Lena again? Even you must have known she was lying. That whole meeting was a way of getting attention—”
Sylvia was stopped by the look on Ms. Marroquin’s face.
“I’m not stupid, Sylvia. Four children who are not Lena saw you hit Saul.”
“Oh, Christ,” Sylvia said. Her insides flipped over, and she concentrated on holding in the tears that were on the verge of bursting out.
There was to be no last day of school for Sylvia Amado. While her mother was annually showered with plastic flowers, pen and pencil sets, jewelry boxes, perfume, candy, cards and coffee, Sylvia left that day with nothing.
She was mortified. She didn’t tell anyone and pretended that she still had a job. She left for work and returned just like before. During the day, she hid in libraries and coffee shops, hoping not to run into anyone. It was a very uncomfortable month. For the very first time in her life, she couldn’t escape from the feeling of being an idiot in a classroom.
She had met Jack on the deck of a friend’s home in Laguna, overlooking the beach. They watched the waves crash, the sun set, and by the time she’d been fired, had been dating for a year. He was Jewish, God’s chosen people, her grandmother insisted. He was clever, entertaining, and she did love him, the attention he gave her and the possibilities he represented. So it was very easy to say yes when Jack asked her to marry him. Yes, she would convert to Judaism. Yes, they could live in Pasadena. Yes, yes, yes.
Tonight Sylvia cleared the table, poured herself another glass of water and sent the girls upstairs to play in their rooms. That day she had gone to buy summer clothes for the girls, and two of her credit cards were declined. Before dinner she had opened a bill from her daughters’ school, a kind, gentle letter, telling them that they were far behind in tuition payments, and if there was a significant change in the household income, to set up an appointment to talk to their financial aid office.
When Jack came home, Sylvia said, “Hey, honey, I got this letter today. Is there something I should know?”
He read the letter, crumpled it up. “It’s been handled.”
“Great,” she said. “Is there some way I could help?”
He stared at her. “I am so sick of this,” he said. The dining room lighting emphasized the highlights of his hair and made his skin look sallow. He needs more time outdoors, Sylvia thought. It had been a warm winter and he still looked as gray as a European. “Look, you think your father’s a loser, you have ‘issues’ with men, and I have to deal with the fall out. And you think what? What’s in that simple brain of yours?”
“I’m asking you if I can help,” she said, trailing him as he picked up his dinner plate, stalked grimly into the kitchen, set it down on the countertop that had set them back six thousand dollars—six thousand dollars Sylvia had argued over—how could a piece of marble be worth that? Jack made his way to the office off of the kitchen.
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to this. I have work to do,” he said. “Somebody’s got to pay the bills.”
She couldn’t help herself and followed him into the office. “Then how was that bill not paid?”
“Go the fuck away.” He didn’t even turn to face her. God, she hated that contemptuous tone of voice as if he knew everything, and she knew nothing. I know something! she wanted to shriek. Something’s not right here!
And it was eating away at her, eating at her morning and night. She tried to put on the right face for her daughters. They needed her face constant and caring and moral and right, and she needed that face for them, but she was furious with Jack.
“Fuck you, Jack,” she said.
He swiveled around and turned to look at her. Now she was afraid. “What did you say?”
“Fuck. You.”
“All right.” He pulled his belt through the pant loops. He unzipped the pants that had cost $215 at Nordstrom’s.
“You win,” Sylvia said and walked toward the office door. Don’t show fear, she thought. Shit shit shit, you fucking did it again. Can you never fucking learn? Jack was at the door before her, shutting it tight.
“I am so sick of your whiny shit,” he said. “What do you want? Huh? You want me to ask you for permission every time I take a piss? Every time I go to lunch? Or maybe you want to pay the quarterlies? Is that want you want? Take your blouse off.”
“Don’t,” was all Sylvia could say. Jack blocked the office door. On the other side of it was her kitchen, with the floor she had mopped that afternoon. Don’t make me do this, Jack, there’s no going back after this, don’t kill the little that’s left Oh, Christ, the girls, the girls. She took her blouse off. She wasn’t wearing a bra underneath.
“Turn around,” he said. She turned.
He was quick behind her, his hands all over her, strong and unyielding. “Don’t fucking ask me about my business again. It’s my business, and you don’t have the fucking brains for it, do you understand?”
He had grabbed her from behind, he was hard against her, his voice was thick. With one hand he cupped her breast. With the other he pulled down her sweatpants, pulled down her underwear.
“Don’t,” Sylvia said, in almost a whisper. What if the girls saw this? Oh, Christ, she had pushed him over the edge, Christ, just like last time. “Jack, Jack, Jack, don’t do this.”
“I’m going to fuck you,” he said. “Like you fucking deserve.”
Sylvia twisted around. “Jack, Jack, Jack, don’t do this! For God’s sake!” There were tears in her eyes and voice. Jack looked back at her, those green eyes of his cold and empty. Something flickered behind those dead eyes. He stopped.
“Get dressed,” he said, his voice still thick, his hands tucking himself back into his pants. “And don’t ask me about my business again.”
Sylvia stepped out of the office and into her kitchen, closing the door behind her. The fixtures had cost four thousand dollars. Jack had picked them out.
She threw up into the copper kitchen sink.
She ran the garbage disposal, wiped down the sink, rinsed her mouth. Her hands were shaking as she placed the dinner dishes into the dishwasher and washed the pots and pans.
She wiped the counters, swept the kitchen, then mopped the floor again.
She had made an agreement with Tamara. Tomorrow was an appointment and a promise she would keep. Why, why, why had she thought married life would be a refuge?
Chapter 4
Nataly’s phone rang at two in the morning. Even though she knew who it would be, she answered it, keeping her eye on the TV, half-following the long dead actors on the shimmering grey and white screen. “Hey, Dad,” she said. “You call to take me out to breakfast?” It was her own private joke. Every time he offered to take her out, she ended up paying the bill.
“Kinda
