Rich Friends

by Briskin, Jacqueline;

  He was intelligent and a strong athlete. In school he earned respect and authority. But off the line-marked playground, away from classrooms, he was either with Vliet or alone. By the time he was eight he knew he would be a doctor, and this, at the time, made his isolation rather splendid. The marked man of destiny.

  He crushed his incipient humor—cracking jokes seemed to be aping Vliet. His eyes brooded under heavy, dark brows.

  His parents he loved from a distance. It was his relationship with his twin, as he’d told Alix, that went marrow-deep. Shorter than Vliet, his bones were heavier. He could—and did—beat his brother at everything, including fists. The dominant twin. This made him protective. He fought Vliet’s battles.

  Later, he was attracted to girls with thick ankles and nearsighted smiles. Their owllike glasses roused that protective instinct.

  So why did Alix draw him?

  With her he felt stodgy, dull, earthbound. She was too quick on the comeback, too physically brave—she rode breakers so huge that she scared him shitless—too exquisite of feature, too smooth-skinned in her bikinis, too immaculate in her tight white pants, too clever, too charming, too poised, too witty, too everything. She had a million friends. She was Vliet’s girl.

  She must be exorcised.

  Accordingly, Roger narrowed his intelligent blue eyes, seeking chinks in the wall of perfection. She had a dead brother whom she lied about in order to keep secret. The lovely, full mouth tensed when she spoke of her mother: a screwed relationship there. When shook, she covered up by using challenging banter. Her shoulder-hung purses stocked as many beauty aids as Cambro’s, plus, at all times of the month, a Tampax container. His strategy failed. With each sign of her mortality, he was more ensnared.

  Sometimes she appeared to be making a pass at him. This he put down to her bitchiness, which she concealed and which he had ferreted out. Oddly enough, it was this bitch streak that really tied it for him. A razor-sharp, exotically beautiful, Beverly Hills girl.

  With all his knowledge of Alix, Roger never suspected she was utterly breakable. This morning, when the diamond wall she had erected around herself had crumbled to the ground, he had felt no triumph, for by now he, too, was an inhabitant of the vanquished city. He had felt her desolation through their heavy clothes. Her sobs had penetrated his body far deeper than he knew.

  Em wasn’t home. She was, Roger decided, at one of her women’s club meetings. (She was with Mrs. Wynan.) He mashed tuna with mayo, eating over the sink. I love you. Roger, I’m in love with you. If there hadn’t been tears gluing the dark lashes, he wouldn’t have believed Alix. He had sustained too much injury in the arena of love. What does she want with a clod like me when she has Vliet? he would have asked himself. But the tears, the shimmering tears, were proof.

  Around four Em got home. Roger kissed the top of her dry hair. “I had to come down to see Dr. Bjork,” he said. Now why did I lie? he wondered. Roger was idealistic about honesty.

  He helped Em set the table, for once not letting himself notice that what she sipped from her glass wasn’t water but vodka. He barely tasted the meat loaf. His mind filled with Alix, he told his parents about his anatomy lab. They responded to his excitement. Sheridan talked about his old college courses, winking once when he mentioned his lab partner had been a snappy Wave veteran. Em, her nearsighted eyes shining on Roger, did not give her husband that look. She ran the marriage, and Roger guessed, correctly, that it was her will that made them share a bedroom in a neutered manner. Em drank. Sheridan had other women. Roger and Vliet accepted this, but what they did not know was that their father told Em of each affair, causing her to drink more heavily. They were miserable together. Yet the idea of divorce was so radical to both of them that neither considered it. Loyalty entered into their relationship. As in many stable, unhappy marriages that stick after the children are grown, the Reeds’ neuroses had meshed and they held one another up like the supporting beams of a deserted house. Or was the house deserted? Roger, filled with aching tenderness, looked from one parent to the other.

  Too high for sleep, he paced the small den that had been his bedroom until he entered high school. Then Vliet—with a nudge to the ribs—had suggested they double up, and turn the room into a den and therefore on-limits to females. I love you. Roger, I’m in love with you.

