very dangerous ocean.
Escaping.
—
I haven’t actuallyreadThe Odyssey,but I know it’s an ancient Greek poem. Plus Saar and I playedKiller Odysseyall the way to theend.
Odysseus, the great king of somewhere or other, leaves his kingdom to go fight the Trojan War. He ends up traveling all over the world. You play the game by boating around between levels on this wine-dark sea. At each level, you have to battle a legendary creature—like Cyclops, or Medusa, or a bunch of feral mermaids.
The mermaids are the worst to kill, actually. You can’t slaughter them any of the usual ways. You have to drown them in the air, one after the other, by dragging them out of the sea and trapping them so they can’t get back. They beg for mercy and struggle for breath.
It’s brutal and misogynistic, but it’s what you have to do to beat this level. And you can’t be a gamer if you get mad about misogyny. It’s threaded through practically every game.Mario Kart,even.Angry Birds.So I just save being pissed off for real-life situations. Plus, when I become a game designer, I’ll make some superviolent games that don’t also hate women. Or forget we exist.
Anyway, once you’ve drowned all the feral mermaids in the air, they shrivel up. Their scales form an excellent trophy swordyou can use later on. After that, the other villains can be killed the normal way, like with swords and grenades and ice picks and carving knives.
Kingsley’s painting is bleak. The water seems infinite, the tiny boat so vulnerable. Odysseus doesn’t look like a conquering hero; he looks haggard and desperate. Like a man who’s done awful, awful things in the name of self-preservation.
Beneath the painting, on the mantel of a large fireplace, are four glasses half filled with pink juice. They look like they’ve been sitting there a few days. There are two bowls crusted with yogurt and old granola.
I wander into the dining room, which houses a table that seems custom-made to match its wood walls and built-in shelves. The chandelier is green glass blown in oceanic, squidlike spirals. It’s lit from within and casts strange shadows on the wall—but the table isn’t set for a meal. On it are several old coffee cups and a plate sticky with crumbs and syrup. The floor is covered with bits of food and other trash.
The kitchen is orderly. The indigo pot still stands at the back of the stove, but the rest of the day’s project has been cleaned up. The fabrics have all been moved to hang on lines outdoors. Sheets, shirts, skirts, and pillowcases, all in varying shades of blue, flutter in the summer wind beyond the sliding glass door.
Since the room is empty, I have an urge to search the cabinets, to look in the fridge and the pantry, to fling open every door and drawer and begin uncovering the part of my history that’s always been missing. This is my father’s home. Myfather.
What does he eat? What mug does he use for morning coffee? Does he own spices from India and Mexico? Collections of peppersand half-full jars of harissa and tahini? Or does he eat simple foods, saving his extravagance for his paintings?
I open the fridge. It’s filled with glass jars of nuts and seeds, carefully labeled in June’s calligraphy. Then there are liquids, also in jars: honey limeade, hibiscus tea, mint tea, milk, and cream. Sauces: parsley mint, pesto, tomato. And salad dressings: sesame, balsamic mustard. There are almost no commercial products besides a bottle of Heinz ketchup.
I can see June everywhere in this fridge, even though I just met her today. But I can’t see Kingsley, or tell what’s his. One vegetable bin is filled with zucchini and corn. The other is filled with small packets, like tiny manila envelopes. They are labeled in block capitals:BROCK. JUNE. MEER. KINGSLEY. TATUM.AndMATILDA.
There are four packets with my name on them.
I only arrived this morning. Did June make them today? She said she didn’t know I was coming.
Maybe this means she’s planning to let me stay for a while.
I pick one up. I want to open it, but that means breaking the seal on the envelope. There will be no going back. So instead I take one labeled Kingsley, because there are many of these. A single one probably won’t be missed.
I pry the seal open carefully—but the envelope spills anyway, because it is filled with a fine, herby-looking powder. The powder goes all over the crisper bin, down the front of my black dress, and across the door ledge of the fridge. Damn.
I dust my hands on my clothes and scan the kitchen for the best way to clean up the mess.
“What are you doing?”
I freeze at the voice.
A boy stands in the doorway. He wears jeans, but his feet are bare. His baseball cap keeps his face in shadow. He is silhouetted by the hallway light, his outline slightly menacing.
Tatum. Who said I shouldn’t be here. Who wants to get rid ofme.
He steps forward. It’s my taxi driver.
The boy who charged me fifteen extra dollars to take me to the strawberry. The person I didn’t tip. He is gasoline and peppermint and resentment, hulking in the door. His cheekbones look angry.
“What are you doing?” he repeats.
My mother often says that some women (many women) act meek to pacify dangerous-seeming men. And that some women (many women) play innocent to avoid conflict. And that women in our society are taught to make themselves likable. To smile and ingratiate themselves at any cost.
