by Clive Barker
“She’ll need to be,” Loretta said.
“Mitchell adores her.”
“I’m sure he does. At least for now.”
Deborah’s lips tightened. “Must we, Loretta . . . ?”
“Tell the truth? Not if you don’t want to.”
“We’ve had our happiness,” Deborah said. “Now it’s their turn.” She started to get up from the table.
“Wait—” Loretta said. She reached out and lightly caught hold of Deborah’s wrist. “I don’t want us to argue.”
“I never argue,” Deborah said.
“No. You walk away, which is even worse. It’s time we were friends, don’t you think? I mean . . . there’s things we’re going to have to start planning for.”
Deborah slipped her arm out of Loretta’s grasp. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her tone making it perfectly clear that she did not wish the conversation to continue.
Loretta changed the subject. “Sit down a moment. Did I tell you about the astrologer?”
“No . . .” Deborah said, “Garrison mentioned you’d found someone you liked.”
“He’s wonderful. His name’s Martin Yzerman; he lives out in Brooklyn Heights.”
“Does Cadmus know you go to one of these people?”
“You should go to Yzerman yourself, Deborah.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Advice like that’s very useful if you’re trying to make long-term plans.”
“But I don’t,” she said. “I gave up trying. Things change too quickly.”
“He could help you see the changes coming.”
“I doubt it.”
“Believe me.”
“Could he have predicted what happened to George?” Deborah said sharply.
Loretta let a moment of silence fall between them before she said: “No question.”
Deborah shook her head. “That’s not the way things are,” she said. “We don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. Nobody does.” She rose from her chair. This time Loretta didn’t try to stop her. “I’m astonished that a smart woman like you would put faith in that kind of thing. Really I am. It’s nonsense, Loretta. It’s just a way to make you feel as though you’re in control of things.” She looked down at Loretta almost pityingly. “But you’re not. None of us are. We could all be dead this time tomorrow.”
And with that, she walked away.
This odd little exchange wasn’t the only crack in the bliss of the day. There were three other incidents which are probably worth remarking upon, though none of them were significant enough to spoil the celebrations.
The first of the three, perhaps inevitably, involved Margie. Champagne was not her preferred mode of transport, so she’d made sure that the bar was stocked with good whiskey, and once the first round of bubbly was drunk she switched to Scotch. She rapidly became a little testy, and took it into her head to tell Senator Bryson who, along with his family, had flown up from Washington, what she thought of his recent comments on welfare reform. She was by no means inarticulate and Senator Bryson was plainly quite happy to be chewing on a serious issue rather than nibbling small talk; he listened to Margie’s remarks with suitable concern. Margie downed another Scotch and told him he was talking out of both sides of his mouth. The senator’s wife attempted a little leavening here, remarking that the Gearys weren’t likely to be needing welfare any time soon. To which Margie sharply replied that her father had worked in a steel mill most of his life, and died at the age of forty-five with twelve bucks in his bank account; and where the hell was the man with the whiskey anyway? Now it was Garrison who stepped in to try and bring the exchange to a halt, but the senator made it perfectly plain that he was enjoying the contretemps and wished to continue. The man with the whiskey duly arrived, and Margie got her glass refilled. Where were they, she said; oh yes, twelve bucks in his bank account. “So don’t tell me I don’t know what’s going on out there. The trouble is none of you high and mighties gives a fuck. We’ve got problems in this country, and they’re getting worse, and what are you doing about it? Besides sitting on your fat asses and pontificating.”
“I don’t think any caring human being would disagree with you,” the senator said. “We need to work to make American lives better lives.”
“And what does that all add up to?” Margie said. “A fat lot of nothin’. Is it any wonder nobody in this country believes a damn word any of you people say?”
“I think people are more interested in the democratic process—”
“Democratic, my ass!” Margie said. “It’s all lobbies and pay-backs and doing your friends favors. I know how it works. I wasn’t born yesterday. You just want to make the rich richer.”
“I think you’re mistaking me for a Republican,” Bryson chuckled.
“And I think you’re mistaking me for someone who’d trust a fucking word any politician ever said,” Margie spat back.
“That’s enough now,” Garrison said, taking hold of his wife’s arm.
She tried to shake him free, but he held on tight. “It’s all right, Garrison,” the senator said. “She’s got a right to her opinion.” He returned his gaze to Margie. “But I will say this. America’s a free country. You don’t have to live in the lap of luxury if it doesn’t sit well with your political views.” He smiled, though there was not a trace of warmth in his eyes. “I really wonder if it’s entirely appropriate for a woman in your position to be talking about the agonies of the working man.”
“I told you, my father—”
“Is part of the past. This administration is part of the future. We can’t afford sentiment. We can’t afford nostalgia. And most of all, we can’t afford hypocrisy.”
This little speech had the ring of an exit line, and Margie knew it. Too drunk by now to mount any coherent riposte, all she could say was: “What the fuck does that mean?”
The senator was already turning to leave, but he pivoted on his heel to reply to Margie’s challenge. The smile, even in its humorless form, had gone.
