7. Witnessing Violence

“Serious sport has nothing to do with fair play. It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence: in other words it is war minus the shooting.” —George Orwell

It took Paula about ten seconds to remove her hands from over her mouth. When she finally did, she spoke in a hushed, awe-struck voice.

“You guys know Vanto Hatch?” she asked.

Chase put both hands on Becky’s shoulder and shoved her lightly. “Girlfriend, you’ve been holding out on me!” he said in a mock-offended tone that was much louder and more raucous than Paula’s reverent whisper.

“No, no,” said Becky, in a casually dismissive tone, straightening her blouse where Chase had pushed her. “We knew him in middle school, back in New York. That was a long time ago.”

Jen appreciated Becky’s nonchalance, which Jen knew was carefully orchestrated. During her years observing Becky and her friends, she had learned that this was a yoga-teacher way of showing off, to impress others with your detachment. Jen wondered how long Becky had waited for the right moment to surprise Paula with this story.

“Have you ever tried to get back in touch with him?” Chase asked.

Becky shrugged. “No,” she said simply. She didn’t add that she had never been able to find any contact information for him; the Groundbreakers people protected him like he was the pope.

Paula turned eagerly to Jen. “So you’re in Groundbreakers, too,” she said.

Jen was confused for a moment, then realized that Paula was assuming that her two-week juvenile acquaintance with Vanto would have somehow swayed her towards his self-actualization program.

“Oh…no,” she said vaguely, feeling bad to squash Paula’s enthusiasm.

“But why not?” asked Paula. “I mean, if you know Vanto Hatch, and you know Becky, it seems like you would have gotten into it.”

“Yeah, why haven’t you?” asked Chase. Chase and Paula were now looking at Jen expectantly, as though waiting for a thorough explanation. Jen didn’t know what to say. Once again, she felt outnumbered and cornered in her own kitchen. She had never felt even the slightest bit of interest in Groundbreakers, but it didn’t seem necessary to explain that and offend everyone in the room.

Becky came to her rescue before she was able to say anything. “It’s not her thing,” she said simply, as though no further explanation was required. Paula and Chase nodded in understanding; Becky was evidently speaking their language. Jen was endlessly grateful when Chase turned to Paula and engaged her in a lively debate about a new seminar called, “Mining your inner diamonds,” and the two of them began to ignore Jen once again.

When the food was ready, Becky and Paula prepared plates for everyone with big heaping portions of lasagna, bread, and salad, except Becky served Jen a big plate of salad with a tiny spoonful of lasagna and no bread. Jen had a beautiful dining room adjoining the kitchen, with a stately, antique oak table that had belonged to several renowned movie actors before her. But they didn’t eat there; in fact she hadn’t eaten in that room since she and Bradley used to throw dinner parties in there right after they got married. Instead, the four of them took their food into the TV room, which was a smaller living room in the back of the house with Jen’s less up-to-date furniture in it. They sat on the leather couches, their plates balanced on their knees. On the coffee table, Becky placed a bottle of red wine, three wine glasses, and a tall glass of sparkling water for Jen, who never drank at home.

As they began to eat, Becky turned on the large flat-screen television, which was mounted on the wall like a painting, and flipped idly through the channels. As always, she started with the new-age-living channel, worked her way up through the channels about animals, cooking, home-décor, and gardening, and a few other similar channels with less readily definable themes, before reaching the conservative news channel, at which point she would usually declare that there was nothing on before descending through the same channels again in reverse order. She never ventured beyond this ten-channel range, at least not when Jen was around, for fear of running into something that would disturb Jen. Even today, as the television landed on the news channel, Bradley’s face flashed on the screen, part of a commercial the channel was airing about its own “distinctive brand of news coverage.” His image was gone almost instantly, one in a stream of many images that evidently were supposed to represent modern-day concerns: a politician, a missile exploding, a famous actress, a gas station, a politician who used to be an actor, a poor-looking child in an unidentifiable third-world country, a war-plane. Still, in a futile gesture, Becky snapped the off the TV, saying, “What’s he doing on the old people channel?”

