Читать книгу Difficult Women - Roxane Gay - Страница 12

3333 Palmetto Crest Circle

The adjustment had been uncomfortable. All her life Marcy had lived in the Midwest with people who ate red meat and starchy foods, who allowed their bodies to spread without shame. And then her husband was transferred to Naples. Marcy’s mother said, “Naples, like in Italy?” and Marcy said, “No, Florida,” and her mother said, “Oh dear.”

The women in Naples all looked the same—lean and darkly tan, their faces narrow with hungered discipline, whittled by the same surgeon. They stared at Marcy’s relatively ample physique with disgust or envy or something between the two. At night, Marcy worried about her ass and thighs. Her husband always said, “Baby, you are perfect,” and she flushed angrily. His assurances were so reflexive as to be insulting.

In Omaha, they lived in a neighborhood. In Naples, they moved into a gated community, Palmetto Landing, where each estate was blandly unique and sprawling—tall facades, lots of glass and balustrades around the windows, Spanish tiles on the roofs—the streets cobbled with tiny square bricks. The first time they drove up to the gatehouse, manned by a white-haired gentleman in polyester, Marcy leaned forward to study the landscaping, tall cypresses encircled by Peruvian lilies looming over the guardhouse. She sighed, said, “This is a bit much.” Her husband said, “Baby, people love the illusion of safety and the spectacle of enclosure.” They were given bar-coded stickers for their cars.

Their community had a country club. They joined because the transfer came with a promotion and a raise. Marcy’s husband said it was important to live up to their new station. He mostly wanted to play golf with men whose bellies were fatter than his. In Palmetto Landing, the men’s bodies expanded in inverse proportion to those of their wives.

Each morning, there was a group fitness class at the clubhouse—Spinning, Zumba, kickboxing, always something different. The instructor was a young, aggressively fit woman, Caridad. The other wives loved to say her name, trilling their r’s to show Caridad ellas hablan español. Marcy stood in the back of the studio in sweatpants and an old T-shirt of her husband’s while the women around her perspired in their perfectly coordinated outfits fancier than most of Marcy’s wardrobe.

Marcy enjoyed the pleasant soreness as she drove the five blocks home after each class. She liked how for an hour, there was a precise set of instructions she was meant to follow, a clear sense of direction.

The other wives were quietly fascinated by Marcy in that she was a rare species in the wealthy enclave—a first wife. Ellen Katz, who lived three doors down, often squeezed Marcy’s shoulder with her cool, bony hand. She’d say, “We’re rooting for you,” and offered words of encouragement as Marcy’s figure slimmed. Marcy never knew what to say during these moments, but she smiled politely because she understood these people and how they existed only in relation to those around them.

1217 Ridgewood Rd Unit 11

My wife and I watch documentaries about the lives of extraordinarily fat people so we can feel better about ourselves because we work hourly jobs and live in a crappy apartment surrounded by McMansions as part of an “economic diversity initiative” in our gated community. Our GEDs didn’t take us as far as we hoped but they got us to Palmetto Landing, and sometimes, we tell ourselves that’s enough. We got our GEDs because we wanted to get married. We wanted to get married so we could have sex because back then we believed what our parents told us about going to hell if we fornicated and at that point, we had done everything but have sex and we knew that the disposition of our souls was in grave danger if we didn’t do something drastic. Our parents told us we couldn’t get married until we had our high school diplomas because we were too young and we needed a good solid education before we could make adult decisions and we thought they were delusional because we actually went to school every day and knew that they weren’t teaching us a damn thing. We showed them by going across the state line to get married but then the sex wasn’t that great and then we couldn’t find jobs that didn’t involve customer service and now we’ve accepted that this is as good as it’s going to get. We watch as the extraordinarily fat people tearfully explain how they got to one thousand pounds, how it was a slippery slope, how they tried diets, how now they’re stuck in their soiled beds and have to be cut out of their homes and taken to a special fat hospital for emergency surgery with the assistance of special fat SWAT teams with good back strength who wear latex gloves and grave expressions.

