Well, he would tame Felicia in his own way next time. He would treat her rougher than normal, manhandle her a little, paw at her, grasp her. “Animals,” he would growl into her ear. He would pet her, caress her haunches and her loins, force some feline arch to her lithe little back. They would pant and moan and howl, driven wild with the scent of the other’s sweat and desire. And then he would end it, push her aside, send her back to that pitiable man of hers. That would be her punishment.
Blanton had started a new lecture. “The difference is between sexual propagation, propagation by seeds, and vegetative propagation, where you just cut off a little part of the plant, and spread it somewhere else.” He looked as if he was concentrating heavily, as if any of this mattered. “Take this plant here,” he pointed to the plant Roger had placed in the study. Roger had forgotten about it. “Peperomia obtusifolia. Red margin. You could take a little cutting from this and plant it and it will grow on its own. But it also grows by seeds, and—”
“That was a gift from your wife,” Roger said then. Felicia shot him an ugly look, then blushed slightly. Two emotions. Unlike her.
“I thought it might be,” said Blanton, and he turned to Felicia. “A cutting, dear, or the original?”
“It’s the one you gave me,” said Felicia, composed again.
He nodded, and then to Roger: “She’s very generous, don’t you think?” And for the first time, Roger could see in the other man’s eyes some spark of a challenge, some knowledge. He was finally catching on, and Roger felt his own blood begin to rise.
But before he could answer, Felicia cut him off.
“A toast,” she said, “to these wonderful drinks. And to the student who gave you the mangoes. It’s good to be appreciated.”
“You can’t use drinks to toast the drinks themselves,” Roger snorted, but he raised his glass anyway.
“Then a toast to plants,” said Blanton, and suddenly Roger just wanted the evening over and all of them gone.
“I’m sorry to cause any trouble,” said Blanton, patting his pockets, “but I think I must have dropped my keys somewhere inside.” The four of them stood in the driveway, had already said their goodbyes. “No, no, ladies. You can stay out here and talk. We’ll take a look inside. Roger, you don’t mind helping me, do you?”
Felicia could see the reluctance in Roger’s expression, but he’d turned back toward the house anyway, leading Blanton inside, leaving her with Jessica. It was the first time they’d been truly alone.
“Well, the evening turned out better than I’d expected,” Jessica said, and Felicia could feel the woman’s eyes on her, some sense of judgment or curiosity. Maybe both.
“I’m going to end it,” Felicia said, not meeting the other woman’s look.
“With which one?” Jessica asked, and Felicia could tell from the tone that judgment was winning.
Felicia shook her head, leaned against her car. “What I’ve been doing, it’s not...”
The moon was peeking over the tops of the pine trees in Roger’s yard. Nearly a full moon, Felicia saw now. Other nights, there might have been something romantic about the image.
“Did you ever have boys fighting over you?” Felicia asked.
“Years ago,” said Jessica. “A bar fight. Some guy sent over a drink, and my boyfriend got jealous. My ex-boyfriend, I should add.”
“Who won?”
“Who knows? Both of them got kicked out of the bar. I decided to stay with my friends and keep drinking. Broke up with the guy by phone the next day. A real lunkhead.”
“There was a boy once,” Felicia said, and then she stopped, thinking about the word. Boy was right: needy, insecure, pitiful, really. “He wanted to fight for me, wanted to have fought for me, and the thing was, I wanted him to fight for me too. I was mad at him for not being more of a man, felt like I deserved a real man.” She shook her head again, she looked up at the moon. “I didn’t even know what a man was.”
“All of them disappoint,” said Jessica. “That’s the way they are.”
But that wasn’t what Felicia meant at all. She tried to imagine Blanton fighting for her, throwing fists, getting kicked out of a bar. But that wasn’t who he was. Instead, she pictured him making those mojitos, his struggle to stay poised, some nervous attempt at grace. She thought about how complicated the adult world was, more than she’d ever imagined. Compromises and negotiations. With others, with yourself. Things weren’t ever just how they looked. “I thought Blanton was weak like that boy was, but I was wrong.”
Blanton and Roger came out again. Roger stood tall, framed by the doorway. Blanton took the handrail as he made his way down the front steps.
“Don’t say anything about it tonight,” Felicia told Jessica quickly. She felt liberated, frightened. She still didn’t know what the future was going to be like, how she was going to handle her desires, her needs, how she’d explain things to either of the men. But she’d made her decision. “I’ll tell Roger tomorrow that it’s over. I will.”
Blanton had found his keys easily enough, sitting in the study, precisely where he’d left them. Before they turned away again, he paused once more over the peperomia, Felicia’s gift to her lover.
“It’s a beautiful plant,” he said
As he touched its leaves one last time, Blanton imagined other ways that this night could have played out. Nightshade would have been more fitting, he thought, more poetic even, and he had a particularly nice specimen of the plant at home, those purple bell-shaped flowers bowing mournfully, those shiny black berries aching to be plucked. Those he could have blended into a daiquiri.
Then, at some small moment with Roger, he might have looked over at his wife and muttered, “Belladonna,” under his breath, but just loud enough for the other man to hear him. “What?” Roger might have said, and Blanton would have repeated it, “Belladonna,” and gestured toward Felicia. “My beautiful lady.” And perhaps later, when that poison had begun to take effect, perhaps then his victim would have remembered and understood.
But the ricin was more effective, of course. More certain. And the castor-bean plants had been growing on their own in the yard, even without his care. A weed really, just waiting to be used. “A toast,” Blanton had said, “to plants” — seeing the little wince in Roger’s expression, that bitter taste, like castor oil itself, but the mangoes had sweetened it adequately enough, just as he’d expected.
“See here, Roger,” Blanton said now, before they left the study a second time. “See the way the leaves are yellowing a little? A little water, a little more attention might do this plant some good.”
He turned to Roger and saw the sneer in the other man’s face, the pride, and the hints of something else, something Roger wasn’t aware of himself. Soon, the symptoms would reveal themselves. The nausea would turn to vomiting, Roger’s body trying to send the poison back out the way it had arrived. And then trying to expel it out the other end, bloodily so. Yes, many trips to the bathroom tonight, soiling the elegance he’d displayed so proudly, soiling himself. And then dehydration, seizures, even hallucinations perhaps, before liver and spleen and kidneys began calling it quits. No antidote. The end unavoidable now.
“Come to think of it,” Blanton squinted his eyes, “a little water might do you some good too. You’re looking a little peaked yourself.”