The Vanishing Year (6 page)

“Let me help you look.” She wouldn't be Lydia if she picked up subtle hints. The light from the window filters through her dyed blue hair, giving her a hazy azure glow. I shrug like this is no big deal, but my heart hammers a staccato rhythm against my rib cage. I shake my head. It's one thing to accept Cash's help, that's professional. It's another to reach out to Lydia, who still holds anger. With Cash, I could call it off at any moment,
Oh, never mind, it was a silly idea, ha ha.
Lydia wouldn't accept that, she'd push and dig, with her sharp eyes and capable hands, until she'd unearthed every sordid thing about my life, lay it bare for Henry to see. No matter what Lydia said, Henry was all I had left.

I glance at my watch. It is after two. Elisa will be back in the shop, angry about Lydia's absence, the
Closed
sign, the empty storefront. We pay the tab, I throw an extra ten on the table when Lydia isn't looking. I can't be sure that the motivation is entirely altruistic and flash back to Sam lingering near the table, his ears turned to our conversation. I did not dream up his curiosity. Was I saving face?
I might be under someone's thumb, but I have money now.

The walk back to the shop is short and Lydia threads her arm through mine, bumping my hip as she walks.

“Can we do this again? Soon?” she asks, unusually timid.

“Will you talk to Elisa about my proposal? About coming back? Say, one day a week.”

“It'll be like old times.” Lydia flashes a red-and-white smile.

The shop is still empty, locked up and dark when we arrive, and Lydia sneaks in, flipping on the lights and propping the door open as though she'd never left. We hug, but quickly, an obligatory back pat and air kiss. Lydia and I are bonded in our discomfort with physical contact. I scurry down to the corner and hail a cab.

I'm halfway home before I even remember the careening car. I can't decide if I will tell Henry or not. It seems so silly, a careless driver, an inopportune
walk
sign. Not even worth bringing up, really. And besides he'll only worry.

He worries so much.

CHAPTER
6

Penny makes dinner after all—a finely sliced raw tuna over a bed of crispy radicchio and a loaf of crusty bread drizzled with garlic and olive oil. Henry likes light dinners because of his heavy lunches, surrounded by leather and mahogany, with cigars, steak, and a silky cabernet.

The table is set when I arrive home and I yell a greeting into the kitchen where I hear Penny humming something sensual and jazzy. I run upstairs to change into jeans and a soft button-down shirt. I pull my hair into a low, casual bun and make it back downstairs just as Henry arrives through the front door.

He gives me a brilliant smile, all teeth and crinkled eyes, and my breath hitches. His arms wrap around my middle and he kisses me, full on the mouth, his tongue running along my bottom lip until my knees go weak. He pulls out my bun and runs his fingers through my hair.

“Down,” he murmurs, and I laugh. I step back with a teasing swish of my hips and pull my hair back. He shakes his head playfully. I take his hand and lead him into the kitchen where Penny is setting our plates. Mondays and Thursdays
are for casual dining, ties undone, at the kitchen island. My afternoon with Lydia has given me new perspective, reminded me of what I'm blessed with. Our entire apartment would have fit in this gourmet kitchen.

“Perfect, Penny. I had steak at a lunch meeting and I was worried you'd make red meat.”

“Henry, Mondays are never beef.” She pats his hand and turns on her heel, busying herself at the sink. Her short gray hair is pulled into a tight bun and she's wearing jeans and a bulky sweater. She's borderline gaunt.

I used to think that “the help” would wear uniforms, or call us Sir or Ma'am. My assumptions come from Evelyn. She was “the help” for more than one household in the Bay Area. She'd take the BART from Richmond to Berkeley, and over to San Fran, a two-hour one-way trip in the morning hours. I sometimes try to imagine Evelyn here, in Penny's place, and the picture slides from my mind, slippery as wet spaghetti. She talked of her employers with such formality, with reverence, Mr. Mishka, Mrs. Tantor. She didn't just respect them, she
admired
them.

But Penny is different. She never feels like “help.” Penny feels like a mother, quietly taking care of Henry and me and never asking anything in return. I've overheard her with Henry, shockingly casual, even joking. She mocks him, and he tolerates it. She's been with Henry's family since he was young, she knew his parents before they died, she knew his wife, she knows more about him than I do. She makes no bones about the fact that her loyalties lie with Henry. She isn't rude to me, but she's never overly friendly. I've caught her looking at me with a strange fascination, like a bug under a magnifying glass.

When we first started dating, I asked Henry about it. “Penny really seems to not like me much at all.”

Henry's response was quiet, twirling pasta around his fork,
studying his plate. “She knows I pay her bills. If she doesn't get along with my new wife, it could ruin her lifestyle. She keeps her distance to protect herself, I'd guess.”

