Authors: Nicole Conn
Elena Undone (6 page)
Coerced by her friend to attend the after party, Elena had no intention of staying any later than she could get away with. The small, dank, smoke-filled puo bke-fillb offended her sensibilities, and she reminded herself that she was being too self-conscious. This was where people her age got together. Her Indian father’s strict code of ethics and her Spanish mother’s extreme Catholicism informed almost every move and decision she made and she was petrified when she realized her friend had left and she had no way back to her dorm. As if on cue, Barry came to rescue her. Out of his costume, Barry was dressed nicely in corduroys and a nice gray-blue crew sweater. She hoped she looked casual and that she belonged, but she realized, looking over the crowd mostly clad in jeans and raggedy sweatshirts, that her attempts to be sophisticated in her chic cream colored dress that highlighted her dark looks had been a mistake.
“Hey there.” He offered an extra drink he had in his hand. “This was supposed to be for Janet.”
He glanced about for her, then turned to Elena and smiled. “Guess she got lucky.”
Elena wasn’t used to small talk and was too shy to engage in banter. “Uhmm…actually, I think she went out to get a bite—”
“It’s okay—you don’t have to salve my ego.”
“But it’s true—they said they were going out for steaks. I’m sure you can catch them…” She petered out as she watched him studying her, clearly not remotely interested in where Janet had ended up. He smiled. Sweet. Genuine.
“Can I tell you how much I love your accent… You’re?”
It took her a moment and then she realized he was asking her where she was from.
“Oh…yes, well I’m Indian. Half Spanish.”
“It’s beautiful. I heard you when you were reciting Wordsworth in Hamilton’s class.”
That was strange, she hadn’t remembered him from the class, and he could see her confusion.
“I audited a couple of days.” He sipped his drink. “I can’t tell you what the heck the poem was about…but, I’ll tell you this…I remembered your voice…”
Elena blushed. She didn’t know what to do. She felt…
“You seem…well, a little out of place.” He again offered her the extra drink. She quickly took it and downed half the cup, hoping to find some calm amidst the raging debate in her head where one side of her argued vehemently that she should not be at this party, that this was no place for serious students, that her father would be ashamed, humiliated to see her here with all the drinking and dancing—and the other part of her, this new young adult part of her that was just as passionately committed to the concept that she was now on her own, making her own grown-up decisions for her life. She was no longer under the unyielding hand of her father and why couldn’t she just enjoy herself?
As the bad wine wound its way to her limbs and began to smooth her jagged need er jaggrves and relax the anxiety she felt speaking to this strange but good-looking man, she looked more carefully at him; the ragtag beard he had grown for the Lear role, his intensely shining blue eyes, and his beautiful smile. The more wine she had the more she agreed with her friend that he was all the verbiage she had tagged on him and then some.
A bottle of wine and a hasty dinner later she found herself back in Barry’s dorm, making out on a cheap mattress with akimbo sheets she knew had not been properly affixed to the bed in weeks. He kept kissing her, his tongue deep inside her and while there was an element of thrill and excitement to it, when she felt him growing hard against her skirted legs, she heard alarm bells, confusion, terror, guilt and dread. She had only kissed one other boy and that had been in India when she was nine. She had been caught by her mother, whipped by her father, and after feeling such shame and humiliation had never considered touching another boy.
But with Barry she found herself swept into a trajectory that felt beyond her control. In her dizzying desire to be adult and generational, she kept kissing him until she knew they had gone beyond a point of no return. When he took her hand, sliding it beneath his pants and placing it upon the aching bulge, she recoiled instinctively, but when he apologized so sweetly, she felt sorry for him, gritted her jaw, swallowed hard and decided this was the night she was going to lose her virginity.
This was her life.
Her life
. Not her father’s or mother’s. She had a right to make these kind of decisions. Yes, she was no longer constrained by her insanely strict father and prudish mother. She was living in the now and the now was happening. She put her hand back upon him, stroking him with what she knew was insufficient finesse; she had no idea what in heaven she was doing. But he took over for her, moving very gently above her, pulling up her skirt and entering her so very slowly that she knew what might have been a very painful and humiliating experience with anyone else was only mildly discomforting with Barry.
