The Song for Which Men Leap Overboard
Instead of a gift for the host, Fay brought with her an aroma—cinnamon and anise. She shrugged off the cocoon of her shapeless faux-leopard coat to reveal a long velvet dress speckled with rhinestones, the neckline cut low and the back cut even lower. In the angrier days of my youth, I disagreed with rhinestones on principle: they were a cheap trick to turn heads, employed only by aging women in velour tracksuits with flat-faced handbag dogs. But Fay, as usual, proved me wrong. Her rhinestones glittered like fireflies on black grass, flashing in concert with the pearls of her necklace, her teeth, and her nails. It was no trick. I rose to take her coat. It was warm in my arms.
The party—an haute soirée, I joked—had barely begun. The men from finance clustered around the keg, simulating the water stations of their beige offices; art-school prima donnas peacocked on the couches, comparing their couture; disaffected writers passed a joint around on the deck, shrouding themselves in a billowing narcotic cloud. Caro flitted between them and made strategic introductions. He was the hub around which these disparate spokes turned: he was on the planning committee and at the center stage of the school musical; his silver tongue opened doors to VIP lounges from Seattle to New York; he was elected the media planning department’s Ambassador of Women’s History Month. I had seen him cry on the couch and pass out drunk and pantless in our shared college apartment, but that version of him seemed so far away now, lost in the haze of juvenile stupidity. The Caro of today shuttled back and forth between cliques, too busy being adored to be the host. Hosting had been delegated to me.
“You just want to torture me,” I had said to Caro the night before, hoisting a pallet of hard ciders into the trunk of my battered hatchback.
“Ah, but you like the pain,” he winked. “Besides, you’re better with names.”
“You’re using me, then,” I laughed, but I caved. I didn’t mind the favor; Caro had held my hair as I heaved into frat house toilets, tutored me through accounting courses, and once, memorably, saved my life with the Heimlich. A little meeting and greeting was the least I could do.
After all, it was light work. I took coats. I expressed pleasantries. I flipped through my mental rolodex of Caro’s acquaintances to identify barely-remembered plus-ones. Fay made this last task especially easy. She always came alone, which confused me—I knew that she had no trouble collecting devotees. More than once, after her shows, I spied her stealing away with the most adoring nymphet from the gaggle that crowded her after she stepped off the stage. I tried not to wonder where their night led, but I couldn’t help it—to whose bed did they return? What sweet nothings did they exchange? How did they dance in the dark? At the next show, the guilt of my curiosity compounded my unease as deafening waves of bass battered me against a fluid mass of sweaty young flesh. Onstage, Fay let loose her wild mane and wilder voice and belted out her siren songs. In the shining eyes of the crowd, I watched their ships draw closer. I, too, did not know where the rocks began.
And yet, she came to Caro’s gatherings without a date or a friend. Last summer, lounging in the low lights on Caro’s leather sectional, my collar undone by the flush of inebriation, I asked her why she never brought anyone along.
“I’m not sure my friends would like it.” She ran a manicured finger around the rim of her glass. It did not ring—it was not crystal.
“Then why do you come?”
“Because I want to. What a silly question.” She leaned into my side, and I ventured my arm around the back of the sofa, not daring to touch her directly. The wine on her breath ghosted over my cheek. I did not press further; I couldn’t bear the thought of her head resting against another’s shoulder. It wouldn’t do me any good to change her mind. I wasn’t even sure if it was possible.
I led Fay to the kitchen, and Caro embraced her with fierce familiarity. They were brought together by chance but parted by choice; Caro graduated with honors, rose meteorically to a managerial position in a marketing firm, and got good at mixing drinks; Fay dropped out and made it big—at least among the too-cool indie kids—and developed opinions about cigarettes. She had been gone for a semester by the time I met Caro through a Craigslist roommate solicitation. She first charmed me later, on a bright night like this one. Then too, I watched the old friends reunite with the dark garb and flashy banter of two dueling crows. On the sidelines, I was a dumber breed of bird—mute, uncultured, drab.
Caro cooed over Fay’s towering shoes that brought her up to the height of his shoulder. “You’re so tall now! One day you might even see over the counter!”
She graced us with her warm, smoker’s laugh and called him an asshole.
Regretfully, I returned to my post at the door, anchoring their location in my peripheral vision by Fay’s shimmering dress. Soon enough, the trickle of new guests slowed, and the rumble of the party receded into the house. My duty was done. I abandoned my station, and Addie Washington pounced.
