“What’s going on tonight?”
She pretended not to hear him. White noise in her ear.
“Baby doll, I am talkin’ to you. We goin’ out tonight?”
She stared at a passing black fly, wishing it would just drop to the floor without her having to touch it.
Need a new swatter. Just $4.99 in the camping package.
“Georgia!”
“I don’t know, Jeremy. Haven’t thought about it yet.”
“Why you talkin’ so slow nowadays? Sound like a damn retard,” he said, using the edge of a manila envelope to dig the tobacco out from between his teeth. “We need get your head checked again?”
He spit a small, wet wad of tobacco onto the floor. “Might be the night to have some of those crazy pills, know what I’m say—”
With his mouth open like that, Georgia only thought of how much he looked like one of those gargoyle fountains she had seen in the SkyMall all those years back, when she had left Texas to go to her cousin’s funeral in Kentucky. She’d read the inflight magazines cover to cover, selecting gifts for each of her friends and family members. Unlike her husband, she thought, those gargoyles were elegant, classy, with great big marble wings, and smooth mouths that sang out cool, clear streams of water, instead of a rainfall of sentences lacking vowels.
Shifting her weight onto her elbows, she lifted her chin to him, her big eyes matching his beady ones. His head was sweating gel, and his new drugstore cologne (“cK One” eau du toilette, $19.99 in drugstores) stung her nostrils.Her eyes flitted to the bedroom wall. A poster was splayed across it, an abrupt interruption to the peeling whitewash.
"Who's Sleeping in Larissa Hong's Bed?" it taunted in fat pink letters.
The poster featured a sunny blonde Asian girl, winking and grinning, her body contorted atop a stack of silky pillows. She looked too comfortable for the way she was dressed, restrained by a lace number that vomited frills and fishnet from every angle. Larissa wore a pair of pink Lucite heels that Georgia had seen on HSN, once ($38.89, with a promo code). A former film star was hocking them then, the skin across her large chest stretched tighter than a snare drum.
Larissa’s breasts looked real — they were small, round, symmetrical. Georgia’s own breasts often felt heavy and misshapen, like forgotten tennis balls swollen by the rain.
A loopy signature, splashed in the right corner of the poster, beamed beneath a note:
Jeremy -–
I think we both know the answer to that question. Sweet dreams, Larissa.
Georgia had slept beneath that picture for over a year. She had yet to question her husband about their two-dimensional roommate, or how Jeremy could possibly know the answer to that stupefying query. She figured that it was a rhetorical, non-committal stamp that busy women used to dismiss their droves of suitors. It was a last-minute excuse, a more tantalizing “I’m washing my hair that night.” That’s what she figured, anyway.
Larissa Hong had seen everything, bearing witness to countless benchmarks in a relationship: the silent breakfast the morning following Georgia’s first time to Jeremy’s house; the installation of Georgia’s life into his, via toothbrushes and hairbrushes, sweatshirts and socks left in the bed; the muggy morning he proposed to her. Larissa was there through it all, even when the patina on her poster was growing noticeably worn, even when the corners started to peel in towards each other. Every time Georgia fell asleep looking into Larissa’s acrid green, almond-shaped eyes, she wondered if her husband was doing the same.
✚
When Georgia made her announcement last December, they came to her in droves, like sharks at the first sign of blood. They reminded her that she was “too young, too free. Don’t think about settlin’ down so soon!” She lost count of the fingers wagged, the heads downturned in disappointment. Close friends turned their backs, united as a front.
Towards such blatant rejection, Georgia felt a primal streak; she wanted to tattoo a big “fuck if I care” on her forehead. She invited everybody to the wedding. Jeremy wore a blue velvet suit. He carried the rings himself, because Georgia’s nephews, Tim and Tanner, never showed up.
When the organ began to cough out the processional, Georgia pushed her stepfather’s wheelchair down the aisle, hoping that she wouldn’t trip. She found herself grateful that nobody in the pews turned to look at her. Her bone colored dress sagged off of her shoulders, and she kissed her stepfather’s pockmarks before moving towards the altar.
