Hello, I Lied

by M. E. Kerr

  I told him about Nevada’s offer to get us tickets for the Fourth of July celebration.

  “I’ve never understood one word Cog Wheeler sings!”

  “I didn’t think you wanted to go.”

  “It’s your birthday weekend, love. We’ll do what you want.”

  “I don’t want to go either.”

  “You sure?”

  “That isn’t how I want to spend my birthday.”

  “I never know with you anymore.”

  “You never know with me anymore?”

  “I don’t.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your girlfriend. You spend all that time with her.”

  “Not that much,” I lied.

  “Do you know what she did? She wrote me a note thanking me for last Sunday.”

  “She said she was going to.”

  “She sent it to the theater.”

  “I told her to, since you say your mail’s always being swiped from your box.”

  “It was waiting backstage last night.”

  “So? What about it?”

  “She closed saying she was going to get some ‘sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,’ and then she added, ‘as they say in Macbeth!’… Migawd!” He hit his forehead with his palm.

  I said, “Give her a break. She was just trying to impress you by quoting Shakespeare.”

  “She impressed me all right!” said Alex. “She named the play!”

  “What about it?”

  “She named it, Lang. In a letter to the theater!”

  It took me a second or so to remember.

  It’s bad luck to refer to that play by name. Actors really believe it is. It’s part of stage lore, the same as you’re never supposed to wish an actor good luck; you say something like “Break a leg” instead.

  Alex took all that very seriously.

  I said, “You mean you can’t even write the name?”

  “If you have to write it, you write ‘the Scottish play.’”

  “How would she know that?”

  “The actor playing Horatio flubbed his lines last night! Cal Gherin never makes mistakes! And I got indigestion in the first act!”

  “Come on, Alex. Get a life!”

  “There’s something unlucky about her.”

  “Last week you said you liked her.”

  “Last week you said the masquerade was over. Did you tell her about us?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “I will.”

  “I won’t hold my breath.”

  He turned and walked away from me. I knew it wasn’t just Huguette who had him so steamed. It was the way his family treated us. He was always in a lousy mood after one of the Southgate conclaves.

  Before we left, everyone lined up on the lawn for a family photograph.

  “Would you mind, Lynn?” Mr. Southgate handed me his camera.

  “Tina?” Peter called out. “C’mon! I want you in this!”

  “Make sure you get everyone in!” Mr. Southgate called to me as I focused on all of them.

  Dorothy Southgate said, “I can take one with Lang in it, after he takes this one.”

  “Lynn doesn’t want to be in it,” Mr. Southgate said.

  “Lang!” Alex snapped. “Lang, Dad! For Gawd’s sake get it right for once!”

  Mr. Southgate muttered, “You get it right, why don’t you?”

  “Say cheese!” I said.

  “Brie!” Mrs. Southgate laughed.

  That got them all going.

  “Roquefort!” someone shouted.

  “Camembert!” Peter called out.

  “Gorgonzola!” from Tina.

  “Port-Salut!” Mr. Southgate.

  Alex and I squeezed into the rear seat of a green Geo for the ride back to New York.

  We weren’t talking.

  I was thinking of all the family pictures everywhere in the house. Then I thought of Huguette telling me about that portrait of Nevada in her bedroom, and Cali with a nosebleed. She’d told me that she’d finally asked Nevada about it, asked him what it meant.

  He’d said that it was some whim of the artist’s, that when he first saw it, he was furious. But Cali liked it. Cali made Nevada keep it. She’d said it was “honest.” Shortly after it was painted, she’d left Nevada.

  I’d asked Huguette what she thought it meant.

  “How do I know?” she’d said. “Maybe the artist saw her distress…. The funny thing is that’s the one picture where I look like her. I resented it being there where I can see it every morning when I wake up. But now I don’t. She looks so beautiful and vulnerable.”

  “Well, she’s got a nosebleed. Who wouldn’t look vulnerable?”

