“What else?” Greta said.
“Is that not enough?”
A bright light flashed in the trees just beyond the meadow, about twenty feet away. Greta squinted. The woods were dark, so it was hard to know what was making the flash, but Greta assumed it was a man holding binoculars and that they were trained on Big Swiss’s fruity nipples.
“Some dude’s hiding behind a tree, spying on you with high-powered binoculars,” Greta said. “In case you’re interested.”
“Don’t be paranoid,” Big Swiss said.
“It wouldn’t be paranoia if I had any control over it.”
“Take a breath,” Big Swiss said.
Greta stood up and slid into her shoes.
“Sit down,” Big Swiss said.
Greta strode toward the trees. Other women were sunbathing, as well, a few of them topless. Greta saw another flash and peered into the woods, her hands cupped around her eyes. A man stood next to a tree ten feet away. He was staring at his phone, his lower half obscured by shrubs and bushes.
“Keith,” Greta said. “Pull up your pants and come out of there.”
The guy didn’t answer.
“Keith!”
He lifted his head and looked in the wrong direction.
“I’m talking to you. Over here.”
His head swiveled. “Who?”
“Stop hiding in the woods like a creep, Keith.”
“I’m not Keith,” the guy said.
He was right. He was much too young to be Keith. Greta turned to address the sunbathers.
“You might want to cover up, ladies,” Greta said loudly. “You’re being photographed by a sex pest.”
“I’m taking selfies,” the guy insisted. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”
“Frat boy,” Greta blurted.
“Gay,” the guy said.
“What?”
“I’m gay, for heaven’s sake.” He stepped out from behind the bushes, as if to say, See? Greta could see his shapely legs and shiny gold shorts. His bright white socks had green tennis rackets printed all over them. “I don’t give a shit about tits. Understand? Go fuck yourself.”
Holy hell, it was GMT, whose last session she’d transcribed only yesterday. He’d told Om a story about a guy he’d hooked up with on Grindr, some gorgeous city person he’d invited to his house in the middle of a stressful workday, just to get his mind off things. The city guy’s rule was total silence, as in no speaking allowed, as in not one fucking word, which had seemed both arousing and refreshing to GMT. Thirty minutes later, the guy had GMT in his mouth and hands, and then he paused, reached into his pocket for lube, and accidentally dropped it on the floor. GMT saw the lube roll under the bed, but the guy kept crawling around, looking for it. “Under the bed,” GMT finally said. The guy’s head whipped around. He stared balefully at GMT for ten long seconds. “Sorry,” GMT said. The guy stormed out of the house without a word. On his way out the door, he swept everything off GMT’s console table.
“Sorry,” Greta said now.
GMT said nothing and typed something on his phone.
Her ears burned as she walked back to Big Swiss. She wished they made sunglasses for ears. And mouths. Her mouth was probably trembling so convulsively, it might break loose and fall off her face. At least she had regular sunglasses. Where were they? She must have dropped them in the grass somewhere. She retraced her steps, scanning the ground, and could feel GMT studying her.
“Did you see my sunglasses?” Greta asked him.
“On your head,” GMT said.
So they were.
“Sorry,” Greta said again.
Just kill yourself, Greta thought. Big Swiss was still watching, waiting, looking pleased with herself. As Greta reached the blanket and was about to sit down, she felt someone coming up behind her. She spun around and ducked slightly, expecting GMT, perhaps, or flying rocks, food, or trash, but it was one of the sunbathers, a girl wearing a bikini top, bike shorts, and a bunch of doodle tattoos.
“Greta,” the girl said. “I thought that was you.”
“Hey,” Greta said uncertainly.
“It’s Nicole,” the girl said. “I was at your house recently.”
Nicole, a.k.a. NEM, a.k.a. Jason Bateman. Blood rushed to Greta’s face.
“Oh, hey. Hi.”
“It’s Greta, right?”
“Or Rebekah,” Greta said, and resisted the urge to wink. “Either one.”
Nicole was doing very well, Greta knew, having broken up with Ryan and gotten on meds, and was looking for new friends.
“There’s a Smithy party tonight,” Nicole said. “Wanna come?”
Smithy, whose real name was Billy, was from Baltimore. He was a former record producer and owned an abandoned factory and a French houseboat from the 1930s. Since arriving in Hudson, he’d cultivated a new persona. He freight hopped, whittled wood, collected guns, said “ain’t.” His parties were usually rustic, ritualistic, and shrouded in secrecy. Invitations were hand-delivered in manila envelopes stamped CONFIDENTIAL and contained ten-page dossiers about what to expect. You might be blindfolded, helped into a canoe, deposited on the shore of a boggy island in the middle of the Hudson, and then expected to participate in a ritual or two.
“Okay if I bring a friend?” Greta asked.
“Sure,” Nicole said.
While Greta gave Nicole her number, she watched Nicole notice Big Swiss. Watching women notice Big Swiss had become one of Greta’s favorite pastimes. Greta likened it to standing in line at a crowded bakery, focusing intensely on the pastries in the display case, feeling pressured to hurry up and decide because the line was so long, absentmindedly ordering from the faceless counterperson, meeting that person at the register, fumbling with your wallet, dealing with the debit card, and then realizing you’re being rung up by Charlize Theron, who’s making deliberate eye contact with you.
“Hi,” Nicole said shyly.
“This is Big—Flavia,” Greta said. “Flavia, this is Nicole.”
Nicole slow-blinked à la Jason Bateman, Big Swiss smiled à la Charlize Theron, and Greta felt like the unseemly childhood friend of celebrities.
* * *
AFTER MIDNIGHT, alone in the antechamber, Greta broke down and wrote a letter, her first in months:
Dear Mom,
Maybe you remember this: After Robbie dumped me in high school, I went to Florida with your sister Deb. We stayed in a crappy condo somewhere along the Intracoastal Waterway, and I was heartbroken and miserable. On the last night, after Deb went to bed, I swallowed a few of her Ativan, drank most of a bottle of wine, and waded, fully clothed, into the Banana River, which the locals called the Frozen Banana River because it was brown and looked like shit, and which turned out not to be a river at all but a lagoon, and only eight feet deep. I swam toward what I thought was the ocean, but I got turned around. I remember feeling your presence next to me. It was you who pushed me back to shore. I slept on the muddy bank, got mauled by mosquitoes, and was discovered by a geezer fisherman, who returned me to the condo, no questions asked. I was too embarrassed to ever tell anyone, because, well, you were a dolphin.
Anyway, Big Swiss and I went to a party on a houseboat tonight. It was crawling with modern pagans, old ravers, adult Pippi Longstockings, and a bunch of people wearing Victorian evening wear. There was a brass band. Someone played a piano covered in burning candles. Everyone seemed to be carrying a parasol. Big Swiss was getting hit on right and left, but the music was good, the setting romantic, the moon bright and full, and at one point she held my hand and asked what I was thinking, and I told her that you had once been a dolphin in the Banana River, that you had saved me from drowning, that it had felt too Disney to ever say out loud but that I wanted her to know me, I wanted to tell her more, to blow it wide open, and I nearly told her my real name, but I was too startled by her face, her faint smile, the way she nodded her head. I could tell she thought I was crazy, or making shit up, and I suppose I don’t blame her. I stared at the deep, dark, dolphin-free Hudson, a real river with a swift current, and thought about trying again.