Authors: Tama Janowitz
"I don't know why you're apologizing for the room you put me in!" said Florence. "It's just beautiful! That dark blue wallpaper with the white design—is it hand-painted?"
"That's not your room," said Natalie. "You didn't mess up the bed or anything, did you? It's all made up for some guests I have coming next week. I told you, the
second
bedroom down the hall."
"Oh, gosh," said Florence. "I'm sorry! I went in there, but I thought it was the broom closet. Don't worry—I can easily move my things." She should have known Natalie would stick her in the closet. It was just like her. Natalie wanted to be generous, she thought of herself as generous, and then she panicked, thinking she was being taken advantage of, or that she was being liked for the wrong reasons.
"I would have had you stay in the blue guest room, but Ana-Maria's hurt her back. I can't ask her to change the sheets, all the way upstairs. You don't mind, do you?"
"No, no," said Florence. "Really, it's all right. Of course, I can make the bed up myself." She meant she was happy to change the sheets in the blue bedroom, but Natalie misunderstood.
"Oh, would you?" she said. "Actually, I think I forgot to make up that bed. The sheets are in the closet in the second-floor hall. I doubt you'll need a blanket. And the sink and the toilet—you can use the one down here, next to the kitchen. I'm afraid the toilet may overflow if you use the bathroom connected to the blue bedroom. But if you want to take a shower, the outdoor shower is just next to the swimming pool—behind the bamboo screen."
"Perfect," said Florence, going back upstairs to move her things.
It took a little while to tidy the room and make up the bed, though some of the boxes were incredibly heavy. But she managed to stack them around the edges of the room so that at least there was enough floor space to get in and out with a bit more ease. There were plenty of sheets and towels in the linen closet, though she could not find a pillow or blanket anywhere. When she was finished her head was throbbing slightly and she lay down on the bed for a minute. It was only her second visit to Natalie's house; she had forgotten how exhausting it was and how little she liked being a guest. Something banged into the wall over her head. A lone fly, raisin-dark and overweight, seemed to be drunk or merely giddy. It flew slowly this way and that, trapped and sleek.
She looked at her watch: only six o'clock. There was still time for a walk on the beach, and even a quick dip. She changed into her bathing suit, a modest two-piece red-checked affair, and covered up with a floral beach robe. Natalie had told her to use the bathroom off the kitchen, but when she started to go into it, a woman came out of a room—Florence glimpsed a double bed and a crucifixion on the wall behind her—and gave her such a sharp stare she was sure she was once again doing something wrong. "Are you Ana-Maria?" she asked.
The woman, though short and plump, had the regal stare of ancient Inca nobility and an oddly shaped head, as if the top half had been flattened in a vise. "My bathroom," she said.
"Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry," Florence said.
"Me, Ana-Maria,
si.
You use that toilet." She pointed to the
changing room alongside the swimming pool, visible beyond the French doors and the patio.
On the far side of the pool, hunched in a peculiar position, as if a leg had been broken, a tiny gold creature sat chattering to herself.
"Hello!" said Florence.
The creature waved at Florence to go away. Then she switched positions and Florence saw she was speaking on a cellular phone while doing some kind of yoga or stretching exercises.
The toilet in the cabana had no toilet paper. "Woo, woo, woo!" the person screamed when Florence emerged, and made a dash in her direction like a hummingbird who had dipped her beak into a vial of crystal methamphetamine. "Sorry, I was on the phone before! I'm Mica Geller, Natalie's aromatherapist. I do massage too. Natalie says you might want to get a massage when she's done? See how you like this." She put something under her nose, some powder in a little vial. Florence nervously took a step back, but not before she had caught a strong whiff of artificial citrus and, behind it, something mentholated and something else, like the Sterno flames beneath a fondue pot. "Isn't that fabulous?"
"Mmm."