“It means, Mrs. Geary, that you can’t stand there in a fifty-thousand-dollar dress and tell me you understand the pain of ordinary people. If you want to do some good, maybe you should start off by auctioning the contents of your closet and giving away the profits, which I’m sure would be substantial.”
That was his last word on the subject. He was gone the next moment, along with his wife and entourage. Garrison went to follow, but Margie clutched his arm.
“Don’t you dare,” she told him. “Or I’ll quote what you said about him being a spineless little shit.”
“You are contemptible,” Garrison said.
“No. You’re contemptible. I’m just a pathetic drunk who doesn’t know any better. You want to take me inside before I start on somebody else?”
ii
Rachel didn’t hear about Margie’s exchange with the man from Washington until after the honeymoon, when Margie herself confessed it. But she was very much a part of the second of the three notable exchanges of the afternoon.
What happened was this: toward dusk Loretta came to find her and asked if she’d mind bringing her mother and sister to meet Cadmus, who was going to be leaving very soon. The old man hadn’t joined the celebration until the cake was about to be cut, at which point he’d been brought out to the big marquee in his wheelchair—to much applause—and made a short, eloquent toast to the bride and groom. He’d then been taken to a shady spot at the back of the house, where the flow of folks who wanted to pay their respects to him could be strictly controlled. Apparently he’d been anxious to meet Rachel’s family earlier in the day, but only now, at nine in the evening, had the line of people eager to shake his hand diminished. He was very tired, Loretta warned; they should keep the conversation brief.
In fact, despite the demands of the day, Rachel thought he looked better than he had at his birthday party, certainly: positively robust for a ninety-six-year-old (sitting comfortably in a high-backe
d wicker chair generously packed with cushions in a backwater of the garden, nursing a brandy glass and the stub of a cigar). His face was still handsome, after its antique fashion; he’d aged beyond the gouges and furrows into a kind of skeletal grandeur, his skin so tanned it was like old wood, his eyes set in the cups of his sockets like bright stones. His speech was slow, and here and there a little slurred, but he still had more charisma than most men a quarter his age, and sufficient memory to know how to work it on the opposite sex. He was like some much beloved movie star, Rachel thought; so adored in his season that now, though he was well past his prime, he still believed in his own magic. And that was the most important part, belief. The rest was just window dressing.
Loretta made all the introductions, and then returned to the party, leaving Cadmus king of his own court.
“I wanted to tell you how proud I am,” he told Rachel, “to have you, and your mother and your sister, as part of the Geary family. You are all so very lovely, if I may say so.” He handed his glass to the woman (Rachel assumed it was a nurse) who stood close to his chair, and reached out to take the bride’s hand. “Excuse my chilly fingers,” he said. “I don’t have the circulation I used to have. I know how strong the feeling is between you and Mitchell and I must tell you I think he is the luckiest man alive to have won your affections. So many people . . .” He stopped for a moment, and his eyelids fluttered. Then he drew a deep breath, as if pulling on some buried reserve of energy, and the moment of frailty passed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “So many people, you know, never have in their lives anything like the kind of deep feeling you two have for one another. I had it in my life.” He made a small wry smile. “Regrettably it wasn’t for either of the women I married.” Rachel heard Deanne suppress a guffaw behind her. She glanced back, frowning, but Cadmus was in on the joke. His smile had spread into a mischievous grin. “In fact, you my dear Rachel, bear more than a passing resemblance to the lady I idolized. So much so that when I first set eyes upon you, at that little party Loretta threw for me—as if I wanted to be reminded how antiquated I am—I thought to myself: Mitchell and I have the same taste in beauty.”
“May I ask who this was?’ Rachel asked him.
“I’d be pleased to tell you. In fact, I’ll do better than that. Would you care to come to the house next week?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll show you the lady I loved,” Cadmus told Rachel. “Up on the screen, where age can’t touch her. And I’m afraid . . . neither can I.”
“I’ll look forward to that.”
“So will I . . .” he said, his voice a little fainter now. “Well, I suppose I should let you ladies go back to the celebration.”
“It’s been wonderful to meet you,” Sherrie said.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” Cadmus replied. “Believe me. All mine.”
“They just don’t make men like that any longer,” Sherrie observed when they were out of the old man’s presence.
“You sound quite smitten,” Deanne said.
“I’ll tell you this,” Sherrie replied, directing her remarks to Rachel, “If Mitchell is half the man he is, you won’t have a thing to complain about.”
VIII
i
The third and final event I’m going to report took place long after dark, and it was the one that could have potentially spoiled the glory of the day.
Let me first set the scene for you. The evening, as I’ve said, was balmy, and though the number of guests slowly dwindled as the hour grew later a lot of people stayed longer than they’d planned, to drink and chat and dance. The time and trouble that had been taken to hang the lanterns in the trees around the house paid off handsomely. Though about nine-thirty or so clouds came in from the northeast, the lamps more than compensated for the lack of stars; it was as though every tree had luminous fruit swaying in its branches, lilac and lemon and lime. It was a time for whispered expressions of love, and among the older folks, a renewal of vows and the making of promises. I’ll be kinder; I’ll be more attentive; I’ll care for you the way I used to care when we were first married.
