Jacob's Folly (25 page)

“Want a job?” he asked. Her eyes widened.

“I don't mean employment, I mean somethin' to do,” he said.

“Sure.” There were bits of paint on the interior that needed to be sanded down by hand. He helped her into the boat. Her skin ached a little where he touched it.

“I'm going to have to strip her right down,” he called up to her. “This boat is a disaster.”

“Why?” asked Masha.

“The people that owned her didn't take care of her.”

“I've never been on a boat,” said Masha, taking hold of the wide Bakelite steering wheel, swinging it left and right.

“You gotta be kidding me,” said Leslie. Masha took up her sandpaper. They worked for a while in silence. She liked watching the honey-colored wood peek out from under the shiny black paint. It made her forget her nakedness a little. She rubbed until her arm hurt. She stood up straight, the shame returning.

“I'll get a couple of my guys out here soon,” said Leslie, taking off his cap and wiping his brow with his forearm. His face was coated in sweat. “They'll make the work go faster. But they all have jobs they need to finish.”

“I'm thirsty,” Masha said. “You want a soda? They have Coke in bottles in the fridge.”

“I'd love a Coke in a bottle.” Leslie smiled.

Masha climbed down the ladder unaided and hurried away, hopping up the steps to the house. She couldn't stand being this exposed
anymore. Would it be too weird, she wondered, to come back wearing something else? She had a dress in her bag, to wear for class later. No, she couldn't change entirely. She ducked into the room she'd been working in with Doris, where she had left Shelley's hoodie flopped over the arm of the big chair, and tugged it on, zipping it with relief. Then she fetched the Cokes from the empty, staff-neatened kitchen.

What was Ross Coe up to with a beauty like that? Leslie wondered as he waited. Nothing savory, he guessed. The girl came back with the bottles, a black sweatshirt zipped up to the neck.

“Got cold in there?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, handing him a bottle. She seemed so small beside him, he thought. Fragile. The little gap between her teeth as she took a sip, the shy, concave way she held herself, those big glittering obsidian eyes, her every sentence spoken like first steps—wobbly, hopeful, important: he found her touching, mysterious.

“How old are you?” he asked. “If you don't mind me asking.”

“Twenty-one,” she said.

“Don't worry, I'm not gonna card you,” he said. A confused smile flitted across her face. A moment passed.

Helga Coe marched out of the house in a zebra swimsuit. She walked straight into the pool. They both watched her as she performed a perfect breaststroke, bony arms parting the water mechanically as she swam. A staff member, clad in chinos, darted from the house to the guesthouse carrying a stack of towels.

“What's your last name again?” Masha asked him.

“Senzatimore. It means ‘fearless' in Italian.
Senza
, ‘without.'
Timore
, ‘fear.'”

“You don't look Italian.”

“Italian-Irish. What about you?”

Her eyes seemed to lose focus, her face went slack. Then she looked up at him boldly, a challenge in her gaze.

“Guess,” she said, raising her chin.

He squinted down at her. “Could be Sicilian … but no … I'm gonna go out on a limb and say Romanian.”

“Romanian! You think I'm a gypsy?”

“Not with a name like White, I guess.”

“White isn't my real name.”

“What is?”

“I'm done with it, anyway.” She leaned back on the boat, pressing the base of the bottle into her lean belly and gazing out at the pool and the sea beyond it. Her eyes, Leslie noticed, had taken on an oddly purple cast, like an oil slick. He wondered if she was a runaway.

“You're from the Tri-state area, anyway,” said Leslie, “whatever your forebears.”

“Four bears?”

“Forebears. Ancestors.”

“Fancy.”

“You know it.”

“I'm hoping not to sound this way soon,” she said, worrying a few pebbles with the tip of her ballet shoe.

“You sound fine to me,” he said. “If you don't mind my asking, what's your connection to Ross Coe?”

“Derbhan Nevsky is my manager and Ross Coe is investing in his company. Mr. Coe's letting me and Shelley stay in one of his apartments for free till we can get acting work. Unless I don't get any in six months, in which case I think I'm being returned.”

“Return to sender,” he said, thinking the whole arrangement seemed creepy.

“The thing is,” she went on, “I need to make some money. I left home in a rush, I paid almost everything I had for acting classes, and now I'm kind of broke. I don't like being so … in debt. It's like I'm a little kid.”

Leslie nodded, thoughtful. A notion to protect the girl spiked in him suddenly, like a sharp pain.

“Are your parents okay with this arrangement?” he asked.

“They don't really know.”

“I bet they're worried.”

