In the Kingdom of Men (32 page)

I opened my mouth to answer, but Mason cut me off. “If I commit to this job, I commit all the way. A lot of good men have given the best years of their lives to making this place work, and if I say yes, I mean to be one of them.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ross said.

Mason relaxed back, fingering his cigar, but I set down my drink. I couldn’t stand another minute of Ross, of Candy, not even of Mason. “We really need to go,” I said.

Candy’s eyes flashed in the torchlight. “I’ve seen your pictures in the newspaper, Gin. They’re very nice. You should have brought your camera.”

Mason glanced at me, murmured his agreement, relieved to move the conversation along. “I told her she should send some to
National Geographic
.”

“Ask her where her camera is,” Candy said.

Ross beetled his brow. “Here, now. Let’s have some more
sadiqi
juice.”

“Ask her,” Candy said.

Mason peered at Candy for a moment, then slowly moved his eyes to mine. “Where’s your camera?” he asked.

I held Candy’s gaze. For a heartbeat, I thought I might lie, but it was her smirk that made me more angry than afraid. “I gave it to Carlo Leoni,” I said. “Security confiscated his.”

Candy slanted her mouth. “Ross told me that you were right
in there with the action, Gin, just you and Carlo, running around the desert in Ruthie’s Volkswagen. Must have been
loads
of fun.”

I looked at Ross, who screwed up his face like an apology and scratched a thumbnail across his forehead.

Mason sat still for a moment, then carefully stubbed his cigar. “We’re keeping you folks up awful late.” He stood with Ross and shook his hand. “If you’re offering me the promotion, I’m saying yes right now.” He turned to Candy, pressed her fingers between his. “That was a blue-ribbon dinner, ma’am. Mighty fine.”

Candy cocked her hip, said, “Any ol’ time, Mr. McPhee,” then cut her eyes at me. “You haven’t even asked how Pat is doing. I know he’s dying to hear from you after all the fun you two had at the ball.”

Before I could answer, Mason gave a final nod good-bye, gripped my elbow like a rudder, and piloted me to the car. We sat in silence as he throttled us home, working the stick shift like he was levering iron. When I started to speak, he held up his hand.

“Don’t,” he said.

“If you’ll just listen to me, I’ll tell you the truth.”

“What the hell makes you think I want to hear it?” He punched the Volkswagen around a corner and hit the curb in front of our house. “You’re going to bollix this up for everybody.”

He slammed his door, ignored mine, and I followed him across the grass, dragging my wrap through the dew. “Maybe you would rather have Candy for a wife,” I said loudly. “I saw the way you looked at her. She’s nothing but a tramp.”

He turned, his face flushed. “You’re acting like you don’t have a lick of sense in your head,” he said. “You’re starting to make me crazy.”

“Crazy?” I said. “You think I’m making you crazy?” I slapped my chest. “What about me, Mason? You don’t know what it’s like, being stuck in this place day after day.”

“From what I’m hearing, you don’t either.” He banged open the door, and I trailed him through the living room and into
the bathroom, where he pulled off his shirt, stripped his belt, then cranked the shower. “You’ve got this big house, nice furniture, Yash waiting on you hand and foot. What more do you want?”

I peered at him, let my hands drop. “You’ve changed, Mason,” I said. “I don’t even know you anymore.”

His mouth hardened, and he took a step toward me. “I’m still the same guy I was the day we got hitched,” he said. “I’m the guy who is working his ass off so that you can get your hair done and buy your jewelry and wear your pretty clothes. I’m the one who is paying for this roof over your head.” He pointed his finger. “You’d better look in that mirror if you think that I’m the one who’s changed.” He glared at me for a moment before turning to the shower.

I stood, staring at the curtain he pulled between us, and felt my anger turn to a paralyzing helplessness. I looked at myself in the mirror—my mouth drawn down, my shoulders slumped. The marble floors, the double closet with its cache of new outfits, the enviable bidet—I hated it all. I willed myself to move into the bedroom, to go through the motions of readying for bed, to take off my clothes, pull open the dresser drawer, and take out a fresh nightgown.

