The Pretty One: A Novel About Sisters (20 page)

Roy’s boxers were still on, but his erection had distended them into a miniature tent. “Baby, come on,” he moaned with a stroke to her calf. “I was just being funny!”

“Please get off me,” said Perri, scooting her leg away.

“Jesus, Perri, I’m sorry! Okay?” he said. “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive on the subject.”

“I’m not.”

“So what’s the big deal?” he asked. As if he didn’t understand.

And why should he have? Perri thought. He knew nothing about her. He was a stranger, after all. She turned away, so she was facing the wall. “I’m sorry, Roy,” she announced in her most officious PowerPoint presentation voice. “It was my mistake. I never should have invited you down here. I’m a married woman with three children. If you’d like, I’ll reimburse you for your airfare.”

Roy’s patience had worn out. “I don’t want your fucking money!” he cried as he lunged for his pants and furiously fitted his legs inside them. “And I don’t appreciate being treated like a man-whore!” He laughed bitterly. “I should have remembered from college. You had great tits, but you were bonkers then, too—following me around the frat house with a goddamn sponge mop! That’s why I ended it, if you want to know.”

Perri felt heat on her face. “
That’s
why you ended it?!” she said, turning back to him. All these years, she’d wondered. Now she had her answer.

“Yes,” said Roy, fitting his arms through his polo shirt. “If you must know.”

Perri felt humiliated. How dare he accuse her of being crazy! It was true that their relationship had coincided with her OCD years. It was also possible that the reason she fell in love with Mike was that he didn’t judge her for applying baby wipes to toilet handles. “You should leave,” she said.

“Gladly,” he said on his way out.

“Can you please close the door behind you,” said Perri.

“As Her Royal Wing Nut wishes. Oh, and you heard it here first: you dress like a fucking flowerpot. Or maybe I should say
crackpot.
”

That was the last thing Perri heard Roy Marley say—before the door slammed shut. Then she broke down in sobs. How had she made such a mess of her fortieth birthday and of her life? she wondered. And was her outfit really that bad? Mike never noticed what she was wearing. She supposed that was another check mark in his favor.

13

S
EX IS A SNEEZE
. Sex is the meaning of life. Which one was it? Gus and Jeff had made another date for that evening. He was supposed to pick her up at her apartment. Then they’d go get dinner somewhere on the Upper West Side. At least, that was the plan. But they both knew it wasn’t really about dinner. It was Sunday, already late in the day. Standing before her closet, Gus felt stymied by the question of what to wear. The options weren’t exactly myriad. Black corduroys or black jeans? Black blazer or gray? Gus had always felt sorry for people who cared about clothes—people like, well, her older sisters. Being fashionable seemed like such a colossal waste of energy and time. For what purpose? She felt the same combination of pity and noncomprehension regarding her sisters’ obsessions with home decorating. Once you got the sofa, the TV, and the bed down, all the rest was, to Gus’s mind, window dressing.

And yet, at that moment, the paucity of clothing choices available to her left her feeling impoverished. She wondered what she’d missed out on in life. Then she hated herself for
feeling that way—hated Jeff, too. She’d been fine before he’d shown up, hadn’t she? She ought to go down to the Cubbyhole for the night, she thought, and try to meet someone. But then she’d always hated pickup bars. It was about as warm and welcoming in those places as it was in family court. She and Debbie had met through a mutual friend. And they’d been buddy-buddy for several years before they’d hooked up. But Debbie wasn’t around anymore, Gus reminded herself. Debbie was with Maggie Snow now. Or so Gus had heard. Not that she cared—at least not that much. Besides, Gus couldn’t stop thinking about Jeff. She finally settled on black jeans and a gray blazer.

The doorbell rang at seven. Jeff was holding a bouquet of wilted tulips whose conical paper enclosure Gus recognized as harking from the Korean grocer on her corner. For a brief moment, she imagined that she’d unwittingly joined the cast of some passably amusing romantic comedy starring Kate Hudson. Before long, it would be revealed that they were actually on a stage set on the Warner Brothers lot. “Pretty,” she said, taking the flowers out of his hands. “Unfortunately, I don’t own a vase anymore. Ex-girlfriend took them. But I guess you can always use a jar. Right?”