Nobody gave any thought to being spied on. With so many luminaries in attendance the security had been fierce. But now, with many of the more important guests already departed and the party winding down, the vigilance of the guards was not what it had been, so nobody saw the two photographers who scrambled over the wall to the east of the house. They didn’t find much that would please their editors. A few drunks passed out in their chairs, but nobody of any consequence. Disappointed, they moved on through the grounds, concealing their cameras beneath their jackets if they passed anyone who might question them, until they got to the edge of the dance floor. Here they decided to part.
One of them—a fellow called Buckminster—went to the largest of the tents, hoping he might at least find some overweight celebrity still pigging out. His partner Penaloza headed on past the dance floor, where there were still a few couples enjoying a moody waltz, toward the trees.
None of what Penaloza saw looked particularly promising. He knew the sordid laws of his profession by heart. The readers of the rags to whom he hoped to sell his pictures wanted to see somebody famous committing at least one—but hopefully several—deadly sins. Gluttony was good, avarice was okay; lust and rage were wonderful. But there was nothing significantly sinful going on under the lanterns, and Penaloza was about to turn back to see if he could talk his way into the house when he heard a woman, not far from him, laughing. There was a measure of unease in the sound which drew his experienced ear.
The laughter came again, and this time he made out its source. And, oh my Lord, did he believe what he was seeing? Was that Meredith Bryson, the daughter of Senator Bryson, swaying drunkenly under the tree, her blouse unbuttoned and another woman’s face pressed between her breasts?
Penaloza fumbled for his camera. Now there was a picture! Perhaps if he could just get a little closer, so that no one was in doubt as to Meredith’s identity. He took two cautious steps, ready to shoot and run if the need arose. But the women were completely enraptured with one another; if things got much more heated the picture would be unpublishable.
There was no doubting the identity of the Bryson girl now; not with her head thrown back that way. He held his breath, and got off a shot. Then another. He’d have liked a third, but Meredith’s seducer had already seen him. She gallantly pushed the Bryson girl out of sight behind her, giving Penaloza one hell of a shot of her standing full onto him, shirt unbuttoned to the waist. He didn’t wait for the bitch to start screaming.
“Gotta go,” he grinned; then turned and ran.
What happened next confounded his every expectation. Instead of hearing one or both of the women set up a chorus of tearful hollering, there was silence, except for the din of his own feet as he ran. And then suddenly there was somebody catching hold of the collar of his shirt, and swinging him around, and it was he who let out the yelp of complaint as his attacker wrenched his camera out of his hands.
“You fucking scum!”
It was Meredith’s lover, of course; though God knows she’d put on a supernatural turn of speed to catch up with him.
“That’s mine!” he said, grabbing for his camera.
“No,” she replied, very simply, and tossed it back over her shoulder.
“Don’t touch it!” Penaloza yelled. “That camera is my property. If you so much as lay a finger on that camera I’ll sue you—”
“Oh shut up,” the woman said, and slapped him across the face. The blow stung so badly his eyes watered.
“You can’t do this,” he protested. “This is a Fifth Amendment issue.”
The woman hit him again. “Amend that,” she said.
Penaloza was a reasonably moral man. He didn’t take pleasure in hitting women; but sometimes it was a necessity. Blinking the tears out of his eyes he feinted to the right, and then swung a left that caught the woman’s jaw a solid crack. She let out a very satisfying yelp
and stumbled backward, but to his surprise she was back at him before he recovered his own balance, throwing herself at him with such violence she brought them both to the ground.
“Jesus!” he heard somebody say, and from the corner of his eyes saw Buckminster standing a few yards away, photographing the fight.
Penaloza managed to pull one hand free and pointed toward his camera, which still lay on the grass a few yards from the senator’s daughter. “Grab it!” he yelled. “Buck! You shit! Pick up my camera!”
But he was too late. The Bryson bitch was already there, snatching the camera up off the ground, and Buckminster—having decided he’d risked enough as it was—now turned on his heels and fled. Penaloza struggled to pull himself out of his attacker’s grip, but she’d pinned him down, her knees clamped to either side of his head, and he had no energy left to throw her off. All he could do was squirm like a child while she casually beckoned Meredith Bryson over.
“Open the camera up, honey.” Meredith did so. “Now pull out the film.”
Penaloza started to shout again; there were people coming to see what all the commotion was about. If one of them could prevent Meredith from opening the camera, he might still have his evidence. Too late! The back of the camera snapped open, and the Bryson girl pulled the film out.
“Satisfied?” Penaloza growled.
The woman perched on him considered the question for a moment. “Did anybody tell you how lovely you are?” she said, reaching behind her. She took hold of his balls, clutching them tightly. “What a fine, wholesome specimen of manhood you are?” She twisted his scrotum. He sobbed, more with anticipation than fear. “No?” she said.
“ . . . no . . .”
“Good. Because you’re not. You’re a worthless piece of rat’s doo-doo.” She twisted again. “What are you?” If he’d had a gun at that moment he’d have happily put a bullet through the bitch’s brains. “What. Are. You?” she said again, giving his balls a yank with every syllable.