On the ninth of June, less than a week after the war had begun, it was over. I sat in the welcome cool and listened with Yash and Mason to the broadcast of President Nasser’s speech, blaming the Americans for Egypt’s loss to Israel, but whatever trouble still brewed outside the compound never made it past the Abqaiq gate. Within a matter of hours, it seemed, the avenues were again filled with delivery vans and company cars, the swimming pool bustling with mothers and toddlers back from their forced vacations. Ruthie, her voice full of the old bravado, called to say that, like many of the wives who had evacuated, she was taking an extra week or two to do a little shopping, Israel’s victory over Egypt a welcome excuse for a holiday.
Since the start of the war, Mason’s time at home had been taken up with endless production meetings that lasted well into the evening, the company in the throes of new imperatives, as though pumping more barrels into the rift left by the war might seal King Faisal’s allegiance.
“What about Alireza?” I asked Mason one morning.
“It’s not like I can just show up at headquarters and file a complaint,” he answered. “I’ve got to be careful. Put this in front of the wrong people, and I might as well burn that ledger and hop the next plane out of here.”
I looked down, worried my ring finger. “I hope they put him in jail,” I said.
Mason shook out a cigarette. “I’m guessing they won’t do a damn thing to Alireza,” he said. “He’s too big, too powerful. My interest is in setting things right, making the company stand up and take responsibility. This is just the kind of thing that will put more pressure on Aramco to make concessions, bring more attention to the workers’ cause.”
“If Alireza got in trouble,” I said, “maybe Abdullah’s sister could get her divorce and keep her baby.”
“The rules are different here,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”
“Then who is going to help her?” I asked. “She’s just a girl.”
“She’s also a Bedouin,” he said, and ran a knuckle over his lips. “Best that you leave all that go, Gin, and take care of your other business.”
But what other business did I have? No assignments from Nestor, no camera, no Ruthie. I spent the remaining days until Mason left for the launch chafing at the emptiness of time marked by meals, the muezzin’s call, the company’s noon whistle that broke the day in two. I hounded Yash in the kitchen, considered the still’s steady percolation. Was it any surprise that so many Aramco wives slept the mornings away, claiming headaches brought on by the heat?
“I’m bored out of my mind, Yash, I swear,” I said.
He ran a rag around the rim of a water glass. “You can take your photographs.”
“I can’t,” I confessed. “I gave my camera to Carlo.” When Yash raised his eyes, I shrugged one shoulder. “What’s for dinner?” I asked. “Mason won’t be home until late. Looks like it’s just the two of us.”
I helped him set the table, chatting about my plans for next year’s garden until he became more relaxed, and we ate in easy conversation, Yash swirling his after-dinner coffee as though it were wine, sharing humorous stories rife with the gossip of houseboys: Swede’s wife, her arms and legs like brittle sticks, had stashed bars of Ex-Lax in her freezer and taken enemas twice a day, while chunky Edna Doty, twice the width of Tiny, had a drawer full of bright red garter belts and wide-paddled brushes that never touched a hair on her head. Whatever secrets the wives hoped to shelter, the houseboys discovered, each servant’s discretion tempered by his treatment at the hands of his mistress, and I wondered what Yash had told them about me.
“Which reminds me,” Yash said, “Mrs. Fullerton called. It seems she scheduled you a golf lesson yesterday afternoon, but you failed to appear.”
“Candy Fullerton,” I said, “is not a nice person.” I gave him a sideways look. “What do you know about her and Carlo?”
“Nothing that is not true.” Yash ticked an eyebrow. “She may have fallen under the rake’s spell, although it’s most likely that she tripped him first.”
“She’s the manager’s wife,” I said, wondering whether Linda knew. “I can’t believe she would do that.”
“It is convenient to believe that we are above all vices but our own.” He listed his head to the side. “Do you know,” he asked, “that to test his vow of celibacy, Gandhi brought his virgin grandniece to his bed, had her remove all her clothing, and lay with her through the night? His followers were shocked.”
“I wonder what the grandniece thought,” I said.
Yash smiled. “He was an old man by then. Perhaps she teased him cruelly.” He took a drink of his coffee, drew back into himself. “But I’m sure that this is not the kind of story you wish to hear.” He rolled his mouth. “It is difficult to compete with your friend the Bedouin.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. I pinched a piece of chapati. “What else you got?”
