It's been a year since the presidential election, and I've lost my mind. No, scratch that. I've finally woken up.
Perhaps this is why I'm day drinking at Jenn's party. Being awake is uncomfortable, itchy, like I can't ever quite stop thinking.
Even now, in Jenn's perfect backyard, I want to say for our silly game, "I never voted for Trump," and see who among us is my friend, and who has secretly been my enemy all along.
The idea makes me tear up unexpectedly. You should really quit drinking, O. I take another sip.
When I press the Visine into Aimee's palm, something inside me comes alive.
I read 44% of white women voted for that race baiting, 'grab 'em by the pussy,' Putin ass-clown. Women like me, who've probably gotten grabbed a time or two. I saw them on television, at the rallies – my age and older, frequently brassy blonde, willing to vote the sanctity of their bodies of less importance than whatever else they saw in him.
If you're wondering at my lack of surprise, let me introduce you to being a woman. When I was ten, I woke to find my uncle lifting the bed covers off my legs, cool air swirling up to my waist. He stood, in the darkened room, examining my bare limbs. He'd uncovered my most embarrassing secret – I still wore My Little Pony underpants, even though they were a baby thing to like, but my favorite.
"What are you doing?" I'd asked. He tossed the blankets down, and walked out of the room with no reply.
I told my mother. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it, Oma." When I tried to explain how it meant something to me, her face went tight. "Hush. You could ruin a man's life with stories like that."
So like most women, I've understood from childhood: What my uncle did meant nothing, and at the same time, I somehow held the power to ruin his life by mentioning it.
I swallowed this illogic whole, unable to look at it and take it apart until this year. I wanted to believe my mother's promise that women had power of their own -- a nuclear option to destroy everything, if they needed to. It might kill us too, but we had a way to take the bastards down.
Trump's election proved even that promise hollow.
I tried to explain how out of control I felt to my husband, Scott. At first, he nodded quietly, listening to each unfolding outrage. But as time went on and my anger didn't diminish, he grew frustrated. "Oma, it's only four years. Just wait it out."
A chasm opened between us, uncrossable. Nothing in his white male experience approached what it might be like to have his pussy grabbed, to feel vulnerable in a sea of men with a presidential role model of assault.
After dozens of reiterations, the closest I could get: "What if the president bragged about reaching down the back of men's pants and sliding a surprise finger up their butthole? What if your uncle had done that to you? What if anyone might, since it's been endorsed at the highest governmental level?"
Which ended the conversation, my husband snapping, "That would never happen, and that's not what happened, Oma."
For the next few days, my husband of 18 years treated me like some untrustworthy creature that might attack at any moment.
***
When Dan stands near the sliding glass door and practically snaps his fingers at Jenn, I feel untrustworthy, my teeth gnashing to bite, given the chance.
"How is it a present for me if I pay for it?" Dan asks her.
I cannot stop myself entirely, but manage to put the wine glass over my face to muffle the words at least. "What... a.... dick."
I observe myself from the outside: angry, middle aged woman, just drunk enough to insult the host and embarrass the hostess. Then despair. What am I going to do with all this rage I can't seem to let go? The grim future I seem headed for: Divorced with two estranged sons, cutting my hair too short, living in a yurt with ten cats, grinding my teeth to nubs.
Aimee grabs my hand, squeezes. I almost can't believe it. An ally.
"Hey, you have any Visine on you?" she asks, and I let go to check. "Old bartender's trick. Dan'll have to watch the game on his phone, from the toilet."
Something inside me blazes with gasping, vengeful glee. It's a petty revenge, but it's something. And after a year's worth of misery and impotence, the idea of Dan crapping himself bolsters my will to live.
Visine in hand, Aimee checks in with her toddler at the swings, then opens the slider at the back of the house, slipping inside. She's beautiful in a common way – the lustrous hair pregnancy gives women, the glowing skin. I understand what she means about being invisible though, in her floral, loose-waisted dress and lack of make-up. The way kindergarten teachers are invisible, even though they are the center of the world when you are earnest and five. Is Little Miss Mommy really going to exact rough justice on Dan the Dickhead? I have to see this go down.
