“Phil didn’t say you had a baby, but I guess I haven’t seen him in a while. Not since you-know-what, actually.” She grinned a little, like she had a mean secret.
“I don’t think I do know what.”
“Not since you told him to”—she made a tube with her fingers and jammed another finger into it—“me.”
My eyes widened and I glanced around to be sure we were alone.
“I was so surprised”—she leaned forward—“that you did that. What woman would tell an old man to have sex with a child?”
It was like being accused of a crime committed in a dream.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t think you were real.” Or I did. And then I didn’t.
“Well”—she extended both her arms—“I am.”
It was hard to know what to say to this. Surely the receptionist would be back any moment. Kirsten quietly bumped the back of her head against the wall a few times.
“I hope it wasn’t too awful,” I said, finally.
“It wasn’t a big deal. He had to watch something first, on his phone. That took a long time.”
I had no idea what this meant, but I nodded knowingly.
“Hey.” She snapped her fingers. “Let’s send him a picture of us together. It’ll freak him out.”
“Really?”
She held her phone out at arm’s length and leaned stiffly toward me. Her hair smelled like chlorine. Jack lurched toward the lens with his wet mouth, blocking both of us.
The flash popped, the door opened, and the receptionist returned to the front desk. It was Ruth-Anne. She froze when she saw me, just briefly.
“The doctor is ready for you, Kirsten.”
Kirsten swept past me without a glance.
We were alone.
“Hi, Ruth-Anne.” I stood up and went to the counter.
She raised her eyebrows, as if she wasn’t going to deny that was her name but she wasn’t going to confirm it either.
“I’m just here for that card. Remember? The one with the name.” I pointed at Jack and she blinked, seeming to notice him for the first time.
“Do you mean a business card?” She gestured to Dr. Broyard’s cards in their Lucite display, right beside her own.
“No, the card I asked you to keep. You put it in there.” I pointed to the middle desk drawer.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, but you’re more than welcome to take several business cards.”
Her big-boned androgyny was gone. She had carefully tipped a million tiny details in the girlish direction. The long hair was pulled back by a tartan headband. Her tight-fitting blouse was designed to minimize her broad shoulders and it did. Her whole body appeared shrunken. Sitting down, she actually seemed to be petite, a delicate woman.
Dr. Broyard popped out holding a file folder. As she looked up at him her whole bearing shifted; she became luminous. Not with the light of life, but like a husk lit electrically from within. She reached for the folder and he let it go — just shy of her fingers. It floated to the ground. Ruth-Anne hesitated and then awkwardly bent over to pick it up. When her face reappeared it was smiling with the hope that he had enjoyed the rear view, but he turned and went back into his office. Her smile widened with pain, and seeing her teeth I could also see the jawbone that held them, and her skull with its empty sockets and the whole of her clickety-clack skeleton. I could see right into her brain; it was shaking with fixation.
Just his name on a piece of paper could set her off. Even a word like Broyard—barnyard, backyard—sent her into an exhausted loop of fantasies. Everything else in her life, including her own therapy practice, was faked. The spell consumed 95 percent of her energy but she was surprised to see that no one noticed; the wafer-thin 5 percent version of her sufficed. She kept a list on her desk of all the things that used to make her happy:
Zydeco music
Dogs
My work
Rainy days
Thai food
Body surfing
My friends
But she couldn’t generate enough sadness and regret to free herself. She lived for the three days a year he replaced her in her office and she worked beneath him. Through sheer force of will she became what he once said he wished his wife was: small, feminine, with a slightly conservative elegance. Being this woman, this receptionist, was her one joy. Joy is the wrong word: it fueled the spell and so the spell could continue, which is the only thing a spell wants to do.
Ruth-Anne filed the folder. Looking at her expansive back it was easier to remember my therapist who was so daring and so helpful, even at 5 percent. I owed her.
It took a while to get it going, but after a few seconds of rocking on my heels I began to sway to the twangy rhythm. Ruth-Anne raised her eyebrows, hoping I was just stretching my legs. I began hoarsely, unmelodically but with great force.
“Will you stay in our Lovers’ Story
“If you stay you won’t be sorry”
She looked up, or rather the spell looked up, slowly, with revulsion. The spell, in its tartan headband, was fuming. It looked from me to Dr. Broyard’s door to its own monstrous hands and back to me as I raised my voice in volume:
“’Cause weeeee believe in youuuu”
Jack liked this; he bounced up and down in his sling.
“Soon you’ll grow so take a chance
“With a couple of Kooks
“Hung up on romaaancing”
I only knew the chorus, so I immediately began again,
“Will you stay in our Lovers’ Story”
Something strange was happening with Ruth-Anne. It didn’t seem good. She was sweating; big damp rings were rapidly expanding from the sides of her blouse. She was dissolving. If this was the wrong thing to do, then it was very wrong. I shut my eyes, wrapped my arms around Jack, and chanted,
“If you stay you won’t be sorry
“’Cause weeeee believe in youuuu”
The “in you” part sounded stronger than the rest, full-voiced and resonant. I cracked my eyes. Sweat was streaming down her face and her mouth was pointed heavenward, as if she were singing to the gods, begging them to intercede on this matter, to release her from her spell. We crooned together:
“Soon you’ll grow so take a chance
“With a couple of Kooks
“Hung up on romaaancing”
But they do not exist, the gods. The only way to break the spell is to break the spell. So now she hooked her thumbs under her soggy armpits, trying to ride the twang, embody it. We came around the bend and headed back into the start of the chorus:
“Will you stay in our Lovers’ Story
“If you stay you won’t be sorry”
Her shoulders were broadening, almost ripping her blouse. Makeup melted into the wrinkles around her eyes and her jaw galloped as she sang. Dr. Broyard opened his door, adjusting his spectacles and watching us with a bemused smile — Kirsten peeked out behind him. Too late, doctor! Too late! The spell has been shattered into ten million pieces, too dispersed to flock together.
But I was wrong. Seeing my triumphant face, Ruth-Anne realized who was watching; her croon immediately withered to nothing. For a split second she looked devastated, her eyes wild with disappointment. Then the spell descended and she cozily tucked herself back in, almost relieved, it seemed. She sat down and rolled forward to her computer. I stood before her, my arms hanging, chest heaving, but her eyes stayed locked on the screen. As she repositioned her headband I turned to leave.