“I wonder if she's in love with you?”

Henry laughed and dropped his fork. “In love with me? She's at least twenty years older than I am!”

“That means nothing,” I protested. “You're ten years older than me.”

“Her husband is terribly disabled, you know. From a fire, when I was a kid.” His mouth bowed in a frown. “So tragic. She needs the money, Zoe.”

And so I felt foolish. Stupid and petty and foolish.

Except sometimes she looks at us so oddly—as though she doesn't know who he is, like I am a specimen. She doesn't just look at me, she
studies
me. Then, when Henry and I are together, she barely glances my way at all. And once I came into the kitchen, just as I heard her saying
Henry, but it isn't right. It doesn't look proper
. And they had straightened up at the sight of me, Henry patting her shoulder and murmuring that they'd talk later. I knew she was talking about me, about my background, my mysterious past, rooted poverty.

But before I could protest or ask her, she'd appear at my elbow, my dry cleaning in hand, the bottle of expensive shampoo I was almost out of but hadn't yet ordered, our social invitations categorized.

“How was your day?” Henry is squeezing lemon over his salad, picking through the leaves with his fork.

“It was interesting.” I can't decide how much to tell him.
Start with the worst.
“I was almost killed today.”

Henry's fork clangs on the marble countertop and he stares at me with eyes rounded in fear and I realize how reckless I've been. How careless.
Tara.
Penny has whirled around and her mouth hangs open.
How cruel.
“Oh God, I'm sorry, that came out so awful.”

Henry clears his throat. “What do you mean,
killed
?”

I place my hand on his arm, caress his wrist. “I'm sorry. I didn't think. . . . Well, I was crossing a street and a car ran a red light and almost hit me. A reporter from the
Post
saved my life.” I use the moment to get in an introduction to Cash, as well. Not that meeting Cash for breakfast is off-limits or anything. Regardless of Lydia's attitude, Henry doesn't exert control. He's always exceedingly interested in how I spend my time, and he's protective. He means well.

“A reporter?” he repeats.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so blunt about it. I forgot about . . . well, Tara. I was thoughtless.”

He wipes his lips, dabbing one side, then the other. After a moment, he sets his napkin down and pats my hand. “It's fine. Tara was part of my life, not yours. Tell me this again? A reporter? Saved your life?”

I relay the story and am able to work in Cash's name again. He leans over and kisses me and his lips taste like lemon and pepper.

“I'm glad you're safe. People are crazy drivers.” His left hand rests on my thigh.

“How was your day?” I spear a slice of tuna and put it in my mouth. He's watching me, and I lick olive oil off my upper lip.

“Oh, the same as every day, I think.”

Penny has her back to us and is storing the last of the dishes. She turns to face us, as usual speaking to Henry, not me. “Do you need anything else before I leave?” She casts her eyes downward. I wonder what would happen if I yelled, screamed, talked to her directly. Anything. I wonder where she goes, who she goes home to? Does her husband live with her? I imagine her in a house in Queens, an invalid husband sequestered to a bedroom, small and dingy, surrounded by fifteen cats, all named for Disney characters.
Captain Hook eats
all the tuna.
She talks to them in her whispered, lilting voice, still young sounding, while they mewl and knead at her lap.

Henry doesn't flinch. “Penny, thank you. This is wonderful. Enjoy your evening.”

Penny gives me a quick head nod and a good-bye, never
ever
saying my name—I'm not sure she's ever said it—and I hear the petite footsteps to the door. The latch clicks into place. I turn to face Henry and his eyes go dark and for a moment that seems to last hours, we just stare at each other.

“Who is this Cash?” Henry asks as he slides over, pushing his plate back. He tugs at my hand, pulls me against him and into his lap. I straddle him but pull away a notch. He only seems to want me, to be desperate like this, when he thinks he's being encroached upon.

“I saw Lydia today.” I play with the buttons of his shirt, tapping them with my nail. I want to tell him about the flower shop, my idea of going back, how it could silence this suffocating notion that I'm not accomplishing anything. I'm going to be thirty years old and I don't have a career anymore. Or friends. Or anything else that other thirty-year-olds have.

He pulls my hand up and kisses my palm.

“I was thinking I could go back to the flower shop. One, two days a week. There's not enough to do with CARE to fill a whole week. I need to
do
something.”

“You do,” he agrees and kisses my neck, and then I realize he's being facetious. He means him.

“No. Henry, I'm serious.” I lean back, away from him, but he smiles. A warm, open
come-on-in
smile. I love this Henry, the one who is undone, his face reminding me of a child's, full of hope and wanting. He slides his hands down to my waist and lifts me onto the marble countertop. His hands trace circles on my thighs and I feel my irritation fading, being replaced with a building want. This is what he does when I try to talk to him.