  “I think I remind him of her, a lot. I think Uncle Ben imagines I’m in distress, and that maybe he can save me when he couldn’t save her. He’ll save me from Martin, he thinks. Some screwbat idea like that!”

  “Screwball,” I’d said.

  I wanted to tell Alex about it, but I was already beginning to try to keep Huguette out of our conversations. I knew Alex was jealous of her, and of all that I was getting involved in at Roundelay.

  When we saw the lights of the George Washington Bridge, Alex did his imitation of Clark Gable, the last line from The Misfits, when he told Marilyn Monroe, “Just head for that big star straight on. The highway’s under it, and it’ll take us right home.”

  He reached for my hand.

  From the front seat his cousin said, “Humphrey Bogart, right?”

  TWENTY

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” MY MOTHER said. “Nick Ball called to say he’s at Allie’s in Sag Harbor. He wants you to call him.”

  I was fresh from the shower. Huguette was waiting for me in the Aurora, down by the gates. It was pouring out. We were going to a one-o’clock matinee, something with Julia Roberts in it.

  “Are you going out with Franklin tonight?”

  “Yes. We’re going to see the new show at Guild Hall. Then we’re having dinner somewhere. When is Alex arriving?”

  “Very late,” I said. “There’s a cast meeting after the performance. He has a ride.”

  “Then he’s going to wake up the rottweilers.”

  “Probably. Sorry about that.”

  “I wish you could get hold of him and tell him to get dropped off down the road by the short cut. Then he could come up that back path without the dogs barking.”

  “I’ll try. Mom, what’s going on with you and Franklin?”

  “I like him. You would, too, if you’d give him a chance.”

  “A chance to what? Be my daddy?”

  “He couldn’t be any worse than the real one.”

  I blew her a kiss, grabbed an umbrella, and hurried out the door.

  As I walked through the rain, I thought about Nick. He’d called about a week ago, as I was hurrying to get to Sob Story. He’d said he wanted to talk with me. Nevada was having people for dinner that night and Mom was helping Franklin load up the Range Rover with stew and salad. I’d told Nick I’d call him when I had more time.

  We never saw Nevada’s guests. Huguette said they were mostly musicians: people from his past. The Matero twins, who used to play backup, Twist—people like that.

  Evenings, Huguette hung out with whoever was visiting Roundelay, or she holed up in her room writing long letters to Martin.

  Most days I had odd jobs to perform around the estate. There was always something to do, and I’d need money in the fall when I went back to school. I was only getting six dollars an hour at Sob Story, working from five to ten P.M.

  But some days Huguette and I played tennis, saw a movie, or drove around Southampton, Sag Harbor, Montauk: sightseeing.

  I didn’t tell Alex how much time we were spending together. I knew he’d nag at me again to tell her about us. I would when I found the right moment. I couldn’t see just blurting it as I had that day with Brittany.

  I wondered if that was
what Nick wanted to talk about. I’d never called him back because I had an idea it was. I dreaded discussing it with Nick. Alex always said if you can lose a friend by coming out to him, you aren’t losing a friend. But it wasn’t that easy. I’d known Nick all my life. I didn’t want to test him that way. I was afraid of some big scene we’d never be able to get past.

  That afternoon, the first words out of Huguette’s mouth were “I have to call Martin before four o’clock. It’ll be ten at night his time. His family goes to bed early, and I don’t want to wake them up.”

  “There’s a phone booth right across from the movies,” I said. “We’ll head over there as soon as we get out.”

  “Uncle Ben is having lunch at his agent’s. Then he’ll pick me up at four in front of Polo. I’ll leave the car in the lot behind Polo, unless Alex wants to drive it to Roundelay when he gets here.”

  “He’s got a ride,” I said.