Addie was what Fay was not. She breathed raspily through lips overlined in blinding orange-red. She justified her preening because she was—as she frequently reminded us—a Leo. She liked her job as an assistant at Caro’s firm, probably because she couldn’t imagine a better one. Even this early in the night, the burn of alcohol wafted from her open mouth. Her dress gapped dangerously at the neck, and I was supposed to notice, but instead I sent my gaze through the tiled kitchen, just in time to see Fay brush the arm of a man in an aggressively ironed shirt and snare him with her eyes. A matching touch startled me; Addie had found my elbow.
“Hey, babycakes,” she drawled, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Hey… you,” I said, “nice to see you too.”
We made conversation in the way that only two people with opposing goals can. She inquired; I deflected. I wanted to be clever, but I didn’t want to endure Addie’s barking laugh; thus, we were dull. She stroked her hair and reached out to stroke mine.
“I’m so promiscuous when I’m drunk,” she babbled, “and you’re sooo pretty.” Her vowels seemed interminable.
“Thanks,” I said, squirming, “for telling me that.”
I shuffled towards the kitchen, seeking the safety of the crowd and the numbing effect of the alcohol. As a joke, Caro had purchased a keg of some godawful, puerile light beer; he evaded being hazed by one in school, and at age twenty-seven, this party might be his last chance to experience the humiliation of a kegstand. I found a glass and shot into it a pressurized stream of yellowish misery. Addie was close at hand, preening ceaselessly. As a kid, I once downloaded a computer program that would send a pink animated cat chasing after the cursor. After a week or so, I couldn’t stand it anymore and deleted it; what was cute at the beginning became tiresome by the force of its inescapability. Addie was much the same. No one else paid her much attention, either because she was plain—the polite word for ugly—or she was boring, and one overwrought compliment given over a year ago was enough to bind her to me. At first, the pursuit was flattering; she laughed at the jokes I didn’t expect to land and listened devotedly to my cheap anecdotes. But as a natural skeptic, I performed some experiments. When I modulated my tone to sound humorous, she laughed whether or not I intended to be funny. When I repeated stories, she asked questions with the same earnestness as if it were new. The flattery remained, but with every grating giggle, my indifference morphed into disdain, derision, and disgust. Addie persisted in her chase. I pitied her, but I couldn’t deny the sick pleasure of harboring a sycophant. And if she was the minion, what did that make me?
Not long after Caro completed his kegstand—an impressive and visibly uncomfortable sixteen seconds—I found myself nursing an empty bottle as I listened to a droning story about the latest round of restructuring from Brian, the same man that Fay toyed with earlier. She had abandoned him for richer conversation, and I could see why. The mismatch between his real and perceived competence bordered on comical.
“Albert had to go,” Brian asserted, “because he was holding us back from our performance targets this quarter.” He paused, and his brow furrowed with sincere bafflement. “I don’t know why they moved me to the new team with him, though. They’re not doing anything useful.”
I had chosen an armchair that seated only one, but Addie perched undeterred on the armrest. Some hours ago, I slipped away and enjoyed a brief respite with the now-commingled artists on the deck, but Addie caught me on my way to the drink cooler, and this time, she tailed me watchfully.
In the living room, one of Caro’s theater friends worked the piano. A small crowd gathered to nod and make appreciative noises. Fay hovered near the open case, her hand pressed against its glossy black curves, her lips parted. She appeared enraptured by the choreography of the pianist’s hands. He was playing an arrangement of an aria, and Fay was mouthing the words, echoing the recitals of her youth. Addie noticed me staring.
“I want to dance.”
“Okay.” I knew what came next.
“I mean, together.”
The utility calculus wasn’t easy—on one hand, I could endure another story about Brian’s unjust department transfer. On the other, I could stumble around until Addie got tired. I couldn’t imagine any benefit from the former, and maybe I could reinvigorate my circulation with the latter. I levered myself upright and extended my hand.
“Alright, then. Come on.”
The aria wasn’t dancing music, but we did our best to lurch on beat. I gave up on fancy heeled sandals long ago, so my toes were blessedly shielded from Addie’s stilettoed missteps, but her additional height made turning an ungainly stretch, and my arm extended as far as it could just to clear the top of her head. The song ended, and polite applause popped from the audience. Addie’s smile framed a shiny expanse of pink gums and tall teeth.
“You’re so good at this.” She silently begged for reciprocation.
“You’re pretty okay,” I said, “at dancing. Too.”
Addie beamed, exposing more of her dentition. During the short exchange, Fay had disappeared. The pianist began his encore, a song from a popular musical. Addie knew the words to this one. She gripped my hand tighter in a wordless demand for a second dance.
