Small Silent Things Read online

  He moves to the front door of his condo—the sound of the footsteps still there. The voice is real: Papa, Papa, it says. Elation. Anticipation. He lurches the door open. He blinks. And as if by some miracle, she is there, in his exterior hallway, three and a half feet tall, six years old—unaged, even though a lifetime has passed. He bends at the knees, feels the force of love.

  He hears a little gasp when he opens his arms to the girl. The sound snaps his head up like a bullet to the brain. His eyes find the place where the sound came from.

  “I’m so sorry,” a voice says, and his vision clears. “Please do excuse us.”

  In front of him he sees a woman, a stranger, slim in tennis clothes. She looks nervous, maybe even afraid. He looks back to the child—the girl who was just his daughter, the child calling Papa, but she is not his daughter after all.

  “No, I am sorry,” he says, feeling embarrassed. “I apologize,” he says again, in the sanest voice he can muster. He can see the woman relax, but only a tinge.

  “I told her to be quiet,” the woman says. “But see. Oh, gosh.” She looks him up and down. “We’ve woken you up, haven’t we?”

  The little girl stares at him, as he stares at her. “Mama,” she says, and reaches for her mother, wraps her arm around her mother’s thigh.

  I must look a sight, he thinks. Thank God, I am dressed.

  “No,” he says, unable to move his eyes away from the slim child body, the regal carriage. A Tutsi birthright, he thinks, but says, “Don’t worry about it. I thought you were someone else.”

  He studies the child with clearer vision. There is just a pencil point of Africa in her, but it exerts itself—more in the child than in the mother. He sees his own blood in both of them. The full mouth, the burnt golden skin. The child’s hair is brown with specks of blonde like fallen glitter. She is not really like his own girl at all.

  “I needed to get up anyway,” he says, remembering the sweet voice saying Papa. The word is in his head now. He holds it as carefully as he once held his baby girl. Remember the tinkling of it, he says to himself. The diaper the size of a handkerchief.

  “Bye,” the woman in tennis clothes says. “Sorry we disturbed you.”

  He watches the girl and the mother return to their own unit. It is just there, at the other end of the hall. The child is being carried now. She is glaring at him over her mother’s shoulder. She is confident and openly offended. Encircled in her mother’s safety, she sticks her tongue out at him. He smiles. The name Papa is not for him, but he pretends it is. Papa is a small fire. The memory warmth.

  2

  HE LEAVES A BARBIE DOLL FOR HER THE NEXT DAY—A BLACK ONE, ALTHOUGH in no way is the doll truly black except for her skin tone. She has the thin nose and the straight hair of a white woman. An exact replica of the blonde Barbie, but with brown skin and brown hair. It is as if the white Barbie has been dipped in some factory vat of latte-colored ink. There must be a Barbie factory somewhere, he realizes. Probably China.

  He puts the doll in a bag on their doorknob. They are the only two residences on this floor. Penthouse units. Private. Expensive. Exclusive. He writes a note. He lies:

  THIS BELONGED TO MY DAUGHTER. I HAD IT HERE. SHE IS TOO OLD FOR IT NOW. I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE IT. I DIDN’T WANT TO THROW IT AWAY. DO YOU LIKE DOLLS?

  He doesn’t know why he lies exactly. He bought the Barbie at CVS, just this morning on the way to the bank.

  In America, men who give gifts to children are always met with a kind of suspicious fearfulness. He does not want that. He does not want to ruin something that he hasn’t yet had a chance to begin.

  Chapter Three

  Jocelyn

  1

  SHE SITS IN THE PARKING LOT OF THE MIRAMAR CLUB, RELUCTANT. THE club is on the west side of PCH, on the sand. The location is beautiful, but it does nothing to cheer her.

  There is the phone call today from Winton Terrace. A bill is all—a headstone, a plot, the cemetery, the day. There is the finality of the closed coffin, decisions too late, embalming not an option, and she hangs up, feels the sail tilt, decides to schedule the lesson on the spur of the moment, wants to get out of the house.

  She is due on court 3 in thirty minutes but feels anxiety at the rash decision. She has purchased a new Lululemon skirt. The shirt she wears is collared, sedate—an alligator stitched on the front. More for the mood of mourning. She feels serious today after the phone call, after her mother goes into the ground.

