Sveyta says nothing and pulls out of her parking spot.
The ride to midtown is stressful for Sveyta. The traffic is terrible, and the short man comments often on her driving, repeating the sentiment that women are bad drivers because of biology. On the Belt Parkway, Marion stands up for Sveyta, says, “You are making her nervous,” and the short man turns to slap Marion across the face. It’s a small movement, and from his ease with the action, Marion knows it’s not the first time he’s hit a woman. She asks if he is Ukrainian, and Sveyta says, “No, Marion, this is not him.” Marion presses her warm, wet cheek. When the short man slapped her, she began to cry. She remembers: this is her physiological response to being hit, and it has nothing to do with sadness or pain. She chews her now flavorless gum.
They pull up in front of the midtown apartment building, and the short man opens the door for Marion and helps her out. Sveyta drives away. The wind blows through the skirt, and Marion can’t help but look down at the beautiful movement. She thinks, And this will be my last time outside. It’s a fall day in Manhattan. It could be worse.
The man pulls her into the apartment building, past the doorman, and into an elevator. He pushes the button for the twenty-sixth floor, and the doors close.
“Do you have a piece of paper maybe?” Marion asks. “For my gum.” The short man lets go of her arm and puts his hands into his pockets. He pulls out a receipt. Marion takes it and spits her gum into it. She crumples up the wad and then discovers that her skirt has no pockets. She drops the wad of gum on the floor of the elevator, discreetly, she thinks, but the short man sees and rolls his eyes.
The doors open, and there is a slow walk down the hallway to the apartment. Marion counts her breaths, her inhalations and her exhalations.
The matriarch opens the door, perfectly coiffed, and visibly registers Marion’s outfit. The short man asks if he should stay, and the matriarch says, “Outside.” The door is closed, and Marion is instructed to sit on the couch. The matriarch sits in a wing chair facing her.
“You have done an incredibly stupid thing,” the matriarch says. “Why?”
“Because I could,” Marion says.
“What about your family?”
“I miss them sometimes. But mostly it’s fine.”
“Why are you wearing that?”
“Do you like it?”
“You are too old for it. And too fat.”
“I’m only thirty-eight. Are you going to kill me?” Marion asks. The matriarch says nothing. Marion looks out the window at the park, gestures to it, and says, “May I?”
The matriarch says yes. Marion walks to the window and looks at the orange-and-red park below and the gray buildings and finally the gray sky. She knows the window opens just wide enough to slide her body out. It would be difficult to maneuver, but it might be for the best. However, the matriarch hasn’t confirmed whether she is going to be killed, so she’ll wait. It would be terrible if she committed suicide when she didn’t have to.
The matriarch asks Marion to sit down again, and Marion does as she’s told.
“Do you know how we caught you? An associate of ours happened to see an ad in a paper, and then we believed our daughter. Sveyta searched your room and found the laptop. Electronically, you were untraceable.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“Was it easy for you?”
“It wasn’t hard.”
“And Sveyta says that you are learning Russian.”
Marion flips her hands up to the sky to express that she can’t help herself.
“We may have an opportunity for you,” the matriarch says. “For a person with your talents.” She explains that they are having difficulty with a certain source of income; it would be easier if that income appeared to come from somewhere else. Perhaps even an educational institution. The matriarch feels she should make it clear: the position would require relocation. Would Marion still be interested in this opportunity?
Marion beams. It’s good to be recognized.
Anteroom
In the anteroom to the principal’s office, seated next to her sister, Jane daydreams. She’s bored and wishes that her sister would talk to her, but Ginny won’t talk to anyone without yelling. Jane doesn’t understand her anger, the way it behaves, the way it moves. She gets angry sometimes too, but eventually stops being angry. Her sister stays angry, as if she doesn’t want to feel another way.
The missing boy has faded. It had something to do with the rats. He wouldn’t help Jane pass them. He had no good ideas, as he did before. He’s become quieter, and she keeps thinking of him in parts on the beach. The thought invades her subconscious and shocks her and she wants to think of something else, anything, because then she thinks of herself in parts. She’s been dreaming that she has a hole in her arm and can see her own pearly white bone. Her flesh is pink and layered and reminds her of a photo of a canyon from her science textbook. The layers of rock signify different eras in the formation of the earth’s crust. The hole in her dream is a neat and perfect circle. In her dream, she knows this peculiar injury will kill her, but not right away.
Jane shuts her eyes to see something besides the hole in her arm, and when she opens them, Beatrice is in the doorway. She has never been more grateful to see a person, this tall, beautiful girl who is always nice to her.
Beatrice asks, “Is my mom still in there?”
Ginny glares at her and won’t reply.
Jane fills the silence. “Uh-huh, with my dad.”
Beatrice smirks. “So, you guys ready for the wonders of the New York City public school system?”
Ginny tells Beatrice to go fuck herself, and Jane tries to defend Beatrice, but Beatrice doesn’t need her help.
“So did you guys, like, have any idea about your mom? Did you, like, know?”
“Know what?” Jane asks. She’s baffled that Beatrice is allowed to talk about her mother. It seems that no one is allowed anymore.
“She’d been embezzling for years, my mom said.” When Jane looks confused by the word, Beatrice clarifies. “Stealing. Your momma was stealing.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Jane says, incredulous.
“It’s actually kind of cool,” Beatrice says. “Your mom is, like, a criminal.”
Ginny repeats that Beatrice should go fuck herself.
Beatrice says to Jane, “And you gave her up. Her baby girl. Hilarious. Tell my mom I came by. I need her to sign some form or something. Whatever.”
Beatrice leaves and Ginny looks at Jane.
“Is it true? Did you tell them where she was?”
Jane shakes her head. Ginny pinches her arm.
“Did you tell? Did you? How did you know?”
The doors open up, and it’s their father, pale, and Anna, victorious. Ginny drops her sister’s arm, realizing that it doesn’t matter. Their father has lost. Then Ginny does an uncharacteristic thing for a thirteen-year-old girl: she reaches for her little sister’s hand, and she holds it, even though everyone can see.
Marion at Thirty-Eight