Dean took my hand.
“A good mother,” he said. “Like you, Bunny.”
He squeezed my fingers and then let go, the car doing a little shimmy beneath us when he stomped on the gas.
Maybe we’re okay, after all.
21
After another mile or so of jouncing along the dirt road, we pulled up in front of a low-slung wooden lodge. Dean set the emergency brake and pulled the keys from the ignition.
I swung my door open and got out.
There was a small rounded lake to our right, its shore hemmed all the way around with the last few yards of winter ice, inner edges thin and clear as windowpane glass.
Dean and Mr. Tanaka trudged toward the lodge’s front doors, their dress shoes sinking into powdery snow, making it squeak with each step’s compression.
I followed along behind them, tipping my ex–hippie kid’s spiritual hat to Arlo Guthrie when I saw the ALICE’S RESTAURANT sign just inside the vestibule.
The dining room was all gray stone and golden wood, dimly lit by a tall fireplace and antler chandeliers. My husband’s colleagues raised a jolly forest of arms and cocktail glasses in welcome, around a long table across the room. Dean and our passenger were cajoled toward two empty seats at its far end.
Setsuko helped Mr. Tanaka’s silver-haired boss rise from his chair at the table’s head as they approached, inaugurating a quadrille of bows, handshakes, and ceremonial business card exchanges and appreciation.
I’d been stranded mid-carpet like the Farmer-in-the-dell’s cheese, hi-ho the fucking derry-o.
When the backslapping salesfellow-well-met rampart of blue serge and gray flannel finally simmered down a little, Cary caught my eye and pointed out the unoccupied seat beside him.
This would put me between him and Bittler, whose little moon of a face was already brick red with Scotch and resentment, behind his stupid mustache.
Cary pulled the empty chair out for me.
I gave him the usual cheek-peck hello, whispering, “What crawled up your boss’s ass this time?”
“His chair’s closest to the door,” he whispered back, “huge Japanese seating-order diss.”
I cocked him a Dude, you are so going to owe me for this eyebrow.
“Absolutely,” said Cary at regular volume. “And what can I get you to drink?”
“A great big martini glass of ice-cold gin,” I said, tucking my skirt smooth as he slid the chair in beneath me. “One olive. Have the vermouth send it a brief poignant telegram of regret. From Havana. Or possibly Gstaad.”
Bittler didn’t register my presence, just continued glowering down into a glass of something expensively single malt–looking, his sense of ignominy distending that fat scarlet lower lip into a budgie’s-perch pout.
Yeah, nice to see you, too, asshole. Took me all night Sunday to get your blood out of my shirt.
Cary resumed his seat beside me. He raised one finger, and a waiter appeared instantaneously.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight, Margaret,” said Bittler, raising his cocktail glass vaguely in my direction.
I really, really wanted to open my response with the word “Heil.”
“Mr. Butler,” I replied instead. “Always a pleasure.”
Yeah, and it’s too bad I didn’t kick you in the balls while you were unconscious on my lawn, you skeevy little dick.
Setsuko had been deployed to the guest of honor’s left at the power end of the table, her translation skills no doubt making her functional as well as decorative.
I watched her pour beer into Mr. Tanaka’s boss’s glass, then Dean’s. She used two hands, as though the bottle were far too heavy for her.
Dean raised his glass in a toast and Mr. Boss clinked his own against it, saying something that made Setsuko lift a hand to her mouth to hide her teeth while she giggled.
The gesture struck me as far less coy, in this setting.
She was essential to the proceedings but nobody looked her in the eye, especially not the visiting dignitaries. Sure, they looked at her, but in an offhand, sniggering way, as though she were some sort of party favor.
Hey, I was no stranger to gender power-game bullshit, but I’d played mere checkers, by comparison. This was chess. Setsuko earned her place at the table by pretending—exquisitely, convincingly—to know full well she didn’t, being female, deserve one.
I couldn’t imagine having to be that on all the time, not least at work.
And the woman’s offered to babysit for you, Madeline. Show a little solidarity.
Bittler, meanwhile, glared at Dean while fingering the NRA “Golden Eagle” pin piercing his lapel.
The waiter rematerialized, depositing my blessed martini before me in the nick of time.
Bittler dropped his chair back down, planted his elbows firmly on the tablecloth, and cleared his throat so loudly that all heads around the table swiveled toward him.
“So,” he said, tapping a fingernail against his glass, “Bill Clinton’s walking around the White House lawn with a new puppy under his arm.”
The underling straight across from me egged him on with a fawningly anticipatory chuckle.
Bittler smirked at him, pleased. “One of the Marine Corps guards says, ‘Nice dog, Mr. President. Is he new?’ ”
I took a nice, long, deep sip of cold gin.
“ ‘Why, he sure is,’ says Bill…”
Bittler’s “Clinton” was half asthma, half Gomer Pyle.
