Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,243

drying.

He lays the glass in the sink and wipes his mouth. “Did he confide in you? Did he tell you that he doesn’t care who wins? That he’s just doing Rob a favor?” He approaches me, coming around. “Don’t be stupid. There is no fight. There’s a scam, a fraud, a hustle. It’s pre-arranged. Harrison’s taking the fall. That’s why he came last night. To prepare you. It’s gonna kill him to get beaten. But Rob’s in too deep with the wrong people—he has to have a guarantee. A loss is the only way he can guarantee the outcome. He asked me for the money, but I told him I can’t get involved. Believe me,” Mark says, “I’ll do my part. I’ll fill the house. But I have a reputation to uphold. I have you to think about. That’s why, after this, that’s it. We’re done with this ghetto crew. We can’t walk into our future dragging this shit behind us.”

Mark is in front of me; we’re face-to-face.

“Harrison’s an animal,” Mark states, “just like his murderer father. Did he tell you that his father was a murderer? Of course not. Because he’s a liar. He lied to you all along.” Mark reaches out quickly, but I don’t blink my eyes. He slaps his hand around the back of my neck and folds me into his arms. “I feel bad for you, sweetheart, I really do. He lied about everything.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes. I see that now.”

46

The day of the fight he fucks me very hard, like he knows it will be the last time. “Shit,” Mark says when he is done, “you are a sweet taste in the mouth.”

The Cougar is double-parked outside Astor Place haircutters. I toss my bag through the open window onto the front seat. I get in and shut the door and Rob takes off.

“Nice haircut,” he says. “Reminds me of the old times out in Montauk. You gotta check out this French flick, Breathless. Jean Seberg plays this little American girl with chopped hair and Jean-Paul Belmondo’s cut really tight.”

He bounces in his seat as he drives. The night is hot and Rob likes when it’s hot. That’s because he’s a Leo, and Leos are sun kings, and Napoleon was a Leo. On Rob’s chest is a new tattoo—inside the globe of a plankton-green sun, it says Roi de Soleil. He got it in New Orleans, at Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras tattoos bring luck. I switch on the radio.

Cisco Kid was a friend of mine. Cisco Kid was a friend of mine.

The car turns widely off Houston and onto the Bowery. Outside my window the skies are marbleized blue-black, like out of mythology. Skies like a storm is coming, only no storm is coming. Skies that make you homesick, only there is no home. When we hit Delancey Street, the prostitutes tap the hood of the car. They wave to Rob. Hey.

“A case of mistaken identity,” Rob says to me. “I mean it, baby, I swear.”

In the Cirillos’ driveway, Rob’s sister, Christine, says, “Everybody in the pool. That’s the law.” Christine works the watch counter at Bloomingdale’s. If you want a watch, go to her. “I’m giving you five minutes, Evie,” she warns. “A grace period. Then I’m coming to find you.”

The first time I went to Rob’s parents’ house, I made the mistake of heading for the front door. “What are you,” Rob asked, “the mailman? The last people to go in that way were relatives from Italy.” It-lee.

The back door by the barbecue leads to the kitchen, which is full of aunts and grandmothers and elderly female neighbors. You can see the ladies through the screen, briefly making contact, like flies against a window. Arms to the elbows appear to hand off trays of peppers and sausages to fry.

Mrs. Cirillo works the grill. “In most families, Eveline,” she explains as she flinches into the charcoal smog to flip a rack of ribs, “this is a man’s work. But, what happens is, Dom gets to talking and everything burns.”

“I’ll do it, Ma.” Rob grabs at the tongs. “C’mon.”

“No, Robert,” she says, “take care of the company.”

From the upstairs bathroom window I can see the family swept up in a sort of insular and happy confusion that is enviable but that can’t possibly last. Christine has everyone running in the water to make a whirlpool, while Rob’s father leans wearily on the ladder, spraying non-comers randomly with the hose.

“Christine’s the ambassador of the pool,” Mr.