  She carries her large tennis bag like a backpack even though there is almost nothing in it: a racquet, a water bottle, a sleeve of new balls, a slim notepad to take notes. She feels the pull of a core muscle—a welcome ache in her body, and yet it makes her feel old.

  She walks into the club’s main lobby, her new tennis shoes squeak. The woman behind the desk says, “Mrs. Morrow,” nods a welcome, and offers a soft white towel. Jocelyn smiles, says hello, but feels a sway. A calling out. How does she know my name? she wonders. She is startled and accused.

  “Thank you, Shelly,” she says, reading a name tag, trying to get her bearings. She grips the towel, the plushness of it helps stabilize her, but then Gladys is there too: a graying robe, threadbare, towels on the Winton Terrace floor, and then a memory of Conrad’s mother—the two of them staring at registry brochures. The wedding twelve months away. One hundred and eighty-nine dollars for a bath towel? she’d asked. Her mother-in-law’s Chanel glasses magnified her eyes. A hand on her wrist, stopping her from turning the pages. I’ll do the registry, dear. Jocelyn would never know what to ask for.

  She leaves the desk, follows the signs to the locker room. There is the smell of sweat as she enters. A hair dryer blows. She remembers roaches climbing out of a light socket. Her mother’s smell, days without a bath when Gladys was binging, body odor, mint gum, and cigarette smoke. A lesson to take with her into the After, never, ever to smell. She breathes deeply. She slides onto a dry wooden bench, looks up at the clock there—fifteen minutes to go. Should she go?

  She watches the tick of the clock. When there is enough time to exit the building, or enough time to get on court, she stands, decides to leave. She walks out a different way, not through the door she entered, but instead through the outdoor pool area. Strong in the air is the biting smell of chlorine. In front of her is the sweet little lagoon, the blue of it like sky. She smiles, remembering Lucy learning to swim there, the soft roll of flesh, a tiny bikini. She is too old to use the lagoon now.

  Jocelyn feels a familiar longing, a sadness, her child growing, life continuing forward. She wants to go to Lucy’s school, pick her up, and hold her. It wouldn’t be hard.

  Just as she is deciding—here or there, my child or me—the space around her minutely shifts. She is aware of the whispering sigh of cotton, the sense of another person close behind her, the least noise that bodies make.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” she hears, feels a pair of hands on her shoulders, the flash of nail polish, a turning, guidance. “Court three. Come on. I’ve got a plan for you.”

  Jocelyn is too shy to look, a child caught skipping school, but she recognizes the voice. She peeks. She does not know why she feels this way, but she must look away. At one point as they walk, Kate leans close, nudges her with her shoulder blade, and then laughs. There hasn’t been a joke between them, but Jocelyn giggles. The seriousness inside her dissolves, a cube of sugar in hot water.

  Kate waves to women playing friendlies as they pass, to men practicing serves.

  “I’m glad you made it,” she says. “We’re going to have lots of fun. I promise.”

  And Jocelyn believes her, believes she is glad she made it, believes it will be fun. There is a sureness to the coach. It is a space to enter into, and then to be led forward. Relief. There is a bit in the mouth, a short rein, but a gentle hand. No need to turn back.

  THE MIRAMAR CLUB WAS ONCE A FAMILY HOME. SHE READS THIS ONE DAY in the Palisades Register. The paper is stacked in piles in the seating area of th
e club’s entrance foyer. It is left for the perusal of the members. The house and the land were purchased by G. W. Clair in 1986 with the intention of turning it into a private club. The twenty-two original bedrooms have been converted, the old ballroom is a restaurant. Besides the Olympic-size pool, there is a high diving board, which is a rarity, almost extinct in these times of too much litigation. It is the thing about the Miramar Club that she and Lucy love best. In spring and summer, they jump off it, over and over again, hands held and then released, shrieks of joy and terror.

  In 1989, the Miramar Club admitted its first black member—a man. It was a negotiation really, public beach access given in trade. The article means to imply how forward-thinking the Miramar Club is, but Jocelyn has never seen another black person using the club. Maud swears there are at least two other black women, besides the “supposed” man. One, like Jocelyn, is married to a white man. The other is a washed-up R&B star.

  Jocelyn has never seen either woman or the man, but of course, she knows that it is not always possible to tell someone’s race by looking at them. Either way, she always feels as if she and Lucy are the only black people there. Secretly, she thinks the others might just be rumors.