There was no other escape; I excused myself to the restroom.
The bathroom in the hall was occupied by the sound of retching, so I slipped upstairs into Caro’s bedroom to use his private commode. When I rapped on the door, Fay’s voice surprised me.
“Ocupado!”
“I’ll wait.” I straightened my collar and neatened my hair as I listened for the flush.
Fay emerged, haloed by the sink light that splashed out into the darkened bedroom. A glossy corkscrew had fallen out of her updo. “All yours.”
Caro’s bathroom was neurotically tidy. On the dustless shelf behind the toilet, a pack of baby wipes was flanked by his collection of rubber ducks. The toilet was spotless. I lowered myself onto its faintly warm seat and tried to avoid thinking about Fay’s butt occupying the same space now occupied by mine. At the sink, as if to punish myself for entertaining the thought, I turned the water as hot as it would go and watched the heat pinken my fingers. After a few seconds, it started to hurt. I turned off the tap. The handle sapped the heat back out.
I wiped my hands dry on my pants and cracked open the door. Fay was waiting on Caro’s bed, her legs pretzeled and her tall shoes standing vacant by the bedside table. She inclined her head, birdlike, and gestured for me to join her. I obeyed without thinking. The flannel sheets crinkled between us as I sank into the memory foam topper. Fay uncrossed her legs and shifted closer, brushing the velvet shadows of her knee against the tense muscle of my thigh.
“I haven’t seen you since I arrived,” she said. “Where did you run off to?”
“You didn’t miss much, I promise.”
“I missed talking to you. It’s been so long since our last tête-à-tête.”
“I saw you perform at the Chancery a few weeks ago—” I stopped myself before I could reveal that I had also seen her at Telegram Hall, at Raimond’s, at Queen’s Row.
“Oh, why didn’t you say hello? What did you think?”
I recalled how the dark room had thrummed with the magic of her golden voice. “You were radiant.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“It’s not just me.”
“I’m not so sure of that.”
We hushed as the cloud of Fay’s self-doubt drifted past. She changed the subject.
“What’s going on between you and Addie?”
“I wish I could tell you. She’s been hounding me all night. I don’t even know what she wants from me.” My annoyance overwhelmed my tact. “She’s not a real lesbian.”
“Am I a real lesbian?”
I snorted. “What else would you be?”
“A confused straight woman, of course.” Her doe eyes sparkled demurely under her lashes, but her smile was wicked.
“Oh, be serious. You two are barely the same species. She’s totally graceless.” Speaking my contempt felt good, addictive. “It almost hurts to watch.”
“It’s because you think she’s ugly.”
I couldn’t disagree, but it still stung to have my pettiness acknowledged. I looked away.
“You’re embarrassed to be seen with her.” Fay shrugged, a weightless motion of practiced nonchalance. “Don’t worry, I would be too. But I’m allowed to be shallow. Pretty privilege.” She bounced a loose fist against my shoulder.
I winced. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Would you be embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“I’d be honored to be seen with you.”
“Then why not be with me?”
The question blindsided me. Little ol’ me? With Fay Ellis, darling of the stage and queen of her faerie court? I tried to not sound too hopeful. “I’m not cool enough. I’d cramp your style.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Fay leaned in. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
Up close, I discerned that the smell of cinnamon was coming from her hair. The chapped bark of my lips snagged against the plum-painted plushness of hers, but she didn’t seem to care. I gnawed clumsily, cringing internally, eaten up by the shame of my ineptitude. I only noticed my nosebleed when the warm, thin blood dripped into the tangle of our mouths. Instead of recoiling, Fay licked towards the iron tang with a frightening hunger; I pulled away in alarm.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling foolish. “That’s never happened before.”
“Don’t be,” she murmured, her pupils wide and predatory. “You don’t have to apologize.”
She clutched the back of my neck and its prickled, nervous hairs, and I twisted away, ducking and flinching.
“I c-can’t.” The stutter that I had banished in high school was again clumsy in my mouth. “I just can’t.”
“Are you afraid?”
“I have a girlfriend,” I lied.
Fay laughed. “As if. You’d kiss better if you did.”
She reached for me, and I curled my trembling hands around her wrists, trying to subdue her without hurting her. Her bones were startlingly close to the surface of her skin, and each pearl of her bracelets dented my palms. I scrabbled for an excuse.
“I’m too drunk. You have to stop.”
“You’re not. And I don’t.”
She pulled her arms down onto the bed, dragging me with them. Her lovely face, perfectly framed in the unraveled curtains of my hair, sharpened into wolfishness.