“Perhaps adventure.” Yash looked into his coffee. “Or maybe a love story.” He ran his fingers along the tablecloth like he was reading Braille. “You have asked me about my wife.”
“You must miss her,” I said.
“I do.” He furrowed his brow. “She died giving birth to our son.”
“Oh, Yash,” I said, “I’m sorry.” I waited a heartbeat, the bread going dry in my mouth. “But your son, he lived?”
“Yes, he lived.” Yash’s shoulders bunched, released. “But I couldn’t bear to see her face in his and drank to blind myself. I lost my commission in the army, our home, and when they took my son from me, I lost everything.” He inhaled through his nose, let it out slowly, as though trying to regain his control. “When I read of the call for servants in Arabia, it seemed a way to escape my sorrow, which is how I have come to be here, a sober man but no more happy.” He paused for a moment, then rose to gather our dishes. “Sahib will be home soon.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking, which was that it hardly mattered. Mason and I had spent the days since the war in mutual disregard, as though we were the ones in détente. Each morning, I waited until he left before rising, kept my nose in a book if he showed for lunch, went to bed early when he arrived back home. He seemed happy enough to ignore my sulk, and I was counting the hours until he would leave again. The truce between us might have held if not for Candy Fullerton.
I came home from my swim at the pool that Saturday to find Mason in the bathroom, freshly shaved and showered. I watched him part his hair, combing the wave from front to back.
“Another meeting?” I asked, but he shook his head.
“We’re going to the Fullertons’ for dinner,” he said.
“But it’s your last night home,” I said. “We could go see a movie.”
“A movie isn’t going to tell me what I need to know.” He pulled on his shirt and buttoned the cuffs. “Better get ready,” he said.
Just do this, I told myself. Tomorrow, he’ll be gone.
I showered, put on makeup and fixed my hair, then pulled on the little black dress that I had bought at Fawzi Jishi’s when Ruthie had insisted that every girl should have one. I stopped in the living room long enough to pick up the photo taken that day we had boarded the pearling dhow. Despite his disparaging comments about Carlo’s talents, Yash had mounted the photograph in a lovely bamboo frame. It made me happy to see Ruthie beside me there, both of us laughing into the sun.
I rode in silence as Mason drove the Volkswagen to the Fullertons’, the engine chattering to a stop in front of their flat-roofed bungalow lush with flowering shrubs, its veranda spiked with tiki torches. He pulled the emergency brake, turned his face without looking.
“Let’s not rock the boat,” he said. “This is important to me.”
I sat with my hands in my lap. “I know,” I said.
He took a deep breath and stepped out to open my door. When his fingers brushed my elbow, I felt a little shock—the first touch we’d had in a week. Before we could make the porch, I heard a dog yapping, and Ross came booming out.
“Sit, sit,” he commanded, and directed us to a circle of wicker chairs arranged around a low table, then motioned to the Syrian houseboy. “Bring it on, Henri.” Henri came with mint juleps, a bowl of nuts, and a layered tray of tiny cucumber sandwiches alternating with red radishes pared into petals and filled with dollops of dilled mayonnaise, bacon, and olives. “Candy’s putting on her war paint,” Ross said. He adjusted his crotch and crossed his legs. “You’re looking mighty nice tonight, Ginny Mae.” Mason glanced at me, as though he had forgotten to notice.
“Thank you,” I said, and pulled my wrap over my bare arms, relieved when the conversation turned to baseball. I surveyed the porch, remembering the summer nights when my grandfather had moved our chairs outside to take relief from the heat. The cooling air, the coming darkness, all gave comfort to the concerns of the day, and he would take up his fiddle, pull the bow, tune his voice to the note, begin slow and easy. He sang out into the open of the cotton fields, sang with the cicadas’ chorus, and I would watch the lightning bugs star the sky, the happiest I ever was in his company.
“Ever been to the Derby?” Ross didn’t wait for our answers but doubled his chin, took a sip of his julep. “Fastest two minutes in sports. Proud Clarion came out of nowhere to take it this year, thirty-to-one odds. Made somebody happy, but not me.” He held a lighter to Mason’s cigarette. “Bet you’re not a gambling man, are you?”
