Gone Girl(108)
“Not bad either. Black Stallion’s better, though.”
She looks up at me with sunglasses still on. Two black bee-eyed discs. “Hunh.”
She turns back to her book, the pointed I am now reading gesture usually seen on crowded airplanes. And I am the annoying busybody next to her who hogs the armrest and says things like “Business or pleasure?”
“I’m Nancy,” I say. A new name—not Lydia—which isn’t smart in these cramped quarters, but it comes out. My brain sometimes goes too fast for my own good. I was thinking of the girl’s split lip, her sad, pre-owned vibe, and then I was thinking of abuse and prostitution, and then I was thinking of Oliver!, my favorite musical as a child, and the doomed hooker Nancy, who loved her violent man right until he killed her, and then I was wondering why my feminist mother and I ever watched Oliver!, considering “As Long as He Needs Me” is basically a lilting paean to domestic violence, and then I was thinking that Diary Amy was also killed by her man, she was actually a lot like—
“I’m Nancy,” I say.
“Greta.”
Sounds made up.
“Nice to meet you, Greta.”
I float away. Behind me I hear the shwick of Greta’s lighter, and then smoke wafts overhead like spindrifts.
Forty minutes later, Greta sits down on the edge of the pool, dangles her legs in the water. “It’s hot,” she says. “The water.” She has a husky, hardy voice, cigarettes and prairie dirt.
“Like bathwater.”
“It’s not very refreshing.”
“The lake’s not much cooler.”
“I can’t swim anyway,” she says.
I’ve never met anyone who can’t swim. “I can just barely,” I lie. “Dog paddle.”
She ruffles her legs, the waves gently rocking my raft. “So what’s it like here?” she asks.
“Nice. Quiet.”
“Good, that’s what I need.”
I turn to look at her. She has two gold necklaces, a perfectly round bruise the size of a plum near her left breast, and a shamrock tattoo just above her bikini line. Her swimsuit is brand-new, cherry-red, cheap. From the marina convenience store where I bought my raft.
“You on your own?” I ask.
“Very.”
I am unsure what to ask next. Is there some sort of code that abused women use with each other, a language I don’t know?
“Guy trouble?”
She twitches an eyebrow at me that seems to be a yes. “Me too,” I say.
“It’s not like we weren’t warned,” she says. She cups her hand into the water, lets it dribble down her front. “My mom, one of the first things she ever told me, going to school the first day: Stay away from boys. They’ll either throw rocks or look up your skirt.”
“You should make a T-shirt that says that.”
She laughs. “It’s true, though. It’s always true. My mom lives in a lesbian village down in Texas. I keep thinking I should join her. Everyone seems happy there.”
“A lesbian village?”
“Like a, a whaddayacallit. A commune. Bunch of lesbians bought land, started their own society, sort of. No men allowed. Sounds just freakin’ great to me, world without men.” She cups another handful of water, pulls up her sunglasses, and wets her face. “Too bad I don’t like pussy.”
She laughs, an old woman’s angry-bark laugh. “So, are there any asshole guys here I can start dating?” she says. “That’s my, like, pattern. Run away from one, bump into the next.”
“It’s half empty most of the time. There’s Jeff, the guy with the beard, he’s actually really nice,” I say. “He’s been here longer than me.”
“How long are you staying?” she asks.
I pause. It’s odd, I don’t know the exact amount of time I will be here. I had planned on staying until Nick was arrested, but I have no idea if he will be arrested soon.
“Till he stops looking for you, huh?” Greta guesses.
“Something like that.”
She examines me closely, frowns. My stomach tightens. I wait for her to say it: You look familiar.
“Never go back to a man with fresh bruises. Don’t give him the satisfaction,” Greta intones. She stands up, gathers her things. Dries her legs on the tiny towel.
“Good day killed,” she says.
For some reason, I give a thumbs-up, which I’ve never done in my life.
“Come to my cabin when you get out, if you want to,” she says. “We can watch TV.”
I bring a fresh tomato from Dorothy, held in my palm like a shiny housewarming gift. Greta comes to the door and barely acknowledges me, as if I’ve been dropping over for years. She plucks the tomato from my hand.