The best part of these documentaries is when the medical professionals talk about the fat people like they understand, like they sympathize, like this is all normal, when you know that when those doctors and nurses get home, they sit in bed crying, eating a tub of ice cream asking themselves how tragedies like these happen. The wife and I giggle when the doctors use the word staggering or when the fat person says I let things get out of hand. For the next week, we’ll repeat that phrase as often as we can and then laugh uncontrollably. For example, I’ll get home late from work and the wife will be at the kitchen table waiting and she’ll be kind of irritated because she took the time to bake a Stouffer’s lasagna in the oven and microwave some frozen broccoli so I’ll say I let things get out of hand. She’ll try not to crack a smile and then her cheeks will twitch and she’ll start shaking and then we’ll both laugh so hard that there’s snot coming out of our noses and we’re laugh-crying and she’s forgotten that I was late and won’t spend the next hour interrogating me about why my shirt reeks like cigarette smoke even though we both know that I’m late because I met my best friend, whom she hates mostly because he did finish high school and isn’t married, for a couple of beers at the bar he owns.

The sex between the wife and me has improved significantly over the past seven years. I think we’re starting to resent getting married at seventeen a lot less. After we watch documentaries about the lives of extraordinarily fat people, my wife fucks me like she’s auditioning to become a contract porn star and tells me that she’s so fucking glad that we’re both thin and that we have families who love us enough not to feed us to death and I tell her I’m so fucking glad we’re both thin and I lick her nipples and get extra creative and we both moan and pant and I want the moment to last so I think about the poor SOB who needs a team of physical therapists to give him a bath and how he groans in pain as they heave and shift his folds and awkward deposits of fat, all so it will take me a little longer to come. Mornings after Thank God We’re Not Fat Sex, the wife and I tend to hate each other a little so we don’t speak and make as little eye contact as possible. Instead, we move silently through our morning routines as we try to assess any damage we may have caused. She brushes her teeth and takes a shower and shaves her legs and uses all the hot water and leaves little tiny leg hairs around the drain and curls her hair and puts on her makeup and forgets to cap her mascara and the entire time, I’m sitting on the toilet pretending to read a magazine but really I’m just staring at her naked body because she’s hotter than me. She starts the coffee, makes it too strong just the way I hate it, fills her travel thermos, leaves for her job as a receptionist at a beauty salon, and I get to spend an hour or so alone in our apartment watching Home Shopping Network until I have to go to work at a copy shop where I spend my day in front of a Xerox machine pushing buttons, flirting with college girls who need photocopies and just can’t seem to work the machine while getting high on hot toner fumes.

Invariably, at some point during these documentaries about extraordinarily fat people, there comes a time when a surgeon has to cut away chunks of belly or upper thigh and the fat person is lying on the operating table, vulnerable and spread eagle, unconscious as the surgeon uses special tools to spread and pull and dissect. Then the surgeon triumphantly raises the bloody, excised body parts and shouts out how much they weigh and everyone in the room gasps frenzied-like. It’s painfully obvious that they’re all really turned on and after they’re done sewing their patient back together like they’re Dr. Frankenstein, you get the impression that one of those surgeons is going to pull one or more of those nurses into a supply closet so that they too can have Thank God We’re Not Fat Sex. The wife doesn’t like to watch the operations—she calls it human butchering and blood makes her nauseated. She doesn’t even like to change her own tampon so when we’re watching the surgical procedures the wife covers her eyes and buries her head against my shoulder, and I narrate in explicit detail how the fat is yellow and serpentine and pulpy and slick and how the excised body parts are dropped into biohazard bags and then we speculate about what happens to the dead fat deposits of extraordinarily fat people and we think it would be nice if they had backyard burial ceremonies for them the way kids do for dead pets.

One night when we’re watching one of these documentaries, the wife turns to me and says, “There’s no happy endings in these stories,” and then she swallows about half of my beer. She looks like she’s about to cry and then I feel like I’m about to cry thinking about these large people living such small, impossible lives so I say, “It’s a happy ending when they’re wheeled out of the hospital and they only weigh five hundred pounds and they go back to their special chair at home where their loved ones will feed them the same way they’ve always fed them so that in three years, they’ll weigh a ton again and we’ll have another documentary to watch,” and with tears in her eyes, my wife crawls into my lap, straddling me, and she holds my face in her hands and she says, “I love you so fucking much.”