  It took Roger time to become aware of the familiar. The wall behind the couch was covered with framed graduation photographs and team pictures. Invariably he and Vliet, two of the tallest, stood side by side in the back row. Shelves enclosed the window, and along the top row stood trophies, mainly his. He reached for a gilt handball engraved with his name and FIRST PLACE. His hand lingered on Vliet’s SECOND PLACE. On the lower shelves were carefully dusted books and Parker games they had shared and hadn’t touched in years. Anywhere he looked, he was reminded of Vliet. Roger felt as if he were strangling through a badly inserted endotracheal tube.

  He pressed down the light switch, feeling his way through the half bath to their bedroom. He stretched fully clothed on his bed. Triangle, he thought. This was the first time he’d bested his twin in anyone’s affection. Paradoxically, he was also a loser. Wasn’t he his brother?

  Bewildered, exhilarated, afraid, Roger attempted to formulate his own Pythagorean theorem.

  He held off as long as he could, arriving at her place at seven thirty. Before he could knock on the oversize front door, it opened. She lit the overcast morning with a red sweater and matching scarf that he’d never seen. He wanted very much to hold her. He plunged his fists into his pockets. Her overwhelming good looks terrified him. He was terrified of losing his brother. He hadn’t slept.

  “You’re early,” she said.

  “But you’re ready.”

  “A behavior pattern. I’m excessively prompt.”

  They walked to the Mustang, which was parked in the circular drive. She got in. He rested his forearms on the open window.

  “Hey,” he said. And was silent.

  “Something?”

  He gazed at the knotted red muffler. He wanted to explain his fears and say he loved her. Instead, he asked, “You want to meet at the cabin, or follow?”

  “Follow.”

  “When we get there.” He stopped, his mouth dry.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  The crimson knot was plump, impeccable.

  “Me,” she said after a minute. “I tell him.”

  “You want to?” By this, Roger meant he should.

  “I’m a sadomasochist,” she replied. “Come on, let’s hit the road.”

  His eyes impenetrable, moody, he pressed down the lock.

  5

  If a car cut between them, she zipped around. She was glad he was going seventy-five. When she was on edge, nerved up, speeding connected her to reality.

  Roger didn’t glance back. As they emerged from city traffic, she grew more and more anxious. By the time they passed between uncultivated, yellowing vineyards, angst had overpowered her. Couldn’t he have smiled or touched her? Talk about gloom. He was the condemned man without his hearty breakfast. He must have reevaluated the situation. Or. She grew cold. Maybe there hadn’t been any situation. Hadn’t she called every play? She had come apart at the seams and he had comforted her, but had his tenderness been any greater than when he stayed little Bobby Jean’s arterial blood? Alix had confessed she felt naked, so he’d held her to warm her a little. She had said she loved him. He hadn’t replied. Every move, every single move, had been hers. Except his hard-on. Any girl who takes a hard-on as commitment, she should be judged legally insane.

  Before ten, they were at the cabin.

  “Hi,” Cricket yawned over her coffee mug. The yellow curls were tangled.

  Roger prowled the big room.

  Alix went downstairs. The bedroom smelled like sleep. Sour. Vliet’s pillow was propped by the maple headboard. He stared up at her.

  Vliet had survived, barely, the roughest day of his life. Yesterday, to the accompaniment
of wind howling and a branch falling outside his window, he had been forced into an activity he avoided. Questioning the human psyche. Until yesterday he had considered this the domain of the clergy, shrinks, and other weirdos, he himself sensibly concentrating on ways to get the suede jacket, the trip to Europe, the best girl, a passing grade. Why waste his intellect questioning matters he would need acid to comprehend properly? Unstoned, who has fingered the ties of brotherhood, who has seen the color of love? Since the first shitty time he’d made it with Alix, he’d wanted to tell her he loved her. Alix, however, preferred to play it cool. One of the reasons he loved her—and love her he did. Until yesterday he had assumed this unvoiced love reciprocal. Vliet never had any reason to doubt his powers to elicit affection.