"I just came up with that one. We might want to work on you with it. Infusion of lemon grass, orange-blossom oil, tisane of tea-tree and eucalyptus leaves, and a few other things—this one is entirely botanic, designed for someone who doesn't necessarily want to get in touch with their spiritual side, but who needs to. I hope that doesn't offend you. Don't take it personally, I talk this way to everyone. Anyway, let's take a look at you." Before Florence could stop her, Mica had stepped forward and stripped Florence of her floral robe. "You're gorgeous!" Mica said. "You know that, don't you?" Florence didn't respond. "You know that you're gorgeous, don't you?" Mica repeated insistently.
"I'm okay," Florence said.
"You're more than okay!" said Mica. "Say it."
"I was just going for a walk," Florence muttered.
"But you don't want to say it? You can't say to me, 'Mica, I am one gorgeous creature!' "
"I'm not sure I—"
"Long blond hair, a little snubby nose—let me see your teeth." When Florence didn't move, Mica leaned forward and pushed back her lips. "Who did your teeth?"
"Nobody."
"Oh, my. They are beautiful. Has anybody ever told you, you look like you should be a movie star?"
Florence looked at her suspiciously. "Sure."
"No, I mean it! I'm serious!"
She couldn't help but feel pleased—it was nice to be admired, appreciated, like a horse led out to the auction block. If only men could be half so understanding! They looked at her with admiring glances, but so dumbly, so lacking in any awareness of the fine points. They might as well have been toddlers, jabbing fingers at Jell-0 and apricot soufflé with equal fervor, unable to perceive the difference in quality. Mica walked in a circle around Florence standing in her swimsuit. "Not bad." She seemed determined to insinuate herself into Florence's existence, a remora nibbling on a shark's skin. Florence was almost ready to agree to Mica's terms. "You might want to do a little work on those thighs and the abs." She gave Florence a gentle punch in the stomach. "Hold in that stomach, girl! Stand up straight!"
"What are you doing?" said Natalie. She was lying naked facedown on a gurney that had been set up in the living room. Her buttocks were like two pancakes left behind on a plate until evening. The room reeked of something rotting and sweet.
"I was coming to look for you!" Florence said. "I thought I'd just go for a walk and a dip to clear my head. God, your butt is flat, Natalie." She meant it as a compliment, but Natalie reared her head suspiciously. "I mean, you're lucky. What's that smell?"
"Lavender and bergamot," Natalie said. "I have to lie here for fifteen more minutes. Did you see where Mica went? I'm getting a
headache. She always says the aroma therapy is working when I get a headache."
"She was on the patio," said Florence. "Shall I tell her to come back in?"
"This stuff stinks!" Natalie sat up suddenly, covering herself with a white towel. She had been lying on a bed of what appeared to be rabbit turds.
"What—what were you lying on?"
"Stones. They're scented and heated. The heat releases the perfume."
"It smells delicious."
"Do you think? It's supposed to be really good for you. Each of her clients has their own scent-formula, depending on what their system needs. It might be time for Mica to make me a new formula, though. I think I've worked through whatever I was going through before."
"Is anything going on tonight?"
"Not unless you have some kind of plan of your own! I thought this evening we'd keep things simple. I figured you'd be tired from the city, and John won't be back from the golf course until it gets dark—so it will just be the three of us and leftovers."
"That sounds fine," said Florence.
"But I wish you wouldn't go out for a walk. I thought you were going to help Ana-Maria in the kitchen."
"I thought just a quick dip—"
"It'll take you a half hour to walk to the beach, you won't get back until eight. We're having eighty people tomorrow night; Ana-Maria's hurt her back and I promised she'd have help." Natalie's expression softened. Florence thought she looked nervous. If she allowed her grip to relax on those around her for even a moment, the entire universe—like one of those bars of brittle candy— might crack. "I was thinking—you said Charlie was staying at his mother's for the weekend—I might invite him to the party, if he's free."
2
"Hello dere!"