2945 Palmetto Hollow Cir

Jean-Richard and Elsie Moreau had lived in Palmetto Landing for nearly seven years when they heard the news, by way of Ellen Katz, that another Haitian family was moving into the community—doctors, three children, two still at home, new money and a lot of it. Ellen was giddy as she delivered the news. She saw it as something of a personal responsibility to keep her neighbors abreast of such developments.

They sat on the lanai drinking wine, sweating quietly.

Ellen pointed at Elsie. “I imagine you’ll want to invite the new family over, perhaps dinner, something from home.”

Elsie took a careful sip of her wine, then twisted the heavy diamond on her finger as she sank into her seat. “Why would you imagine that?” she murmured.

A few weeks later, Elsie was driving her golf cart to the clubhouse for Ladies Golf, slowly bouncing along the cobbled street, when she saw a light-skinned brown woman standing at the edge of her driveway, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun. Elsie immediately knew the woman was one of the new Haitian doctors. Elsie could recognize her people anywhere—it was a point of pride. She stared straight ahead, the electric motor of her golf cart humming softly as she drove past.

Jean-Richard was the more sociable one, willing to do more than his fair share of maintaining their position within the community, always gregarious and outgoing at the various functions, so many functions—barbecues and theme nights and bridge and the like. If he had his way, they would spend every night with their friends at the clubhouse.

Elsie preferred more control over the boundaries of her world. She was in her late forties, she had no need for new friends.

At dinner, Elsie mentioned she had seen the Haitian doctor wife, standing in her driveway.

“We should have them over, welcome them,” Jean-Richard said, rubbing his heavy hands together.

Elsie frowned, tried to swallow her sigh. “We left that island for a reason. And you know what the neighbors would think.”

Jean-Richard leaned forward, but thought better of saying anything. Instead he smiled, said, “Oui, ma chère.”

It had been twenty-five years since Elsie immigrated to the United States. What she remembered of home was the promiscuity—always people, everywhere, hot and clamoring. Elsie did not often think of the towering palm trees or the bright blue water or trips to the country to visit her grandmother or how much she loved her blue school uniform or watching her parents dance in the small courtyard behind their home. Her sharpest memories were of her eight brothers and sisters always crowding any space she tried to make for herself. She remembered small rooms and heavy air and warm concrete walls and slick skin and limbs, stretching desperately for a cooler, dry place.

1217 Ridgewood Rd Unit 8

Caridad loved her body, the strength and shape of it. She did not much love how other people loved her body. They misunderstood.

She worked as a fitness instructor at a country club in a gated community in Naples. It was a good job. Mostly she helped old people forget how little time they had left and helped not yet old people keep aging at bay. Vanity was an easy thing to understand. During group fitness classes, Caridad watched the women in the community, wearing their outfits that cost more than her weekly pay, how their makeup shimmered the more they perspired, how their perfume filled the studio, choking the air out of the room. They were always trying to outdo each other, to master the complex moves Caridad modeled for them. She had a soft spot for the women in the back row, often young, the kind with new money and older husbands, who didn’t yet know where they fit in the ecosystem of the neighborhood, the kind she might be friends with under different circumstances. Sometimes, after class, Caridad tried to talk to the women in the back row but they were often apprehensive about upsetting the delicate balance demanded of them, the unspoken rules about associating with the right kind of people.

It had been a long day. In her morning fitness class, the ladies were unfocused, unable to follow simple moves, complaining each time Caridad tried to increase the intensity. “Por favor, Caridad,” they said, “no mas.” The ladies in her classes loved to speak to Caridad in broken Spanish, to show her they were comfortable with her ethnicity despite the paleness of their skin and the wealth of their husbands. Each morning before work, Caridad stared at her reflection in the mirror and practiced not rolling her eyes so she could smile politely at the ladies in her classes. One of the community’s newest residents lingered in the studio after the Zumba class. She was young and the only one who didn’t wear coordinated designer outfits. Caridad couldn’t remember her name. The woman was married to an age-appropriate man and would never be accused of being able to follow a beat but she wasn’t afraid to sweat or look ugly.

Caridad walked the length of the studio, picking up discarded water bottles. “How are you enjoying the neighborhood?” she asked.

The woman offered a small smile, waving her hands in front of her. “This all takes a little getting used to.”

Caridad arched an eyebrow. “I can imagine.”

