by Betsy Berne
“Um, probably, I mean I’m sure we do . . .”
“But we’d better not even get started. In the interest of getting this film in the can, right?”
“Right.”
“We need a rough idea of where we’re going, a first draft by the end of next week. Does that sound feasible?”
“Oh, I think so. I’ll certainly try. I’ll need to get more of an idea of the visuals, but I think I can handle it.”
“Listen, do what you can. If you need a few more days, go ahead, take them. Why don’t we say the Monday after next—is that fair? I think we can work with that.”
Tough but fair. I’d envisioned a pussycat, meek and mild, not a cold, clever lioness who clearly had plenty of fight left. The Monday deadline would work, I thought, unless something came up—like a sudden trip to Paris. I had trouble focusing during the filmmakers’ presentation. The Brit glanced over and whispered, “You know, you don’t have to stick around for this.”
I headed toward the nearest exit, which wasn’t near enough. I was still shivering when I got outside, and the asphyxiating air was welcoming. I took off the prim jacket and stood for a few moments among the midtown late-lunch crowds. My favorite department store was across the street, beckoning like a giant bottle of painkillers. Inside, the walls were warm and creamy and the displays were lavish, and I would have been content to ride the escalator all day. Instead I went directly to the shoe department so I could grieve—in style. A salesman crammed my feet into a pair of the dead shoe designer’s frisky red patent-leather heels. I approximated a corporate strut and nearly knocked down an old lady in suede oxfords. The second pair was more sedate—a drab, sulky almost-pink. I was able to get across the floor to the cash register without too much trouble, so I made the grieving process more fun with a purchase.
“Thanks, I’ll just wear them,” I told the salesman, and made my way down Fifth with a high-heeled bravado. At Broadway I ducked under the nearest theater marquis and stared at the tall brazen building across the street, the one squeezed between a forlorn ex–pinball parlor and a spanking-new sports bar, where Joseph Pendleton had his office. Leaning against the wall, I lifted a foot to study the blisters and when I glanced up I thought I saw him go inside. At least it looked like him.
A verboten cab ride later, I kicked off the shoes at the entrance of my building, climbed up the filthy stairs barefoot, limped inside, and called him.
“Hello?”
“Joseph?”
“Yes?” He sounded remote.
“Did you mean that last night about Paris? Because I have work. I just got this new assignment, it has to be done quickly, so I have to have an idea—”
“I’ll know more in a few days. Why don’t we talk then?”
“Oh, okay, great . . . so . . .”
“We’ll talk soon.”
•
“Let’s not get excited, honey, but it was a little late to get you a nonstop flight. There’s going to be a layover. Not too bad. Really, it’s nothing. Two and a half hours in Washington . . . okay, maybe closer to three. Let’s not discuss it.”
“Oh, Jesus, why don’t I just take the train . . . oh, never mind, it’s fine, it’s fine.”
“And honey, please, enough of ‘Florida in the summer.’ You may hate us, but the rest of the family members, we still like each other. We’re all looking forward to Florida.” She sighed.
I sighed, too, but I had no right to. I’d learned from the master and initiated the call this evening—my preemptive strike-before she had a chance to place a desperate call and before I lost the ability to disguise my voice. He’d slipped away again, and chances that he’d touch down before the alleged date of departure for Paris, that is, in two days’ time, were slim.
“Well, if you keep insisting that I hate you then I probably will start to hate you.”
“Oh, honey, you’re right. Forgive me. I didn’t mean it. But we’ll have fun, won’t we have fun?”
“Yes, we’ll have fun.”
I was only going for thirty-six hours, my usual trip limit. The rest of them were signed up for the full ten days—except for my middle brother, who never committed himself to more than a tense forty-eight.
“Hey, how are we all going to fit?” I asked. “There’s no way there’s going to be enough room for all of us in the condo, is there?”
“Hell, no, there’s barely room for Royalty, Ellen, and the kids. The rest of you are going to be in a hotel. Won’t that be fun?”
“Great. What hotel?”
