“This is Perlita,” Amy said. “Perlita runs our world.”
Perlita stared at us. The lower level was bright and airy and entirely aboveground. I’d heard all about her, going to night school, man troubles, car problems, two kids back in the Philippines being raised by their aunt. Amy said, “Wanna yell if he wakes up?” Perlita nodded. Amy smiled, the tendons pulling at her neck.
We went back a different way, and turned and climbed a dark, narrow staircase, and as we climbed I looked out a small window onto her covered swimming pool, with walkways of elaborate stonework. I recognized the barn in the distance, a clean beautiful post-and-beam structure she’d sent me photos of, no animals inside it, nothing at all but her sunlit painting studio, where she made her goofy artwork.
Upstairs we passed a four-year-old’s bedroom the size of a bowling alley, with its own veranda. We passed additional seating zones, a paneled library, a gym with chromed machinery and a padded floor, an office—and finally entered a sunny room with high windows. A bed hid behind a rice-paper folding screen. She closed the door and bolted it and put her face in my face and breathed. I went a little cuckoo, recalling the Spanish-speaking housepainter, processing and abandoning scenarios, outcomes, inspecting the place for signs of him, whoever he was, a massive black armoire, a tall, blackened fireplace, some Asian-looking chests. I felt sick and wanted to leave. I had a sandwich and some cookies waiting for me in the car. The bed sat low on a wooden platform with a pea-green silk comforter and gold tassels. It didn’t look all that virginal. There were books on the nightstands. It was creepy, although maybe I didn’t give a shit. They had a crib by the bed, like us. An invisible kid watched me run my hands up and down his mother’s flanks as the surveillance cameras of my imagination whirred away, gazing at us with a thousand hidden eyes. I felt the obligation of it, another insincere gesture to another unhappy mother. “You have a long drive home,” she said, letting me go, “and I have stuff to do.”
But beyond this room was a smaller room with a ficus tree and a couch and a wall of glass facing the woods. There was a makeup mirror on a desk scattered with jewelry and a walk-in closet heaving with her clothes. On the couch were sneakers and a laptop, where, I imagined, she’d written all those emails. The adjoining bathroom had a floor made of smooth stones and an egg-shaped tub. Moisture lingered in the air, her smell. I believed all of it then: that she had nobody else to talk to, her husband was gay or autistic, a bill of goods she’d sold to me that I was the man and could do what I wanted.
“I have twenty-one minutes,” she said, blushing, with sad eyes, all business. “Then I have a lunch that’ll probably cost me a million bucks.”
Something fell off the makeup table and crashed. I felt myself soaring, brightly, falling over. The couch was too short. I had one hand up her sweater and one down her pants. Her head tipped back as she grabbed my wrist and said, “I feel ugly.”
I felt ugly, too. I’d spent five days in an airless courthouse under bright fluorescent lights, eating fried-egg sandwiches. The night before, we’d texted to arrange this rendezvous. After it was arranged, I didn’t sleep a wink. I drove three hours with reckless abandon to get here in time.
“I’m not taking off my clothes.”
It all came back from last summer—the change in breathing, the hand on my hand, resisting, instructing, guided masturbation.
“We don’t have to do anything,” I said.
“Yes we do.” She tightened her grip. “Every day, all day, you’re the only thing I think about, the only person I want to talk to.”
It was true that I’d never had that with Robin.
“I married someone who ignores me,” she said.
“But you got sick of it.”
“But it creeps me out to use some rationalization.”
“Like we’ve been mistreated,” I said, “so we deserve this.”
“Or we’ll all be dead soon and no one will give a shit.”
“Don’t get mad at me. I’m not the one jerking you around.”
“You’re so liberated.” We hovered in that vulnerable state. I felt her wanting my help getting past it. “Why did you wait until last night to tell me you were coming?” Her breathing changed and became more labored, her eyes on me but not seeing, her anger distracting her guilt. She exhaled, trying to reel it back in.
“I wish this whole thing would blow up in my face so he’d find out and I could stop pretending.” She grabbed my hand and shoved it down farther, directing the operation. She made a lovely noise. Her other hand went to my elbow. I found some spot on her that made her go out for a minute and leaned down and sucked her nipple. She came like sneezing, then rested, yawned, ran her hand through my hair and said, “How many other houses are you planning to visit on your way home?”
“I don’t even have time to brush my teeth, I’m so busy answering your emails.”
We had eleven minutes. I lay there, considering ways to get her pants off. I could ask politely. I could say, We’re old and sad and this is our only consolation, or, from the other angle, Let’s celebrate our youth, we’re not done yet, let’s romp. There was the legalistic approach, citing spousal shortcomings and violations, and redundancies among the various approaches. I tried to think, but as I did she started to fight with my belt, then got onto her knees. “Here,” I said. “Let me.” She looked at me with pity and clawed at my pants and yanked them open. I guess I just exploded. It might’ve been the best blow job in my life, except maybe it didn’t go on long enough to count, like in professional bull riding, where the judges need at least eight seconds for a qualified ride.
“Do you feel better?”
“No, I feel violated.”
“Sorry, I’m out of practice. I don’t do that for my husband.”
We gave up on the couch and rolled onto the carpet. Her bra hung loose, unhooked, under her chin, and her sweater was bunched up around it. Five minutes. It was important that we not dwell on him. “I missed your face,” I said.
“I forget you sometimes,” she said, “but when it’s quiet you come back to me.”
“I always wonder where you’re going, what you’re doing.”
“Even though you were busy in Boston, I knew you were close by. You were more mine. Now you’re heading home.”
“I’m yours,” I said. “I’ve felt that way for months.” Robin was younger and lighter and had finer bones.
“If anyone downstairs asks, I’ll say you’re my cousin.” Amy was bigger and taller, but laid out against me she fit perfectly into my arms.
“Do you have a lot of cousins?”
“Tons.”
“Do you have sex with them on the floor in your closet?”
“This is known as my dressing room.”
“I bet you’re fun at holidays.”
“I bet you’re fun, too.”
“Not anymore, not even on Christmas. Now all I do is work. That’s why Robin hates my guts.”
“Mike thinks I sit on my ass all day popping bonbons.”