Someone Else's Shoes(71)

She is staring at Nisha now, her eyes wide. “So how the hell did you end up married to a millionaire?”

Nisha inhales, lets out a long plume of smoke, and shrugs. “I did what anyone does. Worked at the local bars until I had some money put by. I looked pretty good. Or I had something that made men tip big, anyhow. Worked out I could use that. Got a Greyhound to the big city, did whatever jobs I could, cleaning, housekeeping, working in bars, hustled a little, became Nisha. I saw the name in a magazine and thought it sounded sophisticated. Worked for a guy who knew someone in a gallery, graduated to a better gallery and over a couple of years I remade myself. Learned how to speak without a twang. Dropped the low-cut tops, and dated guys with shelves full of books instead. Turned myself into someone who couldn’t be messed with. I met Carl when he came in to buy a painting—a way overpriced Kandinsky, if you want to know—and I liked his confidence. I liked the way he walked into the place like he already owned it. He was charming. He smelled of money. And security. And I liked the way he looked at me. Like I already belonged in his world.”

“He didn’t know your past?”

“Oh, I told him some of it. He didn’t believe me at first, and then he thought it was funny. Sometimes I thought he was even a little proud of me for it—Carl loves a fighter—but every now and then, if he was pissed, he would use it against me. Call me white trash, or hillbilly, or put me down. But I honestly used to think he would never mess with me, like he messed with other people, because he knew I had already dealt with a life far harder than anything he presented me with. He knew I wasn’t afraid of anything.”

She takes a last drag of the cigarette and stubs it out savagely on the edge of her plate. “I misjudged that one, obviously.”

“Hang on,” says Jasmine. “So you had cleaned toilets before!”

Nisha looks up. “That’s what you took from that story?” She laughs wryly. “Not since I was twenty-two years old. Anita cleaned toilets. Nisha hadn’t so much as touched a brush until I came here.”

“Lord. No wonder you hate that man.”

“More than you can possibly imagine.”

She has a sudden memory of Juliana, the two of them sitting out on the fire escape one hot New York evening, months before she had met Carl, sharing a cigarette and laughing, bitching about their boss, catcalling at the construction workers ending their shift. Juliana’s throaty giggle breaking through the suffocating heat as the workers called back up to them, her curly brown hair bouncing on her shoulders as she threw her head back. Juliana would have liked Jasmine, she thinks.

Another memory bubbles up, the last day she saw her. Juliana’s chin lifted, the catch in her voice as Nisha stood in Carl’s vast, ornate apartment and explained what Carl had told her to do, the problems it would cause her if they stayed close. “So you’re choosing this? This is what’s really important to you? I’m your best friend! Your son’s godmother, for Chrissakes!” Juliana had backed away from her, her face contorted. “Who even are you, Nisha? Because I tell you, I liked Anita a whole lot better.”

Jasmine’s voice drags her back. “Nish, I knew you were a fighter, but now I see it. You’ll get your stuff back, and then some. I have no doubt about it. We just have to work it out.”

“We?”

Jasmine’s eyes open. “This Carl is an insult to womankind! You didn’t think I was going to leave you to handle this one alone? We are sisters now. You know that. Anyway. I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“Well,” says Jasmine, and then she smiles, “I was clearing out Grace’s old toys—you know we never have enough room here. And I found her practical-joke kit. She used to love that when she was younger. Fart cushions, the fake chewing gum that snaps on your fingers, you know the thing? Anyhow. It had two old packs of itching powder. So . . .” she steeples her fingers together “. . . for the last two days when I’ve cleaned the penthouse I’ve left your Carl a little present in his underpants.”

Nisha stares.

“Nish, I walked behind him down the corridor this morning. Oh, babe, I nearly wet myself. He was not happy down there.” She stands up and mimics walking uncomfortably, her butt cheeks rubbing together. She starts to laugh at the memory, her eyes closed, hands pressed against the sides of her nose. When she gets it under control, she looks back at Nisha. “I got you, babe. We are in this together.”

Nisha blinks. If she was a different kind of woman maybe that would be the point at which she threw her arms around Jasmine, cried and thanked her and said she loved her and they were BFFs forever. But Nisha is not built that way. Not any more. She studies Jasmine’s face for a moment, and then she nods.

“I’ll pay you back,” Nisha says. “For all of it.”

“I know,” says Jasmine.

“Also: I think it’s possible you are a genius.”

“I wondered how long it was going to take you to realize,” Jasmine says, and starts to sing to herself as she leaves the room.





twenty-two


That night, when Grace is in the bottom bunk with her noise-canceling earphones on, Nisha climbs up, lies down (the ceiling is too low for her to sit) and dials Ray’s number.

“Mom?”