“The Days Inn down the beach. I’m getting the groom-to-be and his concubine a suite—I’m just hoping they can keep their hands off each other in front of the kids. When they visited they were practically humping on the couch in front of Daddy and me—not that we care, but we didn’t know where to look. You and your brother will be sharing—”
“Oh no. Oh no, we won’t. I draw the line. I am not going to share a room with my brother—we are grown adults! We are middle-aged people! You’ve already put us in the sleaziest chain hotel in the country—how cheap can a Jew be? How fucking much can a Days Inn room cost?”
“Thirty-seven fifty, if I’m not mistaken.” She stage-whispered: “And, honey, don’t say Jew. I am not a cheap Jew. The suite is going to run forty-eight ninety-nine.”
“Thirty-seven fifty? Forty-eight ninety-nine? That’s insane—you have a husband who has a six-figure income!”
“Honey, he’s only teaching now—we’re on half-income. I’ve told you. I am not a cheap Jew.”
“I’ll pay for it. I think I can rustle up the thirty-seven fifty.”
“All right, all right, goddamn it to hell, I’ll look into it. Now, how are you?”
“Oh, fine. There’s really nothing new. The show came down.”
“I won’t bother to ask how it went. You don’t tell me anything anymore anyway.”
“Maybe you and Dad should just fly this time. It’s for such a short time.”
“Honey, it’s not a bad drive. Hell, it’s the only good part of that damn Florida, I’ve told you. I just strap him in the front seat and step on it. Who needs the hassle of airports when you can just get in the car and go? Last time we made it in twenty-six and a half hours—only six stops—and if it weren’t for his goddamn prostate, it would have been less than twenty-four. You know, I’ve been thinking lately, when he goes, it may not be such a bad idea, I’m thinking I may become a trucker.”
“Is there something you haven’t told me that indicates he’s going to go soon? How is his health? Where is Dad, anyway?”
“I hope he’s okay. I mean, I think he is.”
“What do you mean? Are his organs functioning?”
“I think the kidneys are worse, but, honey, who listens anymore? All I know is he lines up thirty-six bottles of pills every morning.”
“Well, where is he now? I haven’t talked to him in a while.”
“He’s glued to the news. You know, watching the latest on the senator who was caught shtupping the slut—they’re both commoners, honey, lowlife. He’s fucking glued to the TV all day. You know how Daddy feels about men who play around—he thinks it’s just despicable. And he’s right, too. Goddamn right.”
“Hmmm. Well, can you get him? I should probably say a few words before he goes.”
“Oh, the son of a bitch is gonna outlive all of us, believe me. Besides, I’m not speaking to him.”
“What’d he do?”
“Every goddamn morning. He always talks to me with his back turned while I still have the earplugs in and before I have time to put the hearing aid in. Anyway, I say to Daddy, ‘Excuse me?’ And he says, in that spoiled son-of-his-mother voice, that vicious voice, ‘Can’t you hear me?’ I’m still not speaking to him.”
“Oh, well, could I talk to him?”
“Where the hell is he? Honey, do you promise you won’t be like her, his mother the bitch, in Florida?”
“If you get me my own room. Let’s splurge.”<
br />
“Hello?” He was giggling. “It’s not my fault. She won’t wear the hearing aid.”
“I know, I know, I heard all about it. So Mom said the kidneys are worse.”
“Herb adjusted the medication. It’s going to be fine.”
“Are you depressed?”
“Do you mean do I think I’m going to drop dead?” he snapped. “Are you waiting for me to die?”
“Not really. Sorry. I just thought—”
“So what do you think of the senator?” He was still petulant. My father, like most members of his sex, was most scathing when he was really just hurt or scared.
“Dad, that’s what people do, men and women. It’s none of our business.”
“That’s a cliché. That’s New York bullshit.”
“Maybe it is New York bullshit and I talk in clichés. I can’t help it, that’s where I live, what can I do? Anyway, what else is going on?”
“Your mother and I had to go to a party. Maryann Adams’s eightieth birthday party.” He was giggling again. “She’s been underground for a year, but her husband threw it anyway. She loved your mother. The WASPs, they all love your mother.”
