You know her, p.1
You Know Her, page 1
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Table of Contents
A Note About the Author
Copyright Page
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To Jeffrey and Arada, whom I miss very much
After
(Before the End)
It is almost October.
If the bees around me are aware of this, they make no mention of it. Instead, they bob and weave in the hazy air, drunk with the heat of a summer that has stretched on weeks too long. From flower to flower they float, scooping sticky clumps of pollen onto black legs. A few have discovered my picnic basket and busied themselves with raiding the half-opened jar of blackberry jam, long tongues probing the curve of its rounded lip. One bee crawls down inside the glass, dangerously close to the gelatinous quicksand. Another collides with a nearby flower, spins, and rolls in the center of its waving head. There is something so urgent about her action, so unlike the laid-back bumbler we believe these creatures to be. And yet the flowers live for this, the violence of the bees.
Sunlight blooms through the gnarled arms of an apple tree above me. I’ve curled myself into her roots, and in minutes I’m half-asleep, lost in the droning symphony of wingbeats, the drowsy kiss of late-morning sun on my skin. Something pokes at me though.
Beneath the sweet stench of apple rot lies something richer, a smell I could dip a finger into; just a hint now, but building, thickening.
A new sound has joined the hum of the bees. Its buzzing is more insistent, a higher whine than the baritone of apiary wings; a flute, to foil the chorus of cellos. In another minute something lands, light and delicate on my lips.
The flute pauses.
The smallest of feet tiptoe one after another across my mouth. I purse my lips, send this traveler into the air on a puff of my breath. The flute resumes. She is above my eyes now, and if I cross them just right, I can see her.
A blowfly.
I’d been wondering how long it would take for them to show up this time.
I watch her float, land, creep across the gently blueing body lying next to me.
December
Sophie
My story begins as it so often has: I was ignoring a man at a bar. Ignoring him, truthfully, because in all the months he’d been coming to sit two feet across a hammered-copper counter from me, he’d never bothered to learn my name. Somewhere, in revenge, I’d forgotten his; plucked it out of my pocket and dropped it to the floor, to be swept away with the food scraps at the end of the night. He became, simply, Bud Light, an epithet gifted in honor of the only words he ever deigned to toss in my direction. He was brothers with Whiskey Ginger, Beer Is the Only Thing That Can Have Too Much Head, and Give Me a Smile Girl.
When I was still young and dewy, I thought these sorts of men were nothing more than a residue, akin to mold slime under the sink and confined to the seedy, late-night dives of my early cocktailing days. Odious, but easily scrubbed away with the right sort of acidity. Soon enough, I learned they exist in every bar, from sticky-floored college dens to sleek date-night spots; they are as much a part of the decor as the fruit flies. Once, I thought they were harmless and laughed at them. They climbed up out of the mold then, as maggots do, and flew into my mouth. A thousand licking tongues laid their voices like eggs in the soft places of me, hatching with every slippery compliment drifting down my thigh, every brazen joke squeezing my waist. An entire universe of mites writhing, making a home, under my skin.
I should have known better. That’s what they always say. She should have been smarter, should not have walked alone at night, should not have worn that skirt, not have opened her laughing mouth to those voices. (Even if that laugh was her shield, which so often it was.) If she’d kept her mouth, her legs, her heart closed, they’d never have gotten in.
I should have known better because I knew them for what they were, though I didn’t remember at first. As a girl, I’d spent long hours scrambling through tall grass and thick undergrowth in the woods behind our house. My legs, bare save for tattered shorts, were an easy target for chiggers and clover mites. I screamed the first time I saw the insects crawling up my ankles, gnawing into still-pale, spring flesh. When I showed my father, he laughed. Mites, he told me, were the price to pay for stepping out into the wild world. If I didn’t want them, I’d have to cover up, have to shield myself from the fresh air. He showed me how to brush clear nail polish over the holes they’d bored. The mites were alive under my skin, he explained, but were easily suffocated by a plug of dried polish. I painted and waited, let my body become a graveyard, and after a few days the itching fell quiet. My father left before he could show me how to paint over the holes drilled by the tongues of men.
After so many years nodding to Bud Light and his ilk, smiling, listening to them whine about their small worries and laughing at their tasteless jokes, their voices all the while building and churning and burrowing under my skin, I have become a creeping thing, hidden under smooth facade. Smile, they tell me, and I let the mites scuttle backward along the pitted curve of my jaw, tug my mouth into a Halloween mask. Here is my skull, grinning.
There was a time when they didn’t bother me so much, their voices, not after I learned how much power I wield from the cramped space behind a bar counter. You see, more often than they realize, men hand you the very rope you need to hang them.
* * *
That night, the last night of the year, was a breath caught in my throat. Our sweet little town of Bellair, home to a mere seven thousand souls, is not a party destination; our New Year’s revelers leak away past the thorn-bound town line to the sheen of nearby Charlottesville or the dirt and glitter of Richmond. A few might even splurge on a trip up to Washington D.C. Some people prefer to throw their own parties, popping in to invite those of the staff they like (Swing by after you get off! We’ll still be rockin’!). The rest stay home, fighting sleep in front of blaring television screens. Later, out on winding roads, their fluorescent jail cells hungry and waiting to be fed, cops prowl the dark like sharks, alert for weaving stragglers. A drinking holiday is no friend to a small town.