She shut her eyes, and held her breath. She was caught by surprise. The entire affair only took a matter of moments as he shuddered above her in what appeared to be some sort of physical ecstasy. Although she felt nothing bordering on pleasure, she did experience a sense of power she had never known; knowing she was desirable and that this is what a man looked like that wanted her. She held him in her arms afterward and reveled in this newfound freedom. And in her mind, Barry hadn’t only saved her from the party, he had saved her from her past and her parents, and that night had given her the independence to claim who she was going to be.
She had not the remotest idea that her freedom would be so short-lived. A mere six weeks later she discovered she was pregnant.
“Are you even listening to me, Mom?” And now here was Nash, her boy, fifteen years later, living in America, as far away from all of it as she could have imagined.
“Yes, sweetie…you don’t want to go. Well, let me talk to your dad.”
“Good luck with that.”
“You might be surprised.”
“Doubt it.”
“Nash…”
But he lifted his head, smirked at her. He would not give Barry an inch. He got up, walked from the room.
*
Peyton drove through the night, the traffic dwindling as she continued to race her Lexus from one LA freeway to the next, driving dangerously fast, hoping she would get caught, knowing she wouldn’t, careful that she would put no one else at risk, but at the same time imagining over and over how freeing it would be to obliterate her car and her consciousness into a freeway median. It would be a glorious letting go, she thought, as she saw her car float off the entry ramp off the 134 to the foothills—a ramp so high off the ground that the moment the car and her body made impact she would literally break into a hundred pieces. What luxury that would be.
She picked up her cell phone, tried to call Margaret again, but again got her annoyingly sexy answer “Not here…you know what to do.”
“Margaret…I’ve been trying to reach you all night! Where the hell are you? It’s about Mom…please call me right away.”
Then she tossed her cell phone behind to the backseat. What was the point?
Wave.
Wave would be home by now. It was ten past two, just the time that Wave closed Pinot Latte. Peyton would go over and see her, have some wine. Hell, get shit-faced. Obliteration was obliteration after all.
By the time Peyton arrived at Pinot Latte the lights were already out. Peyton dug for her keys, let herself in. She stood in the darkness, let out a long sigh. And then heard Wave from down the hall. Laughter? Oh my God, were Wave and Erin doing it?
But when she turned to leave, Wave was standing right beside her. She’d just come home.
“Blimey, you scared me tits off!” Wave hissed.
“What are you doing?”
“I live here.”
“Christ you scared me.”
“Why are we whispering?”
“I don’t know?”
“And who the hell’s back there?” Wave jerked her head toward rear of the café.
“I have no idea. Wave…I…”
“Peyton?” Wave stopped when she saw Peyton’s face. “Oh, Peytthe “Oh,on, what is it?”
“Mom.”
Wave scooped Peyton up in a big hug. And then they both heard more laughter. Wave glanced at Peyton, and Peyton saw the look. She’d seen it so often before, Wave being screwed over by any number of girlfriends.
“Not again. Not this time. That little tart’ll get a piece of my mind!” Wave stormed down the hallway, Peyton right behind her, hoping to calm the angry beast.
Wave threw open the door.
They both stopped short.
Erin was naked, fucking the woman below her. Hard.
And when she jumped in surprise, Peyton saw the woman she was fucking.
Margaret.
Peyton lifted a tired eyebrow.
Really?
And with barely a flicker of emotion she closed the door, walked back out.
October 1
Clad in a crisp black suit, Peyton followed the long line of well-wishers to her mother’s gravesite. She stood, numb and detached, listening to the meandering sermon provided by her mother’s favorite pastor, who, Wave insisted, “is almost as daft as your mum,” when they could still joke about such things.
