Choke On Your Lies Part 6

"You bet."

"Okay. I have to trust you. I mean, we're the innocent parties here."

That was pretty weird. Or maybe I heard her wrong, being drunk and all. But I did my thing-a knowing chuckle, an old Johnny Carson bow. "Are any of us truly innocent?"

With that, she held her breath. I wondered if she was trying to pa.s.s out. She finally exhaled and said, "I've asked myself over and over."

How to answer? I couldn't. No, I was definitely out of the loop.

She bundled her papers into one arm, walked over and reached around me for a hug. Her skin was sticky with dried sweat. She smelled like bananas and tanning oil. A Pablo Neruda poem came to mind: I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, I didn't understand why I was being hugged, but I didn't resist. And she held on for an eternity. An entire minute of her and me in a darkened college hallway, conspiring, embracing, forgetting the lies we had originally been caught in.

Then she slackened and backed away to her husband's office door, reaching behind for the handle. A peaceful lift of her lips, not quite a grin, and then the door opened. "Bye, Mick."

How I wished not to be a poet at that moment, but instead a hurt soul who had met another hurt soul and recognized each other in spite of our thick armor. Also, I wished I wasn't drunk, because instead of the touchy-feely c.r.a.p I wrote in the previous sentence, I was actually wondering what she looked like naked.

SEVEN.

Octavia could smell it on me-not just the alcohol fumes, but also the bananas and tanning oil that had rubbed off Stephanie. She turned her head away in something like revulsion before saying, "Would you like some wine with your toxicity?"

Jennings led us to the dining room. On the way, Octavia asked, "I can tell it's not s.e.x. You don't smell like p.u.s.s.y. So what have you been up to all day, Professor Thofft?"

"Just...talking."

"To whom?"

I felt like I was in a funhouse, in the spinner. I had to steady myself on her shoulder. She scoffed but slowed her pace to match mine. I supposed the interview had gone well, as Octavia certainly looked comfortable. Her hair was down, slightly damp, and she wore black pajama bottoms with a summery white long-sleeved blouse, also damp in spots as if she'd just gotten out of the shower.

Did I mention that drinking makes me painfully l.u.s.ty?

She was waiting for an answer. I said, "I believe I've found the key to the Robo Pen."

"Okay."

"I need to decide how-"

"You call the boy and tell him there's a problem with the magazine, and you need to discuss it with him in person because you have a hard time explaining computer language over the phone, even though we both know you're pretty well-versed in it."

I stopped walking. My hand slipped off her shoulder as she continued on. After a few more steps she stopped and turned. A Mona Lisa grin in bright lipstick. I wobbled like a boxer who had been badly mismatched.

"You knew?"

"As did you," she said. "So let's talk to each other like grown-ups and stop trying to pat ourselves on the back for being just as smart as we already know we are."

I had my pride. I stared her down and waited, I swear, at least twenty seconds before saying, "I had to go to the office and get his address. I ran into a friend. Well, one of Frannie's. That's all."

"A woman."

"Yes. The wife of another professor."

That seemed to satisfy her, as she nodded curtly and resumed walking to her dining room, leaving me behind to prop my hand on the wall for guidance.

If the rest of the house was a museum for her love of the Gothic, then the dining room was her Renaissance. Antique Italian walnut table and chairs, plus cabinets to hold her Wedgewood china. An immense chandelier hung over the center of the table, and along the wall opposite the cabinets ran a room-length mirror of the sort I'd only ever seen in castles. Embossed walls of blue and cream. Candles on stands high as my head. The only unusual thing was the art, all by Fernando Botero, all paintings of fat people. Like cartoons, grotesquely balloon-like. And they were all either erotic nude women, exotic dancing, or several of his recent, very disturbing paintings of Abu Ghraib prisoners being humiliated and tortured. Just what you want at dinner.

Jennings held Octavia's chair for her at the head of the table, a coordinated dance they'd worked out to perfection. I made my way to the seat to her left. As Jennings started towards the kitchen, Octavia called out, "No, you too."

