Gone Girl(117)

I look quite pretty after a cry of about two minutes – longer than that and the nose goes runny, the puffiness sets in, but up to that, my lips gets fuller, my eyes bigger, my cheeks flushed. I count as I cry into Desi’s crisp shoulder, one Mississippi, two Mississippi – that river again – and I curb the tears at one minute and forty-eight seconds.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier, sweetheart,’ Desi says.

‘I know how full Jacqueline keeps your schedule,’ I demur. Desi’s mom is a touchy subject in our relationship.

He studies me. ‘You look very … different,’ he says. ‘So full in the face, especially. And your poor hair is—’ He catches himself. ‘Amy. I just never thought I could be so grateful for anything. Tell me what’s happened.’

I tell a Gothic tale of possessiveness and rage, of Midwest steak-and-potato brutality, barefoot pregnancy, animalistic dominance. Of rape and pills and liquor and fists. Pointed cowboy boots in the ribs, fear and betrayal, parental apathy, isolation, and Nick’s final telling words: ‘You can never leave me. I will kill you. I will find you no matter what. You are mine.’

How I had to disappear for my own safety and the safety of my unborn child, and how I needed Desi’s help. My savior. My story would satisfy Desi’s craving for ruined women – I was now the most damaged of them all. Long ago, back in boarding school, I’d told him about my father’s nightly visits to my bedroom, me in a ruffly pink nightgown, staring at the ceiling until he was done. Desi has loved me ever since the lie, I know he pictures making love to me, how gentle and reassuring he would be as he plunged into me, stroking my hair. I know he pictures me crying softly as I give myself to him.

‘I can’t ever go back to my old life, Desi. Nick will kill me. I’ll never feel safe. But I can’t let him go to prison. I just wanted to disappear. I didn’t realize the police would think he did it.’

I glance prettily toward the band onstage, where a skeletal septuagenarian is singing about love. Not far from our table, a straight-backed guy with a trim mustache tosses his cup toward a trash can near us and bricks (a term I learned from Nick). I wish I’d picked a more picturesque spot. And now the guy is looking at me, tilting his head toward the side, in exaggerated confusion. If he were a cartoon, he’d scratch his head, and it would make a rubbery wiik-wiik sound. For some reason, I think: He looks like a cop. I turn my back to him.

‘Nick is the last thing for you to worry about,’ Desi said. ‘Give that worry to me and I’ll take care of it.’ He holds out his hand, an old gesture. He is my worry-keeper; it is a ritual game we played as teens. I pretend to place something in his palm and he closes his fingers over it and I actually feel better.

‘No, I won’t take care of it. I do hope Nick dies for what he did to you,’ he said. ‘In a sane society, he would.’

‘Well, we’re in an insane society, so I need to stay hidden,’ I said. ‘Do you think that’s horrible of me?’ I already know the answer.

‘Sweetheart, of course not. You are doing what you’ve been forced to do. It would be madness to do anything else.’

He doesn’t ask anything about the pregnancy. I knew he wouldn’t.

‘You’re the only one who knows,’ I say.

‘I’ll take care of you. What can I do?’

I pretend to balk, chew the edge of my lip, look away and then back to Desi. ‘I need money to live on for a bit. I thought about getting a job, but—’

‘Oh, no, don’t do that. You are everywhere, Amy – on all the newscasts, all the magazines. Someone would recognize you. Even with this’ – he touches my hair – ‘new sporty cut of yours. You’re a beautiful woman, and it’s difficult for beautiful women to disappear.’

‘Unfortunately, I think you’re right,’ I say. ‘I just don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage. I just didn’t know where else to—’

The waitress, a plain brunette disguised as a pretty brunette, drops by, sets our drinks on the table. I turn my face from her and see that the mustached curious guy is standing a little closer, watching me with a half smile. I am off my game. Old Amy never would have come here. My mind is addled by Diet Coke and my own body odor.

‘I ordered you a gin and tonic,’ I say.

Desi gives a delicate grimace.

‘What?’ I ask, but I already know.

‘That’s my spring drink. I’m Jack and gingers now.’

‘Then we’ll get you one of those, and I’ll have your gin.’

‘No, it’s fine, don’t worry.’

The lookiloo appears again in my peripheral. ‘Is that guy, that guy with the mustache – don’t look now – is he staring at me?’

Desi gives a flick of a glance, shakes his head. ‘He’s watching the … singers.’ He says the word dubiously. ‘You don’t just want a little bit of cash. You’ll get tired of this subterfuge. Not being able to look people in the face. Living among’ – he spread his arms out to include the whole casino – ‘people with whom I assume you don’t have much in common. Living below your means.’

‘That’s what it is for the next ten years. Until I’ve aged enough and the story has gone away and I can feel comfortable.’