Perfect Recall

by Ann Beattie

  “It had the ring of truth about it,” I say.

  “I bet the president would have liked the dinner we had tonight, and then he could have played Last Year at Marienbad with the three of us!” Daphne giggles, as she follows Kathryn toward the stairs.

  I am amazed that the twenty-something highlighter doesn’t ask, “What’s Last Year at Marienbad?”

  Then she does, pronouncing the last two words so that they resonate amusingly. The words are “marine” and “bad.”

  The mere idea that I might have thought to take down George Stephanopoulos’s phone number provokes merriment at breakfast (frittata and an orange-coconut salad; two-shot con leches all around).

  Antonio, his wife informs me when I call, is spending the day fishing off a pontoon boat. She will have him return my call when he returns.

  “Maybe he decided McDonald’s was easier,” Daphne says.

  “Impossible. His wife was going to be along,” Lowell reminds her.

  Someone who is driving from Miami for the bris will pick up the highlighter at the discount sandal store ten minutes from our house, and give her a lift to the Casa Marina. I’ll give her a ride out to the highway in another half hour.

  “You’d think they’d call,” the highlighter says.

  We sit around, like a bunch of kids nobody’s asked to dance. In a little while, when I go out to sweep the deck, the highlighter follows me.

  “Are you guys gay?” she says.

  “No,” I say, “but you aren’t the first to wonder.”

  “Because you’re hanging out in the Keys. And you’ve been together so long, and all.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “What kind of tree is that?” she says, stepping around the pile of leaves.

  “Kapok. It doesn’t always drop its leaves, but when it does, it does.”

  “So listen,” she says. “I didn’t offend you by asking?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Because if you’re not a couple—I didn’t think you were a couple—but I mean, since you’re not, I’m going to be at that Casa Marina place for a couple of days after Izzy gets snipped, and I wonder if maybe I could take you out.”

  It’s the first time a woman has ever invited me on a date. I haven’t been on a date in years. I only vaguely remember how to go on a date.

  “There’s a private party in some place called Bahama Village. Gianni Versace’s sister invited me. It’s some house where they took out the kitchen and put in a swimming pool. He’s given her a bunch of ties to give out. Not that you’d want a tie,” she says.

  “No particular use for them,” I say.

  “Doesn’t seem,” she says. Then: “So. Would you like to do that?”

  “To swim in someone’s kitchen?”

  “If you’d rather we just—”

  “No. No. Party sounds fine. I should come around to the Casa Marina, then? What time?”

  “I think the party starts at ten.”

  “Little before ten, then.”

  “Great,” she says.

  “See you then,” I say. “Of course, I’ll also see you in about five minutes, when we should leave for the sandal store.”

  She nods.

  “Like to sweep for a few minutes?” I ask.

  That drives her away.

  The next day, there is still no word. Could the potato-mango gratinée have been a moment’s passing fancy? Antonio knows nothing, except that the Clintons will be arriving at his restaurant February 11, and that the restaurant will be closed after the first seating on February 10, when it will be secured by the Secret Service. The following day, they will watch Antonio and one assistant prepare all the food. He worries aloud about finding good quality estragon.

  Just as I am about to step into the shower, the phone rings. It is George Stephanopoulos. He is apologetic. The president has been put on a new allergy medicine, which had unexpected side effects. Mrs. Clinton has been preoccupied with other details of the trip, and only realized that morning that further communication was needed from her. She is prepared to talk to me in just a few minutes, if I’m able to hold on.

  I hold on. To my surprise, though, it is the president, himself, who comes on the line. “I’m very glad to talk to you, sir,” the president says. “Hillary and I have greatly enjoyed your recipes.”

  “Actually, Mr. President, Mr. Cartwright is the person you want to talk to. I’m his assistant. I’m afraid he’s out, right now, kayaking.”

  “Kayaking? Where are you all?”

  “In the Florida Keys, Mr. President.”

  “Is that right? I thought you were in Louisiana.”

