The Better Liar(78)

47


    Robin


I roll over in bed and Nancy’s there, long black hair, bangs cut sharply over her forehead. I’d forgotten she was in bed with me.

She stares up at my ceiling, at the only poster I have that isn’t a face. Another Courbet. “I can’t believe your dad let you put that up.”

“He never looks up.” I inch over to tilt my head next to hers, so our ears are pressed together, seashell to seashell. “It’s great, right?”

“It’s gross.”

“Beautiful and gross and beautiful.” I grab her shoulders and wrestle her under the comforter. “Don’t you love it?”

“You’re disgusting,” she mumbles into my thigh.

I twist my fingers in her hair, enjoying feeling like I could suffocate her in me. “You’re breathing in.”

She struggles, and I press back for a second, just to fuck with her. I feel her throat move against my leg, about to make too loud a noise, and so I let her up. “Why did you do that?” she whispers when she’s out from under the comforter.

She’s red-faced, stiff with irritation. “I don’t know,” I say. “Don’t be cross.” I’ve started saying cross now instead of mad. That’s what Bette Davis says in Jezebel.

    Nancy’s quiet for a minute. “Are you really running away?” she says finally. “I’ll miss you,” she adds, when I don’t answer.

She’s a child.

“Soon,” I say. “After that I’m never coming back.”

“Why?” She rolls toward me, tucking her face into my neck. “I want you to stay.”

“Because I want to be a ghost,” I say, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. “Ghosts never get old. Everybody remembers them exactly as they were.” I stroke her dark hair. “Like you. You’ll remember me forever, won’t you, Nancy?”

She doesn’t reply. I feel her chest rising and falling against mine.

“Nancy?”





48


    Mary


I woke up with a start.

The room was full of light, but Leslie’s voice was still in my ears, muffled through the door.

What was she saying?

“I love you—I love you.”

To Dave. I twisted to look at the bedside clock—8:35.

Footsteps on the stairs, his and hers.

I levered myself out of bed and pulled the yellow dress down, stepping out of it. The strapless bodice had left wrinkled red lines across my chest. I found my leggings and jacket, and combed my hair with my fingers.

I heard the jingle of her keys. The front door shut. Leaning closer to the mirror, I studied my face. I’d slept in my makeup; there was a red pimple forming next to my nose. I wiped the black from under my eyes and left the rest as it was.

I opened the door to the guest room and stepped on something crumpled. ROBIN. Leslie had left me a note. I folded it twice more and put it in my pocket.

Out the back door, around the corner. I sat in my rented car at the stop sign, waiting for Leslie’s car to cross the intersection. Dave’s car was first, the Jeep. I watched as he disappeared around the corner, heading for the highway. Leslie’s silver Honda arrived half a second later. I waited until the car behind her passed, then turned to follow.

    She was speeding a little, not using her turn signal enough. I fell three and then four car lengths behind, and lost her halfway through downtown. Which bank did she use? I’d thought she was heading toward BOA. Yes—there was her car, a quarter mile ahead, turning in to the lot for the largest branch in the city.

I pulled in and sat in the car, slouching so that she wouldn’t see my face. But she wasn’t looking around. She walked quickly through the glass doors, clutching the envelope.

It took her nearly an hour to emerge. I decided to watch her car instead of the doors, so that I wouldn’t miss her in the stream of people going in and out. At last she appeared again, divested of the check, carrying instead a thick manila envelope sealed with white-and-green tape. She was pale-cheeked, expressionless. I watched her start the car and glance over her shoulder as she backed out of her parking space.

She followed the main boulevard for a few miles, and then she turned east. Now I knew where we were going. I settled back into the driver’s seat and angled the rearview mirror so that I could see my own face. I scraped flecks of mascara off my cheeks with a fingernail and reached into my duffel in the passenger seat, fishing until I found a tube of lipstick in the veladora.

The Honda turned onto Riviera. I coasted in its wake. The sun turned the dust on the windshield solid, striping the landscape with sepia. Familiar houses slid past, one after another, as if counting down to our arrival.

There it was: the painted gate. Leslie’s tires crunched over the gravel in the driveway. I stopped a few houses down, pulling up against the empty curb.

I could only see the shape of her head beyond the headrest. She was still. Why wasn’t she getting out?

I stared into my own eyes in the rearview mirror. I could start the car right now. Pull out, go to a different bank with my passport, sweat through the paperwork. I’d leave fifty thousand dollars richer, in a rented car on the way to LA. Wouldn’t that be enough for me?