What was it about seeing my unmentionables there, so neatly folded and carefully arranged, that broke the spell? The cold despair that had numbed me gave way to a rage that seized me like a fit. I jerked the drawer from its slides, turned it upside down, and dumped it on the floor. I kicked my underthings into a maelstrom of nylon and satin, straps akimbo, leg holes gaping, my slips lacing the lamp shades, my stockings flagging the curtains. I moved to Mason’s underwear drawer and scattered his boxers and T-shirts and socks across the room. I heard the shower turn off, Mason step out. He came up behind me, pulling on his pants.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rising into a higher key. “Stop.”

But I couldn’t stop. The dresser emptied, I moved to the closet, ripped shirts and skirts from their hangers, winged our shoes against the walls, then turned my attention to the bed. I snatched the sheets from their moorings and dragged the blanket down the hallway like the skin of an animal, Mason following a few steps behind, hollering for me to stop,
just stop
. I paused at Betsy Bodeen’s tapestry, the unicorn in its pen, and jerked it to the floor, scuffing it beneath my bare feet until the threads frayed. The record albums were next—Buddy Holly, Petula Clark, The Supremes sailing obliquely against the blinds. The couch pillows whumped to the floor, cushioning the crystal ashtray but not the ginger-jar lamp, which shattered into a dozen scarlet pieces. Had the shades been open, the neighbors might have seen me in my all-in-all, raging from room to room like the madwoman I had become. I didn’t pause to think of Yash, all his hard work come undone.

“You’re acting like a spoiled brat,” Mason said. He made a grab for my arm, his grip tight enough to hurt. “When are you going to grow up?”

I turned on him. “Do you want me to grow up? Is that what you want me to do?” I jerked my arm away. “What if I told you that I made love to Abdullah?” I said. “How would that be? Maybe I’m not your little girl anymore.”

It wasn’t the anger in Mason’s face that made me wish I had held my tongue but the shock of pain that took its place, as though I had slid a knife between his ribs—his mouth an open wound.

“You’re crazy,” he said, as though he was truly confounded. “You’re plumb crazy.”

His confusion fed mine, and I hit him in the chest with my fists, not like the girls in the movies, but as hard as I could, like I was driving nails, and it knocked the breath right out of him. He stood stunned for a moment, then grabbed my shoulders and shook me like a rattle. I pushed away, stumbled to the floor, and Mason straddled me, pinning my arms.

“Get off,” I demanded. I wanted to spit, to bite him so hard that he bled.

“Tell me it’s not true,” he demanded. When I wouldn’t answer, he leaned down, his hot breath in my face. “Tell me.” I growled into his mouth, bucked my hips and twisted my legs, but I couldn’t budge him and felt the shame and frustration stinging my eyes.

“I hate you,” I said. I gritted my teeth, bit the words into pieces. “I hate you.”

He went still, and his grip on my wrists loosened. He straightened slowly, moved his weight to his knees, then stood. I looked up to see him peering down at me, his eyes dark with hurt.

I pushed myself up and ran to our bedroom, slammed the door, and curled on the bare bed, feeling like I might shatter into a thousand pieces. I was sure that I heard the front door open and close, Mason leaving the house, going somewhere I couldn’t follow. Maybe he would go to Ross, I thought, tell him to ship me out, that I was no use to anyone anymore. I heard the seconds of the clock louder than the thrum of desert crickets huddled against the still-warm foundation and then the steps in and out of the kitchen, the hi-fi click on, Sinatra start in low.

Twenty minutes, maybe thirty, I lay listening, hoping for the sound of Mason coming down the hallway to say how wrong he was. I imagined what I would say:
Don’t touch me, go drink your whiskey, just leave me alone
. And then, as the air in the room cooled, I thought I might allow him to lie down with me, warm me against the chill. Finally, miserable and shivering, I pulled on my robe, felt my way through the dark, and found him sitting bare-chested on the couch, the liquor bottle close at his side, the ember of his cigarette growing bright, then fading again. There was something about seeing him that way that made me feel sick inside. He was a man that any woman would want, wasn’t he? Working so hard to do what was right. “A real keeper,” Candy had called him. Why was I always getting in his way?

I sat down beside him, pulled his fingers into mine. “I’m sorry,” I said, wondering whether he was too drunk to hear. “You know I didn’t mean it.”

He didn’t look at me but took a slow drag off his cigarette. “I’m never going to be enough for you, am I? Don’t matter how hard I try, never enough.” He let out a breath, smoke rising like vapor. “I was your one-way ticket out of that Oklahoma hellhole. Don’t you think I know that?” He lifted the bottle, wiped his mouth. “Maybe this is where you want to get off.”