“I’m Marcy,” she said, closing the distance between them, holding her hand out. “This isn’t who we are, my husband and I. I have no idea what we’re doing here.”

“I’m guessing he’s a golfer.”

Marcy laughed. “Mostly in his mind.”

It would be nice to go out for a drink after work, Caridad thought. She wouldn’t mind someone nice to talk to. Caridad was about to invite Marcy out for a drink when one of the white-hairs who shared the same face as several of her friends popped into the studio.

“Yoohoo, Marcy, we’re ready for lunch,” she said.

Marcy shrugged apologetically and shuffled out of the studio. Caridad sighed.

Later, after a personal training session, there was an incident with Sal, who didn’t understand why Caridad was uninterested in accompanying him on an overnight trip to South Beach. He held her elbow too firmly, his teeth bared, wet. He loved to recline on the weight bench, spreading his legs wide. He always wore loose shorts and no underwear during their sessions, letting his limp cock hang lazily against his left thigh. No matter how much weight he lifted, he grunted extravagantly. Caridad pretended not to notice. He stood too close to her now, a fluffy white towel draped around his neck. Sal pressed a fat finger against the base of her throat, making Caridad feel choked.

“You will be well compensated. We’ll dance, maybe more,” he said.

Caridad’s face burned but she bit her tongue.

The job was good, mostly.

She pushed Sal away, negotiating the complexity of making her point without getting fired. “I’m only here to help make bodies better. My body isn’t for sale.”

Sal snorted, said, “We’ll see about that,” as he walked away.

Caridad lived with her boyfriend, Manny, in a loud, stuccoed apartment complex in Bonita Springs. They had been dating for four years and their relationship was mostly unremarkable. She was smart enough to want more but tired enough to accept the way things were.

When Caridad came home, Manny was stretching on the living room floor, bare-chested, wearing soccer shorts, knee-high socks, cleats. He played in a local league and his team, Los Toreadors, practiced every evening. They were the most menacing team in the area—sometimes they even traveled around the state playing teams from other leagues. There were rumors—for example, that scouts from professional teams spied on their practices—but nothing ever came of it. That didn’t stop the men on the team from dreaming of wearing a Galaxy jersey or maybe the colors of a European team—Manchester United, Real Madrid. When Caridad complained, Manny shrugged, said, “This is who I am, babe. I’m a footballer.”

Caridad knelt between his taut, open thighs and pushed Manny onto his back. She lay on his chest and exhaled loudly. “I’ve had the worst day,” she said. Manny lightly massaged her shoulders and Caridad tensed. “Just let me lie here,” she whispered.

Manny gently pushed her to the side, kissed her forehead, said, “I’ve gotta go.”

Caridad stared at a curving pattern of mold on the ceiling as he stood. She stared for a long time.

After practice, Manny looked contrite, his dark hair clinging damply to the edges of his face. His jersey was soaked. He kissed her forehead again, tried to ask Caridad about her day, but she no longer had any interest in telling him anything.

The entrance to their complex was lined with palm trees. At night the trees were illuminated in pink and yellow and blue and green. Caridad loved sitting beneath the lights, found them unspeakably beautiful. Caridad grabbed Manny’s hand and led him outside. They sat quietly beneath the trees for a few moments, then Manny leaned into Caridad, pawed at her breasts, tried to work his fingers beneath the waistband of her denim skirt.

She laughed, her lilting voice drifting upward as she swatted his hands away, said, “Not yet, baby. Not yet. Just be with me. Just be nice with me,” but Manny didn’t hear her or wouldn’t hear her.

Caridad was too tired to fight too much. She stretched her arms over her head as Manny lay over her, pushing Caridad’s skirt up around her slender hips. He kissed her left thigh, said something unimportant. The pink light was of an exceptional quality. Caridad smiled, relished the quiet thrill.

4411 Palmetto Pines Way

At first, news of the brothel was only a rumor. Men would rush into and out of the spa in Palmetto Landing at all hours, often looking harried on the way in and relaxed on the way out, but we had no proof. Then Evelyn Marshall caught her husband getting a blowjob. She was getting a hot stone massage and heard a familiar groan from the adjacent room. News spread through our small community quickly but no one alerted the authorities. We felt important, having such goings-on in our midst.