He stopped, looked over his shoulder. "Excuse me?"

She pointed to her right. "Come, sit. You're trying this too. Let the girl serve it herself."

"You do know what's on the menu, right?"

"The one I helped plan? Really? Don't get all catty on me."

He swallowed hard and stood his ground. "Beef."

"Actually, it's Cabernet Filet Mignon, rare, with twice-baked garlic potatoes and roasted asparagus."

That sounded good to my out-of-focus head. "Sounds great. I'm surprised."

Octavia shrugged. "I decided we should start with her handling of the basics. After you left, she made some very nice eggs and hash browns." She turned back to Jennings. "And we all need to sample what she's prepared for us-"

"I'm a vegan," he said. "You know that."

"That may well be your philosophy, but let me ask-are you physically unable to eat meat?"

"It's been five years. I'll get sick."

Like a cat's eyes widening to all black when it sees a toy dangled in front of it, that's what happened to Octavia's, too. I swear. She dropped her chin, batted her eyelids at him. "That's in your f.u.c.king head, mister. I ask again. Are you physically-"

"Please." Jennings stepped closer, lowered his voice. He was sweating. "Please. It's all I've got. I just...can't."

"Are you-"

"No. I can eat it. But...but you're so cruel. Petty." Seething now, cheeks red. "You've taken so much away from me, can't you just give me this? I'm begging."

If it rattled her, I couldn't tell. Poor guy. I had to look away, just in time to see a sliver of Harriet at the far doorway, one-eye peeking around. She ducked back when she saw me.

Octavia lifted her water gla.s.s and took a sip, ignoring Jennings, not even looking at him when she said, "It's part of the job. I need your advice. I don't care if it means slaughtering a pig for me, it must be done. Beliefs, religion, feelings, none of it happens on the clock. Square it later when you're trying to sleep."

If it were me, I would've quit. Really. Even considering how much money was involved, plus all the side benefits of working for the rich and powerful-the clothes, the food, the business trips he took in her place when necessary, since she hated traveling. The contacts he'd made in the business world, all the more helpful for when he finally raised the money he needed to open his own club or restaurant or used bookstore, whatever it had morphed into that week.

But then again, I didn't know what it was like. I had never been indebted to her as he was, the sickness of it all just staggering. I played with my napkin, unable to watch as Jennings held his tongue, pulled out his chair, and sat at the table staring straight ahead-at me-probably thinking that for all of the good Professor's seeming support and friends.h.i.+p, when it came down to having Jennings' back, I was long gone, man.

Octavia said, "Good."

Nearly under his breath, Jennings said, "Can't I just try the vegetables?"

"Don't make me force you into seconds." Then louder. "Okay, Chef, I know you're listening. You can bring the entree. Skip the appetizer. Let's get on with this."

I asked, "Where's the wine?"

"You've already had your fair share today. Just drink the water. Jennings can get some Aleve for you when we're done."

She flashed a fake smile towards the other end of the room, and Harriet came out, a new chef's coat, her name st.i.tched in immaculate Gothic lettering, black with a shadow of red. She was desperately trying to balance our three plates as if the ground might fall from beneath her at any second.

Yes, it was a wonderful meal, full of flavor and complexity, the natural flavors of the beef and potatoes and sauce unfolding as if you were listening to a beautiful song, moving along from verse to chorus, changing keys and building in intensity. If anything, I'd say it needed some more salt, but that was perhaps because I was pretty drunk, and also because I'd watched so many cooking reality shows with Frannie, in which the judges always thought the dishes needed more salt.

By the end of the meal, I felt myself refortifying, vision clearing, noise in my head fading. The three of us sat as if in a moment of silence. Octavia didn't make Jennings eat all of the steak, but he ate more of it than I figured he would-a full third, even with it rare. Octavia looked to him for a response.

"I hate you."

"The beef?"

Snorted. "Wonderful. You b.i.t.c.h."

"Get your nose back in joint or I'll make you try the lamb tomorrow." Waved him away. "Go get her."