  2

  THE PRIVATE GOES WELL, AND FROM THEN ON, SHE’S ALL IN. THERE IS drill on Monday, Live Ball on Tuesday, team workout on Wednesday, cardio drill on Thursday, a friendly on Friday. Therapy is twice a week.

  She’s five weeks into tennis and totally addicted. There is something about the sport that is instantly healing. It’s anonymous and separate from her everyday life. She finds herself wanting to go back and back and back. When she expects to play and doesn’t, she is surprised at how utterly disappointed she feels.

  Maud captains a USTA team, and of course she joins that. She is making friends, winning. She is almost popular. As a child, she was too poor for sports, but now she finds she likes it. It feels tribal. All the women gossip. She can’t help but gossip too. There are stories about who cheats, who is fat, who does and who doesn’t get Botox. Maud tells Jocelyn, a whisper in her ear, that Kate is gay, that she has a “partner,” maybe a wife. They shriek with laughter like two high school girls. Jocelyn would not have guessed.

  3

  HER HUSBAND, CONRAD, LIKES ALL THE TENNIS. ON A SCHOOL DAY, while she fills her daughter’s lunchbox, he comes up behind her in the kitchen and puts his hands up her short tennis skirt.

  “You look great,” he says. “Get those shorts off.”

  She laughs. “They’re attached, bozo,” she says, and he turns her around and kisses her neck.

  “You look amazing,” he says. “Lately, you’re like you were when we were younger.”

  “I’m the same,” she says.

  “I told you the therapy would work,” he says, letting her go. He plucks a banana out of the fruit bowl, confident and sure.

  “Go to work,” she says, but thinks, Is he right? Is it working? Am I better?

  She finishes the lunch, and then stands, surveying her favorite room, the living room: a wall of windows and high ceilings. Room enough to do three cartwheels. It is a clear day—the sea a blue sheet as far as the eye can see.

  She is startled when Conrad grabs Lucy suddenly. He kisses her once, and then sets her down on the gleaming hardwood floor. Their daughter takes off running as soon as her feet hit the ground. Lucy knows the game. She knows what she is supposed to do. It is something they do every morning. Six spitty kisses, because she is six.

  Jocelyn smiles as Conrad chases Lucy around the vast condominium, pursuing the remaining five. Lucy runs, wanting him to catch her. He pretends she is too fast for him. She teases him from across the room.

  “You can’t get me, Papa,” she says. “I’m a speed demon.”

  At the word papa, Jocelyn remembers the neighbor. They must go and say thank you for the Barbie doll. She is embarrassed to have put it off so long.

  Conrad runs, in pursuit of their daughter. Lucy screams, but she is not really scared. Jocelyn has a flash of herself as a child, screaming—a please, a don’t. The memory drops into the room like a shot bird from the sky; her stepfather, her mother’s boyfriends, her mother—the belts, the extension cords, the chase. She feels herself deflating. She tries to stop the memories, to focus on the now, as Dr. Bruce tells her. She listens closely to Lucy. Her daughter’s scream is different. She owns her body. It is not negotiable. She taunts Conrad and wields her power, which she knows, even at this young age, is his love for her. I am here, she reminds herself. It is now, she says. I am here with my own family. I am safe.

  LATER, WHEN HE AND LUCY FINISH THEIR GAME, CONRAD FINDS JOCELYN in the kitchen and kisses her hard.

  “Let’s have a date tonight,” he says.

  “I know what that means,” she says. “No point calling it a date. Are we going somewhere?”

  He smirks. “I’m going somewhere.”

  He’s tugging on her skirt. He puts his hand inside her shorts, grabs her ass. When they were twenty-five they would have done it on the floor. He would have pressed her down and fucked her hard. Now there is Lucy. He lingers in the kitchen, holds her close.

  Jocelyn looks over her husband’s shoulder at the restaurant-grade Thermador oven. Without meaning to, she thinks that Gladys would fit inside.

  “I’ll be back early,” he says. A final squeeze. And then says goodbye.

  4

  SHE PARTNERS WITH KATE ONE DAY AT DRILL. THEY PLAY AGAINST MAUD and Erica because Theresa is a no-show. Jocelyn has never played with a pro, and she is impressed with how little effort Kate seems to require to hit the ball well—an effortless slice, a drop shot close to the net that instantly dies. It’s magic.

