houseboy, normally left her breakfast tray outside the door.
“‘Suffering was the only thing made me feel I was alive.’” The words were sung by Rob’s deep basso voice as he rolled into the room, Chinese-red lacquer breakfast tray held chest-high before him. Aunt Robbie came to an abrupt stop at the low hammered-brass table. He put the tray down and reached up to pull the drapes back from the windows, suddenly flooding the room in a bath of sunlight. Again he sang Carly Simon’s line from the song: “‘Suffering was the only thing made me feel I was alive.’”
“Shut up an’ go away,” Lila growled.
“Come on, Sister Miserere—novena’s over. Nine days of pissing and moaning over a man is all the good Lord allows.” With surprising grace, Robbie sat down on the camel saddle, his mauve-trimmed flowered satin caftan billowing around his feet, hiding the roller blades he wore. “Makes me feel light on my feet,” he had once explained to Lila. Now he grinned; “Come on, I had José make this especially for you.” Robbie poured thick black coffee from a small antique Russian samovar he swore had been given to him by his first John—who was most assuredly one of the deposed Romanoffs.
“Lila?” he asked, and paused. When, after a few moments, there was no response, he leaned over and picked up a mallet and banged the brass temple-gong to which it was attached. She jumped. “Listen, girlfriend, get the fuck over here this minute.” He slapped the filled Limoges coffee cup onto the brass tray.
Her head ached with the echoes of the gong. “Don’t do this to me, Aunt Robbie. Please,” Lila begged.
“Now, now. No whining. It’s time you and I had a little chat.” He patted a stack of cushions beside him. Robbie’s voice softened. “Come sit next to your old but ever-so-attractive auntie.”
Lila sighed, sat up, and moved with effort to the cushions. It was exhausting, so she dropped down, then put her face in her hands and began to cry. “Robbie, I can’t bear it another minute.” She cried soundlessly, and he let her until she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of the peignoir he had given her the day she arrived. After a few more minutes, she looked up and took a sip of the coffee Robbie handed her. “What am I going to do?” she asked for the thousandth time in nine days.
“What do you want to do?” he asked. Aunt Robbie reached across the table and touched Lila’s chin with his stubby, crimson-nail-tipped fingers. Lila knew that he loved her as much as he had loved her father, though she shrank from his—or anyone’s—touch. Still, his gentleness and soft voice showed his concern.
“Honey-girl, I know how hard this is on you, how confusing. But you can’t let yourself just melt away. I’m serious, now—nine days is long enough.” Robbie stood up and rolled again to the window, touching Lila’s arm lightly as he passed. “You haven’t been out of this room since you got here.”
“I hate her,” Lila said.
Robbie turned from the window and faced her.
“She was the one who set up the marriage. My own mother. She said he’d never bother me. But she didn’t tell me why. I didn’t know until I walked in on them that he was…” Lila’s voice trailed off. She didn’t want to offend Aunt Robbie, although she knew she could always be honest with him. “Well, you know,” she continued. “Not only was it disgusting , it was deceitful . He said he loved me .”
“Well, maybe he does. There are different kinds of love, you know.” Robbie was standing at the full-length mirror now, patting his red-dyed hair in place. “If I curled up in bed every time one of my boyfriends dipped his wick in another inkwell, I’d be a fat mental case by now.” He made a full spin on his skates, then considered his reflection once again. “Actually, I am a fat mental case now, but you get my point.”
Lila got up from the low cushions with what felt like an immense effort and sat on
“‘Suffering was the only thing made me feel I was alive.’” The words were sung by Rob’s deep basso voice as he rolled into the room, Chinese-red lacquer breakfast tray held chest-high before him. Aunt Robbie came to an abrupt stop at the low hammered-brass table. He put the tray down and reached up to pull the drapes back from the windows, suddenly flooding the room in a bath of sunlight. Again he sang Carly Simon’s line from the song: “‘Suffering was the only thing made me feel I was alive.’”
“Shut up an’ go away,” Lila growled.
“Come on, Sister Miserere—novena’s over. Nine days of pissing and moaning over a man is all the good Lord allows.” With surprising grace, Robbie sat down on the camel saddle, his mauve-trimmed flowered satin caftan billowing around his feet, hiding the roller blades he wore. “Makes me feel light on my feet,” he had once explained to Lila. Now he grinned; “Come on, I had José make this especially for you.” Robbie poured thick black coffee from a small antique Russian samovar he swore had been given to him by his first John—who was most assuredly one of the deposed Romanoffs.
“Lila?” he asked, and paused. When, after a few moments, there was no response, he leaned over and picked up a mallet and banged the brass temple-gong to which it was attached. She jumped. “Listen, girlfriend, get the fuck over here this minute.” He slapped the filled Limoges coffee cup onto the brass tray.
Her head ached with the echoes of the gong. “Don’t do this to me, Aunt Robbie. Please,” Lila begged.
“Now, now. No whining. It’s time you and I had a little chat.” He patted a stack of cushions beside him. Robbie’s voice softened. “Come sit next to your old but ever-so-attractive auntie.”
Lila sighed, sat up, and moved with effort to the cushions. It was exhausting, so she dropped down, then put her face in her hands and began to cry. “Robbie, I can’t bear it another minute.” She cried soundlessly, and he let her until she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of the peignoir he had given her the day she arrived. After a few more minutes, she looked up and took a sip of the coffee Robbie handed her. “What am I going to do?” she asked for the thousandth time in nine days.
“What do you want to do?” he asked. Aunt Robbie reached across the table and touched Lila’s chin with his stubby, crimson-nail-tipped fingers. Lila knew that he loved her as much as he had loved her father, though she shrank from his—or anyone’s—touch. Still, his gentleness and soft voice showed his concern.
“Honey-girl, I know how hard this is on you, how confusing. But you can’t let yourself just melt away. I’m serious, now—nine days is long enough.” Robbie stood up and rolled again to the window, touching Lila’s arm lightly as he passed. “You haven’t been out of this room since you got here.”
“I hate her,” Lila said.
Robbie turned from the window and faced her.
“She was the one who set up the marriage. My own mother. She said he’d never bother me. But she didn’t tell me why. I didn’t know until I walked in on them that he was…” Lila’s voice trailed off. She didn’t want to offend Aunt Robbie, although she knew she could always be honest with him. “Well, you know,” she continued. “Not only was it disgusting , it was deceitful . He said he loved me .”
“Well, maybe he does. There are different kinds of love, you know.” Robbie was standing at the full-length mirror now, patting his red-dyed hair in place. “If I curled up in bed every time one of my boyfriends dipped his wick in another inkwell, I’d be a fat mental case by now.” He made a full spin on his skates, then considered his reflection once again. “Actually, I am a fat mental case now, but you get my point.”
Lila got up from the low cushions with what felt like an immense effort and sat on
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