In the afternoon, the therapists often sit on the large lanai behind the spa in negligees and peignoirs and heavy makeup, smoking and drinking bright-colored fruity drinks, waiting for their next clients. My front balcony looks out onto this lanai where the ladies lounge. They are not as beautiful as you might imagine but they are interesting and they talk loudly. They never seem to sweat despite the humidity. Their voices are deep and velvety in the way of women who know things. I sit on my balcony most afternoons wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. I hold a book in my lap. I pretend to read.

One of the women who work at the spa is very tall, the kind of tall in a woman that makes people stare. She has long dark hair she always wears down. She is beautiful and I love looking at her, how she moves, the anger in her eyes. She caught me staring once, stood up, her robe falling open. She lifted a leg and propped it on the railing and pointed between her thighs, then threw her hands in the air. I did not stop staring. She did not close her legs.

I went to see her. The woman at the desk studied me carefully. She said, “Nadia is one of our special therapists; she charges high fees.” I said, “I know.” The receptionist shrugged. Soon after, I was escorted into the back. I heard interesting sounds. Nadia had a thick Russian accent but spoke English well. “You want massage? Candles? What?” she asked. I said, “I want to fuck.” The words felt heavy and strange in my mouth. Nadia cocked her head to the side. “You are different,” she said. Later, her tongue was cool and soft between my thighs. I twisted my fingers through her hair, resting my heels on her back. I wanted to explain myself. It took me a long time to come, it always does, but Nadia was patient. I reciprocated her attentions. I wasn’t afraid.

As I was leaving, I ran into my next-door neighbor. She pulled her purse closer to her body and looked away. I pressed my hand against my neighbor’s shoulder as we passed. She still refused to look at me but she leaned into my touch. Now Nadia stares at me when she’s on her lanai and I am up on my balcony. I don’t look away.

My husband calls me a wildcat. After we make love, he always whistles under his breath and slaps my thigh, says, “Goddamn, woman. You’re going to kill me.” On our wedding day, my mother pulled me aside at the chapel. I was only half-dressed, walking around in white pantyhose, a corset, and white patent leather heels. My dress was a monstrosity of satin and chiffon and I wanted to wear it for as little time as possible. We stood in a dark vestibule and my mother began straightening my curls, pulling them out of my face, messing with the pearl headband holding my hair back. She said, “There’s no mystery to keeping a man.” She dabbed at my lipstick with a tissue she had been holding, folded, in the palm of her hand. She said, “You do whatever sick thing he wants, when he wants, and you’ll never have a problem.” That was the only advice she has ever given me. She and my father divorced when I was nine.

1217 Ridgewood Rd Unit 23

Tricia cleaned houses and she was good at it, knew just how to work her way through someone’s home to deal with the messes they didn’t want to take responsibility for. Tricia loved to talk with her clients. That’s how she judged people. If they ignored her or were clipped in their responses she knew they weren’t good people and didn’t feel bad about availing herself of some of their possessions—little things they would never miss because they had too much. Tricia wore tank tops and denim cutoff shorts while she worked, leaving her tanned arms and long legs bare. She wore her dirty-blond hair on top of her head, a few loose strands wispy against her neck. Sweat often pooled between her breasts, leaving a damp line down the middle of her shirt. This did not concern Tricia. She was proud to work so hard her effort left a mark. The wives Tricia worked for didn’t appreciate Tricia’s comfort with her body and her labor, particularly if their husbands were home. They took it as something of an insult. A woman who cleaned their homes had such a naturally fine body while they stretched themselves taut with the finest surgeons in South Florida and didn’t look half as good. It wasn’t fair. Money was supposed to make things fair. Tricia cleaned very big houses—the kinds with rooms that had special designations like media room and fitness center and library. The floors were often marble and when the women who lived in these houses walked, their heels click-click-clacked. Most of the women who cleaned houses in the area were brown-skinned and spoke Spanish or Creole. Tricia was something of a novelty and her services were in high demand because her clients liked having an English-speaking housekeeper as much as it made them uncomfortable to see a white woman doing the work of la gente. Once in a while, the wives asked Tricia where she was from and Tricia explained her people were from the Everglades—generations of her family lived deep in the swamp, so deep you had to take an air boat to get to their land, where their homes were all stucco and mold and wide-open windows. The way Tricia said this, it was like she was saying something more, but the wives were never quite sure what.