“No, sir,” Mason said, “can’t say as I am.”
“Just as well.” Ross bit the end off a big cigar and squinted up at Mason from the folds of his cheeks. “Guess Doucet’s the one’s got that vice.”
Mason looked down, rubbed a thumb against his glass. “Guess we all have to have one,” he said.
“Wife like yours, I might not need any other.” Ross kinked his lip my way, then reared back when he heard Candy come out the door. “Here’s the girl. I was beginning to worry. Your drink was losing its ice.”
“I had to put Pebbles and Ross Junior to bed.” Candy flounced down in a drift of White Shoulders. “We’re going to dine al fresco,” she cooed at Mason. “Won’t that be romantic?” She turned to scowl at Ross. “Are you going to smoke that before supper?”
“And after,” he said, bellowing his cheeks.
“It stinks.” Candy pursed her mouth at the lip of her julep, sipped, and frowned. “How’s yours, Gin? I can have Henri make you a new one.”
“It’s fine.” I took a quick swallow, tried not to wince at the bite of raw alcohol.
She lit her cigarette, blew a stream of smoke. “Is Ruthie still in Rome?”
“Another week or so,” I said.
“She’ll have all new clothes.” Candy cut her eyes at Ross, pulled a pout. “I wish someone would take me to Rome.”
“You got more clothes than you know how to wear.” Ross motioned to the low table. “Have some nigger toes.”
“Brazil nuts,” Mason said, but kept his voice light. I obediently took a handful and busied myself cracking their thick shells, grateful for the distraction, until Henri stepped over to tell us that the first course was about to be served. We moved to the table covered with Irish linen and set with Nippon china straight from Japan, more crystal and silverware than I’d seen in one place. While Henri filled each of our bowls with a ladle of mushroom soup seasoned with sage that smelled like the rain-swept desert, I kept Candy at the corner of my vision, following her lead: this spoon, that fork. I bladed a pat of butter and moved it to my smallest plate before cutting it to spread on my roll. When she lifted her spoon, dipped it into the soup and away, brought it to her mouth in a precise trajectory, I did the same, resisting the urge to slurp, take in a savory mouthful. She tapped the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
“I recognize that dress,” she said, and waved her spoon. “I had my eye on it, but Fawzi wouldn’t barter.”
“I got a good deal,” I said. “He threw in a slip.”
“You must have had Ruthie with you,” she said. “She knows how to Jew them down.” She squinted a smile as Henri positioned our salads and then an elongated silver platter holding an entire fish garnished with lemons and surrounded by onions and small red potatoes, a currant where its eye once had been. “It’s only hamour,” Candy said, “but it was all that was fresh.”
We watched as Henri skinned and filleted the fish with the skill of a surgeon. I looked at Mason, who was sopping his soup bowl with bread, intent on his conversation with Ross about a new spike camp that had been pitched deep in the Empty Quarter. I touched his leg, but he ignored me.
“Men,” Candy said sotto voce. “They’re animals, I swear.” She sat back as Henri filled our plates. The fish course was followed by miniature cups of lime sorbet, and I was relieved that the meal was coming to an end, until Candy eyed the way I ate the icy scoop in two bites. “Better slow down,” she said smugly. “We’re only halfway through.”
Henri made room for the standing rib roast, a steaming boat of au jus, creamed horseradish, potatoes au gratin, new peas and pearl onions floating in cream.
“Pile it on there, Henri,” Mason said, smacking his lips in an exaggerated fashion.
“You’re liking that, aren’t you, Mr. McPhee?” Candy said.
Mason swallowed a mouthful of potatoes. “Best meal I’ve had since leaving Texas.”
“You’re just saying that.” Candy leaned toward him and offered her cleavage. “I’m sure that Gin is the best cook in the world.”
“Gin’s got other things going on,” Mason said. “Yash is the one who takes care of the kitchen.”
Candy fluttered her hand. “Houseboys just get in the way of good home cooking.”
“I like Yash’s cooking,” I said. Something about the way they were talking made me feel like I wasn’t even there.
“I’m a meat-and-potatoes man myself.” Ross leveraged his belly, patted it fondly.
“We’ve still got dessert,” Candy said. “Cream puffs and fresh berries.”