Locked in that little bar, the Blue Bell, we waited, for the pop that may or may not come, the horde that our fearless manager, Ty, was certain would burst through at any moment because, “That one time,” he reminded us for the thousandth time as he stood at the end of the counter, fixing his tie, “New Year’s 2015. We weren’t prepared and we got our asses handed to us. Remember that, Soph?”
What I remembered was a hungover dishwasher lagging and a busboy too busy flirting with the servers to concentrate on his job, but I let Ty speak. His voice is a gnat buzzing around my head, easily ignored. Meanwhile, the brand-new boxes of champagne flutes he’d ordered special for the holiday stayed where he’d plopped them, unopened and restless under the ice well. My barback should have unpacked and cleaned them by then, but he’d gone down to look for limes twenty minutes earlier and still not returned. Most likely chitchatting somewhere. If Ty wanted to wash and polish the glasses himself, I was happy to let him do so. It certainly wasn’t going to be me who did.
Someone, probably the hostess, had draped flimsy streamers about the room. They twisted through one another, glinting silver and gold in the low overhead light. Oversize balloons, tethered to chairbacks and table legs, bobbed at the end of thin strings. The servers played at catching one another unawares with a balloon to the face or rubbed hard into coiffed hair until it frizzed. After a while, they all looked like baby chicks, fuzzy hair waving in a soft crown above their heads. Squeals and laughter rang through the room when someone caught my missing barback as he was coming up from the basement, his scrawny arms laden down with bottles, heavy bags of fruit swinging from his hands. He stumbled, caught himself, flushed pink. I tried not to roll my eyes. It was hard though, with “Happy New Year” blaring from the silly holiday headband Ty had insisted I wear. I was just as ridiculous as the rest of them.
Fifteen minutes to open, Chef emerged from his kitchen to announce the specials, shoving a plate of some dead fish across my clean countertop. It skidded to a stop near my elbow, to stare glassy-eyed at the streamers sparkling above it. The servers crowded in, greedy eyes fixed on the fish, ears cocked, half-listening to the lecture they were getting on the proper pronunciation of the specific sort of pepper delicately trailing around the rim of the plate.
“Wifey,” Chef sang, passing a fork in my direction. This is a game all kitchen guys like to play, a verbal slip, a promise with an edge. Wifey, they call you when they’re in a good mood; how quickly their declaration of love becomes slamming pans and fucking cunt when we’re three hours into a dinner shift and knee-deep in the weeds, only to melt saccharine again when they’re desperate for ice water ten minutes later. I get to be Top Wifey because I control the closest water gun, and more importantly, the alcohol. I suppose that also makes me Top Cun t.
The rest of the forks were dumped in an unceremonious pile next to the plate, for the servers to scrabble and squawk over, scoop slippery bits of fish into their mouths. Within minutes, the plate was bare and Ty whisked it away, swiping a finger through the last of the sauce.
Battle plans were drawn, sections divvied up, finishing touches made. We drew in a breath promptly at five o’clock, when, gleaming and trussed, we opened the doors to what we knew would be a dead place, a waiting place, an empty bar on New Year’s Eve.
Sophie
What I wasn’t waiting for was Bud Light, who slouched in not long after we opened. He’d come for his usual, he announced, crashing down into his favorite stool. Its rickety wooden legs creaked under the violent addition of his weight and I held my breath for its collapse, but the chair stood firm. Disappointed at his luck, I passed him a bottle, put the bowl game on TV, and turned my back on him until a time when he might become more interesting.
And then the night opened its lazy mouth and drooled us all to sleep. We twiddled our thumbs through cocktail hour, the servers gathering to stand in flocks at the computers before Ty shooed them away with that absurd proverb, favored by managers everywhere: “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean, folks! Go find something to do.”
They scattered, for a moment. Two to gossip and pretend to sweep the patio, another pair into the kitchen to see what they could wheedle from the sous. My barback, apparently fearful that this edict was also meant for him, shuffled some of my cocktail menus around before placing himself in the far corner with a frown on his face that I suppose he must have thought looked like concentration. The box of glassware, now tucked under that end of the bar, waited, unopened. To his credit, he did look down at it, once, consideration curling out of his ears like smoke, before he picked up a polishing rag to fiddle with instead. There was a time in my life when I would have just unpacked it. An easy task, it would take all of two minutes—just like picking up that sock your husband left on the bedroom floor, the one he walks past without a glance; just like putting the toilet seat down because he forgot again. I’ve grown tired of being responsible for men. The barback is my support staff; I would not do such women’s work for him.
So the box sat.
A few customers dribbled in, and dribbled out again. Bud finished one beer, then another, and another, ordered steak frites, another beer. His eyes never left the TV. When he needed me, he’d grunt or wave or find something quietly obnoxious to do until I noticed him. It might have gone on that way all night, this game we played for the few dollars he’d tip me, if the winds blowing us around hadn’t shifted.
