Beneath His Debt

The man across the table has hands like slabs of meat. That's what I notice first. Not the gold watch, not the silk tie loose at his collar, not the way he looks at me like I'm a cut of beef hanging in a window. His hands. Thick fingers, flat nails, knuckles that have been broken and healed wrong.

My husband is talking. He's been talking for twenty minutes. His voice has that pitch it gets when he's nervous, too high, too fast, like a man trying to sell you a car with a bad transmission.

"The terms are fair," Daniel says. "More than fair. You won't find another girl like her."

I'm sitting in a leather chair that smells like cigar smoke and someone else's cologne. The office is on the fourteenth floor. Through the window behind Mr. Meat Hands, I can see the river, gray and flat under a sky the color of old dishwater. It's Tuesday. I know that because I made meatloaf last night and Daniel didn't come home to eat it.

Mr. Meat Hands, whose name is actually Victor, leans back. His chair creaks. "Show me."

Daniel looks at me. There's something in his eyes I can't name. Not guilt. We're past guilt. Something more like hunger, and not for me.

I stand up.

The dress cost two hundred dollars. Daniel picked it out. Black, sleeveless, ends at mid-thigh. It's the kind of dress that makes a statement before you open your mouth. I bought it with money I earned waiting tables at a diner off I-95, back when I still thought we'd dig our way out of this.

Victor watches me. His eyes move from my ankles to my knees to my hips like he's reading a contract, checking the fine print.

"Turn around," he says.

I turn.

Daniel's chair scrapes the floor. He's gripping the armrests. I can hear his breathing from across the room, shallow and quick.

"She's clean," Daniel says. "I told you. No track marks, no diseases. She's healthy."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Victor stands. He's shorter than I expected, but wide, built like a refrigerator. He circles me once. I keep my eyes on the window. The river doesn't care what happens in this room. The river has been here longer than any of us and will be here after.

"Lift it," he says.

I look at Daniel. He nods.

I lift the dress. Slowly. Up past my thighs, past my stomach, to my ribs. The air in the office is cold. My skin tightens.

Victor makes a sound. Low, in his throat. Like a man tasting wine.

"Good," he says. "Very good."

I pull the dress back down. My hands are steady. That surprises me. Inside, my heart is a trapped bird, throwing itself against my ribs, but my hands don't shake. I've learned that trick. The body can lie even when everything else tells the truth.

Daniel exhales. Relief. I can hear it in the room, almost visible, like steam off a cup of coffee.

"The debt," Daniel says. "You'll clear it."

"Fifty thousand." Victor sits back down. "That's what you owe. That's what I paid for the markers. You think one night with your wife is worth fifty grand?"

"She's worth more than that. You said so yourself."

"I said she's good. Good isn't fifty grand."

Daniel's jaw tightens. I know that look. He's about to say something stupid, something desperate. I've seen him negotiate with bookies, with loan sharks, with men who could break his legs and not lose sleep over it. He always thinks he's the smartest man in the room. He's never been right about that.

"I'll work it off," I say.

Both men look at me.

Victor raises his eyebrows. Daniel's mouth opens, then closes.

"I'll work it off," I repeat. "Fifty thousand. How many nights is that?"

Victor laughs. It's a wet sound, phlegmy, like something rattling in his chest. "You hear this one? She's got a head for numbers."

"I'm serious. What's the rate?"

He stops laughing. Studies me. Those hands rest on the desk, fingers spread, and I think about what they'd feel like on my skin. Not in a romantic way. In the way you think about a car crash, the impact, the sound of metal folding.

"Two thousand a night," he says. "For the full service. Half that for the basics."

"Then it's twenty-five nights."

"Twenty-five nights of full service. You understand what that means?"

I do. I've understood since Daniel came home three weeks ago with a broken nose and a story about a poker game gone wrong. I understood when the men started calling the house, when they showed up at Daniel's work, when they left a dead cat on our porch with a note tied to its tail. I understood when Daniel got on his knees in our kitchen and begged me to help him, tears running down his face, snot bubbling from his nose, and I said yes because I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Full service," I say. "I understand."

Victor looks at Daniel. "She's got more balls than you."

Daniel doesn't respond. He's staring at the floor, at the pattern in the Turkish rug, at anything that isn't me or Victor or the deal we're making.

"Twenty-five nights," Victor says. "Starting tonight. You'll come here. You'll do what I say. When I say. You don't speak unless I ask you a question. You don't look at me unless I tell you to. And your husband doesn't come inside. He waits in the car."

I nod.

"The car," Victor repeats, looking at Daniel. "You understand? You wait in the car."

Daniel nods. His face is pale. His hands are shaking. He's a coward. I've always known that. I knew it when I married him, and I knew it when he lost our savings at a track in Delaware, and I knew it when he started borrowing from men who don't forgive. I knew it, and I married him anyway, because he made me laugh once, a long time ago, and I thought that was enough.

It wasn't enough. But here we are.

"Tonight," Victor says. "Nine o'clock. Wear something red."

I stand. My legs feel like they belong to someone else. I smooth the dress, pick up my purse, and walk toward the door.

"Wait," Victor says.

I stop.

"You didn't ask what happens if you miss a night."

I turn. "What happens?"

He smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile of a man who has broken other men, and women too, probably, and doesn't lose any sleep over it.

"The debt doubles," he says. "And I take something else. Something you can't give back."

He doesn't say what. He doesn't have to.

Daniel drives us home. Neither of us speaks. The radio plays a song I don't recognize, some pop thing with a beat that feels obscene. I watch the lights of the city slide past the window and think about the river, how it just keeps going, how it doesn't stop for anyone.

When we get home, Daniel goes to the bedroom and closes the door. I stand in the kitchen. The meatloaf is still in the fridge, wrapped in foil, cold and congealed. I take it out, scrape it into the trash, and wash the dish.

Then I go to the closet and find the red dress.