Henri dutifully appeared with the pastries, each powdered and wearing a little skirt. I worried mine around its lacy plate, sure I couldn’t eat another bite, but Mason licked at his so lewdly that I blushed. He washed it down with black coffee and took the cigar Ross offered, biting off the end and spitting it away as though it were an everyday thing.
“Bring us some more of that hooch, boy,” Ross said to Henri. “Don’t bother with the fancy stuff.” He leaned in. “I’ve got a joke for you. So this Texan walks into a bar …”
“Oh, God,” Candy groaned, “not this one again.” She held her hand to the side of her mouth. “Don’t listen, Gin. It’s nasty.”
Ross squared himself up. “Texan goes into a bar and hollers, ‘Drinks all around! My wife just gave birth to a twenty-pound baby boy!’ ”
Candy rolled her eyes and looked away.
“Now,” Ross said, “everybody in the bar is happy as hell, congratulating ol’ Tex, marveling at the size of that baby, saying, ‘We sure do grow ’em big in Texas!’ which is true.” Ross chomped down on an ice cube. “Week later, here comes Tex back for a beer. Bartender says, ‘Tell me, Tex, how much does that boy of yours weigh now? Must be big as a bull.’ Tex shakes his head, all sad-like. ‘Down to twelve pounds,’ he says. Well, now the bartender is worried. ‘Is he sick?’ he asks. ‘Has he had the diarrhea?’ Ol’ Tex takes a big swig of beer, wipes his mouth, and smiles a proud-daddy smile. ‘Nope,’ he says, ‘just had him circumcised.’ ”
Ross rocked back, laughing so hard he choked, but Candy repositioned herself, cocked her shoulders. “I thought we were going to be civil tonight,” she said, and tipped her chin toward Mason. “Ross has big news, you know.”
Ross’s guffaws lapsed into a winded whoosh. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. “That’s right,” he said, and blew his nose. “Thought we might talk about what comes next for you and your little gal here.”
Candy looked at Mason, the shadows of her face flickering into a flirty smile. She drained the last of her julep and motioned to Henri for a refill.
“Now”—Ross buckled his brow, grew more serious—“some might say you don’t have the experience. Some might even say you should have been the one sent out instead of Swede Olson.” He grunted as though pained. “Burt Cane, he thought you were something special, and that’s worth a lot in my book.”
Mason took the drink that Henri offered, set it down.
“I know you’ve got your sympathies,” Ross said. “You’ve told me your concerns, but you know as well as I do that productivity is our top objective.” He worried a molar with his toothpick, sucked it clean. “We’re training the Saudi boys, getting them educated, easing them in. Bring them along too fast, they’ll founder like a horse on spring grass.”
Mason worked his jaw, looked at me, then back at Ross.
“Well,” Candy said, “are you going to tell him or not?”
Ross pulled a big puff from his cigar. “McPhee, I’ve made my decision. I’m putting you up for promotion to assistant drilling superintendent.” He reached out, slapped Mason’s shoulder. “Play your cards right, son, and you’re on your way to the big house.”
Candy bounced and clapped. I attempted a smile, but all eyes were on Mason, who broke into a wide grin and raised his glass before taking a long pull on his cigar. In that moment, he wasn’t the man I had married but somebody else—a man on his way somewhere I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, someone I wasn’t sure I could trust anymore. I sat forward in my chair.
“Maybe we should take some time to talk about this,” I said.
Mason’s grin faltered, but Ross crooked his cigar. “That’s right,” he said. “I want you all or nothing, McPhee.” He cocked his mouth. “And you don’t want to be letting this little girl get too far away from you. Young bucks will be on her before you can say scat.”
Candy stared at Ross like he had dropped in from outer space, then broke into movement all at once, pushing back her plate, tipping her glass until the ice hit her teeth, lighting a cigarette, and waving it at me.
“I can’t believe,” she said, “I can’t believe you have to think about it.”
“Now, sugar.” Ross gave a sideways smile. “I’m sure they’ll make the right decision.”
Candy pinched her lips around her cigarette, the tick of her shoe coming faster. “Maybe it’s Gin who thinks she can do better.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Mason cut me off. “If I commit to this job, I commit all the way. A lot of good men have given the best years of their lives to making this place work, and if I say yes, I mean to be one of them.”