Natalie's husband, John, deposited his golf clubs by the door. He was a tall man with many fine features; yet it troubled Florence that when she tried to picture him not a single image came to mind, apart from the fact that his eyes, behind thick-lensed glasses, always reminded her of a frog's. No matter what expression was on his face, his eyes were cold and amphibian. There was a sort of scrubbed, boyish quality to him; it was the look of a man who had never quite gotten over the highlights of his prep school years.
"Hi, John!" Florence said, carefully tying her bathrobe around her waist as he crossed the room to embrace her.
Then he kissed Natalie, sitting on the edge of the gurney. "How was the golf?"
"Not bad!" John said. "How have you been, Florence? It looks like you girls are having a good time. What's happening here? You're all having massages?"
"Would you mind, Florence, if Mica does John instead of you? I know she's only got time for one more before her next appointment." Since she had done Florence a favor—inviting an eligible bachelor—Florence now had to be punished. It was actually something of a relief. There was something really weird about letting a complete stranger—and one of the same sex—fondle her naked body, gradually battering it into submission. Basically, it was paying someone to molest the body while the mind lay chuckling to itself at its revenge on the entity in which it was trapped.
"I don't want to take Florence's massage from her, Nats," said John sternly.
"Oh no, that's fine, really," said Florence. "I wasn't planning to have one anyway."
"You sure?" said John.
"Mmm," Florence said. "I was actually just going up to change so I can help Ana-Maria for tomorrow night. It's going to be a big crowd!" Her voice sounded stiff, artificial, but John had that effect on her—he always looked slightly smirky.
"Is that right?" said John, following her up the stairs. "I'm going to have a quick shower first. Get some of this golf dirt off me. Then I'll have to have
another
shower to get the massage oil off. But what the hay. So, how are you doing, Flo?"
"I don't know, John. You know, I'm working at Quayle's."
"Quayle's, Quayle's—"
"The auction house."
"Now, I don't think I know that one."
"Well, it's not Sotheby's or Christie's. Believe me. I wanted to go to Sotheby's or Christie's, but they told me to come back when I had more experience. Which I didn't understand, because a lot of
people start off there without any experience. But, whatever. For all I know, their fathers are paying money to get them a job there."
"You might be right. I never really thought about it. Listen, I'm going to run up and take a quick shower—anything you need?"
She was slightly embarrassed. "Oh no. I'm fine, thanks."
For what felt like hours she chopped onions into very precise chips, according to Ana-Maria's direction. Ana-Maria sat with her feet in an electric footbath, filled with soapy water, from time to time getting up to stump across the floor and chitter at Florence like an angry chipmunk. Florence had seen Natalie berate Ana-Maria so harshly she didn't know why or how the woman could keep working for her. Now it seemed Ana-Maria was going to dump her rage on Florence. She was about to faint with hunger when Ana-Maria took a big bowl of salad out of the refrigerator and carried it into the other room, returning shortly for several bottles of dressing.
John came into the kitchen. "Did you have dinner, Florence?" he asked.
"I'm starving," she said.
"Come and join me in some salad, if you like. I just came in to get a beer. What would you like to drink?"
"A beer sounds good. What's Natalie going to have?"
"She's gone up to bed. She's got a headache, from that aroma business. I think she's on one of her vegetable fasts. Is it going to be enough for you, just a salad?"
"Oh no, that'll be great!" Florence said, handing the knife to Ana-Maria, who gave her a disgusted glare.
It was actually quite a nice salad, though a little tired around the edges—probably it had been fresher the day before. There were red and green lettuce, dark green spinach leaves, pockets of crumbly bacon, shredded cheese, various seeds, minute thumbnail-sized tomatoes, sliced hard-boiled egg, yellow and purple pepper rings, sweet onion and corn. "So good!" she said en-
thusiastically, shaking some honey mustard dressing onto her plate. There was nothing she liked more than a salad. It was the only food that seemed clean, that and fresh fruit. John ate grimly, as if he were not able to taste the food, a preoccupied expression on his face. Abruptly she pushed the bacon to one side.