Cleopatra and Frankenstein(64)

Frank’s voice, he realized with surprise, was slightly slurred. He slowed his voice to hide this, punctuating each word.

“Is. There. Something. I’m. Not. Providing.”

“Of course not,” said Cleo very quietly. “You provide everything.”

“What are you trying to say, then? Do I not pay our mortgage? Do I not go to work every day? Do I not work my ass off so you can basically do whatever the fuck you want with your life?”

“I’m not questioning how hard you work. I would never! I’ve just noticed—”

“What have you noticed, Cleo? Is it you who’s paying for this apartment? With your … your paintings? You lived in a fucking dump when I first met you.”

“Frank, stop!”

Cleo’s voice was cracking. He knew he should stop, but he couldn’t. There was a sick kind of pleasure in defending himself so ruthlessly.

“Don’t you dare cry,” he said. “You’re not the one being attacked. I cannot believe you would sit here and criticize me after everything I’ve done for you.”

“I’m not criticizing you,” begged Cleo. “I just worry sometimes that you could—”

“I thought I married an artist, not some censorious housewife counting my drinks.”

“I don’t count your drinks—”

“What more can I do? Seriously, what more could I possibly do for you?” She tried to speak, but he barreled on. “No, tell me, Cleo, please tell me what it is I’m not providing for you. I work like a dog. I earn more money than all your little friends combined. I give you everything you ask for. I have never tried to control what you do. You paint, you don’t paint, I support you anyway. And now you’re going to accuse me of neglecting you, neglecting my duties.”

“You’re twisting my words! I … I never said that.”

“You know what? It makes me sick, Cleo. It disgusts me that you could be so ungrateful.”

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what I was trying to say. Just pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“I thought you were an artist,” he said again. “I never expected this petit bourgeois puritanism from you, Cleo. Anyone else, but not you. Honestly, it makes me sick. It makes me feel like I don’t even know you.”

“But you do know me,” she sobbed. “You’re the only one who does know me.”

Frank was watching himself as if he was not himself. He felt gruesome and powerful at once. He had never been allowed to be angry growing up. He had never been allowed to feel anything. Now, the anger blanketed all other feelings. There was no shame, no remorse, no tenderness. He felt protected and untouchable. He felt drunk.

Cleo got up from the bed and shut herself in the bathroom. He looked at the yellow bar of light escaping from the doorframe. He heard her blow her nose and run the tap. He watched the shadow of her feet flit in the strip of light under the door. He heard her turn off the tap and open the cabinet. Let her cry, he thought. He had done nothing wrong. She still had not returned from the bathroom by the time he fell into fitful, dreamless sleep.



They won the Kapow! account. They pitched in the morning, and Frank got the call that very afternoon. The client said they just knew. Frank gathered the entire team together to announce the news, mandating that everyone leave work immediately to head to the bar down the block and celebrate. He was back in his office, trying to get Cleo on the phone to tell her, when Jacky led a crew past his door, singing “We Are the Champions.”

“You coming, hon?” she yelled. “You’re the man of the hour!”

“Cleo’s not answering,” he said. He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. “I’m going to run home and see if she’s there. Check on Jesus. I’ll meet you there in an hour, less probably.”

Jacky smiled at him. “Okay, family man,” she said.

Frank let himself into the apartment and found Cleo on the living room floor with Audrey, crouched over pieces of cardboard with paintbrushes. She had Jesus on her shoulder, lightly tangled in her hair.

“Whats up, Frank,” said Audrey. “Look what we’re doing. We’re protesting!”

“I tried to call you,” said Frank to Cleo. “You didn’t hear?”

“I left it in the other room,” said Cleo without looking up. “Sorry.”

“Jesus is up early,” said Frank, bending down to kiss them both.

“She’s still waking up,” said Cleo, turning her face away. “She never usually sits still for this long.”

Frank took the sugar glider in his hands. She was already a little bigger. He could see his reflection in her huge, dark eyes. He tickled her under the chin with the tips of his fingers. She closed her eyes in pleasure. He swore, sometimes it looked like she was smiling.

“You guys are so weird,” said Audrey.

“Why?” said Cleo and Frank in unison.

“You have a pet rodent called Jesus,” said Audrey. “That’s the definition of weird.”

“She’s not a rodent,” said Cleo hotly. “She’s a marsupial.”

“So?” said Audrey.

“Cley, can I talk to you quickly? In the other room?”