"Well, I'm gonna hit the girl's," I say to Jenn as she comes back to the patio seating with her sister. Neither make eye contact, Jenn's toned shoulders rigid.
The wine's given everything a happy little soundtrack, like I'm in a cartoon. Walking casual, I head in.
I'm blind for a moment – the daylight outside so bright, and now the gorgon of a television, primary colors radiating. It's hard to see the men on the couch, leaning forward, intent on the game. In a few blinks, I find Aimee, lurking at the side of the couch. A quick scan of the guys and I realize no one else seems to notice her there. She's as invisible as wait staff.
The game announcers' banter picks up pace, going choppy, frenetic, almost sexual. Black Solo cups litter the room. Easy to guess Dan's as the one right next to him, unguarded on the end table, near a plate containing cocktail meatballs and a squirt of ketchup. Aimee seems transfixed by the game.
Do it, I will her, from my spot on the wall, tamping down giggles. The TV crowd roars. The men cheer, jumping to their feet, and I practically scream DO IT! NOW!
But in an instant, the men are crashing back into their seats, swilling beer, plucking hors devours to pop into their mouths.
Soren's eye catches on Aimee. "Hey, fill me up, would ya?" I let go of the breath I've been holding. She's missed her chance.
"Sure." Aimee grabs the cup and heads over to the pony keg in the kitchen.
I'm so defeated, I almost weep. Jesus, maybe I need to lay off the booze. What did I expect? Even petty revenge is something we'll only talk about. My head feels too heavy, and I close my eyes.
"Hey, you OK?" I know it's Scott before he speaks – the familiar smell of him, the way he stands closer to me than anyone else would. I push down my despair. Maybe all this can be explained simply – I'm going through the change.
Those are their rules, set up to keep you at a disadvantage. My mother's voice in my head, except my mother would never have said anything like that.
I open my eyes, if only to escape my thoughts. Scott's there, face wrinkled with small concern. I lean in to give him a quick kiss.
"Kids OK?" He knows me well enough to realize something's not right. I slip my phone out of my back pocket. Our teenage sons are at their friends' for the afternoon.
"No messages." I throw brighter wattage into my smile to convince him there's nothing wrong.
Aimee's moved close, probably on her way back outside. She smiles. An apology, perhaps. The game's gone to commercial. The men are laughing, standing up, heading off to take pisses.
That's when Dan keels over in a dead man's fall, hitting the floor so hard it sounds like his skull cracks on Jenn's high end wood laminate.
***
"Jesus!" Aimee's husband gasps. Or it's the first thing I hear, in the chaos. Dan looks dead – grey skin, boneless, face down on the floor.
Soren jumps into action. His police training transforms everything about him, even while the other husbands seem confused by what's happened. He pushes past them, crouches at Dan's head.
"Turn him over, give him a clear airway." Scott sounds like a game show contestant, shouting out answers.
"What about spinal injury? You hear that impact?" Jake, too, wants to buzz in.
Soren carefully rolls Dan, puts his cheek to Dan's face, then his ear to Dan's chest. I've seen enough TV to know he's checking for breathing, heartbeat. Someone mutes the TV and the noise level goes from blaring to silence. Soren swishes a finger between Dan's flaccid lips.
The slider glides open. Jenn. Everyone else is focused on Dan, but I see her in this first moment – no wail of dismay, no fall to her knees, no instant rush to her husband's side. Instead, this quiet, shrewd assessment. She hates him, I think. Or at least hates him more than she loves him.
She catches me watching. Her mask slips back into place.
"Dan?" She flutters, breathless, urgent, "Dan?!" and pushes through the crowd.
Dan blinks, groans. His skin looks like old cheese, the thinning hair at his forehead corkscrewing into a sweat greased double helix. A string of farts, like pulling pearls, sound. They continue on past the time anyone in proper society would draw tight that sphincter. It's all I can do not to burst into horrible laughter. Good thing women are prone to hysteria.
