“If you are going to put it that way, then yes.”
Of course, Rose was worried he was going to have her kicked out of the house. She was terrified that things wouldn’t work out; this was incredibly risky. She was well aware. It reminded her of a trick she used to perform when she was in the dormitory—she would pile eight or nine Bibles on her head. She would walk around like there were nothing at all unusual about what she was doing. This was so risky, because if the Bibles fell, they would make such a huge thud on the floor that the Sisters would arrive to punish Rose mercilessly.
She put her index finger up to her lips and whispered a shhhh, then she hurried out of the room.
This was a new act for her. And like all new acts, it made her really nervous.
The acts that made her the most nervous were always her best. That’s what you always felt when genius was in the room: humbled that it had visited you, and terrified that you might blow it.
She sat on the edge of her little single bed, trembling. But McMahon did not fire her. Instead he observed her every day.
His wife was so beautiful. His wife looked like sunshine bursting through the window. There wasn’t a single person in the world who wouldn’t think his wife was incredibly beautiful. When McMahon first met her, they went out all the time. When she walked into casinos, everyone started winning. When she walked into a room, everyone felt better about themselves. They found themselves to be funnier or wittier and more charming. So everybody always wanted her around.
But she would never have set eyes on him or given him the time of day if he hadn’t become filthy rich. His money had indeed bought him love. Given what he had seen of the world, the exchange of love for money seemed to be one of the commodities that never wavered—it was as dependable an investment as electricity. But she always reminded him implicitly that he was a criminal.
The girl had looked at him with such desire.
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SHE TOLD HIM THAT for a dollar she would act like a kitten. He gave it to her. She put a little bowl of milk on the floor, and she got down on her hands and knees and lapped it up. Then she stood up and walked away. He didn’t know what to make of what he had just seen. He was frightened. It made him feel guilty, as though his life had been a crime and he was suddenly feeling remorse for it.
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THERE WERE MEN WHO LIKED all sorts of odd and depraved perversions. He owned brothels, after all. The things they liked were so ridiculous, it made him think of them as children. He would never engage in that nonsense.
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ROSE WALKED UP TO HIM and held up her wrists for McMahon to see. There was a black ribbon tying them together. “How in the world did this happen?” she asked.
He had no idea how he was supposed to answer that.
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ROSE STARTED SINGING “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” as she walked by with an imaginary birthday cake. Each time she blew out an imaginary candle, McMahon felt as though his heart were a flame she had blown out. He was dead. He died nineteen times. That was how many imaginary candles there were on the imaginary cake.
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HE COULDN’T FIGURE OUT whether she had genuine designs on his destruction or whether she was just a pervert.
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SHE WAS STANDING WITH A BANANA. She slowly lowered the banana so that she was holding it at her hips. As though it were a penis.
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SHE PUT DOWN the laundry basket. She leaned up against the wall and began kissing it. She kissed it tenderly and a little bit hesitantly, as if she and the wall were touching each other for the first time. As if they were experimenting with kissing before getting into something deeper.
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SHE WAS LEANING AGAINST the back door, outside the house. She had a jacket on. Her hair was all messed up from the wind. She had the mop standing upside down next to her.
“Oh, I don’t know if he’s that handsome. I think there are better-looking men at the nightclub. You find every man good-looking.”
The mop was leaning a little in toward her, her confidante.
“Really? You would. Oh, I don’t know myself. I don’t know if I’d let him touch me.”
For a second it seemed to him as though the mop were shaking, holding in its laughter too. Were they laughing at him because they thought that he was a fool or because they actually liked him? When any woman agreed to reciprocate your affections, weren’t they all thinking a mixture of both things?
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