Cleopatra and Frankenstein(78)

“I love going into strangers’ homes,” said Quentin as they padded down the thick-carpeted hallway. “It feels transgressive. Like, if we’d planned it better, we could rob him right now. I’m not saying we would. But we could.”

The man that opened the door to them was red-haired with a broad, freckled face and eyes the color of sea glass under white-blond lashes. Redheads were, incidentally, Quentin’s greatest weakness. This man’s coloring reminded Cleo of Dutch Post-Impressionist paintings, all blues and rusts and creams.

“You’re here to see a man about a vacuum,” he said, crinkling his eyes in a smile. “Here you go.” He lifted the unwieldy thing into the hallway in front of them. “As I said in the post, it’s missing two of the nozzle things, but apart from that it’s good as new.”

Quentin made no motion to touch the vacuum or retrieve his wallet to pay. He was eyeing the man with a look Cleo had seen many times before. It was longing.

“So, um, if you have cash that’s great,” the man said, directing his attention to Cleo. “Check is good too, I guess. If anyone carries around a checkbook anymore.”

“Do you mind if I try it?” said Quentin. He raised one eyebrow. “Check the … suction?”

“Oh, well, sure,” the man said, stepping aside to let them pass.

The apartment was small and ordinary in every way, forgotten even as one stood inside it. The only point of interest was a framed poster of Mozart looking, as he always did to Cleo, highly lascivious. The red-haired man crouched down to plug the vacuum in behind a low bookshelf that lined the nearest wall. As he leaned forward, his checkered shirt pulled up to reveal a pale, freckled lower back. Milk sprinkled with cinnamon.

His wife was in the shower, he explained, dusting off his knees. It had taken them years to realize they didn’t need two vacuums anymore. Hers was much smaller, a handheld, and she preferred it. He knew better than to argue with a woman about these sorts of things.

“Take it for a spin.”

He passed the handle over to Quentin and pressed the power button. It roared to life, and Quentin began lackadaisically pushing it around the wooden floorboards. As if summoned by the noise, a woman appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, wearing a floral terry-cloth robe. She was visibly pregnant, full and curved as a shoreline. She took in the scene with a bemused smile.

“Sorry, babe,” the red-haired man said. “They wanted a test drive.”

“Do you mind if I try this on the carpet?” Quentin said.

Cleo shot him a warning look, which he ignored.

“Take it away,” said the woman and smiled invitingly.

Quentin moved farther into the room to tackle the carpet under the coffee table, thrusting his hips in tandem. The three of them stood triangulated around him, watching the sight of silk-clad Quentin vacuuming the drab Turkish rug.

“It’s good on carpet,” the man said dubiously.

“I see that,” said Quentin, and smiled as though they had just shared a secret joke. He pushed the off button with his toe, and the room was restored to quiet.

“Well, this all looks great,” said Cleo, motioning to leave. “We should get going.”

“No rush, babe,” said Quentin.

“How long have you two been together?” asked the woman, looking from Quentin to Cleo perplexedly.

“We’re not—,” said Cleo.

“Two years,” said Quentin. “Isn’t that right, honey?”

The man raised his eyebrows in surprise. Quentin loved pretending he and Cleo were together. She always wondered if this was a way of fulfilling a secret fantasy for him, one in which he didn’t have to lie to his family about who he was. Who could blame him? His family had taught him that the only way to be loved was to lie.

“Two and a half years,” said Cleo.

“Oh, I remember the two-and-half-year phase,” the woman said. “That was a long time ago for us old folks.”

Cleo watched her share a look with her husband that contained unbounded pride, and something else too. Joy, she realized. They were in love. She was having his child. They lived in a one-bedroom in the West Village that no one had to lie to anyone to live in. Did Cleo want that? And if not now, ever? What had she done, marrying Frank? She should have married Quentin. She should have married no one. How did a person learn to live? Learn to be happy? She had surrounded herself with people who didn’t know. This couple, with their his-and-hers vacuums, had figured it out.

“So where are you guys from?” the woman asked.

“England,” said Cleo.

“I guessed,” the woman smiled.

“Here,” said Quentin curtly, turning from her toward the man. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from Philly.” He looked to his wife. “But Anna’s actually from here too.”

“Yes, Anna by the way,” said Anna. “And this is Paddy.”

“I went to fat camp in Philly,” said Quentin, ignoring her. “When I was eight. My parents sent me from Poland. It was right by the Hershey’s chocolate factory. What a stupid place to put a fat camp. The air always smelled of chocolate or manure. Obviously only one of them was conducive to weight loss.”

Quentin had directed this exclusively to Paddy with a fervent kind of intensity.