Karolina Waclawiak - The Invaders

“There’s love, too. Of course.”

I stared down at my glass and Elaine asked what I was drinking.

“Vodka with a lime wedge,” I said.

“You’ll be drunk in minutes.”

I swirled the lime in the middle of the glass. Maybe that was just what I needed. Elaine took it away from me and hurried to the bar and dripped in pomegranate juice, the new cranberry.

“Have some, it’s good for you,” she said, handing it to me.

I gulped it down and looked for somewhere to sit.

“You don’t have to drink it like a shooter,” she said. And then she told me I looked pale.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“A lot of shit happening around here,” she said. “It’s like Juarez all of a sudden.”

“Like you’ve been,” I said, suddenly feeling bold.

“Of course not. They kill you there, Cheryl. Kidnap you and kill you just for being American. Didn’t you see those water-skiers on Dateline ?”

“I didn’t see that one.”

“It was chilling,” she said. “Hacked to death.”

“You’re so dark,” I said.

“That’s life. Look at poor Steven. Now that’s dark .”

Everyone started talking about Steven then. Fran Cronin’s boy, poor Fran Cronin’s boy. Plastic surgery was going to be needed. He was undressed. They lingered on that fact, as if he was the victim. He was turning into some kind of misunderstood hometown hero. I looked around the room at the men, and at the newly reappeared Jeffrey, now sitting near Debbie Picard, who laughed and laughed, nearly in his lap. He looked positively bored with her and I was glad.

I looked at all the men and stared at them as they leaned back in the sofa cushions, smiling and saying, undressed , as if Fran Cronin’s son had suffered some kind of rite of passage. And I saw all of them with their pants down, holding their penises out and stroking them.

I grabbed on to Elaine’s arm and clutched it so violently that she yelped.

“You’re hurting me,” she said.

“Do you see them?” I asked. “Do you see what they’re doing?”

The men were all looking at me, the women, too. And Jeffrey looked at me the worst of all, embarrassed.

“This drink is too strong,” I said.

I sat down on her wicker chair and nestled my drink in between my fingers, cooling my hands down long enough to be able to run them along my forehead, trying to calm myself down. The couples were still sitting around, talking and laughing. Ignoring me now. No one had their penis out; there was no energetic sound of stroking.

“Honey, maybe you should go upstairs and lie down,” Elaine said.

I went up the stairs, clutching the railing, and into her room, then checked the window to see if anyone was on the street. It was summer-evening desolate.

I lay down on her bed, a beachy room with a knitted blanket and sheets and shams with a Ralph Lauren hydrangea print. I tugged at the blanket. It looked as if Elaine knitted it herself, but I knew that she hadn’t. She had probably gotten it from Knitters Korner in town. Probably for around five hundred dollars, which was a shame because it was clearly a synthetic yarn.

I leaned back on the pillows and hoped that nothing lurid had happened on them, You could never know with Elaine. She was very vocal about never wanting to sleep alone.

Someone stepped into the bathroom and I heard a strong stream of urine. The walls were so thin. I rolled over, trying to cover each ear. It had to be a man. Bad prostate or something. I heard the toilet flush and footsteps and prayed they weren’t headed to the bedroom.

“You okay?”

I turned over, unsure of whose voice it was. Tuck was standing there, smiling and looking around the room.

“Too much going on down there,” I said.

Downstairs, when I’d had my vision, his penis had been small and squat. I stared at his crotch, unable to look away. I didn’t see a bulge, so I thought I had been right on the money. Here was me wanting it, everywhere.

“I conceived my first kid in this room,” he said.

I glanced at his face and he wasn’t looking at me at all; he was staring at the walls, remembering and smiling. I tried to stay silent and not intrude on his memory.

“That was one hell of a party. Elaine’s parties have gotten tamer over the years, if you hadn’t noticed.” He said it in such a melancholy way that I wanted to hug him suddenly, wish that night back for him.

“The room didn’t look like this then,” he said. “And I didn’t look like this.” He looked down at himself, at his creased shorts and faded green polo shirt. He chuckled and patted his small belly.

“You still look fine,” I said.

“You think so?” He was so alert just then, so searching.

He pulled out Elaine’s vanity stool and it was much too small for him. He looked like he was about to share something with me and I wasn’t really sure I was up for it. I leaned my head against the pillows and closed my eyes.

“I like you better than Jeffrey’s first wife,” he said.

“I have been worried all night that you didn’t,” I said, half smiling.

“Well, come on now. I’m sure you hear the opposite all the time,” he said.

“Only as I’m leaving the room,” I said.

“She was a very unhappy woman,” he said.

“Wouldn’t you be?” I asked.

“I really can’t blame her. But if you tell anyone I said that I’ll deny I ever talked to you.” He paused, then said, “Jeffrey’s a tough nut to crack.”

“Try being married to him,” I said.

He was staring out the window at the Magrees’ house, their overbuilt second floor, thinking about something.

“Gilded cages, right?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Let loose. Say what you feel. Talk shit.”

“I’m doing what I’m supposed to do here,” I said.

“Hmm. I guess, I’m sure whoever you are is pretty good, too.”

I narrowed my eyes at him and he looked at me, lying on the hydrangea sheets, tight hair bun jabbing the back of my head, and I felt like he could see right through me.

“Uptight is the word I’m looking for, I guess,” he said.

“We’re all playing at something, aren’t we?” I said.

“No, I’m just sitting here,” he said.

“You’re the one regaling me with your conception stories.”

“That’s what I mean. Don’t you have any of those? Don’t you have any indiscretions? I know you do.”

“I don’t have any kids,” I said. And then I thought of Teddy, briefly, and for a moment was concerned about where he was. “I have Teddy.”

“I mean sex stories,” he said.

“Everyone has sex,” I said. “Why is that a story anymore?”

He contemplated it for a moment. “I suppose you’re right,” he said.

“You’re looking for first experiences behind a 7-Eleven in the summer? That kind of thing?” I asked.

“I mean, if you want to get that gritty, sure.”

“I don’t think you could handle it,” I said.

I didn’t have sex in exotic locations, just bed-and-breakfasts and places with sheets like Elaine’s — an overabundance of floral patterns. If Tuck wanted to hear about how Jeffrey and I came to be, it would just be stories about dark parking lots and fumbling in his car. We liked it quick so I could get back to my post at the dressing room. When Jeffrey got more attached, it felt nice, and when he would tell me about his wife, I would listen and hold his hand and tell him he was a very patient man. I loved him because he loved me and we had so much fun on bona fide dates, going to museums and jazz festivals. He even took me all the way to Massachusetts once to visit Tanglewood and eat brie and listen to classical music in a big, rolling field. I realized that the appeal might have just been that I was from somewhere else and I wasn’t after anything from him except his time. I didn’t think these were the types of sex stories that Tuck wanted to hear.