He caught her by the wrist, shook the paddle from her grip, and dragged her down.
And this time, it wasn’t slow and it wasn’t careful. Also, there was the mud: a surface far less reliable than his rope mattress and far more eager to involve itself in the intricacies of the movements under way. She could feel it on every inch of her skin, even the parts that were still covered with clothing: how the mud’s temporary wetness both facilitated and impeded the force with which they slammed into each other, and she knew he wasn’t claiming her, not for good. But the land was. For a moment, there was fear and trepidation, but then an opening unlike anything she had ever experienced. He could talk all he wanted about where things lived and why, but the fact of the matter was that wanting something meant nothing unless you actually took it. People, places, things: all of it so fragile, so easy, so obtainable. So infinitely up for grabs.
Later that evening, she took a bath fully clothed.
Her father was a room away, sitting at the kitchen table, as usual. He had seen her come home. He had seen how she was a chalky gray from head to toe, the mud dried into a flaking shroud. He didn’t mention it, though, nor did he disturb her. Hours passed, maybe even days. He remained in his part of the house and she in hers, and by the time she drained the tub, undressed, and toweled off, the kitchen was empty and his bedroom door was closed.
She sat at the kitchen table and pretended it was Ricketts’s desk. On the canoe trip back to the Buick, they had spoken only once.
“Latin name?” she had asked, referring to the dead body at their feet.
“Myliobatis californica. As if it could ever exist anywhere else.”
And how perfect, she realized now, to have two names for the same thing, each of them nonsensical based on your perspective. The streets in Manila had been like this. They had had an official name that appeared on the maps, but also a colloquial name to which the locals obstinately clung. In Monterey it was like this, too: Ocean View Avenue, Cannery Row. And then there was the woman who had wanted a nude portrait of herself, her impulses so desperate and broad, Margot had almost pitied her. Now, as she opened her satchel with loose, prune-y hands, the pity was gone. She sharpened her pencil with the penknife, which was still flecked with dried blood. And the sketches that ensued were things that could have been hung in museums, but never in family homes: exotic, acrobatic pairings that showed not only lust and its aftermath, but also the void in which lust occurred. This time, there were no corners cut, no edges blurred. This was the harsh, contained, ancient survivalism of the tide pools, but magnified into human dimensions, its beauty that of the huge, disembodied tentacle: invisible to everyone except those who felt compelled to seek it.
The following Sunday, four weeks to the day after first acceding to Tino’s offer, she stood with him on the church steps again, just as before.
“You’ll be able to find some buyers for these, I assume.” She handed him her most recent portfolio, her confidence half-feigned. It was ugly and sad, she feared suddenly, to put one’s private thoughts so clearly on display. As he skimmed through the images and recognized their pornographies, however, her uncertainty faded. A redness was rising into his neck and across his face, his expression soft and awed.
“These are all men with women. Can you do men with men? And the other way, too?”
She nodded.
“We’ll sell out within a day,” he replied.
And he was right.
16
1998
IT’S NOT NECESSARY ANYMORE, AND SHE WANTS him to know it.