“They had a party and she’s dead?”
“I think it’s a WASP thing. No cake, though . . . no one to blow out the candles.”
“Damn, I could’ve used that for my grief article . . . Dad? I have to go. I’m meeting your son for dinner.”
I had to get out of the loft fast. When the phone rang, I took measured breaths before I answered.
“I’ve never been so despondent.”
“What happened? You were fine yesterday. Oh, was the date a nightmare?”
“Comme çi, comme ça. I really thought he had potential. He seemed okay . . . the first two dates. He even has a job. With an income. I mean, he’s nobody anyone would know, but he’s starting to get around. But he talks nonstop about his feelings. You know, he’s in therapy.”
“I’d rather go out with an alcoholic than with someone who’s in therapy.”
“It’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry, but, Rachel, you admitted you didn’t even really like the guy. Why waste time tearing your hair out?”
“It’s not just that. Jean hasn’t called.”
“Oh, that’s different. I’m meeting my brother tonight if you want some distraction. And my neighbor and Victor said they might show up.”
“Really?” Rachel thought my neighbor and Victor were exotic. “Oh, maybe I will. I have a little work left to do. On guess what? The jazz book. Actually I have to call him about something. Maybe it would be better if I have Perry deal with him.”
“Oh, no, that would be even more of a disaster. So, are you coming?”
“I have to have a drink with Jacqueline first. She’s here from London; I told you about her. She’s really cool, she only goes out with black men.”
“Rachel, that’s not cool, that’s sick!”
“Why is that sick? Oh, forget it. Where should I meet you guys?”
“We’re just going down the street.”
“I’ll meet you at eight-thirty. Are you sure Victor’s going to be there?”
“As sure as you can be with Victor.”
I ran out of the house. It was a premature departure, but I could count on my brother to match it. It was better to keep moving. Movement prevented flashbacks. Summer had become the season for flashbacks. One hit me on the way down the street. I guess I wasn’t moving fast enough. Dwelling on things, it was a terrible habit, a terrible curse. I started walking faster, almost running. I could see my brother slumped on the bench outside waiting.
C H A P T E R
14
YOU COULD FEEL the hot cranky summer night infiltrate the restaurant even though it was quite frigid inside. Determinedly stylish women of all ages were crammed in groups of five or six at tables for two or three, while the bar area was flooded with men in suits, of all ages, too, I suppose—it was harder to tell. I conducted my search by rote, the search for a man, slight but imperious, in khaki or navy-blue linen.
My brother muttered a ritual of weak protests: Why did I insist on coming here every single time? It was freezing! Why was it so crowded tonight? What if we missed the cop show? I reminded him that I always got free drinks here—and that my neighbor might stop by.
“Oh, really?”
“And Rachel’s coming.”
“That should be good.”
“And Victor.”
“Even better. How do those two get along?”
“Rachel gets off on Victor, and she could really help him. Just relax.” He was usually the one telling me to relax. There was definitely something wrong. His brown eyes, usually semi-murky like mine, were much murkier tonight.
“So how about Demi and Bruce?” he said. “They’re history.”
“Oh, I know, I heard. I don’t care, I hate them both. But they’re still good friends.”
“Yeah, right. You know Tom and Nicole could be headed for trouble.”
“Do you think so? Do you believe that?”
“I believe everything. I mean, they’ve been cooped up in fucking England for a year.”
“Ummm, maybe. So when is Ramona coming?”
“She’s still not sure. Yesterday she told me tomorrow night. Today she said she didn’t know. It’s hard to tell.” His voice became guarded, almost unintelligible.
“Is work keeping her there?”
“Not exactly.”
“Can’t get a flight?”
“Well, no . . . at least I don’t think so. I’m not sure what it is. It doesn’t really matter. She’ll get here.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
I hesitated. “The cult didn’t resurface, did it?”
His mouth barely moved when he finally spoke. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“Oops. Now we’re in real trouble. What makes you think so?”