“That’s the spirit,” Ross said.
Mason relaxed back, fingering his cigar, but I set down my drink. I couldn’t stand another minute of Ross, of Candy, not even of Mason. “We really need to go,” I said.
Candy’s eyes flashed in the torchlight. “I’ve seen your pictures in the newspaper, Gin. They’re very nice. You should have brought your camera.”
Mason glanced at me, murmured his agreement, relieved to move the conversation along. “I told her she should send some to National Geographic.”
“Ask her where her camera is,” Candy said.
Ross beetled his brow. “Here, now. Let’s have some more sadiqi juice.”
“Ask her,” Candy said.
Mason peered at Candy for a moment, then slowly moved his eyes to mine. “Where’s your camera?” he asked.
I held Candy’s gaze. For a heartbeat, I thought I might lie, but it was her smirk that made me more angry than afraid. “I gave it to Carlo Leoni,” I said. “Security confiscated his.”
Candy slanted her mouth. “Ross told me that you were right in there with the action, Gin, just you and Carlo, running around the desert in Ruthie’s Volkswagen. Must have been loads of fun.”
I looked at Ross, who screwed up his face like an apology and scratched a thumbnail across his forehead.
Mason sat still for a moment, then carefully stubbed his cigar. “We’re keeping you folks up awful late.” He stood with Ross and shook his hand. “If you’re offering me the promotion, I’m saying yes right now.” He turned to Candy, pressed her fingers between his. “That was a blue-ribbon dinner, ma’am. Mighty fine.”
Candy cocked her hip, said, “Any ol’ time, Mr. McPhee,” then cut her eyes at me. “You haven’t even asked how Pat is doing. I know he’s dying to hear from you after all the fun you two had at the ball.”
Before I could answer, Mason gave a final nod good-bye, gripped my elbow like a rudder, and piloted me to the car. We sat in silence as he throttled us home, working the stick shift like he was levering iron. When I started to speak, he held up his hand.
“Don’t,” he said.
“If you’ll just listen to me, I’ll tell you the truth.”
“What the hell makes you think I want to hear it?” He punched the Volkswagen around a corner and hit the curb in front of our house. “You’re going to bollix this up for everybody.”
He slammed his door, ignored mine, and I followed him across the grass, dragging my wrap through the dew. “Maybe you would rather have Candy for a wife,” I said loudly. “I saw the way you looked at her. She’s nothing but a tramp.”
He turned, his face flushed. “You’re acting like you don’t have a lick of sense in your head,” he said. “You’re starting to make me crazy.”
“Crazy?” I said. “You think I’m making you crazy?” I slapped my chest. “What about me, Mason? You don’t know what it’s like, being stuck in this place day after day.”
“From what I’m hearing, you don’t either.” He banged open the door, and I trailed him through the living room and into the bathroom, where he pulled off his shirt, stripped his belt, then cranked the shower. “You’ve got this big house, nice furniture, Yash waiting on you hand and foot. What more do you want?”
I peered at him, let my hands drop. “You’ve changed, Mason,” I said. “I don’t even know you anymore.”
His mouth hardened, and he took a step toward me. “I’m still the same guy I was the day we got hitched,” he said. “I’m the guy who is working his ass off so that you can get your hair done and buy your jewelry and wear your pretty clothes. I’m the one who is paying for this roof over your head.” He pointed his finger. “You’d better look in that mirror if you think that I’m the one who’s changed.” He glared at me for a moment before turning to the shower.
I stood, staring at the curtain he pulled between us, and felt my anger turn to a paralyzing helplessness. I looked at myself in the mirror—my mouth drawn down, my shoulders slumped. The marble floors, the double closet with its cache of new outfits, the enviable bidet—I hated it all. I willed myself to move into the bedroom, to go through the motions of readying for bed, to take off my clothes, pull open the dresser drawer, and take out a fresh nightgown.
What was it about seeing my unmentionables there, so neatly folded and carefully arranged, that broke the spell? The cold despair that had numbed me gave way to a rage that seized me like a fit. I jerked the drawer from its slides, turned it upside down, and dumped it on the floor. I kicked my underthings into a maelstrom of nylon and satin, straps akimbo, leg holes gaping, my slips lacing the lamp shades, my stockings flagging the curtains. I moved to Mason’s underwear drawer and scattered his boxers and T-shirts and socks across the room. I heard the shower turn off, Mason step out. He came up behind me, pulling on his pants.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rising into a higher key. “Stop.”