“I'll get in touch with them soon.”

“I'll pay you minimum wage to work on the boat for a couple weeks,” he offered, regretting it immediately. The last thing he needed was a beauty queen climbing all over the boat, getting in everybody's way.

“You will?”

“You probably wouldn't want to do this kind of work,” he said.

“I like it,” she said.

“I'm sure you'll be busy with … whatever it is you'll be doing. Auditions and whatnot.”

“I guess I can only do a few hours a day.”

“If you don't have time, no sweat.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.” She smiled, small dimples appearing high in her cheeks.

Driving home that evening, Leslie thought about the girl. She seemed both guileless and cunning, her flirtatiousness ill-fitting, tentative, as if she were playing a part. He had never seen anyone blush that much. Where had she come from? He would keep an eye on her as much as he could. Maybe invite her to the house, introduce her to Deirdre. Deirdre would take care of her.

That night, I gave Leslie this dream:

I figured, when manipulating a spirit as upright as Leslie's, it's best to stick to the classics.

I
flew through the golden whorls of dust lit up by the evening rays streaming across Leslie's backyard, passed over the pool: undulating molten silver. The guests cast distended purple shadows as they milled and talked and ate. A table laden with food stretched halfway across the lawn: barbecued chicken, pasta salad, hot dogs, arugula. I'd had my fill. Every few seconds the sizzling sound of an idiot mosquito hitting the zapper broke the placid burble of talk. Deaf little Stevie was meandering through the company, the pimply au pair holding his hand, crouching with what I suspected was feigned solicitude; she was leaving for Amsterdam in the morning. The boy's blond wispy hair was lit up by the sun. Eyes wide, lips parted, he seemed fascinated by the play of light on the pool.

Taking his eyes from his son, Leslie flipped a skewer of shrimp. He didn't want to overcook them. Tony, his buddy from the firehouse, was standing beside him watching the burgers, a spatula in his hand.

“Do they have to be hockey pucks?” he asked.

“That's the way you're supposed to cook 'em now,” said Leslie.

Tony shook his head. “There's something wrong with a country when you can't serve a rare burger in your own home.” Leslie chuckled.

Statuesque Deirdre, her Choctaw cheekbones casting shadows
on her jaw, was listening to Marcie Doyle, Dennis's wife. Marcie, a pharmacist, had cropped blond hair, and was moving her short arms with precise explanatory chops. Dennis the police officer was beside her, his face turned sideways as he bit into his third hot dog.

Leslie nodded in his direction. “He's gonna give himself a heart attack if he doesn't stop eating like that,” he said.

“It's because all she gives him is fish,” said Tony. “When he gets out of the house he's like a wild animal.”

“Deirdre only wanted to serve chicken and shrimp,” Leslie said.

“Dennis would have probably cried,” said Tony, removing the charred burgers onto a plate with his spatula. Little Jenny, Bud's wife, walked by in her spritely, carefree way, hair in braids, the baby on her hip. She was looking puffed around the middle these days, Leslie noticed. He had a terrible feeling she might be pregnant again. He imagined the cost of his life ballooning. Bud the Buddhist loped up to him, the beads around his neck clicking as they swung.

“Dad, we need more beer up here,” he said.

“Okay. You know where it is,” said Leslie. Bud turned and walked into the house just as a baby-blue Mercedes crawled down the block. Leslie saw it from over the top of the fence.

Inside the car, Masha shifted in the leather seat. The new, viscous gloss on her lips made them feel heavy, a foreign presence. She could smell her own perfume. Shelley had dressed her up with new clothes they'd bought with Nevsky. She was trying out a different look. False eyelashes and everything. Nevsky called it “classic seductress.” The dress was snug, but at least it went below the knees. Shelley had tamed her own hair into platinum waves, and was in a skimpy little sundress. She sat back in the seat, her knees splayed. She looked so at ease. Masha wished she could be like that. She felt stiff, self-conscious, as if she were wearing a face over her face. Surinder slowed to a stop, got out,
and opened the door for them. There was Leslie, opening a gate to the backyard. As she got out of the car, his eyes changed. They looked hurt, or worried. Masha felt blood rush to her face. Nevsky trotted past her, beamed up at the big man.

“Mr. Senzatimore!” he croaked. “I hope you don't mind me turning up uninvited, but I generally try to keep an eye on the girls.”

“You're welcome,” said Leslie firmly. “Come on back.” In the backyard a tall, strong-looking woman in jeans and cowboy boots approached them. Her eyes flicked over Masha's dress as she smiled slowly. Masha's throat tightened.

