Cameo Lake

by Susan Wilson

  I hadn't gone out to the raft at noon. I told myself I was finally in the groove, but the truth was, I wasn't sure I could face Ben today. I was trying not to be troubled by the harsh criticisms of my morning's companions, but it wasn't easy. It was clear that at least some residents of the lakeside community held Ben responsible for his wife's accident. The overtone of domestic violence was hard to miss. But I knew that whatever had happened, it could not have been deliberate. I just knew that. It occurred to me that maybe he'd rejected their sympathy in some way and that was what made them so bitter. No one likes their compassion turned away and Ben was so private, it might be construed as hostility.

  I saw Ben climb aboard the raft. I was still in my suit, thoroughly dry by now. I sighed and bent back over my keyboard. When I looked back up, he was gone.

  I wouldn't let the kids talk me into pizza for a second night. I'd bought pork chops and had a craving for a normal Tuesday-night dinner. Chops and rice and green beans. The Big G had a sale on frozen pies, so I bought a blueberry one.

  “Can we invite Ben?”

  “Lily, we can't do that every night. It's a little too much. Besides, I only bought three chops.”

  “But we like him and he likes us.”

  “Sweetie, just because you like someone doesn't mean you have to invite them to dinner every night. Too much of a good thing spoils it.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “We'll see.”

  “We need to bring our sleeping bags on Thursday.” Tim was very excited about the prospect of a camp-out. We'd done some camping as a family, and he'd slept out in the backyard any number of times, so this wasn't his first experience of sleeping outdoors. But it was the first time he'd do it without the option of climbing into Mom and Dad's double bag when the noises got loud or the air too cold.

  Lily was more ho-hum about the idea. She'd made several girlfriends and viewed the camp-out as more of an outdoor sleep-over. I saw her slip several bottles of half-used nail polish in her backpack Wednesday morning, afraid of forgetting to bring them on Thursday, I supposed.

  I was oddly uncomfortable with the idea of being alone in the cabin. I was quite used to their being there with me at night now. We were in an established and happy routine. I toyed with the idea of inviting Ben over and then backed away from it. It seemed just a little too inappropriate without the chaperonage of the kids. It was possible that it might even be construed as more than a simple dinner invitation. It would be hard to be alone with Ben in a different context than the raft, the borders would somehow be widened and less clear. If we were in different circumstances, if we were equally unattached, it would be a natural outgrowth of what we had begun in neighborly acquaintance: a hike, a ride, a shared family meal. But I wasn't unattached, and neither was Ben.

  By Wednesday morning the discomfort of Glenda and Carol's comments had dissipated, leaving only a slightly bad taste in my mouth. I got the kids off to camp and headed back without stopping anywhere. I had already taken my run in the half-hour before the kids had to be up. The early morning was my time alone on the lake, uncluttered by catty women and plastic beach toys.

  This morning the only other person awake at six was Ben Turner, bent from the waist and tossing bread crumbs to the ducks. He was intermittently visible through the screen of undergrowth outlining the trail as I jogged along. Ben saw me as I broke through the brush and sprinted along the last twenty yards of lakefront. He stretched upright and waved. I waved back, slowed to my cooling out walk, and waved again as he continued to watch.

  “Hey, Grayson, nice form!” Ben cupped his hands over his mouth.

  “Thanks, Turner. Alert the Olympics for me!” I couldn't help but grin at the mischievous flattery.

  “You look gold-medal-qualifying to me!” Ben waved again and headed indoors.

  I continued walking; my shoes off, I put my feet in the cool morning-water. I was still grinning. A little flirting felt kind of nice right now. Beyond that, I was glad to have the equilibrium between Ben and me restored, even if the off-balance was only in my own head.

  * * *

  It had gotten hot again. More overheated than hungry at lunchtime, I changed into my suit and headed to the lakefront without stopping for lunch. My usual black maillot was smelling pretty nasty from repeated dunkings in the lake and being left to dry over the back of a chair. I found my other suit, the dark blue one I had bought when Sean and I went to Barbados a couple of years back. It was more abbreviated that my other one, thin strings held up the plunging front and the back scooped down to just above my derriere. I remembered Sean's wolf whistle at the first sight of it. I remembered him untying the strings. I had a moment of carnal anticipation of Sean's Friday-night arrival.

