No, of course not, she says.
She twists the ring, the gigantic diamond ring, around her finger, loosens it from her flesh. Underneath is a white band of skin, one freckle in the center of it. A marker. You are here.
MAGGIE WORE so much baby pink lipstick it was all she could smell, waxy and sweet. She had rubbed some of it into her cheeks, too. Her hair was combed straight, the barrettes securely fastened. The razors were in her pocket. She had taken one out, and rubbed her finger against it as she walked through the parking lot, searching for Joey Pollack Jr. in a sea of BMWs.
Finally, in the last aisle, in the last spot, she saw him, snug in his front seat. He was wearing aviator sunglasses. He smiled when he saw her, unlocked the door, motioned for her to open it. When she did, a blast of air-conditioning pushed against her and a rash of goose pimples flooded her arm. A Phil Collins song was playing loudly; a ballad about star-crossed lovers, sung with earnestness. The car smelled like smoke. She didn’t know he was a smoker. No, it wasn’t cigarette smoke, it was too sweet for that. It was pot. Maggie took a big inhale, but felt nothing.
“Hey,” he said. “How’s it hanging, little lady?”
“Are you high?” she said.
“Why? You want some?”
“I was just wondering.” She leaned forward, shoved her hands in her pocket, felt for the razor, stretched her hand down her thigh until her finger hit metal.
“This is kind of weird,” he said.
“Why?”
“Well, this is my wife’s car. Mine is in the shop.”
Maggie squinted at him.
“Never mind,” he said. “So what are we doing here?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I think you know.” He rubbed his hand on his crotch a few times, back and forth, until he was hard, the fabric of his pants stretching up toward the dashboard. “I want you to suck it.”
“Let me see it.”
He reached for his fly, unzipped it, and unfolded his penis. It was thick and dark, except for the bell-shaped tip, which was pink. “Come on, kiss it.”
“Show me all of it.”
He puffed up his chest, sucked in his stomach, wrestled with his belt. The sound of metal on metal. Then he popped open the button of his golf pants, hoisted himself up slightly, and struggled with his pants until they were down almost to his knees, the fabric bunched up underneath his thighs on the car seat.
His balls are so hairy, thought Maggie.
I’m playing for keeps, sang Phil Collins.
Hand in pocket, hand on blade, head to thighs, lips to thighs. I’m in too deep, he sings. Mouth bites thigh, mouth and head move up together, mouth surrounds him, takes it in.
“That’s right, take it all in,” says Joey.
Hand in pocket, hand on blade. A full mouth. Hand out of pocket, hand in air, hand on thigh. Flick finger on edge. Flick, flick, flick.
Then slash, not too deep, don’t hurt him, just let him know, you’re there.
Ding-dong, I’m here.
At first he didn’t know he was bleeding, but then, oh boy, he knew.
“What the fuck?”
He pushed her head, and she hit the steering wheel. She pulled up straight, wiped her mouth, and then bolted out of the car, away, away, run away toward home, do it fast, do it now. She saw the blood for only a moment, a huge swipe of it, like someone had painted it on his thigh.
She made it home, running, a running waitress, she was certain she was a punch line to a joke. Through the front door, past the mirror in the foyer, and then she stopped. There was blood on her cheek. It looked kind of cool, but she wiped it off. Into the kitchen, where her father sat at the kitchen table, coffee cup to his right, New York Times arts section spread before him, the op-ed section waiting in reserve.
“Dad.” She sat down next to him and began to weep.
“What’s going on? Calm down, calm down.” He put his hand on her shoulder and began to rub it.
“I think I’m going a little insane this summer. I’m being fucked up. I’m sorry.”
He took her into his arms. “Shh,” he said. “It’s going to be OK. If there’s anything I can handle, it’s this.” He smiled, he hugged her. His poor, pretty, crazy daughter. He was going to make everything better.
IT WAS ACTUALLY the only time he was ever cool to me in my entire life, she says. He got me a plane ticket to Europe and gave me a bunch of money. I went and found Holly and spent the rest of the summer backpacking with her.
Yes, a father helping his fugitive daughter flee from justice, says Robert; his tone ripens quickly to condescending. Very cool.
He didn’t know I was fleeing. No one ever came looking for me. He just thought I was freaking out. And then he threw some cash at me to make it go away, and you know what? That really does work. You should know that by now.
You’re mean, says Robert.
Only sometimes, says Maggie. And only a little part of me.
Let me introduce you, she thinks. Here I am.