Morgan lived in a sparsely decorated penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan. He thought
of the space as his minimalist redoubt. In the living room there was a white leather
Chesterfield sectional, glass coffee table, and a Mies Van der Rohe chair. His space
matched his animus. He was minimalist in his relationships with women, relying on
English charm and a premeditated progression of gifts (French perfume, Italian shoes,
then something glittering) to do the otherwise “wet” job of
wooing the opposite sex.
Thirteen months earlier Veronica had placed an ad in the Chicago Tribute’s
personals. She described herself as an “urban lawyer, experimental, iconoclastic,
beautiful, and uncompromising.” When men responded, she added: “tall
in heels and biologically twenty-five years old.”
It was Veronica’s wit that first attracted him. He loved her wildness and
eagerness in bed. But she had failed at every relationship in her life: a marriage
when she was nineteen, followed by twenty-one years of dating more than eighty men,
many her junior by a decade. Before she met Morgan she had a brief affair with a
French finance minister, who twice took her to Paris, the last time leaving her
in the early hours at the George V and never calling again.
::
“Let me see how you look in your new shoes,” Morgan said.
She had tried to wear them for an hour every day, and her feet were badly blistered.
The shoes were too high for her small foot and thin ankles. She felt like she was
walking on pointe.
“I love them,” she said. She tottered around the room.
“I love seeing them on your feet. Do they hurt you?”
“Not really.” She thought about it again. “Only when I move.”
He laughed. “You’re better when you move.”
She knew the reference to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and smiled.
::
They had come back from the pool. Morgan had stripped off his black Speedo and was
wearing a spa robe; Veronica was in a silk kimono. That evening she told him he
was the most brilliant man she had met in her life.
“Me? I’m just a ponce.”
“Brilliant and handsome, a rare combination,” she said.
“You are in fine form today, Veronica.”
::
A week later Veronica called him with an update on his visa application. “They’re
going to approve your visa, Morgan.” She wanted to tell him all the details.
She had succeeded where three big-firm lawyers had failed. She wanted to tell him
how she had charmed the administrator at the immigration office. She almost blurted
out how the office staff loved her. No candy, no gifts, just me.
“Why are you so positive?” Morgan asked. “Is it signed?”
“No, but I have them eating out of my hand.”
::
Being in love was good for Veronica; she was doing so well, her psychiatrist took
her off lithium.
“How do you feel?” the doctor asked.
“Never better.”
“Are you drinking?”
“Not much,” she answered.
But she was drinking gin, small sips from an opaque cup that she filled without
looking. She sipped all night and into the early morning. It smoothed her out and
helped her get more done. This included mastering the new immigration law in the
event the case ended up in court. She was Joan of Arc and this was war. She called
Morgan at 2 a.m.
“Why can’t I go with you to Santa Monica to meet the investors?”
“You would be bored. The meetings go on all day.”
“But I know how to ask for a check.”
“It’s not the right moment to ask for a check. Anyway, Santa Monica
is gray in June, and the water is too cold for swimming. It’s nothing like
Miami.”
::
“It looks like it might be a few more months,” Veronica said.
He felt a burning in his stomach. “That’s not what you told me. You
said it was a sure thing.”
“They’re administrators, Morgan. They have a thousand cases.
The only reason you’re at the front of the line is because I’m dancing
for you.”
He walked to the bar to mix martinis.
“You didn’t ask what I wanted,” she said.
“Sorry, darling. What would you like?”
“A martini is fine.”
She sat in the middle of the long sectional, while he stood silhouetted at the window,
looking at Lake Michigan. It was flat, gray, and very calm. It’s how he imagined
eternity; in the meantime he would enjoy life’s pleasant articulations. That
lovely word has many variations, he thought, some quite extreme.
::
“No, I don’t think you are bipolar,” her psychiatrist said. “It’s
a convenient diagnosis and, unfortunately, too often abused. I want to see how you
do without drugs for a while longer.” A week later she began a manic stage;
she was brilliant and brilliantly funny, an invincible mind driven by unrelenting
hypomania and the belief that Morgan was about to propose. She could work day and
night and she would. There were twelve inches of immigration law on her
desk and eighteen inches on the floor. No stone unturned—no pebble, no grain of
sand. If he lets me help, I could make him the next Elon Musk. Get out of my way
and let me get this done. She needed a signature from one more administrator,
a rotund man named Bertram Good.
::
“That’s a funny question. Would I give Bertram Good a blow job for the
visa?” She laughed. “I would give every administrator in the building
a blow job if I thought it would help.”
::
As he got ready for Veronica, he looked at himself in the mirror over the granite
sinktop. His physique was trim with narrow shoulders, long legs, size eleven shoes,
sparse hair on his chest and arms. Pushing was American but he had run
out of options. There was only a month left before his Multiple Entry Visa would
expire, then he would have to leave the US without returning for six months. Where
was she? Why was she late? He looked at his watch.
“Sorry I’m late—hard to find a cab this time of night. You look
worried. Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Just thinking about it again. Maybe it is time to push the
right people. But the last thing I want is to seem an eager beaver. It
always kills things.”