Now it was simply annoying to hear his inept recounting of Peyton’s mother’s life, her mother’s kindness and generosity; only he got her charities wrong, regaling the listeners with a mutated version of her mom; the conservative and respected Carolyn who fought with steely resolve for the underprivileged, who in the absence of Peyton’s father raised this “bright young lady who ventured into self-help books, and uhmm…had the courage to be with OCD, a group dedicated to…yes, well, then, and it was Carolyn who gave her the moral fiber…”
“This twit needs good fiber to get the bloomin’ fart out of his head,” Wave whispered, disgusted that he had gotten it all so wrong, but also knowing along with Peyton that this was “Mum’s wishes, God knows why,” and Wave was here to help Peyton facilitate and honor Carolyn’s precise instructions as to how she wanted her burial service to be performed. On the priest ran, extolling Carolyn’s wealth, as if it were a trait to be honored, endlessly recounting all the great works she had achieved on behalf of the church, how she ran everything with equal parts grandeur and grace.
Peyton felt nauseous. This “twit”—she had to agree with Wave—rambling incessantly, her mother’s death, the naked image of Margaret being fucked with such passion, the joke her life had become, the sudden cessation of baby making which was more cause for alarm to Peyton than losing Margaret—“which should bloody well tell you she was the wrong fit!” Wave admonished. It was almost more loss than she could bear.
Finally, after shaking interminable hands, listening to endless platitudes, there remained only a few close friends and Wave, who came up and put an arm about her dear friend.
“As funerals go, Lombard, even with ol’ dafty over there, really, not too shabby,” Wave soothed as they walked to her car. She had insisted on “safely squiring” Peyton about as she had been medicated for panic the past few days.
Peyton surveyed the now empty graveyard. “Yeah. I think even Mom would have approved.”
“Positively.”
They walked on in silence for a few moments.
“Tellin’ ya Lombard, we could have made her a Democrat if we had a few more years.”
But when they looked at one another, they both categorically agreed, “Nahhh!”
*
Elena stretched for the umpteenth time that Saturday afternoon. She was trying to get through the piles of paperwork in Barry’s office, an old pantry that had been revamped and crammed with three desks—hers, Millie’s and Barry’s. Over the years the room had become more and more constricted, filled to the gills with all of Barry’s marketing paraphernalia. Even worse were the endless angels, each and every one handpicked by Millie over the years from kitschy stores, garage sales, and “all the gifts I seem to get from everyone. You know, Elena, I feel so very blessed that I am so appreciated.” Yet, Millie’s desk sat empty most of the time, because Millie was “always on the go, attending to God’s daily ‘to-do’ list,” leaving the more arcane tasks of opening the mail, paying bills, scheduling and organizing to Elena.
Barry had long ago asked her to help him keep the bills up to date and to maintain all the events and scheduling so that he could spend most of his time doing his “real work” which he insisted was “serving.” What Elena knew that to really mean was
performing
his role as pastor. She reminded herself daily that in the end if the work he did on behalf of others was all to the good, was it such a crime that he enjoyed his job? Even if it was for reasons other than the simple passion of serving God? How many people could claim that they loved their work with a passion and that their passion served others? She had long ago squared this with the blazing image of Elmer Gantry preying on the innocent with zealous promises of being saved. Barry was not a crusader nor a televangelist. His sermonizing was quiet, nuanced and extremely convincing. And in the end, so what that he had made some compromises.
They had both discussed this endlessly in the beginning. “This is about having to be realistic about making a living,” Barry suggested. “And it doesn’t mean that I can’t move on from here, El …Just let’s get established, find a home, a nice place to raise Nash and in the meantime, we’re doing good things for people. And isn’t that what it’s all about in the final analysis? Doing things for others? Acting is such a selfish profession.” They couldn’t really look one another in the eye as they continued to dull the edges of idealism with the pragmatism of compromise.
“Hey there.” Diana popped her head in the door. She was the one congregant whom Elena had come to rely on. Diana had become her closest friend involved in her church world. Tyler was her absolute dearest friend, but he would have nothing to do with the church and told them both square on: “If you do this, know it will come with a price. Maybe not now…but it
will
come at a price.”