  Ben made it to the raft at the same time I did. A cascade of lake water surged from his lanky body as he lifted himself up, bending back down to offer me a courtier's hand up. As he did, I was aware of the view he had down my suit front. I looked up to catch him, but his eyes were averted politely from stealing a peak. A rogue disappointment licked at me. I could use a little validation of my attractiveness right about now.

  We flopped down on the raft deck, both on our backs, our arms folded beneath our heads. We were perpendicular, me east-west, Ben north-south. A passing airplane or bird would have seen us T-shaped, my head at Ben's waist.

  “Had lunch yet?”

  “No, I was too hot to eat.” I rolled over, cheek on arms.

  Ben rolled over, “Do you like tuna?”

  “Are you offering?”

  “Yes. As long as you don't mind a messy environment.”

  “Well, we can always eat outside.”

  “Ha ha.”

  We lay a few more minutes on the raft, just quietly enjoying the soft motion of it, lulling us both until Ben slapped the deck and proclaimed it lunchtime.

  My body was superheated by the baking sun and the water as I plunged into it was shockingly cold. We both charged for the opposite shore, not exactly racing, but it looked like a race nonetheless. Ben's height was the determiner over speed, though, and he climbed out ahead of me.

  “If you want to rinse off, the outdoor shower's over there.” He pointed toward the left side of the cottage. “I'll get you a clean towel.”

  A pull chain controlled the flow of the cold-water shower. A bottle-of Pert shampoo, slightly gooey with spiderwebs and the detritus of trees, sat on the wooden shelf. It didn't seem like a man's shampoo, and I realized it must be left over from Talia. I squirted a little in my hand and washed my hair, forgetting for a moment I would get it wet again when I went back.

  Ben had given me a huge pink bathsheet, which I wrapped around my hips Polynesian style. It actually looked nice with the halter top of the bathing suit. Quite suitable for lunch with a friend. I combed my hair with my fingertips, crunching the waves into shape.

  I followed a little path of bluestone flags to the back door. The screen door stuck a little and I banged it with my hand. Ben stood at the sink, looking at me with a faint smile on his face. “Whole wheat okay?”

  “Fine.”

  Through the archway I could see the main room of the small cottage. At its center a piano, a baby grand. I couldn't imagine how they had gotten it out here. Barge? Piled on the closed cover of the black instrument were tapes, a tape player, headphones, notebooks, a half-empty coffee mug, two kerosene lamps, and a cat.

  “Don't go in there without a hard hat.”

  I laughed and went in anyway. The piano faced the French doors which overlooked the lake, and, as I could see, Grace's house. Ben had the same view of me as I had of him.

  Ben's winterized cottage was quite different from the other cabins. Sheetrocked walls and polished wood floors, fitted screens and the tschotkes of permanent living. An upholstered chair where another cat lounged stood in front of a cold fireplace.

  “I always wanted a cat. My husband is allergic.” I squatted down to scratch the orange tabby's chin. On a side table was a collection of fra
med photos. An elderly couple, she in blue, he in a dark suit, a formal portrait, perhaps a fiftieth wedding anniversary photo.

  “Those are my parents. Last year. No. The year before.” Ben corrected himself as if it mattered.

  A second five-by-seven photo was of a band, circa the late sixties. They all wore long hair, one in wire-rim glasses, all in faded T-shirts and tattered jeans.

  “Is this you?” I pointed to a thin boy, his rich brown hair falling in waves around his face. A sweet face, but razor sharp.

  “Yeah. We were going to be the next Rolling Stones. My first garage band. The Ultimate Indignities. I played with them in high school, all Grateful Dead and Creedence Clearwater Revival, but we broke up after graduation. We all went our separate ways, different schools. Different interests.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “To the New England Conservatory of Music.”

  “What happened to the others?”

