Jane Mendelsohn - Burning Down the House

She opened her eyes. Through the late-night haze she could make out the slim silhouette of Patrizia. Poppy rolled over onto her stomach.

Patrizia entered the room and sat on the bed beside her.

She reached down and with a long finger pushed Poppy’s bangs to the side.

Hello there, said Patrizia.

What do you want?

To talk. We didn’t get to talk at the dinner. So many people.

Poppy was rolling over and sitting up with the covers held to her collarbone. They drooped slightly from her light grasp and she sat there practically exposed.

What the hell? It’s the middle of the night.

I just wanted to chat. I didn’t mean to upset you.

You are upsetting me. Because you are waking me up.

Is it true that you told people last night that you are not going to apply to college? I won’t get angry, I’d just like to know.

Why? Who cares about this?

Steve. He wants to discuss your future.

My future?

Yes.

What future?

The future that comes after today. Tomorrow, et cetera.

I can’t think about that.

He says that you must. You know what that means?

Now?

Poppy groaned and pulled some clothes from various points on the bed and hauled them over her head and legs. She pulled on the low boots and put two pills wrapped in Kleenex in her right bootleg and stood up next to the bed pulling on a long cardigan sweater over her T-shirt.

—

Patrizia was still sitting on the side of the bed in her silk bathrobe. Her legs were crossed. She had a large ring on one of her fingers, which she examined while Poppy got dressed. When she saw what emerged once Poppy had scrambled into clothes she shook her head.

Did you have too much to drink tonight? she said.

I don’t drink, said Poppy. I only take prescription drugs.

Patrizia ignored this.

College is a big party. Why wouldn’t you go?

I don’t want a big party. I want to begin my life.

Please, Poppy. Don’t be so melodramatic. No one ever “begins” their life. And anyway, you’ll get so many perks if you go to school: an apartment, an allowance, new people.

I’m sick of school. And people.

Patrizia eyed her. She slid the big ring up and down her finger. What do you want to do? she said.

Work.

Work, said Patrizia. That would be a novel experience.

—

Poppy looked plaintively at Patrizia. She looked at her hair. Patrizia’s shoulder-length hair was brown, the color and sheen of high-quality leather or very expensive chocolate. Sometimes Poppy could make out tiny strands of gray mingling amid the rich gloss. Didn’t you work? asked Poppy.

—

I came from Italy when I was twenty-two, right after university. I worked as a business reporter. Working all hours, slaving in the system. It was fun and interesting for a while, but it couldn’t contain me. If I hadn’t met Steve I don’t know where I’d be today. I was unfulfilled. He set me on a path to salvation. I would be sitting in a small apartment by myself drinking rosé in front of costume dramas or worse if he hadn’t found me. He saw something in me worth investing in and he sees something in you.

Now who’s being melodramatic?

Just come with me and talk to him.

—

They walked down the dark hallway with Patrizia glamorous and ghostly in her pale silk rippling and Poppy sullen and slouching behind her like something being taken into captivity. They passed by many closed rooms where the draft wailed under the doors and by paintings on the walls that hung patient and speechless in the night.

—

Steve was occupying a suite of rooms at the farthest end of the house. Patrizia opened the door to a passageway that led into the central living area. The walls were covered in an oversize toile print that in the dim lighting made it seem as if tiny people frolicking in boats and swings all over the room were being thrown into larger shadows on the walls. Patrizia strode in her wafting robe to the opposite side of the room where Steve was wearing headphones and sitting at a desk.

He was staring at a laptop, with his tablet out on the table and a book open on his lap and papers and two phones atop the desk. Patrizia tapped him on the shoulder and waited. Steve typed away and listened and read and did not look up. Poppy could hear a faint whistling and clanking from some antique faraway pipes. Other than that there was only the sound of Steve’s tapping fingers.

When he was finished he took off the headphones and turned around. He looked at Patrizia and then he looked at Poppy and then turned back to his laptop and he read over what he had written on the screen. He nodded and shut the computer and stood up letting the book fall to the floor and paying no attention to it. He kicked it slightly as he maneuvered from between the chair and the desk. The book ended up open and askew on the floor, pages side down, flat and praying that it would not be kicked again.

—

Steve took large steps over to Poppy and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Then he motioned to two upholstered chairs at one end of the room facing a fireplace and led the way in that direction. Patrizia headed out of the room and closed a door behind her. Sit down, Steve said.

Poppy sat in one chair and Steve remained standing, leaning against the fireplace. He had a commanding presence, but he was not in good shape. He wheezed very slightly as he arranged his body against the mantel. So you have essentially completed your studies, he said.

What studies? said Poppy.

Your schooling. Your education.

—

Poppy looked up at Steve. She sat cross-legged on the wide seat of the chair and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. I want to work, she said.

Work, he said.

Yes. Be out in the world. Begin my life.

You have a life. It began seventeen years ago.

I mean my real life.

What do you think your real life is?

I don’t know. I have to go out and find it.

Where do you think it will be found?

If I knew that I wouldn’t have to look for it.

What kind of work do you want to do?

What you do.

What I do?

Yes. I want to work in real estate.

He stared at her.

Isn’t that what you do? she said.

I suppose that is what they call it.

Steve squinted at her. Do you have any idea what I really do?

Make deals, build buildings, move money around. I don’t know. That’s what I have to learn. It seems practical to just get started soon.

—

Steve sighed and nodded. He walked over to the other chair and fitted himself into the seat with his legs stretched out far ahead of him like oars off the side of a boat. He was floating, for a moment, preparing to change direction. Holding the oars in the current to shift the vessel. In taking a new tack he would be playing a different role. It was as if he had been sailing in a fierce regatta and now he had decided to gently glide in a canoe.

—

He tilted his big chin downward and nodded his head. He appeared to be changing his mind.

I admire your spunk, sweet Poppy, I really do, he said in a mellow voice. But there’s no reason to rush. Why don’t you want to go to college first: get an education, have fun, then you can come work for me?

Poppy looked at Steve. He had his eyes shut. Poppy pushed her hair back behind her ear again. She licked her lips and looked over at the corner of the ceiling. I’m sick of people my own age.

I’m afraid you’re stuck with them, for now. But they will get older. Whom would you prefer to spend time with?

You.

Steve leaned his head back and smiled. Ah, he said. Flattery will get you everywhere.

I’m not flattering you. It’s true.

He slowly rearranged his body and twisted and leaned forward in his chair so that his face was suddenly enormous to her. He looked very deeply into her eyes.