Diana Abu-Jaber - Birds of Paradise

Avis pulls on her thin cotton bathrobe and pads out to the living room, barefooted. At first he doesn’t realize she’s there, and she has a moment to observe his unguarded expression as he sorts through the mail. The lines in his face, the pensive eyes — and now he wears glasses — are all stimulating to her. How easy it is — when one lies beside another person for years — to forget to look at them. In the beginning, she’d thought she’d never stop looking.

Brian glances up; his eyes light on his wife, and there is a moment of hesitation. Then he gives way to a full, helpless smile, and says, “Can you believe it?” Just as if this were an ongoing conversation. And she says, “I know .”

Brian moves closer, takes her hand, then closes his arms around Avis. She inhales his plain scent, then places her hand at the center of his chest and presses the side of her face against his body. She thinks about the story that Solange almost told her and feels grateful now that Solange had held back from it. Avis wants the world to be clear.

W HAT COULD SHE HAVE BEEN THINKING, LISTENING to that fool? How had she become so easy to dupe? Oregon. She shifts her weight forward on her board and feels the salt air on her face and eyes. She is happy — delighted even — to be free of Emerson and his dumb plans. This is the special world, right here. Emerson. His parents gave him that bizarre name to try to make themselves seem clever and special: which is always the sign of the dumbest, most un-special people. She pictures him, the clayey whiteness of his skin, the pink of his scalp showing through his stupid Nazi haircut. Who’s he kidding, anyway? That strongman stuff? How lame and sad. Like that proves anything.

Felice rolls down to Lincoln Road, then hops off, flips the board up and carries it as she walks along the mall. She doesn’t need to be cautious anymore. The police haven’t eyed her very closely in a year or two, and several times now she’s spotted kids from school — at bars, stores, and the beach — whose eyes glazed over hers without a glimmer of recognition. She turns right onto Washington to Seventeenth Street, past a cloud of Japanese girls with auburn hair and fuzzy animal backpacks, and strolls into the tattoo shop. Recently Duffy’s has been her main source of income. She’ll put her feet up in one of their dentist chairs by the chrome sinks while Kaiyo and Frederick airbrush ornate, brightly colored designs on her back, arms, shoulders, and legs. They pay her two hundred bucks to sit out in front of their store in a halter top and shorts, sipping Frappuccinos and flipping through magazines. German backpackers, Brazilian and Gulfie rich kids all get snagged on her look. She sees them out of the corner of her eyes, blond college kids daring each other to go talk to her — as if she were someone famous. Some go to Duffy’s for the stupid spring-break airbrush that will start to streak off as soon they wade into the surf; most of them get permanent ink. They come out and show her the new illustrations on their skin — tramp-stamps with stock designs — butterflies or boys’ names. Sometimes Felice feels kind of bad about it.

She’s been scouted by Ford and Elite — real New York agencies. Micah, the agent for Elite — a tall black guy in silver eyeliner — said that Felice was “heart-stopping.” Everyone says that Felice looks like Elizabeth Taylor — all pleased with themselves, as if she were hearing this for the first time. It used to bug Felice: she pictured that squat, henlike woman in her wig and jewels, holding hands with Michael Jackson. But one day, Duffy brought over an old movie magazine while Felice and Berry lounged at their café table. He opened it and jabbed at the photo. “There. Look. You kids really are morons. You really don’t know anything, do you? That’s Elizabeth Taylor.”

Berry craned over the page. “Wow, you really kind of do. Look at her. You guys could be related.”

A little nearsighted, Felice held the magazine closer, startled to see the resemblance — the straight brow bone, glimmering eyes, the fine jaw; only Felice’s straight hair was self-hacked below the shoulders and Liz’s hair was a sable bob, thick as a paintbrush. She finally realized what a compliment this comparison was.

Now Duffy smiles at her from behind the front counter. “Hey, Felix, where you been hiding?” She knows she’s his favorite model. He opens the picture notebook, extricates an envelope and pulls out a wad of bills, then starts peeling off twenties: he does this for her once in a while, whether there’s work or not. “Here, scram, go have fun.”

She tucks the bills into her front pocket. She’s actually disappointed. “Can’t you use me?”

“We’re closing up tomorrow night — there’s a hurricane watch. You got a place to stay?” He looks over the crowded little store. “Could’ve used you this morning. Bunch of scouts here, talking about another reality show.”

Felice balances her board on one hip. “ Here? How many shows do they need about tattoo stores?”

“A lot, I guess.” Duffy says, running his petal-tattooed knuckles over his bare scalp. “They do it, this place’ll go nuclear.”

“Awesome,” Felice says, unaccountably glum.

“You shouldn’t be working tonight anyway. Isn’t it getting to be your birthday?” He taps at his grubby keyboard. “Yup — there you are,” he says, pointing at the screen. “You and my mama — the same day — August 23rd. Tomorrow!” His lips move silently as he reads. There isn’t a lot on the screen, just a couple of fake names — Felix Moreno — a fraudulent Social Security number and address, some other odds and ends he helped her invent. Apart from the year, the birth date information she gave him is accurate. “Your big two-oh girl! Here.” He peels off a few more bills. “Get indoors and have champagne. You can have a hurricane party.”

On her way out, Felice slips through a clot of Danish tourists, six-footers with hair the whiteness of candle tips and lashless ice eyes. She notices that fifteen-year-old Irma (pronounced Ear-ma ) and her thirty-two-year-old mother-agent, Pax, also happen to be there. They started showing up on go-sees last year. Pax sits on the love seat with her gray-tipped bulimic’s teeth. She clutches on her lap a lavishly ugly double-buckled Fendi croc purse. Irma reclines in one of the store’s hiked-up dentist’s chairs and gazes into the distance as Maurice spray-tats a ten-color Hawaiian Tropics Betty Page down the length of her leg. Felice feels a flash of anger: since when is Irma getting Felice’s modeling work? Duffy, still at the front counter bantering with a couple of guys in navy and white Lauren, notices her glare, “She got here first.” He shrugs.

Pax smirks and singsongs at the ceiling, “Somebody’s getting street-kid skin.”

Felice’s mind darkens, her thoughts turn into ropy strands; she thinks of pointing out Irma’s speedball shivers. Then she notices that Pax is hunched forward, holding her daughter’s knobby hand. Felice stares a moment. She turns away, pushing through the shop and out the glass door.

LINCOLN ROAD GLITTERS with reflections — display windows, doors, kiosks. As she walks, the street becomes a flicker book of images. In sixth grade, Hannah taught her to let her eyes unfocus and detach herself from the public gaze: “Don’t ever look at people — they have to look at you .” Felice has always relied on her reflection for consolation — beauty her only certainty. She walks up to the rectangular mirrored column flanking a gelato store. There’s a faint shadow ringing each eye, a crease at the corners of her lips, and her neck juts forward at an unappealing angle she’d never noticed before. Plunged into a black mood, Felice stares down the length of Lincoln Road: everywhere, it seems, are girls and their mothers. She passes the tables at the bookstore café, where a waiter in an ankle-length half-apron stops and watches her. Annoyed, she returns his look. Then she feels the bottom of her stomach drop: The date with her mother. Felice looks at the table where her mother probably waited for hours. How could she forget? She squeezes her eyes shut, presses fingertips against the corners so hard that white phosphene ghosts leap inside her eyelids. Stupid. Stupid.