  She never pushed on weekends, never asked what Alex and I were doing. I wouldn’t, either, if I could hang out with Nevada’s circle. I’d watch the cars head up past the gates: a Porsche, a Lexus, a SAAB, a Mercedes. I’d hear the music, sometimes live. That afternoon, after our matinee, Nevada was taking her to a small cocktail party at Mick Jagger’s place in Montauk. Nevada never attended big parties. He rarely went to parties at all, rarely left Roundelay. But he was making exceptions that summer because of Huguette.

  By then I was used to people turning to stare at her. She said it was her clothes. She said she’d never looked so good until she’d had Uncle Ben’s Visa card. She used it to shop, have facials, manicures, have her hair styled.

  That afternoon she had on a white T-shirt with a pink vest and pink satin jeans and black high-heeled sling-back shoes. I liked the way she dressed, but it was something more that made her stand out. An attitude, a sophistication—I didn’t know the name for it. But even as we sat in the theater waiting for the movie to start, I noticed this grungy-looking guy, with a Red Dog beer cap tugged down to his eyebrows, staring at her. He was wearing a pair of those mirror glasses, the kind you look at and see yourself in. He’d look away when I’d see him watching her, then he’d look back.

  I nudged her. “You’ve got a fan.”

  “Or else he’s one of those series murderers.”

  “Serial murderers,” I said. “He could be both, couldn’t he?”

  “With my luck, yes.”

  She kept looking at her watch all through the movie.

  I whispered, “Don’t worry. I checked. We’ll be out at three twenty.”

  It didn’t stop her.

  She smelled like a fashion magazine. She’d told me she wore Joop. I’d asked my mother if she ever wore Joop, and she said who can afford Joop?

  When we came out of the theater, she almost got run over by an Infiniti crossing the street. I caught up with her on the other side, in front of Polo, around the corner from the public pay phone.

  The rain had stopped.

  I said I was going down to The Grill and call backstage, leave Alex a message telling him not to be dropped off in front of the gates at Roundelay.

  “Maybe we’ll have time for a coffee together,” Huguette said. “Uncle Ben is always late, and Martin never talks for very long when the whole family is right there. Let’s try to do it, Lang.”

  Alex was between acts.

  “You’re not going to like this,” he began, “and I have to talk fast, so don’t blow your top, love.”

  Hamlet was closing that night. They’d all been given notice as they’d arrived for the matinee.

  Before I could tell him I was sorry, he said, “There’s a production of Bus Stop up on the Cape. The lead crashed his car into a tree last night. I’ve got a chance to replace him, Lang. This could be a big deal for me. I’m going up there.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “How do you think I feel? I wanted to be there for your birthday! You know that.”

  “What lousy luck!”

  “You can blame your girlfriend, sweetheart. The Scottish play! Remember? You can tell her she closed us. Now she can have you all to herself.” He laughed bitterly.

  “So when will I see you?”

  “Don’t whine!” he said. “It isn’t my fault! I’ll call you tonight! I love you!”

  He hung up.

  I stood in front of Polo stewing. I was disappointed, but I was pissed, too! Pissed at the crack about Huguette having me all to herself, and pissed at him telling me not to whine. I knew sometimes I whined. I didn’t need Alex to remind me. I didn’t need to spend my birthday alone, either.

  I had to keep my eye out for Nevada, warn her if he came early. He still asked me if she ever made phone calls when I was off places with her, and if she talked much about Martin. I’d lie. I seemed to be spending my summer lying: to Nevada about that, to Alex about how much time we spent together, and to Huguette about Alex and me being just buddies.

  I stared at Polo’s window display. They put everything but the kitchen sink in those windows. There were surfboards, real sand, seashells, striped awning chairs, dummies dressed in expensive clothes sitting on towels holding playing cards.

  I waited…and I waited.

  Then Huguette came around the corner all smiles.

  She said, “I’m sorry it took so long. Now you’re mad.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Just say you are. You’ll feel better.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “You should see your face.”

  “It hasn’t got anything to do with you.”

  “You always deny, Lang. That first day you thought I was going to buy you a shirt, you did the same thing. You said that you didn’t think that, but you really did.”

  “The shirt again!”