“Are you Masha or Shelley?” the woman asked in a low, warm voice.

“Masha.”

“I'm Deirdre. Leslie's wife. Come on in, I'll get you both something to eat.”

Leslie watched his wife lead the girls to the table where the food was laid out. Deirdre would sort Masha out, Leslie thought. Make sure she wasn't being hoodwinked. If there was a problem, Deirdre would draw it out of her. He spotted his mother-in-law, prancing across the lawn barefoot, a pair of high-heeled sandals dangling from one hand. She whooshed over to him and tossed her head. “Sorry we're late,” she said. “Don was napping and I felt I should wait for him to wake up, make sure he wasn't dead.”

“And is he?” asked Leslie.

“He's right there,” she complained, pointing her finger at Derbhan Nevsky, who was talking in an animated way with a large tree. Don leaned out from behind it and slapped Nevsky's back.
Old friends
, Leslie thought. He began to regret the invitation.

I had pumped the dream of rescuing Masha through Leslie's head three nights in a row by now. A preoccupation with the girl was building. Leslie pulled a bottle of cold beer from the cooler and allowed
himself a long look at his dream victim. She was listening to Deirdre and Shelley, or rather, observing them. She looked noncommittal. She was only on loan, her manner seemed to say. On loan for the evening, for this particular forty-five minutes. Soon she would return to the place she inhabited, some interior space. She was halfway there already. Leslie wondered what it was like inside Masha's head. He wondered what secret she carried around in her. Her mystery emanated from her. The other men felt it too. Tony drifted over to her and started talking. Dennis. She was a magnet. Leslie hung back. Masha looked over at him, though, through the others, and smiled. Her attention thrilled him. This pleasure was not what he had intended. This was not why he had invited her, not at all. He wished they would all just leave. What was Nevsky doing with Don? Leslie walked over to them, riled. Don was still leaning on the big tree.

“Talking business?” asked Leslie.

“Mr. Nevsky is just filling me in on the progress with his new company,” said Don. “He's managing those two starlets over there. I'm considering a modest invesment, to start with.”

Leslie looked down at Nevsky. He had a rodent face, he thought. A scuttler.

“I don't want to twist anybody's arm,” said Nevsky. “Truth is, Ross Coe is bankrolling the enterprise. But there's room for a few individuals to come in on the ground floor, that's all.” Don was nodding. Leslie wondered at this. As a bank officer, Don was a pessimist. This guy was obviously a huckster. Why was Don so mesmerized? Plus he had no money to throw around.

Deirdre came up behind Leslie and squeezed his waist. He put his hand on her wrist. “They're fine,” she whispered in his ear.

“Who?” he asked, turning to face her.

“The girls. You were worried about Masha. I think she's got her head screwed on. They've got free room and board on spec, and a contract. If she doesn't get work, she'll go back home to her family.”

“What kind of people is she from?” asked Leslie, pulling her away from Nevsky and Don.

Deirdre shrugged. “I don't know. She's cagey about that. Shelley's been around the block; she'll take care of her. You have to stop worrying about everybody, honey. The world keeps spinning, even when you don't hold it on your shoulders. Right?” she said to Stevie, who had put his arms around her knees. She picked him up and put him on her hip. Leslie watched Deirdre carry his boy back into the house, feeling a little clunk of hopelessness in his sternum. His poor son. As if in flight from the feeling, he walked over to Masha, who was standing alone now, a glass of Coke in her hand.

“You're gonna rot your teeth out with all that Coca-Cola,” he said.

She smiled at him. “They're my teeth,” she said.

“So far.”

“Are you a strict dad?” she asked him.

“It's hard to be strict with Stevie. Did you meet my sons?”

“Yeah, and your grandchild. My father has five grandkids.”

“How many kids in your family?”

“A lot.” Her waist, cinched in by the silky material of the dress, seemed especially small this evening.

“You look different,” Leslie said.

“I'm overdressed,” said Masha.

“People don't dress up enough anymore,” he said. “I got pictures of my parents out on a Saturday night with friends, they look like they're going to the opera.” She looked up at him. His rough-hewn face was lit up nearly orange by the dying light. He seemed to have been carved out of rock. “Did you get something to eat?” he asked. “There's shrimp and salads …”

“Yes, your wife gave us loads of food.”

“Deirdre's the best,” said Leslie. Masha felt pinched out of Leslie's life by that statement. Her disappointment surprised her.

Hugh was going for a drink after class. Shelley and Masha were coming with him. Outside, blue dusk. Masha still half expected Miriam to spring out of a bush and drag her home.