But I couldn’t stop. The dresser emptied, I moved to the closet, ripped shirts and skirts from their hangers, winged our shoes against the walls, then turned my attention to the bed. I snatched the sheets from their moorings and dragged the blanket down the hallway like the skin of an animal, Mason following a few steps behind, hollering for me to stop, just stop. I paused at Betsy Bodeen’s tapestry, the unicorn in its pen, and jerked it to the floor, scuffing it beneath my bare feet until the threads frayed. The record albums were next—Buddy Holly, Petula Clark, The Supremes sailing obliquely against the blinds. The couch pillows whumped to the floor, cushioning the crystal ashtray but not the ginger-jar lamp, which shattered into a dozen scarlet pieces. Had the shades been open, the neighbors might have seen me in my all-in-all, raging from room to room like the madwoman I had become. I didn’t pause to think of Yash, all his hard work come undone.
“You’re acting like a spoiled brat,” Mason said. He made a grab for my arm, his grip tight enough to hurt. “When are you going to grow up?”
I turned on him. “Do you want me to grow up? Is that what you want me to do?” I jerked my arm away. “What if I told you that I made love to Abdullah?” I said. “How would that be? Maybe I’m not your little girl anymore.”
It wasn’t the anger in Mason’s face that made me wish I had held my tongue but the shock of pain that took its place, as though I had slid a knife between his ribs—his mouth an open wound.
“You’re crazy,” he said, as though he was truly confounded. “You’re plumb crazy.”
His confusion fed mine, and I hit him in the chest with my fists, not like the girls in the movies, but as hard as I could, like I was driving nails, and it knocked the breath right out of him. He stood stunned for a moment, then grabbed my shoulders and shook me like a rattle. I pushed away, stumbled to the floor, and Mason straddled me, pinning my arms.
“Get off,” I demanded. I wanted to spit, to bite him so hard that he bled.
“Tell me it’s not true,” he demanded. When I wouldn’t answer, he leaned down, his hot breath in my face. “Tell me.” I growled into his mouth, bucked my hips and twisted my legs, but I couldn’t budge him and felt the shame and frustration stinging my eyes.
“I hate you,” I said. I gritted my teeth, bit the words into pieces. “I hate you.”
He went still, and his grip on my wrists loosened. He straightened slowly, moved his weight to his knees, then stood. I looked up to see him peering down at me, his eyes dark with hurt.
I pushed myself up and ran to our bedroom, slammed the door, and curled on the bare bed, feeling like I might shatter into a thousand pieces. I was sure that I heard the front door open and close, Mason leaving the house, going somewhere I couldn’t follow. Maybe he would go to Ross, I thought, tell him to ship me out, that I was no use to anyone anymore. I heard the seconds of the clock louder than the thrum of desert crickets huddled against the still-warm foundation and then the steps in and out of the kitchen, the hi-fi click on, Sinatra start in low.
Twenty minutes, maybe thirty, I lay listening, hoping for the sound of Mason coming down the hallway to say how wrong he was. I imagined what I would say: Don’t touch me, go drink your whiskey, just leave me alone. And then, as the air in the room cooled, I thought I might allow him to lie down with me, warm me against the chill. Finally, miserable and shivering, I pulled on my robe, felt my way through the dark, and found him sitting bare-chested on the couch, the liquor bottle close at his side, the ember of his cigarette growing bright, then fading again. There was something about seeing him that way that made me feel sick inside. He was a man that any woman would want, wasn’t he? Working so hard to do what was right. “A real keeper,” Candy had called him. Why was I always getting in his way?
I sat down beside him, pulled his fingers into mine. “I’m sorry,” I said, wondering whether he was too drunk to hear. “You know I didn’t mean it.”
He didn’t look at me but took a slow drag off his cigarette. “I’m never going to be enough for you, am I? Don’t matter how hard I try, never enough.” He let out a breath, smoke rising like vapor. “I was your one-way ticket out of that Oklahoma hellhole. Don’t you think I know that?” He lifted the bottle, wiped his mouth. “Maybe this is where you want to get off.”