He gave the imaginary dog a pat on the head. “ ‘In fact,’ says Bill, ‘I got the little fella for Hillary.’ ”
Well, this martini wasn’t going to drink itself. I took another gulp.
“The marine smiles and salutes,” said Bittler, right hand now snapping crisply to his forehead. “ ‘Congratulations, Mr. President. Excellent trade.’ ”
This was greeted by a Stooge-ian Nyuk-nyuk chorus of appreciation from around the table, with a second wave of reprise guffaws from the visiting dignitaries once Setsuko had finished translating.
Bittler, meanwhile, was getting loudly high-fived by his frat-boy lackey.
“Another drink?” asked Cary.
“Please God,” I said.
He raised two fingers in a Churchillian vee and I swear our waiter rematerialized within a nanosecond.
The guy was ostensibly gifting the important end of the table with a full fifth of Johnnie Walker Blue, but even so he gave Cary a nod and shortly bustled backward toward the bar on our behalf.
Bittler lurched to his feet beside me, fixated on that bottle of Johnnie Walker.
I figured he’d be shunned by the heavies down there, but they thought he was a regular laugh riot—their very own Dean Martin, deserving of a very full glass and lots of hearty Kanpai!s to ensure he drank it down quickly.
Bittler didn’t disappoint.
The big boss raised his own bottle to offer him a refill, laughing his ass off.
Bittler shoved between Dean and Setsuko, reaching across the table until his glass rattled against the boss’s bottle.
He wobbled badly, pawing at Dean’s shoulder with his free hand until he got a decent grip.
Mr. Boss uncapped the bottle, grinning, then slyly pulled it out of reach when Bittler pushed forward with his glass.
“Someone should feed these people before things get ugly,” I said.
Bittler swayed forward… back… forward… the crowd’s volume of encouragement swelling/fading/swelling as he arced through each gyration.
“Oh!” said Mr. Boss, snatching the bottle away once more. “So close that time!”
Frat puppy was up on his feet, applauding.
Everyone else was red-faced with laughter, some pounding the table.
Well, not Setsuko, of course, but even Dean was trying to look wildly amused, despite Bittler’s death grip on his shoulder.
I sucked down more gin and glanced at Cary, who was looking about as enthralled as I felt.
“Dude,” I said, “you
need to be laughing. Serious bad employment juju if you don’t join in, right? Not to mention Bittler will probably shank you at the Xerox machine.”
“Say something funny.”
I gave him a little elbow nudge to the ribs. “Ten bucks Bittler cops a Setsuko-boob feel at the very moment Mr. Boss finally pours him a drink.”
“Sucker bet,” said Cary, lifting his beer, teeth bared in a totally lame smile.
“Totally lame smile, my friend. Like, transparent.”
“Be funnier.”
“How many Dada-Surrealists does it take to change a lightbulb?”
“I don’t know.”
“The fish.”
“Not helping,” said Cary, gulping beer as camouflage.
“Oh! Poor Setsuko!” I said, wincing.
“What?”
“Bittler just nailed her with a full-on groin grind to the shoulder, right as he was getting his Scotch poured.”
“Harsh,” said Cary, wincing right along with me.
“They should give her a huge fucking bonus for this. She totally deserves it.” I raised my martini glass in her honor, then drained it.
“You, Madeline,” Cary said, looking at me very seriously, “are a very nice person.”
“I just hate seeing people treated like shit, is all.”
“They want to send her home.”
“Setsuko?”
He nodded.
“Why the hell would they do that?” I asked. “She’s really good at all this crap.”
“She’s almost twenty-five. Time to trade her in for a dewier model.”
“The whole ‘office flower’ thing? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Not at all,” he said.
“Isn’t that illegal, here?”
“Well, all they have to do is not back her up on the visa extension, make some excuse.”
“Does she want to go?”
“She thinks she’s a freak in Japan. She’s so tall, you know?”
“Oh, come on, she’s hardly ripe for the WNBA.”
“Over there, she’s huge.”
“So we need to keep her here.”
The woman bored the shit out of me, but still.
Cary did the Churchill thing again, garnering two more drinks for us without even having to ask me.
“Your appetizers will be out momentarily,” said the waiter, before vanishing again.
I looked down at the small hand-lettered menu on my butter plate, announcing which non-optional delicacies had been ordained for us as this evening clanked painfully onward.
Pâté de lapin au campagne was first up. With fucking organic whole-grain toast points and a tarragon-mango coulis.
“Culinary fascism,” I said. “First time I get to eat with grown-ups in, like, forever, and some VP back at you guys’ office dictates what we get served? And who the hell puts tarragon with mangoes?”
“O ye of little faith,” said Cary, rubbing his hands together as waiters appeared bearing little white first-course plates. “Our God is a merciful God.”