  “We’re in the Florida Keys. A bit short of Key West.”

  “I see. Then where will we be having lunch before we come over to you?” the president asks.

  “I believe you’ll be lunching in Boca Raton, which is about three hours by car from where Lowell—Mr. Cartwright—lives.”

  “We’re going to be coming to your restaurant that evening? How are we getting there, George?”

  A muffled answer.

  “I see. Well, that’s fine. Wish I could take the time to do some fishing. But your restaurant—it’s not a fish restaurant, is it?”

  “Oh, no sir. It’s . . . the thing is, it’s not a restaurant. It’s”—Is this going to screw the whole deal, somehow?—“It’s where we live. Mr. Cartwright prefers to have favored people dine with us in his home. The view of the water from the back deck is splendid.”

  “A house on the water?” the president says. “Has George registered that?”

  More muted discussion.

  “I’m sorry,” the president says. “I get caught up in logistics, when it’s better to leave it to the experts.”

  “Water,” I hear George Stephanopoulos hissing in the background.

  “You know, I’m a chef’s nightmare,” the president says. “If I had my way, I’d eat a medium hamburger with extra mustard and go fishing with you guys.” He says: “Isn’t that what I’d do, George?”

  “Papaya,” Stephanopoulos hisses. Is he hissing at the president?

  “Hillary got all excited about that papaya dish,” the president says. “I’m going to let you speak to the boss about this, but if there’s one thing I might request, with the exception of shrimp, I’m not overly fond of seafood.”

  “No seafood,” I say.

  “Well, yeah, that kind of cuts to the chase,” the president says. He clears his throat. “Just out of curiosity, how far is the airport from where you are?”

  “Less than an hour, sir.”

  “That’s fine, then. George and Hillary will firm this up, and we’re looking forward to an exceptional meal.”

  “Mr. Cartwright will be so sorry he missed your call.”

  “Fishing in the kayak?” the president asks.

  “Just paddling around with a friend,” I reply.

  This seems to cause the president several seconds of mirth. “Quite different from my plans for the afternoon,” the president says.

  George Stephanopoulos cuts in: “Thank you very much,” George Stephanopoulos says.

  “We look forward to making plans,” I say.

  “Good-bye,” George Stephanopoulos says. “Thanks again.”

  I am standing there in my barracuda briefs, preparing to shower and go on my date. I fully realize that when Kathryn finds out, she will raise an eyebrow and say something sarcastic about my having a date. She will no doubt see my going into Key West as analagous to the butler’s going off to find the former housemaid: a sad moment of self-protective delusion. Like him, I also won’t be bringing her back. I’ll be swimming with her at some party. Then, if we have sex, it can very well be in her room at the hotel. Simple white boxers are almost always preferable to the barracudas, when one is disrobing for the first time. The tangerine sports shirt that is my favorite is probably a bit too tropical-jokey; slightly faded denim seems better, with a pair of new khaki trousers.

  “I’
m going into Key West,” I say, coming upon Lowell, pouring glasses of iced tea at the kitchen counter. “See you tonight.”

  “Why are you going into Key West?” he says.

  “Date,” I say.

  “You have a date? With whom?”

  “The highlighter.”

  “She just left,” he says.

  “Yesterday.” “I see,” he says.

  “Mrs. Clinton, or her secretary, will be calling. I spoke to the president briefly, and he doesn’t want seafood.”

  “You spoke to the president? When?”

  “Just before I showered.”

  He looks at me. “You’ve cleaned up beautifully,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Nothing else you want to tell me about anything?” he says.

  “She asked if we were gay and I told her we weren’t, and that seemed to provoke her to ask me out to a party.”

  “I meant, was there anything else you wanted to report about your conversation with the president,” he says.

  “If you get to speak to the president himself, tell him about kayaking,” I say. “When I mentioned it, the idea seemed to please him.”

  “Maybe we could borrow a couple of kayaks and take them all for a predinner sail.”

  “Right. They can bring in the Navy SEALs.”