  Two members of the party missing, though. And no toss-up which absence shook him most. His brother not there? His brother, where? Roger was part of Vliet. A strong body buffering (and sometimes buffeting) his. Deep intelligence and heavy textbooks. Shaggy brown hair over (often) brooding expression. Courage (which Vliet lacked). Idealism (another, unimportant deficiency). Roger, intrepid explorer of the birth canal, discovering the continent eight minutes earlier than Vliet. They had been born to a joint fraternal checking account, and while Roger had given this much consideration, Vliet, until yesterday, never had thought about what each put in and what each withdrew. Roger, Vliet saw now, had directed him, given him purpose. Or as Vliet in his desolation put it, Roger had shoved him into any scene that he, Roger, had wanted. This wasn’t entirely true: if Roger had said, Let’s enter a Zen monastery, Vliet would have cut out. But good, straight old Roger had said, Premed at Harvard, then Roger had said, Hopkins. An MD is transferable into hard cash. So why not? And where the hell was the bastard? Vliet smoked all day, never finishing a cigarette. When an arm is blown off, the full agony doesn’t hit immediately, but you sure as hell know you’re in bad trouble.

  Vliet, in bad trouble, looked up at Alix’s serene beauty.

  “Don’t say a word, Alix, not a word.” His pleasant voice was slightly rough from his cold. “You and old Roger take off a day and night, you don’t have to draw me a diagram.”

  “I needed a ride down.”

  “And he drove you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I never expected more. Christ, Alix, I mean, if you took on the both of us at once, they’d have to award you the Purple Heart. You’re being wounded in action every time is all.”

  Roger’s mood had sunk her. She had not thought that Vliet, sitting in judgment from the loose-springed double mattress where they had made depressing oral love once, would be the Reed twin to destroy her. Her arms went rigid. But I did try. I tried so hard.

  He was watching her. “And you’re telling me this is it?” he inquired pleasantly.

  She nodded.

  “One thing,” he said in the same whimsical tone. “You break off well. That’s a sensational smile.”

  The smile was reflex. She hadn’t willed it. But if the smile went, she would start to cry, and the thought of being alone in this drafty cabin with three blood relations and her own gasping sobs was too much. Footsteps, Cricket’s light, uneven ones, sounded overhead. The plyboard ceiling creaked plaintively. Vliet stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. The silence between them stretched until she couldn’t stand it.

  “Vliet, I’m so very sorry.”

  “Undoubtedly,” he said. Someone had taken pliers to his chest. He’d zapped his way through The Los Angeles Blue Book, the best-looking daughters of the best families, so why should he feel as if a crack medieval torturer were breaking his ribs simply because Alix Schorer was handing him his walking papers? You love her, ass. “Undoubtedly,” he repeated.

  “I mean it.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “But eventually it would have ended.” See what years of practice can do for an ordinary voice, she thought. Not a quaver.

  “But why the shit with my brother, Alix? Why with Roger?”

  “He’s not hung up on me,” she said. The words came from her throat with difficulty. Too insecure to realize Vliet might have any deep emotions for her, she merely hoped her admission would soothe his damaged machismo.

  “He gave you this in writing?”

  “No signatures, but—”

  “Then what brings you to the conclusion?”

  She said, simply, “He’s too good for me.”

  “Really. On the other hand, he’s not blind, Alix. And you are one exceptional-looking girl.”

  “Sure. Unique.”

  “Absolutely. I gather you are affected by Roger the Good?”

  The ceiling moaned again. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You keep repeating that, and I’ll—” Briefly his mouth contorted, the one physical manifestation of that tyrannical interior squeeze. “One thing you gotta face, Alix. You and Roger as a couple have a short life expectancy. I mean, he’s even less suited than I to the celibate way you prefer.”

  Alix’s lashes fluttered, her stomach turned frantic. She drew herself up like a lovely, dying flamingo. “All right, Vliet, all right.”

  “Roger’s more into honesty than me, Alix. He won’t buy the phony panting.”

  Humiliation trickled down her back like melting ice.

  “He catches on fast,” Vliet said.

  “Are we even?” she asked. “I’m squirming.”

  “You’re so full of it you’re brown in the eyeballs,” he said, blowing his nose. “Ask Cricket to put on some water. I’ll have coffee.”