I make very sure not to look at Aimee now.
"How you doing, buddy?" Soren says, fingers sliding down to test Dan's pulse. He frowns.
"Crap," Dan answers.
Look what you helped do, my mother accuses. I try to drum up guilt, some sympathy for the man on the floor.
Instead, what comes to mind are all the times he called Maria 'Hot Taco,' and how I was always too shocked or embarrassed to say outright, "Stop with that racist, sexist bullshit." How I'd only rolled my eyes or left the room. How I suspected Dan enjoyed my reaction.
Dan tries to sit up. Soren says, "Take it easy."
Jenn, crouching near her husband, puts an arm out to help him. "What happened, Dan? Did you faint?"
"I'm fine!" Dan yanks away, a toddler determined to do it himself. Groaning, he rolls on all fours, and crawls to the couch, pulling himself up.
"Maybe we should get you checked out," Soren says, and my heart bolts. No! I almost say out loud. What if the doctor can detect Visine?
"FINE!" Dan pulls himself up onto the couch, piggy eyes glinting satisfaction at his accomplishment. He blinks, sweating, waves an arm at the TV screen. "Turn up the sound. Game's on."
No one moves. The screen fills with images of men's uniform-clad butts as the players walk across the field. I relax enough that I'm no longer in danger of shattering the wine glass in my hand. Part of me can't wait for the Visine to take the rest of its course. For Dan to run to the bathroom, for him to know what it's like to have someone mess with his body while everyone around acts like it's just an unfortunate fact of life.
But instead of going to the bathroom, Dan tilts forward, and throws up all over himself. After the initial gut wrenching hork, he continues on his downward trajectory, tumbling to the floor again.
Before the yells to call 911, and my realization that maybe this Visine prank is not going according to plan, there is a beat of stunned silence, in which I hear, for the first time, true dismay in Jenn's voice, as she says, "Not the couch!"
***
"What's happening in there?" Maria asks when I bolt out of Jenn's house to the back yard, cell phone in hand.
"Dan's sick or something," I say, too loud, then throw a worried glance at the kids on the play structure. I don't want to scare them. Then back to my phone, searching anxiously for the internet app, then hitting Jenn's wireless connection because I don't have –
Maria's presses up against my side, her manicured hand firm on my forearm. "Are you calling 911?" she asks in a cool, professional tone.
I shake my head, barely glancing up, only enough to convey, Visine poisoning, and then back to my search. Her hand squeezes hard, demanding my attention.
"Stop. Right now."
I'm surprised at her authority, when usually she's so slyly quiet. Distantly, I remember she'd spent time in the Navy, that's how she and Soren met. Still, I go back to my search.
"Police can get a warrant for your phone." Her eyes dart to make sure we're not overheard. There is no one outside but us and a half dozen kids, Maria's included, who've run to the patio slider and are watching whatever's going on with Dan inside. One of them starts crying, big boo-hooos.
"Oh my god." She's right. I almost signed a confession of what we'd done, not even thinking. In my hand, the google search box says "Vi," and I delete furiously, then turn my phone off for good measure.
Of course, from her police procedural point of view, Maria's probably committed a crime now too. Accomplice after the fact, or something. The look she's giving me right now is ten shades of pissed off, and I remember her warning about assault. I want to convince her that Dan deserved it, but all I can think for shorthand is whispering, "Hot Taco," and I'm pretty sure that won't help.
It's Aimee's daughter Annabelle crying, and so I leave Maria and grab the toddler's small hand and say, "It's OK honey." When Annabelle makes that universal toddler 'pick me up' motion, I do, thinking that at least in this moment, I can live in the make-believe world where adults make everything better. Annabelle melts against me, clingy. Where's Aimee?
It's then I realize Aimee was right in some weird way about being invisible. I thought I'd watched her the whole time, but still missed her squirting Visine into Dan's cup.
In the fall air, the distant sounds of an ambulance coming our way.
