Genuine Fraud(32)

“They have poison inside them,” said Jule, still talking about the vipers. “Some of them can kill an animal thirty times their size. Don’t you think that would be an amazing feeling, to have a weapon like that inside you?”

“They’re so damn ugly,” said Brooke. “It wouldn’t be worth it. Whatever. I’m sick of herps. Let’s get espresso.”

The snack bar served tiny mugs of deeply bitter coffee and Italian gelato. Brooke told Jule to order vanilla and they poured the espresso over their dishes of ice cream.

“It has a name,” said Brooke, “but I didn’t pay attention when we went to Italy. We had it at this little restaurant on some square. My mother kept trying to tell me the history of the square, and my father was all, ‘Let’s practice your Italiano!’ But my sister and I were bored. We were like that for the whole trip, our eyes rolling up, but then—and this happened nearly every time—the food would come and we would just be all, nom nom nom. Have you been to Italy? It’s a level of pasta you don’t even understand, I promise you. It shouldn’t be legal.” She lifted her bowl and drank the last of the espresso from it. “I’m coming home with you for dinner,” she announced.

They hadn’t talked about Imogen yet, so Jule said all right.





They bought sausage, pasta, and red sauce. Brooke had a bottle of wine in the trunk of her car. At the apartment, Jule shoved the stack of mail upside down in a drawer and hid her wallet while Brooke wandered around.

“Cool place.” Brooke fingered the hedgehog pillows and the jars of pretty marbles and rhinestones. She took in the patterned tablecloth, red kitchen cabinets, decorative statues, and books that had belonged to the apartment’s previous inhabitant. Then she opened cupboards and filled a pot with water for the pasta. “You need a Christmas tree,” she said. “Wait, are you Jewish? No, you’re not Jewish.”

“I’m not anything.”

“Everyone is something.”

“No.”

“Don’t be weird, Jule. Like, I’m Pennsylvania Dutch on my mom’s side and Irish Catholic and Cuban on my dad’s side. That doesn’t mean I’m a Christian, but it means I have to drive back home Christmas Eve and pretend to pay attention at midnight Mass. What are you?”

“I don’t celebrate.” Jule wished Brooke wouldn’t push. She didn’t have an answer. She had no mythology that resonated beyond the hero origin story.

“Well, that’s effing sad,” said Brooke, opening the bottle of wine. “Tell me where Immie’s been.”

“She and I came here,” said Jule. “But just for a week. Then she told me she was going to Paris, said goodbye, and later texted that Paris was just a city like New York and she was going to Mumbai instead. Or else Cairo.”

“I know she didn’t go home because her mom emailed me again,” said Brooke. “Oh, and I know she left Forrest. She texted that he was moping like a stripy sad cat and she was relieved to be rid of him, but she didn’t give me the whole picture. Did she talk to you about the cleaner?”

This was the conversation Jule wanted to have, but she knew she had to tread carefully. “A little. What did she tell you?”

“She called me the day after I left the Vineyard and said everything was her fault and she was running off to Puerto Rico with you for some R and R,” said Brooke.

“We didn’t go to Puerto Rico,” said Jule. “We came here.”

“I effing hate how secretive she is,” said Brooke. “I love her, but she’s all about being, like, untethered and mysterious. It’s so annoying.”

Jule felt defensive of Imogen then. “She’s trying to be true to herself instead of pleasing other people all the time,” she said.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind if she tried a little harder to please people, actually,” said Brooke. “In fact, she could try a fuckload harder.”

Brooke walked over to the television as if now she had said the definitive words on the subject of Imogen Sokoloff. She navigated for a little until she found an old Bette Davis movie that had just started. “Let’s watch this,” she said. She poured herself a second glass of wine and served the pasta.

They watched the film. It was black-and-white. Everyone wore wonderful clothes and behaved horribly to one another. After an hour, there was a knock on the door.

It was Maddie, the owner of the apartment. “I need to turn the water in your bathroom sink on and then off again,” she said. “The plumber is downstairs. He wants me to help him figure out why it’s been acting up.”

“Can you come back later?” said Jule.

“The guy is in my place right now,” said Maddie. “I’ll just be a minute. You’ll barely know I’m here.”

Jule glanced at Brooke. She had her feet on the coffee table. “Come in.”

“Thanks, you’re the best.” Jule followed Maddie into the bathroom, where the owner messed with the faucets. “That should be enough,” Maddie said, heading back out. “Now I’ll go see if my sink is backed up. Hopefully I won’t return.”

“Thanks,” said Jule.

“No, thank you, Imogen. Sorry to disturb your evening.”