A Place of Hiding

They left Cynthia Moullin with that final thought, curled beneath her blanket, her head pillowed on one arm. Her weeping had left her exhausted but calm. She would sleep now, she told them. Perhaps she’d be able to dream of Guy.

Outside on the shell-strewn path to the car, China and Deborah said nothing at first. They paused and surveyed the garden, which looked like something a careless giant had trampled upon, and China stated flatly,

“What a godawful mess.”

Deborah glanced at her. She knew that her friend wasn’t talking about the decimation of whatever crusty ornaments had once decorated the lawn and the flowerbeds. “We do plant landmines in our lives,” she commented.

“More like nuclear bombs, you ask me. He was something like seventy years old. And she’s...what? Seventeen? That ought to be God damned child abuse. But oh no, he was careful about that one, wasn’t he?” She drove her hand through her short hair in a gesture that was rough, abrupt, and so like her brother’s. She said, “Men are pigs. If there’s a decent one out there, I’d sure as hell like to meet him sometime. Just to shake his hand. Just to say howdy-fucking-do. Just to know they aren’t all out for the great big screw. All this you’re-the-one and I-love-you bullshit. Why the hell do women keep going for it?” She glanced at Deborah, and before Deborah could reply, she went on with “Oh. Forget it. Never mind. I always forget. Getting trampled by men doesn’t apply to you.”

“China, that’s—”

China waved her off. “Sorry. Sorry. I shouldn’t have...It’s just that seeing her...listening to that...Never mind.” She hurried towards the car.

Deborah followed. “We all get handed pain that we have to deal with. That’s just what happens, like a by-product of being alive.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” China opened her door and slumped into the car. “Women don’t have to be so stupid.”

“We’re groomed to believe in fairy tales,” Deborah said. “A tormented man saved by the love of one good woman? We’re fed that idea from the cradle.”

“But we didn’t exactly have the man-in-torment in this scenario,”

China pointed out with a gesture towards the house. “So why’d she fall for him? Oh, he was charming. Decent-looking. He was in good shape, so he didn’t seem like seventy. But to be talked into it...I mean as your first...Any way you cut it, he could’ve been her grandfather. Her greatgrandfather, even.”

“She seems to have loved him all the same.”

“I bet his bank account had something to do with that. Nice house, nice estate, nice car, nice whatever. The promise of being lady of the manor. Great vacations all around the world for the asking. All the clothes you want. Y’ like diamonds? They’re yours. Fifty thousand pairs of shoes?

We can manage that. Want a Ferrari? No problem. That, I bet, made Guy Brouard sexy as hell to her. I mean, look at this place. Look at where she comes from. She was easy pickings. Any girl from a place like this would’ve been easy pickings. Sure, women have always gone for the tormented idiot. But make them the promise of heavy money, and they’re going to go for that big time.”

Deborah heard all this, her heart beating light and fast in her throat. She said, “Do you really believe that, China?”

“Damn right I believe it. And men know the score. Flash the cash around and see what happens. Chances are it’ll be just like flypaper. Money means more to most women than whether the man can even stand upright. If he’s breathing and he’s loaded, say no more. Let’s sign the deal. But we’ll call it love, first. We’ll say we’re happy as hell when we’re with him. We’ll claim that when we’re together, the birds sing right in our ears and the earth starts trembling and the seasons shift. But scrape away all that and it comes down to the cash. We can love a man with bad breath, one leg, and no dick, just as long as he can support us in the manner we’d like to become accustomed to.”