m having a private conversation here and I can say what I like.” And then to me: “How are you?”

      “Good.”

      “We never thanked you for taking Clee, but it means so much”—her voice became thick and halting, I could see her mascara starting to run—“just to know she’s getting exposed to good values. You have to remember she grew up in Ojai.”

      Carl picked up.

      “Please excuse the theatrics, Cheryl, you don’t have to listen to this. Feel free to hang up.”

      “Fuck you, Carl, I’m trying to make a point. Everyone thinks it’s such a terrific idea to move out of the city to raise your kids. Well, don’t be surprised when that kid is pro-life and anti–gun control. You should see her friends. Is she going on auditions?”

      “I’m not sure.”

      “Can you put her on?”

      I wondered if I was still allowed to hang up if I wanted to.

      “She might need to call you back.”

      “Cheryl, hon, just put her on.” She could tell I was scared of her daughter.

      I opened my door. Clee was eating ramen on the couch.

      “It’s your mom.” I held out the phone.

      Clee took it with a swipe and strode out to the backyard, the door slamming shut behind her. I watched her pacing past the window, her mouth a little spitting knot. The whole family exerted tremendously toward each other; they were in the throes of passion all the time. I held my elbows and looked at the floor. There was a bright orange Cheeto on the rug. Next to the Cheeto was an empty Diet Pepsi can and next to the can was a pair of green-lace thong underwear with white stuff on the crotch. And this was just the area right around my feet. I touched my throat, hard as a rock. But not yet to the point where I had to spit instead of swallow.

      Clee stormed in.

      “Someone named”—she looked at the screen—“Phillip Bettelheim called you three times.”

      I CALLED HIM BACK FROM my car. When he asked me how I was, I did my equivalent of bursting into tears—my throat seized, my face crumpled, and I made a noise so high in pitch that it was silent. Then I heard a sob. Phillip was crying—out loud.

      “Oh no, what is it?” He had seemed fine when we touched fingers through the computer.

      “Nothing new, I’m okay, it’s just the thing I was talking about before,” he sniffed soggily.

      “The confession.”

      “Yep. It’s driving me nuts.”

      He laughed and this made room for a larger cry. Gasping, he said, “Is—this okay? Can I just—cry—for a while?”