  He began to whistle “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” Alix didn’t know Bach. They had talked less than five minutes. They hadn’t raised their voices. Vliet had annihilated Alix. Alix had annihilated Vliet. Neither, of course, had let the other know it.

  Nauseated, chilled, Alix went upstairs. Roger looked questioningly at her. She refused to meet his eyes. She let the low-pressure mountain water trickle into the pot, and after three matches, succeeded in lighting a burner. “Cricket,” she said, “be a real doll, will you? Toss my things in the suitcase when you come down?” Roger had his books. She threw him her key chain. “Shall we, Doctor?”

  She held on pretty well, she gave herself points for that. Her expression, she knew, was fine. But the twisting road jagged her.

  “Stop!” she said urgently. Holding a hand to her mouth, she ran to a fallen pine, kneeling like an animal on hands and knees, retching up the orange juice she’d drunk this morning.

  “That rough?” asked Roger, behind her.

  Dying that anyone should see her—much less Roger—she said, “No medical assists, please.”

  He retreated.

  On the outskirts of San Bernardino a freight train moved parallel to the freeway. They could hear the long, grieving whistle. Whoooeeeeee.

  “They’re piggybacking,” Roger said.

  Alix nodded. She was turned to her open window, the breeze rushing glossy dark hair across her face. What Roger could see of her cheek was rounded in rictus. He knew her well enough to understand that this small smile meant DO NOT DISTURB. He didn’t know her well enough to understand how distraught she was. For that matter, he was distraught himself. Question marks formed in his brain. He needed to know what had been said, he could guess how Vliet had taken it, but he needed to know.

  Alix’s stomach remained in an acid knot. By concentrating on her throat muscles she was able to keep from vomiting. Vliet had seen through her. She had exposed herself to Roger, and he had rejected her. She couldn’t deal with so much pain. It was as a calming exercise that she started to make a list—she was a compulsive list maker. By the time they climbed the hill where the Kellogg Horse Farm nestles amid green trees, she had a kind of postdated New Year’s resolutions.

  First, she never again would let her instinct rule her. Others could, but she couldn’t afford it. She would keep her distance and be all likable things to all people. Second. She would work on her appearance. She would get an eyebrow arch
at Aida Grey. She would inquire among her friends which hairdresser was currently giving the best cut. She would try Right Bank for new pants. She would start an early tan—without sun, silver foil would do the trick. Third. She would call her friends alphabetically through her red phone book. Maybe have a barbecue next Saturday night. Yes, there’s a practical idea. Everybody was home for the break. Suddenly she could see herself moving around the crowded patio, a simpy Catherine Deneuve smirk glued across her face. Oh God, God! That’s not what I want. Well, I can’t have what I want, and anyway, it terrifies me, loooo-oooove. The external being my destiny, let me win the Miss Superficial of Beverly Hills contest.

  To the right of the freeway, like a vast-winged old eagle, perched County General. Roger glanced toward the hospital. Tired, he drove with his broad shoulders hunched. He can’t wait to get away, Alix decided.

  “Turn on the Glendale,” she said. “I’ll drop you off.”

  “What?”

  “A medical library shouldn’t have to hitch,” she said with her copious smile.

  “Alix?” said Sharon Stein through the telephone. Sharon was an old Beverly High buddy. “You free this aft?”

  Alix sat up. Her stomach muscles hurt. Fifteen minutes earlier she had run into the house, heaving in her toilet long after clear acid had stopped, falling across her bed, weeping. “Sure,” she wiped her eyes. “What’s doin’?”

  “Ronni Bolt”—another Beverly High chum—“is in Oahu. Her parents have this condoo. My mom was driving me to the airport, but she’s got the bug.”

  “How long’re you going?”

  “Eight days. Ever been?”

  “Never.”

  “There’s deprivation for you. It’s the grooviest. Hey, I just got this fantastic—”

  “—idea.”

  “Ronni’s been dying to see you. She’s for always saying we should get together. Think, Alix. Three foxy ladies on Oahu.”

  “What time’s the plane?”