The conversation had taken place while they were having barbecue with Tyler, shortly after he had met Lily and transitioned into his new world of “Soulemetry.” Barry had scoffed at Tyler’s new work, and Tyler, not insulted, very forcefully had told Barry, “What you’re doing will come back and bite you. You can’t fake it, Barry. It’s not right.”
“You know what? I don’t need advice from someone who’s hearing spirits and doing woo-woo whack advising me, okay Ty?”
It was at that point that Barry and Tyler’s relationship ended, not that the two of them had ever been particularly fond of one another. But Elena and Tyler had been “hooked at the heart,” as Tyler always described their union, after the three of them had all met in school, and he had told her any number of times, “Regardless of what ridiculousness Barry may be up to, our union can never be eroded.”
But here, at the church, where she spent most of her waking hours, Elena found that Diana, though a fervent observer, also saw through the hypocrisy, shared the same distaste for Millie’s need to be the center of attention, and was the first one to come to Elena and suggest, “Millie’s not fooling me for a second. She’s hot for your husband.”
They soon became fast friends and confidantes. Over the years Elena had seen Diana through five pregnancies, a miscarriage, a premature infant, and now Diana was looking at another pregnancy. Each pregnancy took its toll on what was once a cherubic strawberry blond. Now the mother of scrambling toddlers and pre-teens, Diana never lost her pregnancy gains, a constant stripe of gray made her beautiful hair fall flat, and the attempts to raise five kids, mostly on her own, showed in every frazzled new worry line on her face. It seemed that as often as Elena had tried to get pregnant with Barry, Diana ended up doing the job for her. She and her husband Rich, who was one of Barry’s right-hand Elders and best golf buddy, spent considerable time together—both around the church and on social occasions. Both families had even vacationed together.
Diana was a genuinely good and kind person and one of the few parishioners who did not border on zealotry. Elena always appreciated that Diana was the first to say and often remind Millie, “The Bible’s on the dated side, and we clearliesnd we cy need to take some things with a grain of salt, especially if you intend to serve shrimp at the Divine Dinner fundraiser!” Diana had chuckled as she’d had a fierce craving for the evil shellfish throughout her last pregnancy.
“Hey there.” Elena looked her over. “How are you feeling? Still nauseous?”
“Finally getting over that, thank God.” Diana furtively glanced behind her then said, “Elena, I know you’re not exactly wild about this march.”
“No, I’m not.” Elena returned to her paperwork. She was already so behind schedule. “Live and let live…”
“Yeah…I sort of agree with you. I mean, come on, so they get married. Why should we care when our divorce rate is so shockingly high?”
“Exactly. Like we have some claim to knowing how to do it right?”
“That’s just it,” Diana said. “We can’t sit in judgment. That’s not what God wants us to do. But I must confess. I don’t get why it has to be marriage. You know. What’s wrong with just having a civil union? Why do they have to call it the same thing? If they get the same rights.”
Elena had not been paying attention to the argument at hand because she rarely allowed herself to get involved in the actual movements the church participated in. She was there to take care of the grunt work, and if she did her job well, it allowed Barry to take care of the global picture. She was well aware that on a deeper level her lack of involvement and detachment was a cop-out. But it was the only way she could survive this particular playing field. Although, she had noticed for weeks now, something about this whole marriage discussion disturbed her, a sense of injustice struck her as clearly as a slap across the cheek. “But why wouldn’t they want exactly the same rights?”
Diana stared at her friend with a confused frown, but before she could respond she heard a ruckus down the hall.
“Heads up,” Diana hissed, “Millie’s on her way over.”
Seconds later Millie butted through the doorway, barely glancing at Diana. They had had their own set of run-ins about what Millie perceived as Diana’s “incessant need to have children—not that it wasn’t part of God’s plan, but with all the starving and unwanted children in the world, did Diana really have to contribute to the problem of overpopulation?” To others, Millie was a bit more coarse: “Rich can’t keep it in his pants. They need another little brat running around like we all need more reality TV!”
“Elena.” Millie cocked her head to the side, as if she’d heard something that was giving her quite the case of “devlies”—her too cute by half combo of devil and gnarlies.