The bar was a hot, loud, jumpy place with ska playing on the speakers. Shelley was shouting amicably to a guy in a porkpie hat. Hugh inhabited the green leather booth, his long arms spanning the back of it. He was sipping whiskey. Masha drained her glass of wine. The alcohol made her feel fearless. She thought about Carol Cutrere, from
Orpheus Descending
. Carol loved her liquor. She stayed out all night driving up and down the Dixie Highway, hopping from one drinking establishment to another, spending her family money till she didn't know where she was. Carol was a feral, lost, disillisioned person with very few positive attributes, yet Masha had come to love her fiercely.

“I've never been drunk before,” she said to no one in particular.

“Take it easy, girl. You'll make yourself sick,” said Hugh, standing up and sweeping a bowl of salted peanuts from the table beside them. She took a few into her mouth.

“And you know what else?” she asked.

“What?”

“I've never kissed anyone before.” The bar was so loud, she wasn't sure he'd heard her. He slid his arms down from the back of the leather bench and leaned in to her, taking her in with his wide eyes.

“I'm not like a normal girl from your world,” Masha said.

“Are you saying that because you want me to kiss you?” he asked her.

She missed Eli, like a sudden cramp. And she could never have him now. He was gone. Vanished. She shook her head.

“I was just telling you,” she said.

Hugh leaned back in the booth. “Duly noted.”

Afterward, he walked them both to the Coes' blue Mercedes,
parked outside the bar. Surinder Multani seemed to be deep in thought, leaning on the side door, his hazelnut-brown skin and spotless turban gleaming in the streetlight. When he saw them he smiled and opened the rear door.

“It's like you two are being kept by gangsters,” Hugh said.

“Come with us to meet the Coes,” said Shelley impulsively. “Come to dinner. Right?”

Hugh looked at Masha. “I wouldn't want to intrude,” he said.

“Sure,” Masha said. “Come.”

The Coes were not displeased to see that the girls had brought an attractive visitor from acting class to join them at their favorite seafood restaurant. They adored other people. Shriveled, elegant Helga, her hair a shining helmet, teeth a dazzling bulwark of enamel, asked Hugh if he knew white wines. “When I was a girl, we had a villa with beautiful vineyards …,” she began, eyes drooping as she lost herself in the reverie. Whenever she pronounced
s
it sounded like a kettle was whistling in her mouth. Hugh, ever chivalrous, listened to tales of her prewar past in the Rhineland, downing his whiskey and asking for another. Meanwhile, Ross Coe concentrated on the women.

“So. Tell me about yourselves,” he said. “Shelley. What do your parents do?”

“Well,” said Shelley, gazing at the ceiling, “My mother is a massage therapist, she lives in Newport, Rhode Island. Which is where I grew up. And my father is an airline pilot. He lives in Delaware. I have a younger brother, he's still in college.”

“And when did you know you wanted to be an actress?”

“I guess when I was sixteen, I was in a high school production and I realized that was just it for me. My ex-boyfriend—we moved to the city together, but we've kind of split up—he wanted to be a playwright, so …”

“Aw,” said Helga. “What made you split?”

“Honey, that's personal,” said Coe, patting his wife's spotted hand with his small one.

“Pardon me,” said Helga, “I am always so sad to hear about broken love affairs.”

“That's okay,” said Shelley. “We were just … we've been together so long … we're too used to each other, I guess.” Her eyes met Hugh's for a beat, Masha noticed. It hadn't occurred to her until now that there might be something between those two. “We're still good friends, though,” Shelley added, shrugging.

“And Masha?” said Helga. “What is your story?”

“I'm … from Far Rockaway, in Queens,” said Masha. There was a pause as her hosts waited for more, but there wasn't any.

“What nationality are your parents?” asked Helga. “You have such an amazing look.”

Masha bit her lip. “Irish and … Romanian,” she said. Shelley smiled.

“Ross, I was right! I knew it!” said Helga.

“That's a good one,” said Hugh. His voice had thickened.

“Excuse me?” said Helga, turning to him.

“I mean,” he said, fixing his glassy eyes on Masha, “Masha is a special person. She has a special power. Over …” He looked around the restaurant, as if for the end of his sentence. “People.”

They let themselves into the free rental and switched on the lights. The air in the apartment felt cool. Shelley turned on the heat, plugged her iPod into the speakers, then went off to change. A gravelly female voice sang over a guitar. Hugh opened a bottle of wine, poured them all a glass. Masha took a sip and looked out the window at the passing lights. She had the sense that they were the last three people on earth.