***
I'm not sure if we become friends because of a prank, or because we're waiting to see if we'll all go to prison, but Maria, Aimee, and I drop in at Jenn's house two days later. In all the back-n-forth calls to set it up, no one says word one about Visine. Cagey criminals, all of us.
"The doctor cleared Dan to go to work." Jenn is pink cheeked with pleasure we've come to see her. It's too cold today to sit outside, but Jenn's couch is missing all it's puked upon cushions. To make do, we huddle around her small kitchen table. "But he decided to take the day off, get some rest." She nods toward the stairs, in the direction her bedroom must be.
"Do they know what happened?" Aimee asks, polite tone, an amazing touch of boredom to her words, as if only asking out of concern. I don't know if I'm frightened of her or developing a little hero worship.
It's been a weird two days. I thought remorse would hit me, but just this morning, news broke that a senatorial nominee slept with a handful of 14 year old girls. Instead of fellow politicians distancing themselves, crying 'lock him up,' or even the worthless pandering denouncement starting with, 'as a husband, and as the father of daughters...." There is a new ambiguity in the air. "These young ladies willingly gave consent!" some of his political palls argue.
"I'm sure I got permission from their mothers," the candidate quips at a press conference, in which he announces he won't be dropping out of the race. And why would he? If you can brag about sexual assault and still be POTUS, why would it stop a measly senator?
Also, in my facebook feed this morning, a man I know posted, "I'd really love to read something nice about men here. Just something to get me through the day."
My utter rage.
I'm living in a world where men can screw 14 year olds and not lose their jobs, not even lose an election, and this guy has the gall to ask me to soothe his wounded ego? I scroll through a dozen flattering comments about 'not all men' and 'you're such a nice guy.' It feels like a declaration of war.
Maybe you feel bad because on some level, you support the shitty things men are doing, and you need people like me to blow sunshine up your skirt to distract you from your conscience, I write. Sit with your guilt. You deserve it.
I deleted the comment, my heart pounding too hard, and logged off, cursing.
"The doctor changed Dan's blood pressure dose a few weeks ago. They think he had a bad reaction." Jenn shrugs. "They want to run a few more tests."
Maria and I lock eyes, but she gives away nothing. More tests?! It's all I can do not to whip out my phone and google the chemicals in Visine, and how long they linger, detectable, in the bloodstream. Would googling at the public library be safe, or could the police trace that back to me as well? Google would know the answer. Shit.
"Oh hi, honey," Jenn says, and we all turn. Dan stands at the staircase, in a rumpled T-shirt with noticeable pit stains under his arms, and flannel boxers. His bare legs, hairy and a little bowed. "Were we too loud? I didn't want to wake you."
"No," he says, gruff. And the strangest thing happens, subtle but recognizable as a change in the breeze. Jenn's not quite over-vigilant today, the muscles in her face relaxed. She hasn't gotten up from her chair like a servant standing at attention. And Dan -- he remains at the edge of the room, as if not sure what to do.
"I just came to get some milk," he finally gestures toward the kitchen.
"Oh! Let me get it." Jenn is up now.
"No!" Dan says too loudly, reddens, broad smile. "Don't trouble yourself, hon." He shoos her back with a wave of his arm. "I'll get it."
Jenn blushes with pleasure, pink all the way up her cheeks into her hairline, like a school girl. I'm straight up dumbfounded – this is hands down the most considerate I've ever seen Dan behave. Jenn turns bashfully back to the table, and so she misses the split-second terror that slips over Dan's face, becoming a pig-eyed gleam of seething hatred.
In that instant, three things are clear to me:
1) Jenn's mistaken Dan's behavior for some kind of second honeymoon happiness. 2) Dan's figured out what happened to him was no accident. 3) He thinks Jenn's the one who hurt him.
Next to me, Aimee tenses. She's seen it too. My armpits go slimy, the primal part of my brain that detects threat lit up like a firecracker. Men like Dan won't stay scared. They always figure out how to even the score.
Jenn's in some kind of danger. She has no idea. And it's our fault.
But how can we warn her without confessing what we did?