He tugs my blouse free and his hands inch up my rib cage. His touch is electric, every feather-light graze sends my skin zinging. He knows this and his lips curl up in a satisfied smile. But I am happiest when I'm the tormenter. He grips my shoulders and his head falls to my lap. When he lifts up again, he stares into my eyes, his hands cupping my cheeks so tight it borders on painful.

“I can't lose you, too.” His voice rumbles, low and keening. He runs his thumb across my bottom lip. I bite it softly.

“Henry you're not going to lose me.” I clear my throat.

“I know you want your freedom, to fly and do your own thing. I know I hold you back. I'm sorry. Just . . . have patience. Wait for me.”

“Henry.” I touch under his chin with my index finger. “You were with Tara when she died, right? Holding me back won't stop anything from happening to me. Do you realize that? We all have to live our lives.”

“I never thought I'd love anyone again. I'm not a lovable man. I thought I had my one chance and it was over.”

I slide off the counter onto his lap and face him. I kiss his cheeks, his closed eyes. “Nothing will happen to me.” I can feel him through the thin fabric of his suit pants, hard and insistent, and I put my hand there, lightly scratching with my nails. His eyes flutter back.

I untangle myself and take his hand. “Let's go upstairs.” We leave the dinner plates on the counter, the wine untouched. Almost like we were never there.

•  •  •

Later, our legs woven together, Henry's hand caresses my belly. His face is in my neck. His breathing is sporadic, sometimes regular and steady like he is sleeping, but then he startles and pulls me into him, like he can't get close enough. My stomach rumbles and I think of our salads, wilting on the island.

“I want pizza,” I blurt out. He lifts his head sleepily.

“Pizza?”

“Yes. From a pizzeria.”

We don't do that.

“Hmmm, okay. Order pizza, then.” He wraps his leg around me, pinning me to the bed and pretends to doze. I struggle to push him off and giggle.

I extract myself and slide into one of Henry's workout T-shirts. He pushes himself up on his elbows and watches me, bending his head to glimpse the crescent of bottom peeking out from beneath the hem of his shirt. He gives me a low whistle and a quick pat on the bare skin. I wave him off.

From the bathroom, I order delivery. My chest is bursting with a skittered giddiness. I realize I hadn't finished telling him about my visit with Lydia. The afternoon feels so far away, like it happened to another person. I have a sudden stab of pity for her, with her scoffing superiority and preconceived notions about what makes a loving relationship, with no concept of the give-and-take. She would likely never feel full with love like this. She'd never allow herself to see the flaws of a man, to accept them, to bend herself in any way to accommodate them. She'd never realize it was a two-way street, the way the right man would bend to accommodate her, molding himself around her until they fit together,
just right.

When the pizza comes, I pull on shorts to answer the door and then scamper back to the bedroom with paper towels. Henry sits up in bed, wrapping the sheets around his waist, and stares at me in wonder.

“I honestly think it's been twenty years since I ate pizza in bed.” He pulls up a slice and takes a large bite, cheese dripping down his chin. I situate the box between us. I'm suddenly famished. We chew in silence. I realize I have no idea what time it is.

“So. About Lydia.” I study the box in front of me, wondering what his response will be. He is sufficiently plied with pizza and sex, his legs in a loose
V
, our ankles crossed.

“The punk girl, right? I remember Lydia.”

Was he not listening at all in the kitchen? I try not to be exasperated.

“I miss . . . having a girlfriend. I don't talk to her much anymore.”

“Well, you have different ideas now. You're a rich woman, in a different world. She's not. It drives a wedge between a lot of people.”

“It's more than that.” I pull my ankle back and cross it under me, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. I pick imaginary crumbs off the blankets.

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Henry, do you like her?” I choose my words carefully, picking through the minefield that is a
delicate subject
with Henry. Again, I sense the closing door before its confirmed.

“I have no feelings about her whatsoever, Zoe.” He sits up straighter, his face pulled in, becoming
Henry
again. “You can do as you like, with whomever you like.” The kind of person who says things like
as you like
and
whomever
versus the guy who smacked my bare bottom twenty minutes ago. All these quick-changing people, like stage actors in a play.

“You've never seemed to approve.” I put my pizza down and touch his hand. He looks at it blankly.

“I approve, Zoe. It's fine.” He stands up, gathers the pizza box and the crumpled paper towels, and sweeps crumbs from the white comforter. He mumbles something that sounds like
crumbs in bed.

I feel panicky; I'm losing him. I make a calculated decision.