The Safekeep(31)

A slow headache was pulsing at the back of Isabel’s head, getting worse. She ate little of the food. They all had left her alone after they’d returned. Sebastian hadn’t tried to continue the conversation and now he and Eva were discussing the merit of good eyes, good brows. Hendrik lounged in his chair, smoking with an expansive sprawl, watching the two indulgently.

Sebastian said of his eyebrows, all seriousness, “I think I’d like mine thinner,” and Eva said, “No, but you have a good shape, do you know what it’s like to pluck an eyebrow that has no shape? No, don’t touch them, they’re perfect.”

“Ah,” Hendrik said, leaning into Isabel’s space, whispering: “A compliment. Now she’ll have him forever.”

Isabel wanted to answer, but Hendrik then opened the conversation to the group: “What about my eyebrows? What about Isabel’s, how do ours hold up, what have we been saddled with?”

Eva considered him—hmm’d at this. She turned her attention to Isabel. Isabel tilted her face away, not wanting to join in on the game. This made Eva laugh, a sound between kind and mean. It was the drinking, Isabel thought, that made her like this. That made all of them like this. Eva leaned forward and said, “Isabel, look at me a moment. Let me see.”

Isabel passed the back of her hand over her brow, hiding it. “No, it’s silly,” she said, and Hendrik, next to her, tugged her hand away and said, “Oh, just let her!” and Isabel pulled away from him, annoyed, but now Eva hitched up in her seat and reached across the table. Her hand was a heat, hovering near Isabel’s face. The pad of her thumb passed over Isabel’s brow. Fingers curled in, knuckles to Isabel’s cheek. She did it again, smoothing the grain of hair.

Isabel moved with the touch a fraction. Eva pulled away.

Dinner came to an unclear close and Hendrik heralded them all into the drawing room to put on a record, to dance. The heat of the day lingered: rolled-up sleeves, shiny foreheads. A few flies were stuck inside, bounced from window to ceiling to wall. Isabel meant to clear the dishes instead and was told she was not allowed: Come dance! Hendrik insisted. Come on, come on, we’ll wash up later, come dance!

Isabel would not dance. She sat in the armchair and watched the others sway, uncoordinated and drunk, all about the space. They pushed the coffee table aside, made a dance floor. The records were old, ones that Isabel’s brothers bought as teens and left behind when they moved away; Isabel did not buy music. She didn’t know how. Hendrik chose an American singer for the party, something poppy and familiar. They danced and smoked and shimmied on socks, and then a fast song turned slow, and Hendrik took Sebastian’s hand—in good humor, at first. Then serious, then with purpose. Sebastian went with a small smile: settling against him, face turned, cheek to Hendrik’s shoulder.

Eva seemed lost a moment. Out of breath on the edge of the carpet. She noticed, and then noticed. She sat down, eyes on the two men. Her hair had come loose and was sticking to her face, the sheen of sweat. She was blushing fiercely. Not just from the exercise, Isabel thought. Not just from that.

Hendrik held Sebastian close. Sebastian hummed a small word, hand to the small of Hendrik’s back. There was no mistaking, none. It was obvious what they were now. Who they were. Isabel held her hands tight in her lap.

Eva stared at the dancing couple. Say something, Isabel thought, a flare of daring. Eva’s mouth was parted. She looked at Isabel as if in answer. The dip of her lip, the glint of her crooked tooth. The night blurred. Had Eva gone dancing with Louis often? The one song ended, the next began. Isabel drank in silence and the dancing continued. At some point Sebastian got tired and sat down with a happy murmur, a “Go on, go on, I’ll just rest for a moment.” It wasn’t a moment: soon he was dozing against the armrest. Hendrik danced with Eva by holding her hand at a length and letting her pass under it, a twirl. When he announced his retirement, Eva said, “Noooo!” Said, “No, don’t leave me, one more. Come, one more.”

Hendrik, with two damp spots under his arms, turned to Isabel: “You take her from me. I can’t,” he said. “I can’t. I’m old, I can’t.”

Isabel did not take this seriously. She was still in the same chair, still sitting primly. Again, she had drunk too much. She hadn’t danced a single song and felt as though she had—overheated and short of breath. Hendrik sat down next to dozing Sebastian, gave a quick kiss to the side of his head.

Eva stood before her, holding out two hands: “Dance with me,” she said.

Isabel looked at her. The offer, the upturned palms. Eva’s trousers were cinched too tightly at the waist, button pulling. They would leave a mark, surely—folds of fabric pressed against her skin. They would be felt long after undressing: a relief, then an ache.

Isabel rose without accepting the hands held out. Eva watched her stand at her full height, eyes going up, up. It was a bop of a song, a lyric that went, I’d bounce to you, I’d bounce bounce bounce!

“Dance,” Eva told her. She began shimmying. Her shoulders moved, her hips. Isabel didn’t know how to do that, only knew to stare. Eva laughed nervously, shook Isabel’s arm playfully: “Go on! Move a little.”

Isabel didn’t. She wasn’t sure what sort of game this was: to be pushed away, to be pulled again while others watched. Was Eva pretending, was she drunk, was she—