twitching, twitching. She watched as two large hands grasped Jackie by the waist, throwing her roughly to the side. Underneath, Mr. Beale clutched his thigh, the whites of his eyes shining as Amina pressed the shutter again.
Jackie moaned.
“Get up,” Mr. Beale barked, but the girl did not move. Her breasts dangled out of her dress, and she fumbled, trying to pull the material back up.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“Get up
now
,” Mr. Beale said again, pushing her shoulder.
The swishing noise just behind Amina sent the camera to her waist, her lungs cinching. She turned to see the coat checker hurrying down the hallway toward them, eyes stuck on the scene in front of him. Amina followed behind him, slinging her camera around her back. Mr. Beale frowned as they approached, and Amina looked away as he stood and yanked his pants up.
“I’ll, um … take-take-take care of the coats, sir,” the coat checker stuttered, and Mr. Beale stepped off of them.
“Jackie, get up,” Mr. Beale said again, calmly this time, like he was talking to a toddler, but she didn’t stir. She was looking behind him, behind all of them. Amina turned around to see the grounds manager in the hallway, with Lesley and a few guests trailing behind him.
“What’s your name, son?” Mr. Beale asked the coat checker.
“Ev-Evan.”
“Evan, let’s you and me see if we can lift this thing.” Mr. Beale motioned to the coatrack. The folly of this was evident by what was on top of the coatrack, namely, Jackie, hands smashed over the bodice of her dress. Amina looked at Mr. Beale, who looked at the grounds manager, who looked at the coat checker, giving him a sharp nod, so it was the coat checker who bent down to the girl, hoisting her up clumsily while the guests looked on. Underneath her, Amina spotted her own crumpled coat.
“Too much to drink,” Mr. Beale announced loudly as the help heaved the coatrack up off the floor. “No big deal.”
He gave the guests in the hall a knowing wink, and Jackie’s face filled with color.
“I’m so sorry about this, Mr. Beale,” the grounds manager offered quickly. “Evan is new here and doesn’t know—”
But Mr. Beale waved away the rest of this sentence, walking to where Lesley stood with the hollow-eyed look of a cat ready to spring. He put his arm around his wife. “Let’s all just go back inside, shall we?”
And how did it happen, the calm turning around, as if there were nothing to actually see besides Brock Beale’s unfortunate explanation? Amina could not quite fathom it, and she couldn’t look at Lesley again, so she stood still in the wake of receding people, her hand clutching her camera as if it were in danger of being swept away with the easily swayed current.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Dimple stood in the back doorway of the gallery, paint fumes and blindingly white walls leaking into the alley where Amina stood. “So you just left your coat there? They’d better goddamn reimburse you.”
“Yeah. That’s their first priority, I’m sure.”
“Well, at least it was ugly anyway.”
“It was?”
“Did she know? I mean, she must have known.”
“No idea.”
They walked to the car, Seattle’s Saturday-night Pioneer Square crowd milling drunkenly around them. A few recently emptied beer bottles had been added to the truck bed, and Amina tossed them out, opening the door for Dimple, who ducked her head in and sniffed around suspiciously. “What fucking masala bomb went off in here?”
“It’s samosas. We’ve got to drop them off at Jose’s on the way.”
“They’re on my seat! I can’t sit there now.”
“Come on. We’re running late.”
“Great, so I’m going to have curry stink.”
“Sajeev’s Indian. He won’t care.”
“I’m Indian. I care.”
“You’ve got issues.”
Dimple put the bag of samosas on the floor and climbed in gingerly. She cracked her window and reached under the seat to scoot it up, then stopped. She
Jackie moaned.
“Get up,” Mr. Beale barked, but the girl did not move. Her breasts dangled out of her dress, and she fumbled, trying to pull the material back up.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“Get up
now
,” Mr. Beale said again, pushing her shoulder.
The swishing noise just behind Amina sent the camera to her waist, her lungs cinching. She turned to see the coat checker hurrying down the hallway toward them, eyes stuck on the scene in front of him. Amina followed behind him, slinging her camera around her back. Mr. Beale frowned as they approached, and Amina looked away as he stood and yanked his pants up.
“I’ll, um … take-take-take care of the coats, sir,” the coat checker stuttered, and Mr. Beale stepped off of them.
“Jackie, get up,” Mr. Beale said again, calmly this time, like he was talking to a toddler, but she didn’t stir. She was looking behind him, behind all of them. Amina turned around to see the grounds manager in the hallway, with Lesley and a few guests trailing behind him.
“What’s your name, son?” Mr. Beale asked the coat checker.
“Ev-Evan.”
“Evan, let’s you and me see if we can lift this thing.” Mr. Beale motioned to the coatrack. The folly of this was evident by what was on top of the coatrack, namely, Jackie, hands smashed over the bodice of her dress. Amina looked at Mr. Beale, who looked at the grounds manager, who looked at the coat checker, giving him a sharp nod, so it was the coat checker who bent down to the girl, hoisting her up clumsily while the guests looked on. Underneath her, Amina spotted her own crumpled coat.
“Too much to drink,” Mr. Beale announced loudly as the help heaved the coatrack up off the floor. “No big deal.”
He gave the guests in the hall a knowing wink, and Jackie’s face filled with color.
“I’m so sorry about this, Mr. Beale,” the grounds manager offered quickly. “Evan is new here and doesn’t know—”
But Mr. Beale waved away the rest of this sentence, walking to where Lesley stood with the hollow-eyed look of a cat ready to spring. He put his arm around his wife. “Let’s all just go back inside, shall we?”
And how did it happen, the calm turning around, as if there were nothing to actually see besides Brock Beale’s unfortunate explanation? Amina could not quite fathom it, and she couldn’t look at Lesley again, so she stood still in the wake of receding people, her hand clutching her camera as if it were in danger of being swept away with the easily swayed current.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Dimple stood in the back doorway of the gallery, paint fumes and blindingly white walls leaking into the alley where Amina stood. “So you just left your coat there? They’d better goddamn reimburse you.”
“Yeah. That’s their first priority, I’m sure.”
“Well, at least it was ugly anyway.”
“It was?”
“Did she know? I mean, she must have known.”
“No idea.”
They walked to the car, Seattle’s Saturday-night Pioneer Square crowd milling drunkenly around them. A few recently emptied beer bottles had been added to the truck bed, and Amina tossed them out, opening the door for Dimple, who ducked her head in and sniffed around suspiciously. “What fucking masala bomb went off in here?”
“It’s samosas. We’ve got to drop them off at Jose’s on the way.”
“They’re on my seat! I can’t sit there now.”
“Come on. We’re running late.”
“Great, so I’m going to have curry stink.”
“Sajeev’s Indian. He won’t care.”
“I’m Indian. I care.”
“You’ve got issues.”
Dimple put the bag of samosas on the floor and climbed in gingerly. She cracked her window and reached under the seat to scoot it up, then stopped. She
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