“You crack me up,” he said. He was wearing jeans, Nike slides, and some kind of windbreaker, zipped all the way up to the neck. His legs were slightly bowed. Gus hadn’t noticed that before. And why was it that, as soon as she got close to someone, she started finding faults, being critical? It was her mother in her, she supposed. Though, to be fair, Carol was rarely critical of her own daughters, who could do no wrong. It was the rest of the world that was full of morons.

Gus was standing at the sink, filling an old jam jar with water, when Jeff came up behind her and put his hands around
her waist. Suddenly nervous, she barely formed the words “You move quickly.”

“I’m just being friendly,” he murmured.

Too friendly,
was Gus’s feeling. “So, where do you want to have dinner?” she asked, slithering out of his grip.

But Jeff wasn’t giving up yet. Again, he moved closer, threaded his index finger through her belt loop and smiled his insinuating smile. “What if I say I’m not hungry yet?” he asked.

Gus hesitated. Wasn’t this why she’d invited him over? And what if there wasn’t another opportunity like this in her lifetime? Her eyes scanned the drab furnishings in her living room—the old Door Store sofa, the Mexican tapestry hanging over it. She’d purchased the latter on a trip to Oaxaca with her ex-girlfriend Jen. It was her apartment’s one nod to the Decorative Arts. It was also ugly and tattered. “You can say anything you like,” she said, her heart in her stomach.

“Let’s go in the bedroom,” Jeff said in a low voice.

“Fine,” said Gus, terrified. She wondered if Jeff knew it was her first time with a man (and hoped he didn’t). “Do what you want.” She’d never said those words before, never voluntarily offered to cede control. She had that in common with Perri, she thought—an obsessive need to control others. Where had the instinct come from? Neither of her parents were really like that.

“Or what you want,” said Jeff, pulling her toward him.

The size of him—the size of his body against hers—somehow astonished her. And his lips tasted like green olives. Gus closed her eyes as Jeff carried her into her bedroom, where he slowly pried off her nondescript outfit and went to work on her. Or, at least, Jefferson Sims’s version of work.

The next morning at the office, Gus found herself unable to concentrate. She kept going over what had happened the night before, trying to figure out what it all meant and if she’d enjoyed it and if it had changed her in some irrevocable way. She kept this up even as she conducted an interview with a client. The phone interrupted both lines of inquiry. “Excuse me,” she told Marta Johnson. Then she picked up the receiver.

“Gus?” came the trembling voice. It sounded like Perri. But it couldn’t possibly be Perri—

Except it was Perri. “Perri?!” said Gus.

There was a sob on the other end of the phone.

“Ohmygod—where are you?” said Gus. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not okay, actually,” Perri choked out.

“Okay, calm down,” said Gus, beginning to panic herself.

“Why should I calm down?” cried Perri. “You’ve never been calm a single day in your entire life!”

“Fine. Sorry!” said Gus, taken aback by the accusation even as she acknowledged that Perri was probably right: for the Hellinger sisters of Hastings-on-Hudson, the joys of Zen were mostly unknown.

But then, Gus was only trying to be helpful. And it wasn’t as if she’d had experience in this area. It had always been her oldest sister who had been the voice of reason and comfort in the family. Still, it was flattering to think that Perri had called her, not Olympia, first. Or had she already called Olympia? Gus knew it wasn’t a competition. Yet she couldn’t help but hope that she’d been number one on the list.

Perri cleared her throat. “I’m actually calling for legal advice.”

Gus was shocked—already? “You mean, like, divorce-lawyer advice?”

“No, regular-lawyer advice.” There was another sob on the other end of the phone. “I got a credit card issued in the name of a dead person. And I used it to pay for my hotel.”

“Right” was all Gus could come up with. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Olympia was supposed to be the one who was irresponsible with money—not her well-heeled MBA oldest sister with her stock portfolios and SEP-IRAs, full-term life insurance and pending IPO.

“I’m such an idiot.” Perri wept into the phone.

It was hard to argue with the conclusion. Even so, Gus told her, “You’re not an idiot—you just made a mistake. This is what you need to do. First, go down to the lobby and tell the hotel you want to put down a different credit card for your stay. Substitute a real one for the phony one.”

“But then Mike will know I’m in South Beach,” moaned Perri.

