The Lifeguards(18)
Maya whistled. Everyone knew that Midland was oil country, the epicenter of the Permian Basin, which had been gushing crude since the 1920s. An oil boom in the 1980s had created multimillionaires, and photos of private jets, a new Rolls-Royce dealership, and giant McMansions had fostered the image of Midland as the city of gaudy opulence.
(Annette would find this stereotype to be absolutely true, at least as far as her in-laws were concerned. Louis had grown up on a street called Charismatic Drive in a seven-thousand-square-foot home with a full basement bar and bowling alley; a pool modeled after a Dallas Marriott resort; a sunken living room with sprawling leather sectionals, a movie screen, and a popcorn machine; an art gallery with recessed lighting, a full-time guard in uniform, a small Monet; and a garage full of giant boats Louis’s family had to drive at least a hundred miles to put into a body of water.)
“Yes, he’s probably rich,” said Annette to her mother, before she’d had any idea how wealthy Louis’s family was. (And what kind of wealthy: they donated only to pro-life causes, choosing to use most of their money to show up their neighbors. For example, Louis’s mother had a lighting specialist on retainer for holiday light shows and Halloween lawn theatrics.)
“What’s he like?” said Maya. “Besides rich.”
Annette laughed. “I have no idea,” she said. “I’ve never gone. To Mars at eight. It’s a restaurant.”
“How long has he been asking you?”
“Since…months now. But I’m always here on Saturdays. Dad needs me at the register.”
“You’re fired,” said Maya.
Annette smiled, looked down, and traced a tile with her fingertip.
“I mean it,” said Maya. “We’re not paying for that Jester dorm room so you can be here, taking up space every weekend. Dad can hire someone else.”
Annette was quiet. She opened the cereal cabinet, closed it.
“It’s time,” said Maya.
“OK,” said Annette. “OK.”
The roses arrived on schedule the following Saturday. Annette’s roommate went with her to Buffalo Exchange to find a vintage outfit for her date. “Mars is so romantic,” said Annette’s roommate. Annette chose a black minidress.
At eight-fifteen, Annette approached the small, historic house where Mars was located. She climbed the stairs to the wide front porch and opened the door. Candles lit a red dining room, and Annette’s eyes adjusted to the light, her shoulders falling as she heard soft jazz. At a corner table, Louis was reading a book, a plate of cheese and crackers and a Scotch in front of him. When Annette neared, he looked up.
“Hi,” she said.
His eyes widened. “Is it really you?” he said, breaking into a grin. Annette nodded. When she saw Louis scramble to pull out her chair before she could sit, happiness coursed through her. Annette had never been the beautiful one. It felt so good to be admired—she didn’t want the feeling to end.
When, months later, he first unbuttoned her shirt, the care he took with the buttons and the way he trailed his fingertips so slowly over her skin, awestruck, thrilled her. She was used to hard work, grit, determination, and pain—the price of success. Wonder—inspiring wonder—was new, and Annette luxuriated in the feeling.
Later, she would question what life might have been like with someone who saw her as more than a gleaming trophy—a prize who began to lose her luster the moment she was won.
* * *
—
“WHAT IF I DON’T pass the citizenship test?” said Annette, eighteen years later. “Then what happens to the cake and the sparklers?”
“You’ll pass,” said Louis.
* * *
—
THE WHOLE PARTY MADE Annette a little queasy. While Louis insisted the event was to celebrate Annette’s American citizenship, she knew (even if he did not) that it was truly to show off. It was tone-deaf, especially since the bizarre events of the night before.
When had Annette become the kind of woman who wouldn’t say what she felt? Her transformation into the type of wife who sighed but stayed quiet had happened in tiny increments. But now and again, she felt her old self rise up. “Louis,” she ventured, “do you think maybe we should postpone? It seems wrong, having a party when…”
Louis deflated. “Are you worried?” he said, taking her hand.
“Robert didn’t do anything,” said Annette, though her stomach ached. Had he done something? Or seen something—stood by when he should have intervened?
“That won’t stop them!” said Louis. “They can accuse a boy of anything nowadays! It doesn’t have to be true.”
Annette was often disgusted by her husband’s politics, but at the same time, she, too, was scared of Robert’s life being ruined.
“You either control the story or you get screwed,” said Louis grimly.
Annette exhaled. When Robert had thrown a whole watermelon at Xavier indoors during a neighborhood barbecue, the fruit smashing against a wall (Xavier ducked) and ruining the wallpaper and white couch, the neighbor called Annette to complain. Louis had called the woman back and told her it was her own fault for serving watermelon.
The year before, Robert had ridden his bike past a little girl on a narrow greenbelt trail. According to the little girl’s mother, Robert had knocked the girl down and kept riding. (Robert insisted he hadn’t seen the girl.) The child had ended up in the ER with a sprained elbow, but the version of the story from Louis was that the mother was litigious and needed to be taken down a peg. There was no reflection, no punishment for Robert (save a periodic threat to send him to Midland for a while if he didn’t shape up). Louis’s dad’s lawyer had sent the woman a check and a cease-and-desist letter. The story had been controlled.