“Who?” said Chase. Jen wasn’t sure if he had missed the one-second flash or if he was pretending out of politeness.

The four of them sat silently for a few moments after the TV was off, staring at its darkened screen.

“I think this is a good time to ask her,” Paula said, upping the awkwardness of the moment by a couple orders of magnitude.

Jen’s stomach sank. Ask me what, she thought? Whatever it was, with a set-up like that, it couldn’t be good. This was going to be a talk, she could tell. There was nothing she hated more than having a talk. Trying not to look angry or upset, Jen turned to Becky.

“What’s going on?” Jen asked, her voice sounding a little cold and tinny.

Becky looked back at her nervously. She hesitated before she started speaking, as though considering the best place to begin. “Remember how that magazine said you were moving to Michigan?” she asked after a moment, in a calm, measured voice.

“Yes,” said Jen, not indicating that she had been obsessing over this mystery all day.

“Well, that’s probably my fault,” said Becky. “So, Paula and I were talking the other day, and I was telling her how you’ve seemed really, um…”

“Messed up?” Jen offered, hostilely.

“No,” said Becky, in a consoling tone. “Stressed.”

Jen looked over at Paula, who was nodding sympathetically, as though she fully agreed with Becky’s assessment. The idea of this grotesquely tranquil woman knowing all of Jen’s business, and judging her problems, made Jen furious. She knew rationally that she could not expect Becky to never speak about her; people talk about their friends, and Becky liked to talk more than most people. But Paula seemed to have that neo-Buddhist sense of equanimity that caused her not to reserve judgment, but to dole it out equitably to all those who, regrettably, were not blessed with her enlightened perspective. Jen could read all this on Paula’s face, on her pursed, pitying mouth and in her calm, impassive eyes.

“So Paula was telling me,” Becky continued, sounding uneasy, “that her mom and stepdad have a lake house in northern Michigan.”

“Northern-central Michigan,” Paula interrupted.

“In Michigan,” said Becky, “and they spend summers there. It’s supposed to be really beautiful there in the summer.”

“It is, it’s gorgeous,” said Paula.

“Is it near Detroit?” asked Chase. “I went there to buy a gun once.”

“It’s not near Detroit,” Becky said authoritatively, shooting a dirty look at Chase. Jen was sure that Becky had no idea if Paula’s mom’s lake house was near Detroit; she’d never been anywhere in the middle states at all, unless you counted a couple of bachelorette parties in Las Vegas.

“So anyway,” Becky said, “Paula told me that her parents can’t stay there this summer because they’re going to Europe instead.”

“Southeast Asia,” said Paula, frowning.

Oh no, thought Jen. Her stomach began to sink again, like it had when this conversation started. This was the bad news they’d been building up to. They’re trying to send me away. She looked down at her salad. The sight of a juicy tomato over-stimulated her senses and made her want to throw up. She pushed some lettuce across her plate with her fork, avoiding Becky’s gaze.

“They’re going to Asia,” said Becky. “And they really want someone to stay in the house.”

“It sounds really nice,” said Chase, encouragingly, letting Jen know that he, too, was in on this plot already. Asshole, Jen thought, bitterly, watching him continue to shovel lasagna into his mouth even as he spoke. She had been starting to almost like him.

“Becky told me she thought you could use a little time away from things,” said Paula, in a soothing, condescending tone, like you would use with an elderly widow or a mental patient. Jen’s hatred for her rose violently up in her throat. She was glad she hadn’t eaten any of the food that Paula had touched, especially the bread.

“Well, anyway, we were talking about it at the tea house and I guess somebody must have overheard us,” said Becky. “I’m so sorry, Jen; I didn’t think anyone was around. You know I don’t go talking about your business in public.”

Jen’s expression must have been skeptical, because Becky said, “I’m really careful! You know that. Don’t make that face. You know it was an accident, right?”

“Oh, ease up on her,” said Chase to Jen. “She just wants to show off a little that she knows you.”

“I do not,” said Becky, annoyed. “I got over that years ago.”

She turned to Jen and said, “Don’t be mad, okay?”

