The First Bad Man. Миранда Джулай
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Or maybe not, it could just have been the way she wore her clothes, tight magenta sweatpants low on her hips and several tank tops, or maybe a purple bra and two tank tops—there was an accumulation of straps on her shoulders. Her face was pretty but it wasn’t equal to her body. There was too much room between her eyes and her little nose. Also some excess face under her mouth. Big chin. Obviously her features were better than mine, but if you just looked at the spaces between the features, I won. She might have thanked me; a small welcome gift wouldn’t have been unheard-of. The kettle whistled. She looked up from her phone and widened her eyes mockingly, meaning that’s what I looked like.
At dinnertime I asked Clee if she wanted to join me for chicken and kale on toast. If she was surprised by toast for dinner, I was going to explain how it’s easier to make than rice or pasta but still counts as a grain. I wouldn’t lay out my whole system at once, just a little tip here, a little tip there. She said she had some food she’d brought with her.
“Do you need a plate?”
“I can eat it out of the thing.”
“A fork?”
“Okay.”
I gave her the fork and turned up the ringer on my phone. “I’m waiting for an important phone call,” I explained. She glanced behind herself, as if looking for the person who might be interested to know this.
“When you’re done, just wash your fork and put it right here with your other things.” I pointed to the small bin on the shelf where her cup, bowl, plate, knife and spoon were. “My dishes go here, but of course they’re in use now.” I tapped the empty bin beside hers.
She stared at the two bins, then her fork, then the bins again. “I know it seems like it might be confusing, because our dishes look the same, but as long as everything is either in use, being washed, or in its bin, there won’t be a problem.”
“Where are all the other dishes?”
“I’ve been doing it this way for years, because nothing’s worse than a sink full of dirty dishes.”
“But where are they?”
“Well, I do have more. If, for example, you want to invite a friend over for dinner . . .” The more I tried not to look at the box on the top shelf the more I looked at it. She followed my eyes up and smiled.
BY THE NEXT EVENING, THERE was a full sink of dirty dishes and Phillip hadn’t called. Since the ironing room didn’t have a TV, Clee nested in the living room with her clothes and food and liters of Diet Pepsi all within arm’s distance of the couch, which she’d outfitted with her own giant flowery pillow and purple sleeping bag. She talked on the phone there, texted there, and more than anything watched TV there. I moved my computer back to the ironing room, folded up the cot, and pushed it up into the attic. While my head was on the other side of the ceiling, she explained that someone had come to the door with a free-trial cable offer.
“When you were at work. You can cancel it at the end of the month, after I go. So there’s no cost.”
I didn’t fight her on it because it seemed like a kind of insurance that she would leave. The TV was on all the time, day and night, whether or not she was awake or watching it. I had heard of people like this, or seen them, on TV actually. When it had been three days I wrote Phillip’s name on a piece of paper and ripped it up but the trick didn’t work—it never does when you lean too heavily on it. I also tried dialing his number backward, which isn’t anything, and then no area code, and then all ten but in a random order.
A smell began to coagulate around Clee, a brothy, intimate musk that she seemed unaware of, or unconcerned by. I had presumed she would shower every morning, using noxious blue cleansing gels and plasticky sweet lotions. But, in fact, she didn’t wash. Not the day after she arrived or the day after that. The body odor was on top of her pungent foot fungus, which hit two seconds after she passed by—it had sneaky delay. At the end of the week she finally bathed, using what smelled like my shampoo.
“You’re welcome to use my shampoo,” I said when she came out of the bathroom. Her hair was combed back and a towel hung around her neck.
“I did.”
I laughed and she laughed back—not a real laugh but a sarcastic, snorting guffaw that continued for quite a while, getting uglier and uglier until it halted coldly. I blinked, for once grateful that I couldn’t cry, and she pushed past, knocking me a little with her shoulder. My face had an expression of Hey, watch it! It is not okay to ridicule me in my own house, which I have generously opened to you. I’ll let it go this time, but in the future I expect a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround in your behavior, young lady. But she was dialing her phone so she missed the look. I took out my phone and dialed too. All ten numbers, in the correct order.
“Hi!” I yelled. She whipped her head around. She probably thought I didn’t know anyone.
“Hi,” he said, “Cheryl?”
“Yep, it’s the Cher Bear,” I barked, walking casually to my room. I quickly shut the door.
“That wasn’t my real voice,” I whispered, crouching behind my bed, “and actually we don’t have to talk, I just needed to make a demonstration phone call and you were the number I happened to dial.” This felt more plausible at the start of the sentence than the finish.
“I’m sorry,” said Phillip. “I didn’t call when I said I would.”
“Well, we’re even now, because I used you for the demonstration call.”
“I guess I was just scared.”
“Of me?”
“Yes, and also society. Can you hear me? I’m driving.”
“Where are you going?”
“The grocery store. Ralphs. Let me ask you a question: Does age difference matter to you? Would you ever consider a lover who was much older or much younger than you?”
My teeth started clacking together, too much energy coming up at once. Phillip was twenty-two years older than me.
“Is this the confession?”
“It’s related to it.”
“Okay, my answer is yes, I would.” I held my jaw to quiet my teeth. “Would you?”
“You really want to know what I think, Cheryl?”
Yes!
“Yes.”
“I think everyone who is alive on earth at the same time is fair game. The vast majority of people will be so young or so old that their lifetime won’t even overlap with one’s own—and those people are out of bounds.”
“On so many levels.”
“Right. So if a person happens to be born in the tiny speck of your lifetime, why quibble over mere years? It’s almost blasphemous.”
“Although there are some people who barely overlap,” I suggested. “Maybe those people are out of bounds.”
“You’re talking about . . . ?”
“Babies?”
“Well, I don’t know,” he said pensively. “It has to be mutual. And physically comfortable for both parties. I think in the case of a baby, if it can somehow be determined that the baby feels the same way, then the relationship could only be sensual or maybe just energetic. But no less romantic and significant.” He paused. “I know this is controversial, but I think you get what I’m saying.”
“I really do.” He was nervous—men are always sure they’ll be accused of some horrific crime after they talk about feelings. To reassure him I described Kubelko Bondy, our thirty years of missed connections.
“So he’s not one baby—he’s many?” Was there an odd pitch to his voice? Did I hear jealousy?
“No,