  “Well, Cliff, the guy with the granny glasses, is a banker. John, the one with the guitar, is a pediatrician in Boston. Stewie, our bassist, died of lung cancer three years ago. Pretty much the national average for garage bands after high school.” Ben had picked up the slightly dusty photo to point out who was who. He dusted it off with his T-shirt and set it down.

  “Sean says that you were a member of Interior Angles.” It seemed at last the right moment to ask. “Is he right?”

  Ben nodded, a little shy smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Yeah.”

  “The only rock concert I ever went to was one of yours.”

  “I wish I'd known. I'd have tossed you a piece of clothing.” He alluded to the band's signature behavior, peeling bits of clothing off and throwing them to the screaming fans.

  “I'd still have it if you did. I loved your music. I still do.”

  “We weren't bad. I think that if things had turned out differently, we might have evolved with the times and still been around. Like Santana or Steely Dan. But, you know, the truth is I just wasn't cut out for it. I hated that whole lifestyle.”

  “Sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll?”

  “Something like that.” Ben shrugged. “More that I really disliked the constant travel. I'm too much of a homebody to get off on the relentless night after night, city after city. And, honestly, I hated the whole fame thing. I couldn't visit my parents or my brothers without some asshole photographer following me. Anything normal I did became distorted by the press. And I was out of the studio too much. I like writing music. That's what's fun. Not prancing in front of an audience.”

  To forestall my asking, he picked up the third framed photo. “This is Talia.”

  The candid picture was taken close up, her face in one-quarter profile, her eyes, even in the shading of the photo were clear light blue, artfully lined above and below so that they stood out as the feature one's own eyes were drawn to, and away from a small, thinlipped mouth which was not smiling. Her fair hair was pulled back, and I thought she looked like someone who was a product of private schools and privilege.

  “She was very lovely, Ben.”

  “Yes. She was beautiful.” He cleared his throat a little, as if uncomfortable with the conversation, then, “That picture's from her debut album. I cut it down to fit the frame.” Ben set the picture back down on the side table. I noticed that it hadn't needed any dusting.

  When he leaned past me to replace the photo, there was a fraction of pause in his movement, an infinitesimal hesitation in him. A slight smile on his lips, as if of recognition, as he caught the scent of the shampoo in my still damp hair. Then he straightened up and gestured toward the French doors. “Let's eat outside, the porch is cool.” Maybe I imagined the pause.

  I needed the bathroom just then and Ben pointed to the hallway off the living room. “First door on your left.” More photos adorned the short hallway of the addition, mostly of Ben and Talia, and groups of teens I could only assume were the nieces and nephews. I could see into a small bedroom, unmade bed and folded laundry piled on a chest of drawers. Next to it, the closed door of what must be the second, added-on, room. Hunting for a fresh roll of toilet paper, I discovered a half-used box of tampons under the sink and I thought, How sad. How long did one keep little reminders of daily life on the shelf after a death? Would I throw out Sean's toiletries or keep them in their accustomed place forever?

  It would have been so easy to abandon further work to the hot, sultry afternoon, stay where I was on Ben's cool porch. We talked of movies and books, politics and places. Then, already emboldened by having asked him about being in the band, I asked him to tell me more about his life as a rock star.

  He was a little reluctant, and I might have felt bad asking him about it, but finally he nodded. “All right. What do you want to know?”

  “Why the name Interior Angles?

  “Rolling Stones was taken.”

  “No, you know what I mean.”

  “Finger in a dictionary.” He took a bite of sandwich and passed me the potato chips. “What else do you want to know, Ms. Writer?”

  “The whole experience, how did it start and why did it end?” Having asked the question, I suddenly had a vague memory of the Interior Angles' breakup. Some tickling in my memory about a bad end. I almost withdrew my question, but Ben started talking.

  “Okay. Here's the short version. Interior Angles enjoyed a meteoric-rise to fame after ten years of hard work. We'd managed to become a sought-after opening act for the really big groups, even once the Grateful Dead. I'm sure you can relate to instant fame.”

  “Yeah, after a dozen years of struggle, it always looks instant.”