Jen wasn’t feeling too forgiving, but she nodded accommodatingly.

“Anyway,” said Becky, “The house will be empty all summer. I guess there’s someone who comes around and takes care of the yard and the cleaning and stuff, but they would feel better if someone were actually staying in the house, at least for some of the time.”

“Why?” asked Jen, sullenly.

“Because if it seems like no one’s there, the house could get broken into,” said Paula.

“But you said your mom only stays there in the summer anyway,” said Jen. “What happens in the winter?”

“In the winter, there’s no one in the town. It’s too cold,” said Paula.

“So wouldn’t that be the best time for thieves to break into the houses?” asked Jen.

“It’s too cold for thieves,” said Paula.

“So Paula was just wondering if you’d like to spend a little time there,” said Becky. “In the summer,” she added.

“No, thank you,” said Jen, tersely. If Becky hadn’t been sure that Jen was angry, she would know now from Jen’s coldly polite tone.

“Just a few weeks, or a month,” said Becky, ignoring Jen’s refusal. “It wouldn’t be a big deal. Just some time away.”

“Would you come with me?” asked Jen.

“Oh, no,” said Becky, a bit too hastily. “I mean, I can’t afford to cancel my classes, and it’s impossible to find a sub in the summer. Plus someone would need to stay here and take care of the house.”

So Jen had been correct; Becky was trying to send her away so she could have the house all to herself. She probably wanted to spend the summer cooking high-calorie feasts with Chase and Paula, without having to worry about accommodating Jen’s picky eating habits. And Becky would need time to develop her budding friendship with Chase, without Jen around taking up all of her time. Jen knew that this last part of her theory was a bit illogical considering Becky and Chase hadn’t even met when the story about Michigan had gotten into the tabloids; still, it added up a bit too well. Perhaps Becky had had a moment of psychic foreknowledge that told her to ditch Jen to make room for some new best friend—and as prophesized, Chase had arrived right on schedule.

Jen turned to Paula, who was watching her patiently, with the same fixed, sympathetic look on her face. “I’m sorry,” said Jen. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’m too busy this summer.”

Jen wondered if Becky would contradict her. The truth was, Jen had no plans for summer. She had been having horrible luck with casting ever since her divorce proceedings became public. The publicity seemed to have helped Bradley’s career, while it had hurt hers. Becky, however, had the tact not to say anything about this. A tiny bit of Jen’s anger melted as Becky smoothly overlooked her lie.

“Well,” said Becky, “You don’t need to decide now. We just wanted to run this by you; think it over for a few weeks.”

Jen knew her refusal was final, but felt too beaten-down to argue any further. “All right,” she said simply. But she thought in her head, When hell freezes over, you evil, evil witch. She was barely certain whether these words were directed at Paula, Becky, or even Chase.

To lighten the mood after this heavy conversation, Chase decided they should watch a DVD, and Jen didn’t need to converse any further. As Becky, Chase, and Paula laughed at the romantic comedy he had chosen, pretending to make fun of it so they wouldn’t have to admit they were enjoying the trite plotline and jokes, Jen fumed silently. She had seen this movie before—about a man and woman who meet through their fake identities on the internet—but she still couldn’t follow the plot, distracted and furious as she was. She excused herself to her room halfway through the movie, saying that she was going to bed.

Lying in her room with the lights on, listening to the faint sounds of laughter from the living room, Jen wondered what exactly of Becky’s conversation with Paula had gotten into the tabloid. What did the reporter overhear? Did they think she was definitely going to Michigan? Had Becky mentioned anything about how miserable Jen had been about her divorce, or her flailing career? Had Paula added any of her judgmental commentary?