Gus registered her sister’s location—and felt vaguely disgruntled. The last time she’d been on vacation somewhere sunny was probably 1996. Then again, to Gus’s secret shame, she hated traveling and could never wait to come home from wherever she’d gone. The problem was that she felt bad about that fact—felt she ought to be the type to be backpacking through the Andes. But the truth was: she didn’t actually want to go anywhere. It was yet another thing that she’d always envied about her sisters—the casualness with which they (and in particular Olympia, at least before she’d had Lola) traveled around the world. “What’s worse?” she said. “Getting hauled to jail or getting hauled back to your four-bedroom Tudor in Larchmont?!”

Perri didn’t answer.

“I rest my case,” said Gus. “Anyway, after you resettle the
hotel bill, call the airline and try to do the same thing. Then call the bank that issued the bad credit card and tell them you want to cancel it.”

“But what if, for identification purposes, they ask me for my Social Security number, or something?” Perri sniffled. “I can’t even remember the number I wrote down on the application. I filled it out as a joke—sort of—at least at first.”

“Well, then, tell them you’re traveling, and you can’t remember it. Assuming you succeed, cut the bullshit card up into a million pieces and never mention this to anyone ever again.”

There was silence, followed by another sniffle, and then a mousy “Okay, I’ll try.”

Gus felt nervous for her sister. What if word leaked to her company? What if she got prosecuted and thrown in jail? She was also tickled and proud to think that Perri was actually planning to take her advice. “Now, what the hell are you doing in Miami Beach?” she asked, determined to secure information in exchange for her expertise. Fair was fair. Though of course in families, Gus had learned, there was no such thing as fair.

“
South
Beach,” Perri corrected her.

“Same difference.”

“I’m getting sun.”

“Alone? On your fortieth birthday?”

“I invited a—friend. But it didn’t work out.”

“What friend?”

“Mmmm Yyyy Oooo Bbbbbbbbb!!!” It was the same acronym that Perri had brandished countless times and in the same singsongy voice, albeit mostly between the ages of six and sixteen.

“Sorry! I was just asking,” said Gus, defensive again.

“And I was just answering. By the way, everything uttered
during this phone call needs to stay between us—and not just the business about the credit card.”

“Of course!” said Gus. “But, honestly, you haven’t even told me that much.”

“That’s because there’s nothing to tell. Nothing even happened. Or, at least, not that much.” Perri let out yet another hiccup-like sob. Apparently, she was back to personality A. Or was it B? “But it’s over now. He’s gone.”

“Hey, you don’t have to justify yourself to me. I’m not judging you!” said Gus. But, in truth, she
was
judging. Judging and despairing. How could Perri be doing this to her credit rating—never mind her marriage? She was supposed to be the Settled Sister. If she abdicated the role, who would take her place? It seemed to Gus that at least one of the three of them needed to uphold traditional values. Olympia, independent to a fault, didn’t show any signs of upholding anything these days, except maybe her own right never to be held accountable. And Gus was a single lesbian! Or, at least, she had been one until recently. Now she didn’t know what she was—only that she felt delirious and something like happy. It was a little disturbing that Jeff had no ambitions in life, but it was also refreshing. Besides, other skills he possessed—skills he’d demonstrated the night before—more than compensated for the lack.

At the same time, it made Gus feel disloyal, even traitorous, to have slept with a Sims brother at the exact moment that her oldest sister was fleeing hers. Growing up, Perri had frequently played the role of Gus’s “other mother.” It was also to Perri that Gus had first come out during college. (Perri’s response had been characteristically insulting and, at the same time, reassuring: “Duh,” she’d said. “You think everyone doesn’t already know that?”) In the past few days, Gus had sought out a similar
vote of approval for her relationship with Jeff. But Perri’s insistence that “Mike and I are both really happy for you” had sounded hollow. Gus had concluded that her oldest sister must have found it all too close for comfort.

In any case, Gus didn’t blame Perri for having fled. Clearly, Mike didn’t have her best interest at heart. What he and Olympia were doing in the bathroom with the door closed, two nights earlier, was anyone’s guess. But Gus suspected that it had nothing to do with flossing.

“Anyway, tell everyone I’ll be home by dinner. I’m about to rebook my flight,” Perri announced in a newly businesslike tone.