Ottessa Moshfegh - Eileen

“They say that to children?” Rebecca’s face grimaced in disgust. “Well, I wondered whether Lee might have something to hide, or whether he’d taken his vow of silence to protest his incarceration. Or was it just to torture his mother, be the thorn in her side since he hadn’t had the chance to slit her throat, too? I read his whole file, you know.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I said. “There’s nothing worse than when someone won’t talk to you. Drives me crazy, at least.” I didn’t tell her how my father would go silent for days, ignoring me, eyes glazed over as though I were invisible, saying nothing no matter how much I begged him to answer me. “What have I done wrong? Please tell me.” Rebecca didn’t press me for details.

“But did she seem angry to you, Mrs. Polk?” she asked.

“She seemed upset. They’re always upset, those mothers,” I told her. I wasn’t sure what Rebecca was getting at.

“Perhaps his silence is for her benefit. His silence could be charitable, know what I mean?” She cocked her head thoughtfully, searched my face for a response. I hadn’t followed her reasoning, but I nodded, tried to smile. “Secrets and lies?” she said, dipping her finger into her drink and sucking it. “I tell you, doll,” she said. I blushed. “Some families are so sick, so twisted, the only way out is for someone to die.”

“Boys will be boys,” is all I could think to say. Rebecca just laughed.

“The warden said the same thing this afternoon when I asked him about Leonard.” This surprised me. She finished her martini, then swung around on her bar stool, again facing the table of men. Lighting a cigarette, her posture now became angular and seductive. She blew the smoke in a tall plume up at the low ceiling. “I asked him,” she began, voice modulated into a higher register, eyes squinting at the men who seemed to stiffen, wipe their mouths and look alive, “what Leonard had done to get so many days in the cave, as you all call it. And he said what you said, Eileen.” She put her hand on my knee and then just left it there, as though it had found its rightful place on my leg. “Boys will be boys. I bet it was for something of a sexual nature. Something deviant. They don’t like to tell us gals such things. Leonard has the look. You know what I mean?” she asked.

I was shocked, of course. But I knew exactly what she meant. I had seen “the look” through that little window the day before. “I know,” I told her.

“I thought you might,” she said, winked, and squeezed my thigh.

“What’d you say your name was?” one of the men hollered, interrupting our private moment. Rebecca lifted her hand, placed it against her chest, looked wide-eyed.

“My name?” she asked, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. The men stirred in their seats, expectant as young dogs. “I’m Eileen,” she said. “And this is my friend.” Her hand found mine, still ice-cold and limp in my lap. “Do you all know my friend here?”

“And what’s your name, sweetheart?” one of them asked me. I can’t tell you how fun it was sitting there with Rebecca, a table full of men at our disposal. At least that’s how it seemed.

“Tell these boys your name, doll,” prompted Rebecca. When I looked at her, she winked. “My friend is feeling shy tonight,” she said. “Don’t be shy, Rebecca. These boys won’t bite.”

“Unless you ask us to,” the first man replied. “Jerry here’s got some missing teeth, though. Show ’em, Jerry.” Jerry, the man nearest to me, smiled, peeling up his top lip to show a comical gap. “Go easy, Jerry,” his friend said, patting him on the shoulder.

“How’d that come about, Jerry?” Rebecca asked. Sandy set more drinks for us on the bar. I drank mine fast. I had a moderate tolerance for alcohol, but an extreme thirst for it once I got started. I was probably already drunk by that point. “Did you get in a fight with your wife?” Rebecca teased.

The men laughed. “That’s it. You guessed right. His old lady has an arm like Joe Frazier.”

“Oh dear,” Rebecca shook her head, turned to pick up her martini, winked at me surreptitiously. “To Jerry,” she said, raising her glass. The rest toasted and cheered and for the silent moment while everyone gulped from their drinks, I looked around, astonished at my new place in the world. There I was, a lady, celebrated and adored.

“Tell me, gentlemen,” Rebecca went on. “Do any of you know how to fix a broken exhaust pipe? You all look pretty handy.”

“Your car got problems?” Jerry asked, lisping like a twelve-year-old.

“Not my car,” Rebecca answered. “Belongs to my friend here. Tell them.”

I shook my head, hid behind my glass of beer.

“What’d you say your name was, honey?” one of the men asked.

“Rebecca,” I answered. Rebecca laughed.

“Feel like dancing, Rebecca?” she asked me.

As if by magic, the jukebox kicked back on. I set down my glass. I can’t say where I suddenly found the courage to dance. I never danced. I was drunk, of course, but even still, it astounds me how easily Rebecca pulled me off of my stool. I followed her to the little space by the jukebox, took her hands in mine, and let her lead me around, giggling and stopping every few seconds, covering my face in embarrassment and glee as we swayed and shimmied. We danced for what felt like an hour, first to quick, happy dance tunes, laughing, and then we waltzed around to slow love songs, sardonically to start, but eventually we were lulled into the heady, sweeping pulse of the music. I stared disbelievingly into Rebecca’s serene, wistful face, her eyes closed, her hands on my shoulders like an angel and a devil debating the logic of longing. Rebecca and I moved together in a little circle as we danced, and I held her around her waist, with only my wrists pressed lightly against her body. I kept my hands stiff and stuck them out at an angle so that they wouldn’t touch her. The men in their booth were at first mesmerized and entertained, but then they grew tired. None of them tried to dance with us. By the time the music quit, my head was spinning. Rebecca and I went and sat down at our drinks again. Still entranced and nervous, I shot back the whiskey and finished the beer. “I’ve had plenty,” Rebecca said, and pushed her martini away. I drank that, too. It was gin.

Sandy came over, counted out Rebecca’s change.

“How’s Dad?” he asked me.

“Is this your brother?” Rebecca asked, shocked.

“No, he just knows my father,” I explained.

“Small towns,” Rebecca said, grinning.

I never trusted Sandy. He seemed terribly nosy. He’s not an important figure here, but for the record, Sandy Brogan was his name and I disliked him. He said something like, “Don’t know if it’s a good thing I ain’t seen him, or it means something else.”

“It means something else,” I said, and put my cape back on, pulled the hood over my head. I was feeling very brazen. “Can I have one of your cigarettes?” Sandy shook his pack out toward me and I pulled one out. He lit it for me.

“Quite a gal,” said Rebecca.

“This one’s a good kid,” Sandy affirmed, nodding. He was an idiot.

I smoked awkwardly, holding my cigarette like a nine-year-old would, hand stiff, fingers outstretched, watching the burning tip, going cross-eyed as I brought it to my lips. I coughed, blushed and laughed with Rebecca, who took my arm. Together we left the bar, ignoring the men as we walked out.

Out on the street, Rebecca turned to me. The dark, icy night sparkled behind her, the snow and stars a galaxy of hope and wonder with her at its center. She was so alive and lovely. “Thank you, Eileen,” she said, looking at me oddly. “You know, you remind me of a Dutch painting,” she said, staring into my eyes. “You have a strange face. Uncommon. Plain, but fascinating. It has a beautiful turbulence hidden in it. I love it. I bet you have brilliant dreams. I bet you dream of other worlds.” She threw her head back and laughed that evil laugh, then smiled sweetly. “Maybe you’ll dream of me and my morning remorse, which you can count on. I shouldn’t drink, but I do. C’est la vie.” I watched her get into her car — a dark two-door, is all I recall — and drive away.