Jennings pushed his chair back and threw his napkin onto his plate, a pathetic protest. As he started away, Octavia turned to me.

"If this boy confesses, you'll need to make sure he's willing to go on the record."

Like whiplash. I'd forgotten all about David and robot writing and my now s.h.i.+tty position within my department. I'd experienced joy from a meal again. And after, back to the grind. "Of course. I mean, I'm sure he likes his job-"

"No, he liked your wife's p.u.s.s.y more. Remember that when you speak to him. He looks down on you. He thinks you're weak. And whatever punishment you can think up for him, the b.i.t.c.h and her lover can think of rewards to balance it out."

I slumped into the chair. "What would you do?"

"Smack him around."

"What?"

She mirrored me, slumping back and crossing her arms across her chest. "I don't think he'll tell anyone. First, after a few smacks, he'll fight back. Second, he'll be too embarra.s.sed to tell anyone you hit him, or that he beat you up. Either way, it'll shock him onto your side. Something about violence that brings men together."

"Um...I'm a tenured professor. It's very hard for them to fire me. But hitting a student is probably in the top five instant job enders."

"Oh, higher than that."

"Exactly."

She shook her head. "He won't tell anyone."

"Are you insane?"

"You asked my advice. There's no need to be rude, Mr. My Wife f.u.c.ks Everyone But Me. Just a suggestion. But keep it in mind. Here she is."

Jennings led Harriet into the room. She'd lost the s.p.u.n.k we'd seen at the Dakota-one pair of earrings instead of the sc.r.a.pyard she'd worn before. Tattoos mostly covered. Holding her fingers together in front of her, twisting them. Octavia surprised me again by standing to her feet and applauding, big smile on her face. Exactly what Harriet needed, the breath she'd been holding gus.h.i.+ng out, her shoulders relaxing, cheeks all rosy. Jennings stared at me, jerked his chin a few times before realizing I was so stunned by Octavia's reaction that I had kept my seat. I rose and joined the applause.

"Bravo. That was great. That was f.u.c.king great. The job's definitely yours if you want it."

The chef beamed. All it took was the clean new coat and a vote of confidence to transform her into someone I'd take seriously behind the grill. In fact, it looked as if she had just won one of those reality shows Frannie liked. "Okay, cool, thank you, Miss VanderPlatts, yeah, that's great."

"Even the vegan liked it."

She didn't know how to take that. A quick glance at Jennings, who answered, "Yes, it was fabulous. I look forward to what you can do with vegetables."

"All right."

"You know," Octavia spread her hands wide. "I can't think of one complaint. Not one. How about you, Mick?"

Salt. I wanted to say it needed salt. Instead, "As good as the best steakhouse. Better."

Harriet didn't seem impressed with my input. She crossed her arms, waited for Octavia to say more.

"If you'd like, we can talk about the contract now."

"Sure, uh, yeah. That's cool."

"How about taking a few minutes to change, get your things together, and then meet me in the office?"

Nods all around. "Nice job" and "Congrats" and "Excellent". Jennings said he would need to tidy up the kitchen, even though Octavia had a service I knew would handle it in the morning. I suspected he was really going to throw up. Harriet followed him out, and Octavia started for the door.

She looked back at me. "Coming? Going?"

"Give me a few minutes, okay? I'll be right there."

"You feel all right, Mick?"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Let me stretch it out, get some fresh air."

"Face it. You weren't built to be a heavy drinker. Are you going to want the after-dinner smoke?"

She meant marijuana, of course. I shook my head. "No thanks. Already swimming up there."

After she left, I headed after Harriet.

She had just taken off her chef's jacket, carefully hanging it on the pantry doork.n.o.b rather than just tossing it off somewhere. Octavia surely would give her one for every day of the week, but the care with which Harriet handled the coat twisted my guts a little. She had pulled her unders.h.i.+rt halfway up her back when I cleared my throat.

A quick turnaround, ink-sprawled arms covering her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, bunching her t-s.h.i.+rt tighter, her midriff bare but for the tattoo ringing her belly b.u.t.ton.