“So you want me to be the eager beaver?”
“You already are.”
She almost took the remark as an insult. Then she laughed. “Oh, funny. I guess
I am an eager beaver.”
He smiled roguishly.
“Oh, stop.”
Despite the fact that Morgan never said he loved her, Veronica had never been happier
in a relationship. She consoled herself that his coolness was “typically English.”
When the games started, she hardly realized what was happening. He inched her into
the deep end. Why not, she thought. I’m a natural-born actress. These
games are just a bit of dangerous fun.
::
“Be right out, darling.”
In the high-ceilinged room, Veronica looked like a child. She studied the single
painting on the wall, a pseudo-monochrome, off-white, with faint circles of blue
and brown. In the distance Lake Michigan rolled away: bleak, gray, and strangely
convexed.
“Morgan, what are you doing in there?’
She was thinking about meeting his mother. I will be a perfect lady. I will be polite
and well spoken. I won’t be loud. Oh, Christ. I can’t do this. What’s
wrong with me? You loved it when I had the governor on the floor, laughing and grabbing
his sides.
He appeared in the doorway, holding a large, inlaid box.
Is this a gift for me? she thought. Is this how he’s going to propose?
A large box with a small, velvet-covered box inside? Oh God, this is agony.
::
They hadn’t seen each other for a week. The deskman was friendly and smiled
while he waited for Morgan’s call before he sent her up. Morgan left the door
ajar and was shaving. Veronica sat in the middle of the large sectional with her
hands folded in her lap, as if she were in church.
Morgan entered, barefoot, in white pants and a well-pressed black shirt. “Hello,
darling. How’s the weather out there?”
“Really blowing. Big whitecaps on the lake.”
“Never know it up here. Did you buy your ticket for Spain?”
“I thought you were buying the tickets.”
“I told you I couldn’t put two tickets on the expense account.”
“But I thought we were going over to meet your mother.”
“Well, we are spending two days with my parents, but we are going to Spain
to meet an associate who invests in our kind of projects.”
“I’m excited about meeting your mother and father.”
“Yes, well, Mother can be rather difficult. Try not to be bigger than life.”
“Try not to be myself?”
“You know what I mean. Don’t interrupt her.”
“I only interrupt when it’s boring.”
“Oh God, Veronica. Sometimes, I don’t—”
She immediately regretted that she had snapped back like that. The prospect of meeting
his mother made her feel sick to her stomach, and she hadn’t been able to
sleep all week. God damn it, I’m not going to say a word, just agree with
everything and laugh politely.
“What’s wrong? Are you mad at me? You seem funny. Come over here and
kiss me.”
“I have a better idea.”
Morgan left the room and returned with a box of silk scarves. “Shall we play
some music?”
“Classical would be nice,” she replied mechanically.
She undressed, folding her clothes in a neat square on the chair. She took a seat
on the sectional, and Morgan started with the first of five silks.
“Did you shower?”
“I always shower first,” she answered, her affect flat.
After this question there would be no more conversation.
He bound her ankles, wrapping them three times, firmly, but not so tight as to stop
the circulation. Next he tied her wrists behind her. They had played this game before.
First came the long ceremony of binding, then tying and retying the knots. It seemed
to take longer than before. Was he practicing new knots, new ligatures?
She didn’t like it when he used that word. She knew its deadly meaning in
law. He proceeded slowly. He was the master and she was the slave. She liked the
silks better than the other variations: in one, she was dragged around the room
in a dog collar. In another, he made her look at herself in the mirror and describe
all the things wrong with her body. After her arms were tied, he wrapped a silk
around her neck and connected it to the silk that bound her ankles. In this bent
position, they made love.
::
In Majorca, Veronica thought herself the perfect houseguest. She was quiet and let
Morgan’s mother talk. When his father told a story about the Mau Mau, she
looked appropriately fascinated. On the last night they went to a bar for tapas
and wine. Eunice, Morgan’s mother, joined them, but not his father. Eunice
was a tall woman with a mannish but beautiful face. After a few glasses Veronica
told Eunice a story about the demolition of the Wrigley Chewing Gum factory across
the street from her townhouse.
“Six months of jack hammers and drills. It was hor-r-r-r-r-ible!” she
said, affecting a New York accent.
“What did you do?” Eunice asked.
“Nobody could help. Not my alderman or the mayor’s office—both
friends.”
Eunice nodded.
“So I ran out on the balcony nude and yelled: ‘Shut the fuck up.’ It
was hysterical.”
On the plane Morgan was quiet. Veronica thought about all the reasons she loved
him. They were a beautiful couple together. She loved how he looked in his European
clothes and his elegant way of walking. She loved being seen at the best restaurants,
where the maître d’ greeted them by name. They were point and counterpoint,
a brilliant team. She had done everything for him: all of those months
working pro bono. Couldn’t he see it was an act of love?