  “You’re saying that would be too complicated,” Lowell says.

  “I suspect.”

  “You should leave before Kathryn begins to cross-examine you.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Be sure to fill the gas tank to the level you found it at.”

  I turn to look at him. He does a double-take, and raises his hands above his head. “Joke,” he says.

  The party is at a house with crayon-blue shutters. Broken pieces of colored tile are embedded in the cement steps. A piece of sculpture that looks like a cross between Edward Munch’s Scream and a fancy can opener stands gap-mouthed on the side lawn, but the lawn isn’t a lawn in the usual sense: it’s pink gravel, with a huge cement birdbath that is spotlit with a bright pink light. Orchids bloom from square wooden boxes suspended from hooks on the porch columns. A man who makes me look like an ant to his Mighty Mouse opens the door and scrutinizes us. Nancy—I am thinking of her as Nancy, instead of as the highlighter—reaches in the pocket of her white jacket and removes an invitation with a golden sun shining on the front.

  “That’s the ticket to ride,” the man says. “Party’s out back.”

  We walk through the house. Some Dade County pine. Ceiling fans going. Nice. The backyard is another story: a big tent has been set up, and a carousel revolves in the center, though instead of carousel animals, oversized pit bulls and rottweilers circulate, bright-eyed, jaws protruding, teeth bared. One little girl in a party dress rides round and round on a rottweiler. In the far corner is the bar, where another enormous man is mixing drinks. Upon close inspection, I see that he has a diamond stud in one ear. Wraparound sunglasses have been pushed to the top of his shaved head.

  “I guess . . . gee, what do I want?” Nancy says. “A rum and Coke.”

  “The real thing, or diet?”

  “Diet,” Nancy says, demurely.

  “A shot of Stoli,” I say, as the man hands Nancy her drink.

  He pours me half a glass of vodka.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Nancy!” a woman in a leopard print jumpsuit says, clattering toward her in black mules.

  “Inez!” Nancy says, embracing the woman. She turns to me. “This is, like, absolutely the best makeup person in New York.”

  “Did you make friends with Madonna?” Inez asks.

  “No,” Nancy says. “She didn’t like me. It was clear that I was really a menial person to her.”

  “She didn’t know you,” Inez says.

  “Well, you can’t meet somebody if you won’t speak to them,” Nancy says.

  The woman disappears into the growing crowd, and Nancy sighs. “I didn’t do a very good job of introducing you,” she says.

  “Can I be honest? I’ll never see these people again, so it really doesn’t matter to me.”

  She squeezes my hand. “I’d like to think that maybe there’s a chance that I’ll see you again, at least,” she says. “Maybe sometime you’ll want to come to New York and check out what’s new in some restaurants there.”

  “Maybe so,” I say. “That would be very nice.”

  “It would,” she says. “There are hardly any straight men in New York.”

  Two ladies in hats are air kissing. One holds a small dog on a leash. It’s so small, Nancy’s kitten could devour it. On closer inspection, though, I see that it’s a tiny windup toy. I overhear the woman saying that she’s bringing a nonpooping pet as a gift for the hostess. People begin to play Where’s-the-Hostess.

  “I think it’s so exciting you’re going to meet the president,” Nancy says. “Hillary, too.”

  “Are you talking about my friend Hillary?” the woman who’d been talking to the woman with the toy dog says.

  “Nothing detrimental,” I say quickly.

  “Priscilla DeNova,” the woman says. “Pleased to meet you both.”

  “I’m Nancy,” Nancy says. “This is my friend Richard.”

  “Richard,” the woman echoes. “And do you know George, if you know Hillary?”

  “I’ve only spoken to him on the phone,” I say.

  “Oh. What were you discussing with my friend George?”

  “The president’s coming to dinner,” I say.

  “I see. Is he going to drop by to fish, first?”

  “He did mention the possibility. But no. He’s just stopping by to dine.”

  “Conch fritters?” the woman says. She seems very amused by something.