She wished they hadn’t cancelled their internet connection; all the tabloids had websites nowadays, and she imagined the story about her would be online. In fact it was for just this reason that they had disconnected the internet. It was too dangerous a temptation; a girl could get depressed, have a few drinks, and then stay up all night reading horrifying gossip about herself, illustrated with unflattering photographs of her in bad outfits, without ever exhausting the supply. Jen had considered the internet off-limits for years, in the same category as any number of contraband items like bathing suits, magazines, doughnuts, the entertainment channel, candy bars, pasta, beer, salt. The list was endless, and Jen had great discipline in banishing these items from her consciousness, as though they were dead to her. It seemed odd that she would be so tempted by this particular story that she would want to resort to the internet; after all, she already knew what it would say. And yet, something about Becky’s betrayal made Jen want to see it written out in words, to wallow in the awfulness of her own best friend trying to send her away to a hostile land full of fat, ugly Midwesterners, where even criminals would not spend the winter.

Suddenly, Jen remembered something that made her jump up off the bed. It had been two years since Becky had disconnected the internet—but she had never cancelled the subscription. Becky had said that they should keep the minimal service just in case they needed it for an emergency; she had simply disconnected her office computer from the phone jack. Jen had even seen the internet provider on a recent credit card bill in Becky’s office. If Jen could figure out how to reconnect the laptop in the basement, she could use the old dial-up modem to connect.

Jen crept down to the basement, closing the door behind her quietly, ignoring the improbability of Becky and her friends noticing any noises through their haze of wine, melted cheese, and crappy movies. She turned on the light, revealing the large, partially-finished basement that smelled like dryer sheets because of the laundry room off to one side. Bradley had started a wine cellar in an alcove off to one side, and it added a musty odor. Becky kept a small desk with a telephone and a laptop down here for times when she wanted to work while she was doing laundry. The basement was chilly, and Jen regretted not having worn a robe or sweatshirt, but she didn’t want to risk being overheard by going back upstairs to get it. Instead, she turned on the laptop and began looking around for a phone cord to connect it to the jack in the wall.

Jen looked in the desk drawers, the linen closet, and the bin of old floppy disks and CDs before realizing that she could just use the cord from the telephone. She plugged it into the computer and clicked on the icon to connect to the internet.

A password screen popped up, with Becky’s user name, “libra-yogini,” and a space for her password. Jen used to know the password that Becky used, but she couldn’t quite remember it. She knew it was a food item, and she was pretty sure it was a grain. She tried a number of options, including “amaranth,” “quinoa,” and “flaxseed,” before remembering the correct one, “spelt.”

Jen sighed in relief as the laptop began to make the familiar, comforting modem noises, the aggressive sound of dialed phone numbers and the phlegmy hiss of the computer speaking its robot-language with some other computer far away.

There it was! The search page sprung to life before her like an oasis, even featuring a beautiful picture of the sunset over the ocean in the advertisement for vacations on the top of the page.

Nervously, and knowing already that she was making a mistake, Jen typed her name in the search box. Then, fearing what broad information that might supply, she added “Michigan” as well.

A list of sites appeared. The ones on the first page were mainly reviews of her movies from Michigan newspapers. She was about to go to the second page, when she saw a heading near the bottom from a popular celebrity magazine called The Dirt: “Jen’s sordid night with ‘playboy by the bay’ Skipper Engels.” Looking at the screen, which seemed suddenly to be a great distance from her, she felt that dizziness and detachment that she had learned to recognize as her fight-or-flight mechanism taking effect. Her eyes began to lose focus, and it was difficult to still her hand enough to click on the link.

When the article came up, the first thing Jen saw were the photographs: she and Skipper talking at the bar, their heads bowed close, visible through a crowd of blurry heads and shoulders. She and Skipper leaving the bar through the back door. Skipper leaving her house in the morning, buttoning up his pants.

She scanned the article, which was very short, only a couple of paragraphs, but all that she could take in was her own name, in boldface to indicate that it was a search-term, repeating senselessly over and over. At the end of the article, the word “Michigan” was also in bold letters.

Then she saw the caption under the headline: “Jen’s tryst with San Francisco’s most notorious pimp.”

Shit, shit, she thought, over and over.

And below that: “Distraught Jen resorts to prostitution to get even with Bradley, friends say.”

Jen stared blankly at the words for a moment. Then she screamed.

Chapter 8:
http://kickoutofyou.blogspot.com/2008/06/8-intimate-knowledge-of-its-ugly-side.html