I felt hot and cold. I was shaking. I put my hand on my forehead and began.
“Will you stay in our Lovers’ Story?”
It sounded terrible.
“It’s by David Bowie.”
Ruth-Anne nodded encouragingly.
“If you stay you won’t be sorry
“’Cause weeeee believe in youuuu”
I kept gasping; the air wasn’t going in and out of my throat in the regular way.
“Soon you’ll grow so take a chance
“With a couple of Kooks
“Hung up on romaaaancing”
“That’s all I know.”
“How do you feel?”
“Well, I know the tune wasn’t right, but I think maybe I captured some of the energy of the song.”
“I mean about Clee.”
“Oh.”
“You got a little break.”
“I guess I did.”
The next morning I rose early, awaiting my first chance to test the song. I took a shower, gingerly. The spell kept its distance. I dressed and waved to Rick—he was looking at the snails with distress.
“Good morning!” I stepped outside with a hearty mug of tea.
“This situation is out of control.”
“Yes, I know. I ordered too many.”
“I will deal with four of them. That is the number of snails I am prepared to supervise. I don’t have the training to care for a herd.”
“Perhaps you can call them? Round them up?”
“Call them? How?”
“A snail whistle?”
The words were hardly out of my mouth when Clee began sucking on the tiny snail whistle between Rick’s legs. He was shocked and so forth, etc.
“Rick, I’m going to sing a song now.”
“I don’t think that will work. They have no ears.”
“Will you stay in our Lovers’ Story . . .” Rick politely lowered his eyes. He’d seen crazier things living on the streets. “If you stay you won’t be sorry, ’cause weee belieeeve in you.”
It sort of worked. It wasn’t like saying abracadabra to make a rabbit disappear, poof. It was like saying abracadabra billions of times, saying it for years, until the rabbit died of old age, and then continuing to say it until the rabbit had completely decomposed and been absorbed into the earth, poof. It took dedication, which I had when I first woke up—but my resolve decayed with the day. Faced with the option of singing or rubbing her warm puss through her jeans, I always decided tomorrow was the day to begin.
CARL WAS WEARING DRESSY LOAFERS that clicked on the sidewalk like tap shoes. There was some confusion about who should sit in the front seat—me, because I was older, or Clee, because she was the daughter. I sat in the back. We drove in silence.
The wine tasted off to Carl; he asked for another bottle.
“That’s why they let you try it,” he said. “They want you to be happy.”
Clee seemed bored but I knew her well enough to know this was just a look. Like me, she was wondering why we were here. What didn’t look bored were her nipples; they sat upright, attentive in a stretchy green tube dress. It was very hard to hum the song and make polite conversation at the same time.
Carl showed me his new cell phone and I felt a little sick. What if he was here because I had summoned him, given him an overwhelming and inappropriate desire to see his daughter? But he wasn’t looking at her. He took a long sip of wine, watching me over the rim of the glass.
“How many years have we known you, Cheryl?”
“Twenty-three.”
“That’s a lot of years. A lot of commitment, a lot of trust.”
When he said trust he gestured to Clee; she was wide-eyed and chewing on a hangnail. He knew. Kristof had told him about the old videos I had borrowed. He had figured out the rest. Bruises. The missing pummel suit.
“I think you know what I’m about to say.”
His face was stern. My chest heaved.
“Suzanne wanted to be here too, by the way. So this comes from both of us.” He raised his spoon in the air. “Cheryl, would you do us the great honor of joining the board?”
Clee shut her eyes for a moment, recovering. Carl watched a redness sweep over my face; luckily the rash wasn’t subtitled or waving any explanatory signs. I bowed my head.
“Carl and Suzanne and Nakako and Jim and Phillip can be on the board alone,” I began, “they are the best at being on the board, I am joining them even though I’m not much help, because I’m not good at being on the board.”
Carl dinged each of my shoulders with a spoon, not something we did in the office and probably not done in Japan either. Then he raised his glass.
“To Cheryl.”
Clee raised her glass, and maybe it was just our shared relief but I suddenly felt almost tender toward her. I hadn’t really considered her recently, apart from trying to mentally push tubers and polyps into her vagina or mouth. How was she doing these days? The wine was quite strong; its vapors expanded behind my forehead. Carl refilled my glass.
“Phil Bettelheim is stepping down. So we had an opening to fill.”
My face didn’t change, I made sure of that.
“But there’s no hard feelings. He made a major donation when he left.”
I smiled at my napkin. Of course the point of being on the board was to be near him, but taking his place was interesting too. Almost better. For the first time I understood cigars and the urge to light one up and lean back.
Clee and I had both ordered the Mandarin beef; mine was placed in front of me at an ordinary speed but Clee’s was lowered in slow motion. I looked up at the waiter’s long, red gullet as he swallowed drily. It had been a little while since I’d seen this kind of thing happen in reality and suddenly it didn’t seem like such a fantastic idea for her to hold this man’s stiff member for one to two minutes. Especially since Phillip’s was right there, swelling under the table. I shot the waiter a look to let him know she was spoken for; he hurried off.
Three minutes later he was back to ask how everything was. He used the question to lick Clee’s jugs with his doglike eyes.
“That waiter was way out of line,” I said after he left. This accidentally came out in a low, brusque voice, Phillip’s voice. It was a subtle thing; Carl didn’t notice. But Clee cocked her head, blinking. She shot her hand into the air, signaling the waiter.
“I think there’s something wrong with my chair.”
“Oh no,” he said, stricken.
“Yeah, I think it’s snagged my dress.” She stood up and the waiter examined the chair.
“I don’t see anything, but let me get a new chair.”
“Are you sure? Is there a snag on my dress?”