The Housewife(37)

Phillip and Emily McIntosh greet us at the door. She is covered in gold jewelry, white hair held back by some kind of tiara, and she has the nicest face, smiling and crinkled. She takes my hands in hers and says, “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Jodie.”

Phillip McIntosh pats sweat off his brow while giving me a leering, up-down look. “What she said,” he says, then winks at me.

“Jodie! Hello!” It’s Eileen, followed by the harpies. And I don’t know if it’s because of Eileen, or if it’s because Roy is standing there, but the harpies are uncharacteristically friendly, their hands patting at me softly, their heads tilted. “You’re so pretty! How are you? It’s so nice to see you.” Eileen gushes about the luncheon at Meredith’s house, saying that it was the best food she’s ever tasted in her life.

“I didn’t do it alone,” I say. “Dolores and I made a great team.”

“Who?” Meredith asks, frowning .

“Dolores, your housemaid.”

“Oh, right.”

“I don’t even know why you needed me,” I say. “She’s an amazing chef. You’re so lucky.”

She laughs, throwing her head back. “Dolores isn’t a chef! She’s the housemaid!” She turns to Roy, still smiling, and shoots him a small eye roll, as if to say, I don’t know how you do it, but better you than me. Then to me, she says, “If I didn’t tell Dolores what to do and what to make, she wouldn’t know what to do with herself.”

I don’t think a reply is expected, so I don’t offer one.





There are four tables of six in the dining room. We sit with people I’ve never met. The wine flows freely, and judging by the appetizers, the five-course dinner promises to be delicious. Roy is already a little tipsy, a little red in the cheeks. I make conversation with the other guests while Roy gives me sideways glances.

At one point, I escape to the bathroom, and when I come out, Phillip McIntosh is there, one hand against the wall by the door, his bow tie askew.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?” he says.

I move to go past him, but his arm is in the way.

“Come on, Josie…”

“It’s Jodie.”

“Let’s go back in there. Give an old man a bit of fun, hey?”

“You’ve had too much to drink, Mr. McIntosh. Why don’t you go in the bathroom and splash some water over your face.” Or even better, stick it in the toilet bowl and keep it there.

“Exactly,” he slurs. “Why don’t you come with me and splash water on my face?”

“Okay, thank you. I’m going now.”

But he grabs me and pulls me to him, now he’s all over me, his disgusting mouth pressing against mine, his hands trying to lift my skirt.

“Jodie.”

He doesn’t hear Roy behind us. I push Phillip McIntosh away and slam my hands against his chest.

“Jodie.”

This time we both turn. Roy is standing in silhouette at the end of the corridor, completely still. And in a low voice that is dripping with icicles, he says, “If you’re done here, maybe you’d like to return to our table?”

“Yeah,” Phillip McIntosh says, rolling back on his heels to zip up his fly. “Yeah, go back to the table, Jodie, like I said.” He walks past Roy, patting him on the shoulder as he does.

“What the hell is going on?” Roy’s eyes are like fire.

“You saw it. A man just tried to force himself on me, that’s what’s going on.”

“What are you trying to do?” he hisses. “Embarrass me in front of my friends? Sell yourself to the highest bidder like a cheap whore?”

His face is an inch from mine, his eyes narrow, his mouth is a thin, pale line, and there’s spittle gathering in one corner.

And then, in a low voice, he says, “You’re all the same. Every one of you. Whores. ”

And it’s funny, because it occurs to me that I have seen that expression before, that jealous, disbelieving rage.





I am seventeen years old. My sister has a new boyfriend. She doesn’t know that I know, but I know everything. He’s two years older, and he has a scar under his right cheekbone.

I don’t know where she met him, probably at the grocery store where she works part-time at the checkout. I see them together outside the movie theater, him leaning back against his truck holding her by the waist. He’s skinny as a rake, all tendons and muscles and jittery limbs, always a cigarette between his lips. When she comes home, I ask her about him, and she smiles, then puts a finger on her lips. Shhh…

I don’t know what she sees in him, except I do: an escape from the hellhole we live in, from our crazy mother, from the daily violence. My sister wants out of that nightmare and there’s no easy way out short of running away, so she chooses that creep as her means of transport. This man has a car and a job at the slaughterhouse, and apparently he loves my sister, or so she tells me. But I smelled it on him, the stench of cruelty. Turns out he loves so much, he wants all of her, including her soul. He wants to know where she is at all times, and who is she fucking? Because she was five minutes late to her job at the grocery store and he’s not stupid.