“You can’t refuse me,” she whispered through her smile, “because no one can refuse me.”
And then, she kissed me again, and this time, I did not refuse her.
I awoke to Caro prodding me with a decorative pillow.
“It’s time for breakfast, Casanova.” I couldn’t tell if he was irritated or bemused.
The rumpled bedding beside me was cold. My head pounded with dehydration. My shirt had disappeared, and half-dried sweat glued my back to the sheets. My left nostril was crusted with blood. I knew that I ought to pretend that I was a helpless witness instead of a confused actor in whatever foul scene had transpired in Caro’s bed, but there was no point in playing dumb. I pulled the covers higher over my chest and said nothing.
“Your poached eggs will be ready in five. I got the carrot juice you like.” He shut the door and thumped down the stairs.
The alarm clock read 11:12. I had missed my wish.
I hoisted myself into a bar stool that was still slightly sticky from the fallout of the kegstand as Caro poured a mug of carrot juice and presented the eggs on a souvenir plate from Caro, Michigan. I pierced the rubbery surface of one and watched its golden innards ooze out onto the printed image of Main Street and flow onto City Hall. Caro turned back to the sink, his shoulders shifting as he sudsed the glassware abandoned there from the night before.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I dunno.” What was there to say? I’m sorry I got sloppy with your first ever college friend in your bed without asking you first—it wasn’t my idea—I promise it won’t happen again?
“Okay.”
I chewed with the dull meticulousness of an herbivore. The eggs were good, just the way I would make them for myself, but each one provided only a few bites; I rationed them to buy a longer silence. The rushing murmur of the running tap whispered my shame in a breathless susurration. Then, it stopped. Caro patted his hands dry with a novelty dish towel. I had run out of eggs.
“I’m really sorry about everything,” I said, “but I got carried away.”
“You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.” Caro grimaced. “Didn’t expect you to be one to begin with, though.”
His jab hit home. “I should have known.”
“I should have warned you.” Caro sighed. “Would you have listened?”
I didn’t have to answer; we both knew that I wouldn’t have, couldn’t have. She sang her magnetic song too well.
“She hunts for sport.” He flailed the dish towel for emphasis. “You go to her shows. You know that she picks up stupid little playthings all the time.”
“I’m not the same as those twerps,” I said, my indignation faltering.
He ignored my whining. “Do you know why she doesn’t bring her friends?”
I shook my head.
“Because I won’t let her. I love her to bits, but she’s enough of a handful on her own. If my manager is going to be at my party, then her crackhead buddies can’t be. They all act like they’re invincible. They move in a pack.”
I teetered between betrayal and relief. Caro set the towel down, giving me a clearer look at its print—a rakish devil sitting on a giant wedge of Swiss, asking Hey, have you tried cheese? as he offers a chunk on the end of a three-tined fork. I chuckled helplessly at its absurdity. Why, yes, I finally tried cheese, and it wasn’t what I expected at all. Much more pungent. Much less agreeable. What’s the big deal anyway? Why was I so worked up about it?
Caro’s smile was wan. “She’s too beautiful,” he said, “for her own good. For your own good.”
“No kidding.” I hiccupped with aborted laughter. “No shit.”
He rounded the kitchen island and thumped my back, a clumsy gesture of masculine commiseration.
“Don’t worry about her, alright? You gotta move on. She’s not coming back for you.”
In the foyer, Caro offered me my coat like the skinned pelt of a dead thing. I donned it weakly and stepped outside. An impulse turned me back around. Caro stood in the half-shut door. His body blocked my view into his house, making it private again. He made the same face as the one he wore when he woke me—disappointment? sympathy? annoyance?—and nodded.
“See you later, hombre.”
I turned towards the street. The door shut behind me. I slunk home.
Fay never came to another one of Caro’s parties. Caro suggested that she might have been embarrassed to see me again, but I suspected that she got what she wanted and now she was bored; after that night, I had no doubt that she could be so cruel. Still, I blamed myself. If only I hadn’t been so eager and yet so shy—maybe my naïveté repulsed her. I should have mirrored her hunger.
As self-flagellation, I bought tickets to her shows and stood in the far back, hoping against hope that she would notice my name in the list of attendees, my upturned face, or the halfheartedness of my cheers and applause. But she never did, and I never approached her. The closest she came to touching me was when the points of light glinting off of her rhinestone dress raked across my vision and dazzled me, and even this hurt she did without knowing. But in that moment of brilliant blindness, I could only see her flushed cheeks and flashing teeth, and my adoring delusion spoke true again: her glamor is no trick—she’s the real thing.