Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,242

I could become a sweetheart. Something big would have to change, I think.

——

Rourke parks far enough away from the entrance to the building that none of the neighbors will see Mark, who is passed out in the front seat.

Rourke steps out of the car and offers me his hand, helping me out of the back. He comes around to the curb with me and he leans on the rear fender, quietly regarding the quiet street. I lean too, gripping the trunk to anchor myself. In Rourke’s face there is a light. It brightens, it dims. I don’t know where the light is coming from. The west, I think. I look for the river. I don’t see it, though it’s not far. There is hissing from the sewer beneath us; blasts of smoke skulk around our ankles.

“So,” I say, “next Saturday.” I try to speak without slurring; I hear myself trying.

He doesn’t answer. His arms are folded against his chest. I look at his arms in wonder; I think of me inside the ring of them, of him inside me. It’s been years. How many women have there been? For some reason I can’t stop thinking of the volatile mechanics of his sex, of him fucking other women—though I suppose just one would be bad enough. Actually, one would be worse. One gives me an indication of how he feels about Mark.

“Well,” I continue, my head swinging a bit. “Good luck.”

Him not moving. “You’ll be there.”

“I won’t be there.”

“You’ll be there,” he repeats.

“I don’t think I—” I wave one hand, ending there.

“Mark won’t let you miss it. He’s betting I get killed.”

Carlo steps out to help the Morrisseys unload luggage and sleeping children from their car. The kids are two and four with matching bear slippers. Carlo looks over and notices me and gestures; he’ll be right over.

“And if I refuse?”

“You won’t. Rob needs you.”

“Rob needs money. I have no money.”

Rourke shrugs. “You pull money.”

“And you?”

“Me? I pull a crowd. I fight and go home. I’m like you. I’m helping a friend. I don’t care who wins.”

Carlo’s footsteps. Him jogging over, waving apologetically. Together he and Rourke hoist Mark from the front seat, and when they stand, Mark sags down, hanging out at the knees and in at the chest, like a scarecrow. “Got him, sir!” Carlo declares, and Rourke ducks, leaving the two to shuffle off into the overbright lobby.

I turn to Rourke, tipping in, taking hold of his shirt. The front of me on the front of him, my face by his chest. I breathe in. I study him. I feel for the remains of other women—memories of breasts, of legs, quivering throats and swollen lips, the smell of them, the taste. I should be able to find his memories, the chain that they make. But when I touch him, I find the same man I touched the first time I touched him, only now there is no openness. That’s because I closed it—closed him. In feeling for others, I simply find myself.

He looks back, unflinchingly. I don’t mind. I don’t mind to lose a little grace when by his eyes I possess so much. “You’re wrong, Harrison,” I say, using his true name for the first time ever. “I do care who wins.”

In the morning Mark rolls off the couch. Immediately he talks. Everyone says it’s good to talk, but frequently those who do are no better off than those who don’t.

“What the fuck was that all about?” he says, rubbing his head.

I check my watch. Rourke is awake. Thinking, not talking. By now he’s at the gym; he’s already been running. Eight miles, ten miles.

“What a fucking idiot,” Mark says on his way into the kitchen. “Showing up like that.”

Despite his hangover, he looks fine, like an antique. He has begun to gray prematurely, and the new pewter tinge suits his doggish capitalist charm. Any woman would be happy to have him. He punctures a can of tomato juice, fills a glass, and drains it. He peers at me through the framed passage over the hygienic white counter that separates the kitchen from the dining room. The counter is bare. Mark does not allow things on counters. No fruit, no papers, no vases, no dish rack. Dish racks harbor bacteria, he says. That’s why there are no sponges, only paper towels. In public restrooms he flushes with his elbow and pulls towels from the dispenser before he washes his hands. One for turning the faucet, one for