  They play for almost an hour before they arrive at a particularly long point—10–9 in the tiebreak, their advantage. There are volleys back and forth, a lob over their heads. Jocelyn runs as fast as she can with Kate right beside her.

  “Mine,” she says, and Kate goes back to the baseline, smiling, trusting her to have it. Jocelyn manages to lob the ball back, over Erica’s head, but just barely.

  The point continues—rally after rally until Jocelyn grows tired. There are ground strokes with topspin, slices and angles that force her out of position. It seems as if the point will never end. She is anxious and alert, not wanting to be the one to mess it up, but she also feels confident, even powerful. Two more drives come crosscourt, just barely out of Jocelyn’s reach. She is breathing heavily. Kate is too. I’ll go on the third, she says in her mind. I’ll go on the third.

  Erica hits a stinging crosscourt return, but Jocelyn is ready. She intercepts it, poaches. Racquet meets ball, and she puts the winning shot away. All four of them cheer. Maud bends over on the other side of the net, breathing hard. Erica throws her racquet down. They laugh, give compliments to each other—Great point, Really fun, Nice poach. Kate high-fives Jocelyn and then hugs her.

  Jocelyn doesn’t really think about the hug until later when she is alone in her car, and then she cannot understand why she is still thinking about it. The small waist, the tight stomach, deceptive in tennis clothes. The breath between them, their bodies in sync, lungs filling and emptying at the same time. A laugh at the bottom of the throat.

  The breasts were small, but still, somehow, Kate was curvy, lush even. It is her legs, she thinks. Her hips. She replays the moment as she drives along the beach, past the club, past her own condo. She gives herself more time. Did she blush? Did Kate? Did they even look at one another? There was the snap and the crack of heat when they pulled apart. Jocelyn had not expected it, but she knew for sure that Kate had felt it too. Afterwards they stood silent and apart like two trees born out of fire. And then Maud said, without the least bit of venom:

  “We’ll beat you bitches next time.”

  A hand out to shake—something to startle Jocelyn out of a dream.

  5

  SO MANY DAYS OF SUNSHINE IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, BUT TODAY THE meteorologists have predicted rain. Jocelyn arrives
at the Miramar Club ten minutes early. The parking lot is almost empty. She walks to court 3, sits hidden, and watches Kate finish up a lesson. She tells herself she is learning, but she is not listening that much. She is thinking about the heat from the day before, remembering the high five, the hug. She returns to the memory as if to another place. She studies Kate, her shape, the bright almost-white of her restrained hair.

  Without understanding why, Jocelyn wonders what it would feel like to hold Kate down, to watch the hands with their short, painted nails struggle to get free. She thinks about kissing her, making her come, but without reciprocation. She enjoys the fantasy. It is animal and intense. Chemical, even. Its immediacy is scary as a heart attack and as impossible to stop. In college, she kissed a girl, but this is different. This is bewildering. Outside herself. This is more adult.

  There is the squeak of a shoe on the court suddenly, and Jocelyn looks up. She snaps out of the fantasy. In seconds, she is back in the apartment in Winton Terrace, the hot, stuffy room of her mother. She tries to slide the window shut, block the view, breathe as Dr. Bruce has taught her, but it is there, clear and detailed. She can see everything.

  It’s from sinning, Gladys said, telling her about her brother, William. That’s why he got it.

  Newport ash was wet and gray on the carpet. The air was stagnant from smoke and closed windows. Her mother had a waterbed. Sitting on it made Jocelyn seasick, as if on a boat.

  An abomination. Nasty. Gladys’s voice, self-righteous as a nun. She was drunk on boxed wine. That boy is no son of mine.

  You are no mother, Jocelyn thinks, pulling herself back to the bench that she sits on, back to the Miramar Club, to Kate—back to the determined Palisades sun. It will never rain, she thinks. You were no mother. Were.

  Kate tosses a tennis ball into her cart, laughing with her client. Jocelyn thinks of Kate’s mouth, her tongue, the slick wet of her saliva.

  Maybe she’s unclean, she thinks. Maybe she’s sick with the sick that my brother had. Jocelyn turns away, looks for Maud. She covers her ears like a child does when she doesn’t want to hear something. The voice of Gladys, even in death, slurring in her ear.