Four hours from midnight, Bud started to fiddle with his latest near-empty bottle. This could have been the signal that he would like another, or it could have been a twitch, prompted by the tackle that stopped his ball mere feet from the needed yard line. Third down. How frustrating.
While he watched spandexed college boys slam into one another, I watched the last sip of beer trickle along the smooth bottleneck and disappear down his throat. When he put it back on the counter I heard a hint of annoyance in the tap of glass on copper: a knock at my door. He nudged it an inch or so further in my direction with the tip of one callused finger. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, on those boys who’d failed once more in their offense and were now clumped together, redrawing plans. Bud swore under his breath, tapped his fingers along the bottom of the bottle. I wondered how long it would take for him to nudge it all the way off the edge. Now he was interesting; the noose slipped over his head.
My barback, seeing something useful to do, swept the bottle from the counter to throw it away. He forgot to ask though if Bud wanted anything else, so the man’s hands flapped empty. Noose tightened. I watched.
Just as the game cut to commercial and it looked like he might actually have to speak to me, a pair of thick, pink hands swatted through the heavy portieres draped over our front door.
Ty hangs these infernal curtains like clockwork every fall, right after the first frost. “To keep people warm, keep the chill out,” he says. That may be true. What they do best though is trap old ladies in waves of heavy fabric, cocooning them in a sea of black felt until, buzzing, they shoot out the other side, angry bees ready to sting the first poor server who forgets to bring them water with a lemon. Light ice. Our hostess, a sweet thing plucked from the local high school, was used to this sort of madness by then and so sprang into action like a seasoned warrior at the first sign of hands.
Her routine was simple: gently tug the curtains aside, so as not to embarrass the poor stranger, then sing a welcome as she ushered them in and pulled the curtains closed again. She’d hold out thin arms to catch each puff or wool coat as it was peeled off a back and flung toward her, hiding the strain in her face as she heaved them up onto the rack.
Next, the required rota of questions: “Just the two of you? Great! Would you like a table or a spot at the bar? Maybe one of our high-tops? Best of both worlds, and the view of the mountains is lovely from the seat right here! Perfect! Will you be needing food menus tonight, or just drinks and dessert? We’re running a fresh-caught rockfish special for the holiday. The chef let me try a bite earlier and it was ah-mazing. And of course, a free glass of champagne for everyone who rings in the new year with us!”
To be successful in this industry, you must become a very good liar, a quality I suspect we have in common with kindergarten teachers and escorts. Smile, wipe your eyes clear of any thoughts, lift your voice. The trick is to show just enough of the self below your mask, tell just enough of the truth so that your guests drop their guard.
None of us should ever be trusted.
* * *
This particular set of hands were connected to a plush, gray barrel perched atop two crisp, khaki legs. Tan docksiders, Oakleys, and a gaudy, striped bowtie completed the ensemble. I knew this man. I’d seen him hundreds of times before, at football games and frat parties and country club luncheons. He’s stepbrother to Whiskey Ginger, cousin to Too Much Head. This is Jungle Juice in the Pi Kapp Basement, though now that he’s grown and got his newly minted Juris Doctor, he’s trying to be his daddy, so he’ll declare himself Maker’s Mark Old Fashioned, if you please.
If the shrinking violet behind him was as much like her momma as the pearls she wore at her throat, she’d be Pinot Grigio, but my money was on Rosé, the pink drink being the libation of choice for the ladies of the millennial American bourgeois.
I watched the hostess skip up to them and throw herself open in a wide smile as she took the proffered coats and gloves, reaching behind her to the stack of menus on her stand. But this boy, who wanted us to think he was a man, swept right past her, his hand on the small of his partner’s back, steering for my bar.
Something sparked under my right shoulder blade, in the center of the knot that had pinned itself there years ago, the one I could never seem to loosen no matter what I tried. By that New Year’s Eve, it had been bound for so long by teeth and tongues and the empty muscle aches of too-long hours that it would never release.
Stools scraped the hard floor; the couple sat.
Bud coughed.
“Happy New Year.” I pushed drink menus toward them. The forgotten hostess trailed behind, dinner menus clutched tight to her small chest. She knew when to make herself a ghost. Still, I saw the frustration in the way she bit her bottom lip before she smiled, the curt bounce of her ponytail as she skipped back to her stand, dismissed by their disregard. The mites had made a home in her too, though she hadn’t realized it yet.
“We’ve been out wine tasting all day,” Old Fashioned announced when I asked what I could get for them. As if that was an answer I could do anything with.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw more hands flap through the curtains, more flustered faces pushing inside. I began to wonder if the night would be busier than I had anticipated, if we’d get the dreaded late pop. It’s money, right? Butts in seats are tips in pockets, that’s how the wisdom goes. The truth though is that after hours dawdling through a dead night, the late pop is a punishment. Chaos spills through the door with every new guest; tempers flare, mistakes are made, and customers, more hungry and less patient at this delayed dinnertime, groan and grumble while their generosity shrinks.
