The Vanishing Year(18)

This is true. I’ve gotten compliments about my hair from strangers in public. The short, angled, punk bob I kept when Lydia and I lived together has grown into a thick chestnut mane that flows just to my shoulders. I don’t say it’s because Henry likes it to tickle his face when I slide on top of him.

“Let me help you look.” She wouldn’t be Lydia if she picked up subtle hints. The light from the window filters through her dyed blue hair, giving her a hazy azure glow. I shrug like this is no big deal, but my heart hammers a staccato rhythm against my rib cage. I shake my head. It’s one thing to accept Cash’s help, that’s professional. It’s another to reach out to Lydia, who still holds anger. With Cash, I could call it off at any moment, Oh, never mind, it was a silly idea, ha ha. Lydia wouldn’t accept that, she’d push and dig, with her sharp eyes and capable hands, until she’d unearthed every sordid thing about my life, lay it bare for Henry to see. No matter what Lydia said, Henry was all I had left.

I glance at my watch. It is after two. Elisa will be back in the shop, angry about Lydia’s absence, the Closed sign, the empty storefront. We pay the tab, I throw an extra ten on the table when Lydia isn’t looking. I can’t be sure that the motivation is entirely altruistic and flash back to Sam lingering near the table, his ears turned to our conversation. I did not dream up his curiosity. Was I saving face? I might be under someone’s thumb, but I have money now.

The walk back to the shop is short and Lydia threads her arm through mine, bumping my hip as she walks.

“Can we do this again? Soon?” she asks, unusually timid.

“Will you talk to Elisa about my proposal? About coming back? Say, one day a week.”

“It’ll be like old times.” Lydia flashes a red-and-white smile.

The shop is still empty, locked up and dark when we arrive, and Lydia sneaks in, flipping on the lights and propping the door open as though she’d never left. We hug, but quickly, an obligatory back pat and air kiss. Lydia and I are bonded in our discomfort with physical contact. I scurry down to the corner and hail a cab.

I’m halfway home before I even remember the careening car. I can’t decide if I will tell Henry or not. It seems so silly, a careless driver, an inopportune walk sign. Not even worth bringing up, really. And besides he’ll only worry.

He worries so much.





CHAPTER 6



Penny makes dinner after all—a finely sliced raw tuna over a bed of crispy radicchio and a loaf of crusty bread drizzled with garlic and olive oil. Henry likes light dinners because of his heavy lunches, surrounded by leather and mahogany, with cigars, steak, and a silky cabernet.

The table is set when I arrive home and I yell a greeting into the kitchen where I hear Penny humming something sensual and jazzy. I run upstairs to change into jeans and a soft button-down shirt. I pull my hair into a low, casual bun and make it back downstairs just as Henry arrives through the front door.

He gives me a brilliant smile, all teeth and crinkled eyes, and my breath hitches. His arms wrap around my middle and he kisses me, full on the mouth, his tongue running along my bottom lip until my knees go weak. He pulls out my bun and runs his fingers through my hair.

“Down,” he murmurs, and I laugh. I step back with a teasing swish of my hips and pull my hair back. He shakes his head playfully. I take his hand and lead him into the kitchen where Penny is setting our plates. Mondays and Thursdays are for casual dining, ties undone, at the kitchen island. My afternoon with Lydia has given me new perspective, reminded me of what I’m blessed with. Our entire apartment would have fit in this gourmet kitchen.

“Perfect, Penny. I had steak at a lunch meeting and I was worried you’d make red meat.”

“Henry, Mondays are never beef.” She pats his hand and turns on her heel, busying herself at the sink. Her short gray hair is pulled into a tight bun and she’s wearing jeans and a bulky sweater. She’s borderline gaunt.

I used to think that “the help” would wear uniforms, or call us Sir or Ma’am. My assumptions come from Evelyn. She was “the help” for more than one household in the Bay Area. She’d take the BART from Richmond to Berkeley, and over to San Fran, a two-hour one-way trip in the morning hours. I sometimes try to imagine Evelyn here, in Penny’s place, and the picture slides from my mind, slippery as wet spaghetti. She talked of her employers with such formality, with reverence, Mr. Mishka, Mrs. Tantor. She didn’t just respect them, she admired them.

But Penny is different. She never feels like “help.” Penny feels like a mother, quietly taking care of Henry and me and never asking anything in return. I’ve overheard her with Henry, shockingly casual, even joking. She mocks him, and he tolerates it. She’s been with Henry’s family since he was young, she knew his parents before they died, she knew his wife, she knows more about him than I do. She makes no bones about the fact that her loyalties lie with Henry. She isn’t rude to me, but she’s never overly friendly. I’ve caught her looking at me with a strange fascination, like a bug under a magnifying glass.

When we first started dating, I asked Henry about it. “Penny really seems to not like me much at all.”

Henry’s response was quiet, twirling pasta around his fork, studying his plate. “She knows I pay her bills. If she doesn’t get along with my new wife, it could ruin her lifestyle. She keeps her distance to protect herself, I’d guess.”