The normal pastor, Father McDermott, wasn’t available on the date they chose, so they had a notary named Bill Pleiman fill in. Dandruff dotted the collar of his shirt, and Georgia could smell his lunchtime tuna melt when he muttered her name.
“Do you take him?” he breathed.
Of course, she thought. “Yes.”
Bill Pleiman turned his spotted neck towards Jeremy. “Yep.” He kissed the bride before he was supposed to.
✚
Georgia, freshly eighteen, had decided to forgo her senior year at Carver High for a taste of blissed-out domesticity. After she and Jeremy returned from their three-day honeymoon in South Padre Island, Jeremy informed Georgia that theirs would be a two-income household -- “unless you want to pay rent, heh heh.”
“No one is hiring,” she would whine. “I ain’t got nothin’ to show ‘em.”
“Better start showin’ some tit then, George.”
Against her husband’s recommendation, Georgia found gainful employment at a local Jimmie Burger, working the deep fryer. Her boss, Mr. McMillan, told her that she had great potential has a fry cook, and if she was good, she may even move up to shift manager. Georgia knew that meant more money to cover the bills, but it also meant spending more time with Mr. McMillan, a man whose hands too frequently found their way beyond her waistline, her shoulders. Her hair smelled like grease every night, even when she wore a baseball cap.
“Ooh, babe, that smell is rank. Get in the shower before you make dinner.” Jeremy had a dual career track. Before leaving for work as a bartender at the Laughing Marlin, he would organize his merchandise. He set the plastic baggies in rows near the door, watered the plants and separated the seeds until they lodged themselves under his jagged fingernails. Georgia never complained about the smell.
At 17, joy for Georgia’s group of friends meant sneaking into the Copper Penny Saloon, the most unctuous of greasy bars lining the main strip in town. It excited the girls to see the rushes of neon, and breathe the clammy air while they strained to remember the birth dates on their fake IDs, begging guys to buy them cheap beer and Camel Lites. Every once in a while, luck would strike — luck usually favoring the pretty girls — and a young thing and her new man would run off together, move to a big city, never to be heard from again. Luck never looked twice at Georgia.
On a windless day in mid-November, Georgia and company arrived at The Copper Penny, a bar with as much aesthetic appeal as a rest stop stall. Upon her arrival, Georgia surveyed the area for the perfect candidate to buy her a drink. It seemed that the lonely bachelor conglomerate had already zeroed in on her blonde friend Mary. She watched as she flipped her butterscotch hair, braying, as the men ordered another round of frothy pink shots. Striding towards the bathroom, she collided with a man, barrel-chested with beady eyes. He was solid, his torso hard beneath tattoos that she could already see, dark ink swirling beneath his tank top. He slid his forearm around her shoulders, pulling her into an overstuffed booth.
“Yo,” he said, winking. “Can I get you someth-”
Georgia didn’t even let him finish speaking before her mouth was on his, her tongue wet and bulky inside his mouth. When she drew back, she saw his eyes — surprised, but unrepentant. She had never kissed someone before, didn’t know what to do with her hands.
At Carver High, Georgia had always been the funny girl, a cut-up who would make little jokes that would make the teachers smile. Outgoing but anxious, Georgia never knew what to do with her head full of muddy curls and wide hips. She had spent her allowance on hair gels and sprays one time, but her mother threw them all out before she even used them.
She and her new friend spent the rest of the night slugging watery vodka tonics and throwing their bodies together. He had a great smile, white and uninhibited, and every few minutes he would grope for her hand under the table. Georgia’s heart gained momentum, leaping against her rib cage with alarming force. She thought it was just the first flight of attraction, so she shook it off when her mind began to spike in and out of consciousness. Maybe it was merely the effect of drinking noxious amounts of alcohol on just a Saltine dinner. Never drink on an empty stomach, someone wise had told her once, you start to lose the thread of what you’re saying.
Her uneasiness became harder to deny when she awoke, mouth full of gravel. She couldn’t move her arms, but she felt the dark, hot throbbing beneath her belly button and her heart began to race. Thrusting her tongue forward, she felt a tooth come loose. A dull pain flooded her chest, and she tried to stand, but found that her body felt lank and swollen, like she had just been caught in a rip tide.