Morgan had introduced her to the light whip and, recently, to a heavier one. In
one session he placed her inside his beautiful inlaid box, the “cube,”
built by a fetish-supplier in Japan. He left her inside for a half hour, and when
she could no longer bear the pain and cried out, he opened the lid and told her
she never looked more beautiful.
On the plane he put on earphones and disappeared into his iPad.
Why was he so quiet? “Your mother has a great sense of humor—your
father, too. Did he grow up in London?”
“Kenya,” Morgan said.
“Of course, he’s so British.”
“Colonial, actually.”
“Why did he leave Kenya?”
“There was a smallpox epidemic and he never went back.”
::
Veronica knew the best route back to her apartment and instructed the cab driver.
She was lost in thought, thinking about the final details of Morgan’s immigration
case. Morgan had confessed he had consulted with another lawyer, a friend, who suggested
Morgan smuggle himself through the Tijuana border. “They are looking for illegal
Mexicans, not Englishmen. You’ll sail right through.”
The Nigerian cab driver looked at Veronica through the rearview mirror. “That’ll
be forty-six dollars.”
“What? I’m not paying that. Why didn’t you turn off the meter
when you got lost?” She threw down his fare, subtracting twenty dollars and
his tip.
“Don’t scream at me, madam,” he said, raising his voice.
“Why are you cheating me? I told you how to go!”
“If you knew the way, why didn’t you direct me?”
Her face was red: “I told you to take West Adams!”
There was no way to calm her. They argued violently. The driver’s spittle
hung in the air, lit by passing headlights and the green Starbucks sign across the
street.
“I am taking down your hack number. I’m a lawyer, goddamn it. Don’t
fuck with me.”
To shut her up, he produced a pistol from the glove box and waved it. The gesture
was slow, almost indolent. He didn’t point the barrel at her face, although
he felt like it. He didn’t aim it at any part of her body; it was only a stern
wave to regain his potency.
::
Back in her apartment, Veronica didn’t know if she was furious or frightened.
She had never raised her voice to an African. She was a “dues-paying member
of the Lawyer’s Guild, for Chrissakes.” In some places that means something.
She had taken down his name and hack number and called the police. After two hours
the police finally came. She cried, telling them how she was frightened for her
life. After she told her story three times, the sergeant said, “We’ll
check this out, ma’am. We’ll check this out and get back to you.”
::
Morgan was reviewing a set of blueprints on the floor of the living room when the
phone rang.
“You don’t understand, Morgan, he pulled a gun on me. He pulled a fucking
gun. I could have been shot.” She went on like this for thirty minutes.
“What kind of gun was it?”
“Oh Christ, I don’t know—a big gun. A gun big enough to blow my
head off.”
“I don’t think he would have shot you. Did you call the police?”
“They came but they’re hopeless. You don’t sound very sympathetic.
What’s wrong?”
When she called again, he didn’t answer. She tried nine more times.
::
Ten days later his visa was approved. She left a message and tried not to sound
too self-congratulatory; the message was too loud and went on too long. She wanted
to erase it and send another. He called back immediately.
Morgan was elated but cautious. “Amazing, Veronica. You are a wunderkind.
No one else on the planet would have been as tenacious. What a torment. Well, we
know something about that.”
“I’m coming over. I have to talk to you,” she said.
“I can’t—have a meeting, Veronica. Can we talk later?”
“I have to come over. There is something you don’t understand. It’s
not about the taxi driver.”
“You are an angel, Veronica. I can’t believe you really did it. Do I
have to sign more papers?”
“No, it’s all done. Can I come over?” She was ready to do more
for him. She would suffer more. She would submit to a heavier whip and let him bind
her until she bled. She would pull him in a pony cart—naked—with a bit
and ball in her mouth. I’d pull him down Michigan Avenue in a red-feathered
cap and stiletto heels, if that’s what it takes!
“Not now. I’ll call you, darling. I have to get to my meeting.”
::
The following morning she arrived early at the lobby of Morgan’s condominium.
She wanted to catch him before his swim. She asked the deskman to ring him. No answer.
“Ben, can you try again?”
He let it ring. “No answer, Veronica.”
Her heart was racing. “Can I wait here until he comes down?”
“I’m sorry, Veronica.”
Morgan sat in his spa robe. He had left a message at the desk that he wasn’t
to be disturbed. He was relaxed after his swim and had hung his black Speedo across
the arcing spout of the enameled, cast-iron bathtub. A day earlier he had called
his father about Veronica; the older man listened quietly before offering his counsel:
“No sense bothering with a stricken child. If it has smallpox, let it go.”
Lake Michigan was gray; Morgan wondered if there were whitecaps. He would let her
down easy. No call for a week, no call for a month. No call—maybe there
is some chop out there, hard to tell from up here.
work has appeared or is forthcoming in Amarillo Bay, Rougarou, The Alembic, Griffin,
The Legendary, ONTHEBUS, Voices, The Coe Review, Yellow Silk, AUSB Odyssey, Sage Trail,
RiverSedge, Paranoia VHS, Collage, Antiochracy, Forge, Jet Fuel Review, New Plains Review,
Crack the Spine, and in the anthology Poets on 9/11.