  “I think we can do a little better than that.”

  “What he really likes is burgers,” Priscilla says. “I guess anyone who reads the paper knows that.” She tosses back her long hair and says, almost conspiratorially, “Tell me the truth. Have you been having me on about Clinton coming for dinner?”

  “No. The whole family will be coming.”

  “You must either be a fascinating conversationalist or quite a cook,” she says.

  “Or quite delusional,” I say.

  “Yes, well, that possibility did cross my mind.” She looks around for someone more interesting to talk to.

  “Tell us how you know George Stephanopoulos,” Nancy says.

  “My sister cleans house for a friend of his,” the woman says. “She was a brilliant teacher, but she ruined her mind with drugs, and now about all she can remember is Get the vacuum. George has always been very kind to her. He gave her a ride once when she got stuck in the snow. He has a four-wheel drive, or whatever those things are. One time he saw us out hailing a cab, and he dropped us at the Avalon and came in to see the movie.” She looks down, considering. “You know, I’ve never gotten straight on whether George, himself, goes on some fishing expeditions—so to speak, I mean—or whether Clinton gets some idea in his head, and then it just disappears. What I mean is, I wouldn’t get my hopes up about them coming to dinner.” She looks around, again. “Though if Hillary’s involved, I suppose it might happen.”

  She drifts off without saying good-bye.

  “Would I scare you off if I said that part of the reason I came to a bris in Florida was because a psychic told me that on this trip, or the next trip, I’d find true love?” Nancy says suddenly.

  “You don’t mean me.”

  “Oh, of course not,” she says, straight-faced. “The woman who just walked away.”

  “You did mean me,” I say.

  “Yes, I did. I don’t mean that right this moment I’m in love with you, but you do seem like a real possibility.” Her eyes meet mine. “Come on: you must have had some interest, or you wouldn’t have come tonight.”

  I smile.

  “And you have such a nice smile,” she says.

  “Excuse me for interrup
ting, but have you seen Gianni?” a small man asks. He has on a Gianni Versace shirt and black pants. He might be five feet tall, he might not.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know him,” I say.

  “But he’s about to meet the president,” Nancy says.

  “The president of what?” the short man says.

  “The United States,” Nancy says.

  “I’m Cuban,” the man says. He walks away.

  “So maybe it would be more fun at the Casa Marina,” Nancy says. “Did you bring your bathing suit? There’s a hot tub there.”

  “It’s in my car,” I say. “But didn’t you say there was a pool here, in the kitchen?”

  “Oh, right. I almost forgot,” she says. “Let’s find it.”

  We make our way back into the house. Two women are making out on a sofa in the hallway. The bouncer looms in the doorway, checking invitations. We take a left and find ourselves in a Victorian parlor. We turn around and go in the opposite direction. That room contains a stainless steel sink, where two women are washing and drying glasses. Nothing else that resembles a kitchen is there: no refrigerator; no cupboards. An indoor hot tub bubbles away, with several men and women inside, talking and laughing. There is a mat below the three steps leading to the hot tub. It depicts a moose, and says, in large black letters: WELCOME TO THE CAMP. The people in the hot tub are all speaking Italian. At the sink, the women are speaking Spanish. From a radio above the sink, Rod Stewart sings.

  “Bathroom?” one of the women at the sink asks us.

  “No, no. Just looking,” Nancy says.

  “Mr. Loring,” the woman says, puckering her lips excessively to say “Loring.” She looks at Nancy. She says: “He went to the bathroom.”

  Nancy considers this. “Thank you,” she says.

  “De nada,” the woman says.

  “I think it would be more fun at the Casa Marina,” Nancy says.

  “Welllllll,” Kathryn says. “Somebody got home very late.”

  “Refill the tank?” Lowell asks.

  “Just imagine me blushing deeply,” I say.

  “But at least somebody thought to bring the New York Times. Good, good, good,” Kathryn says.

  “If you like all these things so much, why do you leave New York?”

  “To check the level of depredation,” she says.