  “Exactly. Well, Artie Sheldon came into our lives and we felt like Jason and the Golden Fleece. What we didn't see was that we were the fleece. Anyway, we hit the right promoter, the right label, and the right song. You might remember it, ‘Frozen Heart’?”

  The melancholy tune immediately came to mind. I nodded, but didn't interrupt.

  “Anyway ‘Frozen Heart’ made us a household name. We got tons of airplay, good venues, lots of money. The album sold well and we hit it big. Instant acclaim, a Grammy, public recognition, paparazzi, the whole nine yards. All based on one song on an otherwise mediocre album.

  “And, of course, the record execs wanted a clone. So I acted the whore and for almost as long as it took for Interior Angles to strike it big, we stayed there as I pumped out mediocre hooks on hummable tunes. Stan Allen, you probably remember him by his stage name, Stash, kept telling me to shut up and enjoy the perks. For him it was women, for Todd, the bassist, it was drugs. Kevin, my writing partner and our drummer, well, he kept his passions pretty close to the chest. He didn't want the world to know he was gay. Thought that it was counter to the image Interior Angles projected of womanizing rock stars.” Ben chewed his bottom lip a little, “Truth is, he was fundamentally and musically more suited for Andrew Lloyd Webber than the Angles. But it was his decision to protect himself.” Ben offered me another glass of iced tea. I shook my head to decline.

  “Anyway, we played the part well. Kevin and I churned out the songs, only occasionally introducing real music. We traveled so much that none of us had homes. We were rootless troubadours, the recording studio seemed the only constant in our lives.

  “It came to an end rather abruptly.” Ben leaned over to pour himself-more tea. The way he held the glass I imagined he wished it was something stronger. He no longer engaged my glance in his narrative, but stared out toward the raft, scenes playing in his memory which he then selected to share with me.

  “We were in Buffalo. It was the millionth night of a two-million-city tour. Or at least it felt that way. We'd been on the tour for almost a year. As we almost always did, we hung out in Kevin's suite. Artie used to complain that we all requested separate rooms but then stayed in one. We were due at the venue at nine-thirty, so we had a couple of hours to kill. Todd and Stash were doing lines of coke. We had reached that point in our careers where coke was like, well, Cok
e. Inevitable and available. Kevin was in the bathroom taking a shower. I remember thinking that he was taking an awfully long time, even for Kevin, who was notoriously vain. I was watching the national news in a desperate attempt to catch up with world events. This was about at the time of the Iran-Contra scandal.

  “Suddenly there was an unholy crash from the bathroom. Assuming that Kevin had slipped, I went to the bathroom door and knocked, ‘Hey, Kev, you okay?’ Nothing except the sound of the shower. I looked back at Todd and Stash, but they were mid-snort. I banged on the door once more and when Kevin didn't answer, I pushed the unlocked door open. I was hit in the face with built up steam. Something was blocking the door and I assumed it was towels. I pushed hard, and squeezed through. Only it wasn't towels blocking the door, it was Kevin. He had hanged himself on the shower rod and it had collapsed under his weight. The crashing I'd heard was him falling.

  “Most of what happened next is still a blur. I know I screamed for the others to call nine-one-one. I remember trying to get the rope, his bathrobe belt, from around his neck. I remember telling him over and over he couldn't do this to me, he couldn't die. But what stays with me most are two things: Stash and Todd scrambling to hide the drugs before they called for help, and Artie's reaction.”

  Ben set his glass back down on the picnic table and ran his hands through his recently trimmed dark hair. His movement made me notice a tracery of gray along his temple. “Artie never once expressed grief or surprise or outrage. He paced and lamented the idea of canceling the concert. He talked us into going on anyway.” Ben affected a stentorian voice. “‘The show must go on, it's what Kevin would want.’ We were so stunned, it made sense. We watched the paramedics take Kevin out of the suite in a body bag. We gave our statements to the police, and then we went to our limo and made it to the concert only an hour late. We could hear the fans screaming over the opening band: Angles! Angles! We were deafened by the cheering as we paraded onto the stage. One, two, three of us. I pulled aside the drummer from the opening act and asked him to sit in.