I sat very still, remembering how I had wished him away. The thought of being left alone, or of being shipped back home to live on my own, suddenly terrified me.
“That’s not true,” I said. “I need you, Mason.”
“You don’t need me,” he said. “You’ve never needed me.” He fixed his eyes on the dusky wall. “Do you remember when I brought you home from the hospital? You wouldn’t let me near you, wouldn’t even let me sleep in the same bed. I spent all those hours on the couch, listening to you cry.” He brought his eyes to meet mine, the lines of his face etched with shadow. “He was my son too, Ginny Mae. He was my son too.”
The light in the room shifted—a car or maybe dawn coming on—and I felt as though I was at the edge of something awful. How could I undo what I had done?
I moved from the couch to the blanket I had dragged from the bedroom. “Here,” I said, and patted the floor.
He slid to his knees beside me, his hands hanging limp, as though he didn’t have the strength to lift them.
“Help me,” I whispered, and reached for his belt, but he stopped me.
“You’ve got to tell me,” he said, “about Abdullah.”
“Please.” I hushed and kissed him, felt his lips soften. I wanted to appease him but still keep him guessing, keep whatever power this was I had over him. I opened my robe, pressed my breasts against his bare chest, and lay back, pulling him with me. He rested his weight on his elbows, hovering over me.
“Tell me the truth,” he said, his eyes holding mine. All my resistance had turned to desire, but still I refused, pressing my shoulders to the floor, arching up to meet him. When he entered me, he did it slowly, holding himself back, and I clenched my teeth as he rocked into me, moving me with him. “Tell me now,” he whispered at my mouth, “and I’ll believe you.” When I wouldn’t answer, he pushed deeper, and then I couldn’t stay quiet anymore.
“No,” I said, “I didn’t.”
“Promise me that I’m the only one,” he said, “no one before, no one after.”
“I promise,” I said. “Only you. Ever.”
I felt the muscles in his back tense, his breath catch and hold. I wanted to pull him in, push him away, call out and cuss him, but all I could do was come with him, and then what power did I have? I opened my eyes to the dark ceiling, remembering that first time in Mason’s car, how the frost had starred the windows and our breath fogged around us, how I always gave in too soon, and if that wasn’t need, what was?
It was hard to let go, to separate ourselves. Mason reached for his cigarettes. He seemed himself again, as though our lovemaking had set things right in his head. He drew me to him, and I tucked in, rested my ear against his chest, heard the steady march of his heart.
“I needed that,” he said, and held his cigarette to my lips. I inhaled, let out my breath.
“You know that I’m never going to be Candy Fullerton,” I said.
“And I’m never going to be Ross.” He gathered my hand in his. “Listen,” he said, “I’m going to quit telling you what you can and cannot do. Doesn’t do me any good anyway.”
“I want to explore,” I said, “take pictures like Carlo Leoni.”
“I hear the road to Riyadh is a real adventure,” Mason said. “When I get back in camp, we’ll load up some food and water and plan an expedition, maybe take a tent, do a little camping, eat by candlelight. How does that sound?”
“Like a start,” I said.
He ran his thumb over my knuckles. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Someone knew what Bodeen was doing but covered it up, and I’m betting a hundred to one that it was Ross Fullerton. He may even have ramrodded the deal with Alireza.” He lay quiet for a moment, then lifted his cigarette, let out a slow breath. “Lucky’s right about one thing,” he said. “These are bigger dogs.” He rolled his face to mine. “Not a word to anybody about any of this, okay? Wrong person gets wind, we could all be in big trouble, and we have no idea who that wrong person might be.”
I should have told him right then that I had spilled the beans to Lucky about Alireza and Buck Bodeen, but I didn’t want to make him angry again, to lose what ground I had gained.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” I said.
He lifted my hand, kissed it, then rocked himself up, pulled me to a stand, and gathered the blanket from the floor before leading me to the bedroom. We made a nest on the mattress and spooned together, slept that night tucked so tightly that I thought I couldn’t breathe.
“No,” Mason would whisper whenever I squirmed for a little more room, until I quit resisting, let my body meld to his.
“Freedom is one of imagination’s most precious possessions,” Yash once said to me, and still, I did not listen.