“Yeah, well,” said Zoë, “where I’m from, they’re all married or gay. Did you see that movie Death by Number?”
Earl looked at her, a little lost. She was getting away from him. “No,” he said.
One of his breasts had slipped under his arm, tucked there like a baguette. She kept thinking of trees, of gorillas and parks, of people in wartime eating the zebras. She felt a stabbing pain in her abdomen.
“Want some hors d’oeuvres?” Evan came pushing through the sliding door. She was smiling, though her curlers were coming out, hanging bedraggled at the ends of her hair like Christmas decorations, like food put out for the birds. She thrust forward a plate of stuffed mushrooms.
“Are you asking for donations or giving them away,” said Earl, wittily. He liked Evan, and he put his arm around her.
“You know, I’ll be right back,” said Zoë.
“Oh,” said Evan, looking concerned.
“Right back. I promise.”
Zoë hurried inside, across the living room, into the bedroom, to the adjoining bath. It was empty; most of the guests were using the half bath near the kitchen. She flicked on the light and closed the door. The pain had stopped and she didn’t really have to go to the bathroom, but she stayed there anyway, resting. In the mirror above the sink she looked haggard beneath her bonehead, violet grays showing under the skin like a plucked and pocky bird. She leaned closer, raising her chin a little to find the bristly hair. It was there, at the end of the jaw, sharp and dark as a wire. She opened the medicine cabinet, pawed through it until she found some tweezers. She lifted her head again and poked at her face with the metal tips, grasping and pinching and missing. Outside the door she could hear two people talking low. They had come into the bedroom and were discussing something. They were sitting on the bed. One of them giggled in a false way. She stabbed again at her chin, and it started to bleed a little. She pulled the skin tight along the jawbone, gripped the tweezers hard around what she hoped was the hair, and tugged. A tiny square of skin came away with it, but the hair remained, blood bright at the root of it. Zoë clenched her teeth. “Come on,” she whispered. The couple outside in the bedroom were now telling stories, softly, and laughing. There was a bounce and squeak of mattress, and the sound of a chair being moved out of the way. Zoë aimed the tweezers carefully, pinched, then pulled gently away, and this time the hair came, too, with a slight twinge of pain and then a great flood of relief. “Yeah!” breathed Zoë. She grabbed some toilet paper and dabbed at her chin. It came away spotted with blood, and so she tore off some more and pressed hard until it stopped. Then she turned off the light and opened the door, to return to the party. “Excuse me,” she said to the couple in the bedroom. They were the couple from the balcony, and they looked at her, a bit surprised. They had their arms around each other, and they were eating candy bars.
Earl was still out on the balcony, alone, and Zoë rejoined him there.
“Hi,” she said. He turned around and smiled. He had straightened his costume out a bit, though all the secondary sex characteristics seemed slightly doomed, destined to shift and flip and zip around again any moment.
“Are you OK?” he asked. He had opened another beer and was chugging.
“Oh, yeah. I just had to go to the bathroom.” She paused. “Actually I have been going to a lot of doctors recently.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Earl.
“Oh, probably nothing. But they’re putting me through tests.” She sighed. “I’ve had sonograms. I’ve had mammograms. Next week I’m going in for a candygram.” He looked at her worriedly. “I’ve had too many gram words,” she said.
“Here, I saved you these.” He held out a napkin with two stuffed mushroom caps. They were cold and leaving oil marks on the napkin.
“Thanks,” said Zoë, and pushed them both in her mouth. “Watch,” she said, with her mouth full. “With my luck, it’ll be a gallbladder operation.”
Earl made a face. “So your sister’s getting married,” he said, changing the subject. “Tell me, really, what you think about love.”
“Love?” Hadn’t they done this already? “I don’t know.” She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “All right. I’ll tell you what I think about love. Here is a love story. This friend of mine—”
“You’ve got something on your chin,” said Earl, and he reached over to touch it.
“What?” said Zoë, stepping back. She turned her face away and grabbed at her chin. A piece of toilet paper peeled off it, like tape. “It’s nothing,” she said. “It’s just — it’s nothing.”
Earl stared at her.
“At any rate,” she continued, “this friend of mine was this award-winning violinist. She traveled all over Europe and won competitions; she made records, she gave concerts, she got famous. But she had no social life. So one day she threw herself at the feet of this conductor she had a terrible crush on. He picked her up, scolded her gently, and sent her back to her hotel room. After that she came home from Europe. She went back to her old hometown, stopped playing the violin, and took up with a local boy. This was in Illinois. He took her to some Big Ten bar every night to drink with his buddies from the team. He used to say things like “Katrina here likes to play the violin,” and then he’d pinch her cheek. When she once suggested that they go home, he said, ‘What, you think you’re too famous for a place like this? Well, let me tell you something. You may think you’re famous, but you’re not famous famous.’ Two famouses. ‘No one here’s ever heard of you.’ Then he went up and bought a round of drinks for everyone but her. She got her coat, went home, and shot a gun through her head.”
Earl was silent.
“That’s the end of my love story,” said Zoë.
“You’re not at all like your sister,” said Earl.
“Ho, really,” said Zoë. The air had gotten colder, the wind singing minor and thick as a dirge.
“No.” He didn’t want to talk about love anymore. “You know, you should wear a lot of blue — blue and white — around your face. It would bring out your coloring.” He reached an arm out to show her how the blue bracelet he was wearing might look against her skin, but she swatted it away.
“Tell me, Earl. Does the word fag mean anything to you?”
He stepped back, away from her. He shook his head in disbelief. “You know, I just shouldn’t try to go out with career women. You’re all stricken. A guy can really tell what life has done to you. I do better with women who have part-time jobs.”
“Oh, yes?” said Zoë. She had once read an article entitled “Professional Women and the Demographics of Grief.” Or no, it was a poem: If there were a lake, the moonlight would dance across it in conniptions. She remembered that line. But perhaps the title was “The Empty House: Aesthetics of Barrenness.” Or maybe “Space Gypsies: Girls in Academe.” She had forgotten.
Earl turned and leaned on the railing of the balcony. It was getting late. Inside, the party guests were beginning to leave. The sexy witches were already gone. “Live and learn,” Earl murmured.
“Live and get dumb,” replied Zoë. Beneath them on Lexington there were no cars, just the gold rush of an occasional cab. He leaned hard on his elbows, brooding.
“Look at those few people down there,” he said. “They look like bugs. You know how bugs are kept under control? They’re sprayed with bug hormones, female bug hormones. The male bugs get so crazy in the presence of this hormone, they’re screwing everything in sight: trees, rocks — everything but female bugs. Population control. That’s what’s happening in this country,” he said drunkenly. “Hormones sprayed around, and now men are screwing rocks. Rocks!”