“She’s got that weird sound in her voice—it’s a little too light and lively for my taste. Those long-distance phone calls are deadly. All you can hear are the dollars ticking away. I don’t know, I kind of think she may be seeing someone else, maybe a cult member. She even, well, not exactly, but she brought up, just mentioned it, real offhand, the wedding, postponing it. Not canceling it, I mean, she just mentioned it, it was casual, very casual. Don’t breathe a word of this to them. Dad already hates her, I’m sure.”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t,” I lied. “He told me tonight that he liked her. I talked to them right before I came. He said she was sweet and—”
“Bullshit. He wouldn’t have used that word. Who wouldn’t he hate? You don’t like her, either, do you?”
“I do, I do . . .”
“What about Mom, what did she say?”
“She said be grateful that I won’t have to pimp for you anymore. Oh, she’s thrilled. Are you kidding? No, actually, Mom is so mad at me she won’t notice anyone else. I have to have fun on that stupid trip if it kills me.”
“If you don’t, we might be able to get you by on a technicality.” His eyes were clearing. “Do you want another drink? Are you sure they’re going to be free?”
“At least one’ll be free.”
“So why’s she pissed at you?”
“I admitted I was depressed and I wouldn’t tell her why.”
“Oh, big mistake. Well, what is going on?”
“It’s too humiliating. He invited me to Paris. We were supposed to go in a few days, and I haven’t even heard from him. And I actually believed him.”
“Oh. Hmmmm. Paris. I’m going to be there next month. That’s where the tour starts—remember I told you about that new club? The one that pays.” He didn’t notice my expression. “You never heard from him again after he invited you? Wow, that’s bizarre.”
“It’s pathetic.”
“Jesus. Well, why don’t you tell him to fuck off?”
“I will, I’m just immobilized. I haven’t been myself . . .”
“You’re not in love
with him, are you? You’re not that stupid.”
“Of course not. Don’t even use that expression. The baby thing, I think that makes it seem—”
“God, I’m getting drunk. Maybe you are and you don’t know it. Well, do you care more about what happens to him than to you?” It was such an innocent, prepsychology question that I couldn’t comprehend it at first, and then I couldn’t answer.
“Here comes the waiter. You sure you don’t want another drink? Oh, there’s Rachel.” He couldn’t hide his relief. Silent communication had its pluses. “That was quick.”
Rachel was looking saucy, in tight pants and a low-cut T-shirt. By the time she had negotiated her way through the crowd, I was ready. There is nothing like a common gene pool for renewal of the spirits. She threw her arms around my brother, delivered the double kiss, and turned to me.
“I came straight here; I couldn’t wait to tell you. Jean called before I left and we talked for a long time, and don’t tell a soul, but we’re talking about . . . you know.”
“Why?” flew out of my mouth before I could catch it.
“What do you mean why?” My brother got up hastily and headed for the bathroom. “We’re in love, of course.”
“But you’ve been together for less than six months and you were in huge fights most of that time. I mean, it’s great, but maybe you should wait a little longer.”
“For what? If it doesn’t work out, at least I can say I’ve been married.”
I reached for my drink.
“I know we’re late.” My neighbor was out of breath, rumpled shirttails flying out of his khaki shorts. Victor couldn’t have been more collected, debonair in his pale gray pedal pushers and a lavender vest. He almost looked normal, except that his forelocks were nearly to his shoulders. Rachel cozied right up to him, fondling his vast array of necklaces with one hand, the other fluttering at her breast.
My neighbor looked drained. “We couldn’t get out of that party; it was hell. What a crowd. There was this slutty publicist who kept talking about ten-million-dollar deals and fifteen-million-dollar deals . . . and that artist, that fat Jewish one with the uptight bend-over-and-kiss-my-ass husband, they were there. I talked to the old doctor who didn’t seem to know anyone, and then I watched the white people get drunk. You know how their faces get all red and splotchy? Then they were off to some new restaurant in Brooklyn that I’d never even heard of, and they were all freaked out that I hadn’t been there. What do they think, I’m running back to Brooklyn every chance I get to commune with my people? Fuck no. There’s plenty here. As if they’d let my ashy black ass into that restaurant anyway.”