Rolling on her side, Georgia saw a pool of blood on her unbuttoned jeans. She wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Twisting, she spotted a shadowed silhouette crouching over her.
He cradled her, whispering panicked words into her hair.
Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry.
They woke up the next morning sticking to the cotton sheets.
He always told her that she was lucky that he was there in time, that he must have been her guardian angel. He was her savior. Pressed against him in the almost perfect dark, Georgia saw things projected on the walls that she pushed away as just silly ideas, like the kind that the shriveled thought doctors on TV said were just your mind playing pranks, just messing up your memory. Georgia’s bonked brain was justmixing things up, placing Jeremy’s face over her attacker’s, because it couldn’t have been his rough hands pushing her shoulders to the cement. Couldn’t have been his fingers, strong and hard around her throat. He was her savior.
Three and half weeks later, he kneeled before her on the yellowed linoleum, pinching cubic zirconia between his thick fingers.
✚
Georgia quickly adapted to the lifestyle Jeremy had crafted for them, one that included nitrous tanks in garage apartments, parties that went from Monday nights to Wednesday mornings, learning how to distinguish a potential client from a potential cop. She never said much, and even tried to enjoy herself at times. “This sure beats high school!” she had said once to Jeremy, who in turn had offered her another hit off of his newly purchased bong. Weeks wore on, and Georgia often found herself sitting in silence between shifts, listening to the pipes in their new home bubble and burp.
Georgia began searching for alternative entertainment after her daytime shift. When she wasn’t counting airborne dust particles, she was curled up under a worn black afghan, watching bloody war movies or documentaries on primordial dwarves. Sometimes, she switched to the news but more and more often, Georgia found herself wrapped up in the Home Shopping Network.
Packages began stacking up on the dusty stoop. First, it was the set of playful china cats for the living room — only $22.99 for all seven kitties! Next, she had to purchase the $19.99 sale set of porcelain frogs to offset the cats. After, she ordered a hand-knit tea cozy, since proceeds went to feed children in Africa. She felt good about that one, slipping it over the cracked teapot her mother had once thrown out in the trash. A competitive streak erupted within her. She wanted to be the sole owner of the exclusive Minnie Barnes collection of decoupage frames, so she ordered every one in stock, not even stopping to think about the total. She was the first caller to grab a novelty Samurai sword that Jeremy might like, so she received a complimentary shelf to hang it on as well. A margarita machine arrived at her door with free rush shipping.
One day when she was about to be the last to order a poster of Dolly Parton, Georgia reached for the beat-up Yellow Pages instead. She was looking for a plumber, one who could fix the kitchen sink on the cheap so she could afford to buy the wall-clock that told the time out loud.
She punched in the numbers, watching the lime green light up the pad beneath her fingers. The dial tone droned in her ears, and she closed her eyes, thinking of how to ask for a lower rate.
“Sure Shot Pest Management, T.J. speaking.”
“Oh,” Georgia stammered. “Wrong numb—how are you today, TJ?”
“Doin’ just fine, with it bein’ Monday and all.” TJ had a laugh that echoed throughout his office and bounced back through the phone. She thought of her father’s laughter, husky behind chewing tobacco, once so resonant before it dwindled and eventually stopped altogether.
“What kinda pest ya got, ma’am?”
“No pests. Well, I mean, the occasional fly but nothing all that bad. No coons or nothin’, no opossums.” She twisted the cord of the phone in her hands, leaving pink marks between her fingers.
“Well, what can I help you with then?”
“I’m just — well, how are you today?”
“How am I? Busy, lady. Now what can I do you for?”
“Nothing. Sorry…it was a wrong number.”
✚
Georgia tied up the line, calling everyone: limousine services, 1-4-1-1, the local groceries. She called the florist, ordered a bouquet of daffodils then cancelled it so Jeremy wouldn’t find out and think they were from someone else. The dentist, at least she made an appointment, but the receptionist was one of the witchier women she’d ever spoken to, hanging up alarmingly fast. Georgia soon realized that she was the only person in America to find a way to get telemarketers to stop calling her.
“Lady, I’m being paid to stay on the line and I still want to hang up.”