  “Do you want me to buy you a shirt? I’ll buy you one for your birthday.”

  “For my birthday, just forget the shirt! Don’t ever bring up the shirt again!”

  “Maybe I want to give you something, though.”

  “Don’t. I’d only give it back to you because I’m so mad!”

  She laughed and punched my arm.

  I wasn’t going to tell her that Alex had to go up to the Cape, but suddenly I did.

  “Oh, no! Oh, Lang! You’ll be alone on your birthday!”

  “I don’t care about that!”

  It began to rain again.

  “I hate to leave you,” she said. “Maybe you could come with us.”

  “I’m going to work,” I said.

  “On your birthday?”

  “Who cares about my birthday? A birthday’s just another day, for Gawd’s sake!”

  The Range Rover pulled into a handicapped parking space, Nevada behind the wheel, the three chows with their heads out the window, their black tongues hanging down.

  “Oh, he’s right on the knob,” Huguette said.

  “Right on the button,” I said. “Have a good time.”

  She took my hand and pressed a small package into it. “I didn’t forget,” she said. “Happy Birthday.”

  She gave me a quick kiss and a wave and ran off, trying to keep her slingbacks on her feet, the rain splashing her.

  I stood in the doorway of Polo opening the present, lightning flashing suddenly in the sky.

  It was in a tiny blue Tiffany box.

  I remembered the day Brittany and I went to the beach in her mother’s BMW. We’d talked about Deep Blue Something’s hit “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” That was the day I met Huguette…and I remembered when I first saw her I thought she looked like the actress in that film: Audrey Hepburn.

  All of that seemed longer ago than just a few weeks.

  I took out a small gold key chain, with a solid gold circle attached, something engraved in its center.

  Paint Over It.

  There was a card enclosed.

  I will play it for you soon. But this will help you re
member the summer, and it is good advice, anyway, even if it is not a perfect song. H.

  TWENTY-ONE

  KEVIN MCCAFFERY OWNED Sob Story. He drove a beige SAAB convertible with a license plate that said SAB STORY. Except for the “sizzling” steaks, all the dinners were brought in from a food concession, preprepared, frozen. But every day McCaffery took great pains to compose a “Daily Specials” menu:

  • Homemade Pot Roast fresh from the oven with Tiny Carrots, Onions, and Long Island Potatoes

  • Our Chef’s delicious Fillet of Boneless Chicken Breasts Sautéed with Lemon and Butter.

  Et cetera, et cetera.

  In the kitchen I arranged the food on plates, pulled salads from plastic bags and doused them with dressing, cut pieces of cake and slices of pie, and scooped ice cream.

  We were packed that weekend; we always were on the long weekends.

  That was why I was surprised when McCaffery appeared in the kitchen at nine o’clock to tell me I was finished for the night.

  “Take off your apron and get ready to leave.”

  “Is something wrong, sir?”

  “Something’s right for a change. Ben Nevada just called to say he wants to give a private party here tomorrow night in honor of The Failures.”

  “Since when are we open on Sundays?”

  “Since he called. I’m going to Roundelay with you now, to discuss the details with him. C’mon, Lang. You’ve been moving in slow motion all night. What’s with you?”

  I hadn’t been able to get my mind off Huguette and the gift she’d given me. It was so totally unexpected.

  As we drove through the rain, McCaffery told me they’d done 120 dinners the night before and close to that already tonight. He said he supposed he had me to thank for the party Nevada was planning, and I told him honestly that it was the first I’d heard about it. I didn’t even know Nevada had any connection with The Failures.

  The only thing I did know Huguette had mentioned: that same article Nevada had told me he’d read in Rolling Stone about Cog Wheeler. Cog Wheeler had said that his song “Pop’s Rap” was a tribute to Nevada, inspired by “Dad’s Advice.” Wheeler told the interviewer that Nevada’s father sounded a lot like his own, and that he’d named his group The Failures because his father had once remarked that he was a failure and so were all his friends.