I sat very still, remembering how I had wished him away. The thought of being left alone, or of being shipped back home to live on my own, suddenly terrified me.

“That’s not true,” I said. “I need you, Mason.”

“You don’t need me,” he said. “You’ve never needed me.” He fixed his eyes on the dusky wall. “Do you remember when I brought you home from the hospital? You wouldn’t let me near you, wouldn’t even let me sleep in the same bed. I spent all those hours on the couch, listening to you cry.” He brought his eyes to meet mine, the lines of his face etched with shadow. “He was my son too, Ginny Mae. He was my son too.”

The light in the room shifted—a car or maybe dawn coming on—and I felt as though I was at the edge of something awful. How could I undo what I had done?

I moved from the couch to the blanket I had dragged from the bedroom. “Here,” I said, and patted the floor.

He slid to his knees beside me, his hands hanging limp, as though he didn’t have the strength to lift them.

“Help me,” I whispered, and reached for his belt, but he stopped me.

“You’ve got to tell me,” he said, “about Abdullah.”

“Please.” I hushed and kissed him, felt his lips soften. I wanted to appease him but still keep him guessing, keep whatever power this was I had over him. I opened my robe, pressed my breasts
against his bare chest, and lay back, pulling him with me. He rested his weight on his elbows, hovering over me.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, his eyes holding mine. All my resistance had turned to desire, but still I refused, pressing my shoulders to the floor, arching up to meet him. When he entered me, he did it slowly, holding himself back, and I clenched my teeth as he rocked into me, moving me with him. “Tell me now,” he whispered at my mouth, “and I’ll believe you.” When I wouldn’t answer, he pushed deeper, and then I couldn’t stay quiet anymore.

“No,” I said, “I didn’t.”

“Promise me that I’m the only one,” he said, “no one before, no one after.”

“I promise,” I said. “Only you. Ever.”

I felt the muscles in his back tense, his breath catch and hold. I wanted to pull him in, push him away, call out and cuss him, but all I could do was come with him, and then what power did I have? I opened my eyes to the dark ceiling, remembering that first time in Mason’s car, how the frost had starred the windows and our breath fogged around us, how I always gave in too soon, and if that wasn’t need, what was?

It was hard to let go, to separate ourselves. Mason reached for his cigarettes. He seemed himself again, as though our lovemaking had set things right in his head. He drew me to him, and I tucked in, rested my ear against his chest, heard the steady march of his heart.

“I needed that,” he said, and held his cigarette to my lips. I inhaled, let out my breath.

“You know that I’m never going to be Candy Fullerton,” I said.

“And I’m never going to be Ross.” He gathered my hand in his. “Listen,” he said, “I’m going to quit telling you what you can and cannot do. Doesn’t do me any good anyway.”

“I want to explore,” I said, “take pictures like Carlo Leoni.”

“I hear the road to Riyadh is a real adventure,” Mason said.
“When I get back in camp, we’ll load up some food and water and plan an expedition, maybe take a tent, do a little camping, eat by candlelight. How does that sound?”

“Like a start,” I said.

He ran his thumb over my knuckles. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Someone knew what Bodeen was doing but covered it up, and I’m betting a hundred to one that it was Ross Fullerton. He may even have ramrodded the deal with Alireza.” He lay quiet for a moment, then lifted his cigarette, let out a slow breath. “Lucky’s right about one thing,” he said. “These are bigger dogs.” He rolled his face to mine. “Not a word to anybody about any of this, okay? Wrong person gets wind, we could all be in big trouble, and we have no idea who that wrong person might be.”

I should have told him right then that I had spilled the beans to Lucky about Alireza and Buck Bodeen, but I didn’t want to make him angry again, to lose what ground I had gained.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” I said.

He lifted my hand, kissed it, then rocked himself up, pulled me to a stand, and gathered the blanket from the floor before leading me to the bedroom. We made a nest on the mattress and spooned together, slept that night tucked so tightly that I thought I couldn’t breathe.

“No,” Mason would whisper whenever I squirmed for a little more room, until I quit resisting, let my body meld to his.

“Freedom is one of imagination’s most precious possessions,” Yash once said to me, and still, I did not listen.

Mason left for the launch early the next morning, kissing me so long at the door that I heard Yash clear his throat in the kitchen. “See you in two weeks,” Mason said, pinching my bottom. I batted him away, both of us giggling and smooching the air.