The White Pages beckoned next. Being the more refined, slimmer sister of the bulky yellow phonebook, Georgia trusted she could find solace between its pages. She started with the Z’s and worked herself backwards. She hit voice mailboxes most of the time, and the people who actually answered usually hung up after they realized it wasn’t a solicitor or a wrong number. Georgia struck gold midway through the H’s. Henrikson.
“Hello?” The voice sounded confused, but happy. She sounded like she was smiling, one that would reach out from the corners of her mouth, straining against cheeks.
“Hello, um is this the Henrikson residence?”
“Yes, Angela speaking.”
“Oh, hi, Angela. My name is Georgia.”
The voice laughed. “Hey, Georgia!”
✚
During their first conversation, Angela Henrikson
explained that she was a homemaker, pregnant with her third — “and hopefully last, hah!”. Her husband worked at an oil and gas company in the city, and traveled a decent amount. She said she was alone most of the time, so when she wasn’t busy with the kids, she volunteered at the church.
“Sunday is my favorite day. I just love to sit outside and watch the babies, or play around with the garden after chapel. It’s great, don’t you think?”
Sundays for Georgia usually consisted of her and Jeremy standing around at the local park, trying to scam teenagers for a dime bag filled with oregano.
Angela Henrikson let Georgia in on her little secret. “Oh, gosh, my husband would absolutely kill me if he knew this. So, sometimes, on Sundays, I don’t go to church. Instead, I leave my kids inside and just sit on the porch and have a cocktail. How wretched is that?” Georgia was intoxicated by the intimacy that comes with those little secrets, those things that always precede a blushed giggle.
“Can I call again tomorrow?”
“Well, I don’t see why not, Georgia! Tomorrow, it’s a date!”
Georgia started incorporating their calls into her dreary routine. She soon had the number memorized. She drank in Angela’s normalcy, her ordinary words and anecdotes slipping down Georgia’s throat in silver drops. Angela Henrikson filled Georgia in on her day, how Thomas stepped on Jenny’s favorite toy, how the baby started kicking while Angela was watching Oprah. Angela punctuated each story with sweet, domesticated expressions that Georgia reciprocated. Darling. Honey. Georgia wanted to say them, wanted to hear them all of the time. When she woke up, honey. When she went to bed, sweetie.
A week later, Angela didn’t answer on the first two rings. By the third, Georgia was starting to get worried. She pressed call again and heard Angela answer wearily.
“You know, Georgia, it’s been lovely getting to know you, but I think it’s about time we get started back on our own lives,” Angela said, her voice quiet and quick. “My baby’s on her way, and I need both of my hands to take care of her. And I’m sure your husband is missing you, the way you’ve been spending all your time talkin’ to me.” Tears cut paths down Georgia’s colorless cheeks as she choked out a goodbye.
Crawling under the black afghan, Georgia fingered the scar at her throat, the one that had appeared the night she met Jeremy. It ached from time to time: a perfect cross, the flesh pink and bumpy. Angela knew about the mark, had encouraged Georgia to interpret it as a sign. “The good Lord was looking out for you that night. The least you could do is pray in return.”
Georgia fell asleep, her head blurring with pathetic pleas. She watched them cross the room, saw them slam the door to her bedroom. Georgia slid off of the couch and began to glide towards the noises on the other side of the wall. They were loud, quiet, loud then quiet.
White noise in her ear.
She clicked open the lock with ease, tripping over her own dingy bra and then another, an alien one -- a useless black strip of underwire and lace. Her eyes adjusted to the squirm of the figures on the bed, the familiarity of Jeremy’s pant and the foreign groans. Georgia flicked on the light. The almond-shaped eyes bore into her. Georgia took slow, measured steps towards the bed. Her husband sat straight up, his hands flying over his head.
“It’s not what it looks like, babe!” he stuttered at her, spittle flying everywhere.
“Larissa Hong,” Georgia said.
The girl choked, injured by her own name.
“Now we know who’s sleepin’ in your bed.”
Georgia thrust the samurai sword ($16.49 on sale) into her husband’s barrel chest. Red spray shot all over the room, soaking the screaming woman, ruining the poster.