“In what tiny, begrudging way?”
“The Lord hath given us catsup. And the miracle of A.1. Sauce, I sayeth unto you.”
I winced.
“What’s lapin, anyway?” Cary asked as our waiter deposited the tidbits before us, with a flourish.
“Wabbit,” I said, Fudd-like.
Cary took over in the wincing department.
Everyone at the other end of the table started pounding their fists in unison, egging Bittler on as he chugged the boss’s bottle of Johnnie Blue.
“Fuck it,” said Cary, reaching for his beer. “You and me need to drink up and be somebody.”
“Kanpai.”
“Here’s to your new journalism career,” he said, tapping my glass with his bottle.
“You read the New Times? I thought I was the lone member of their audience.”
“I’m a huge fan,” he said. “And I had Daddy Bruce ribs last night for dinner. Your article was pretty convincing.”
“Well, shit. Thank you. I haven’t even told Dean yet.”
“Why not?”
“Um…” I looked down at the tablecloth. “… hasn’t really been a good moment? I don’t know.”
“Want me to leave a copy on his desk?”
“Let me think about it.”
“So what are you going to review next?” asked Cary. “This place?”
“Why write about a meal that was already free?” I asked.
“Hey, we work hard for the bunny,” he said, waving a forkful of wascally wabbit in my direction. “You and me both.”
I smiled. “Even so. I’m big into the whole reimbursement thing. Few enough perks in this life. Maybe that Thai place out by you guys’ office, next.”
“Why don’t you come out with the girls tomorrow and we can all go for lunch?”
“That’d be great, actually.”
“Want me to soften Dean up for you?”
“Sure,” I said. “What the hell.”
Figuring that halfway through my third martini, I’d better sponge up a little gin with some carbs, I loaded a toast point and dragged it through the mango goop.
Cary doused his forkful of rabbit with A.1. and swallowed it nearly whole, with his eyes shut.
“I’m also working on a bigger piece,” I said. “Less fluffy, more hard-ass.”
“About?”
“The fires around town.”
“They’re definitely arson?”
I nodded.
He put his fork down. “What’s the matter?”
“That’s really the part I’m not sure how to explain.”
“To Dean?”
I nodded again.
“Why?” he asked.
“I suspect he might not be too excited about me doing a crime-beat story. Given, you know, motherhood and all that.”
“It’s not like you’re chasing ambulances, right? Or serial killers.”
“Well… not just at the moment.”
He raised an eyebrow. I cleared my throat.
“I mean, these things can snowball,” I said. “I’ve worked at papers before.”
“It’s Boulder, Madeline,” he said. “Not Polanski-town.”
Exactly what I myself would once have said of Syracuse, or Stockbridge, Massachusetts, or—well, okay, perhaps not Manhattan and Queens—but still, I had made rather a habit of inadvertently churning up dark scary shitstorms in climes of heretofore pastoral serenity. Shitstorms Dean had been forced to weather. My husband’s “lightning rod for entropy” comment referenced a Titanic iceberg’s worth of subtext juju, not just my deficiencies as a housekeeper.
“Sure,” I said to Cary. “Nice little town, Boulder. Except for the arsons, which are, you know, sort of…” My voice trailed off.
He leaned toward me, more serious. “What were you going to say?”
“Just… fire. Kind of central to my family’s mythology, actually.”
“What’s your family fire story?” he asked.
And then I realized he’d pursued this line of conversation because he had a fire connection of his own. I could tell just by looking at him: sad and pale and suddenly exhausted. Some bad, bad memory weighing him down.
“Tell me yours,” I said. “You look like you might need to.”
Cary nodded. “I will. But ladies first.”
22
Bittler had rejoined us. I glanced at him to see if it’d be kosher to talk about something this dark and personal out loud, but we might as well have been invisible to Boss-man and his frat minion.
Bittler stood there swaying awhile, then stuck his hands in his pants pockets and tried to sit down at the same time. Not a great plan: He managed to knock over his chair, simultaneously dropping his keys and a bunch of change to the floor.
Frat puppy kept him from falling.
I knelt down, scooped the contents of his pockets off the floor, and put everything on the table next to his pâté.
Bittler had a Playboy Bunny key ring. Ewwww.
The shrimpy little bastard didn’t thank me, either. Again.
I turned back toward Cary.
“My father was the youngest of nine children,” I began, “and this happened when he was seven years old, sometime in 1945. His father and the six older brothers who’d served were just home from the war, I guess.”
“Where did they live?” asked Cary.
“Purchase, New York. About an hour north of Manhattan. Dad went to school in the city—a place called Buckley—so he probably didn’t have a lot of friends to play with when he got home. The kid he hung out with most was called Hazy.”
“Your grandparents drove him an hour each way to school?”
“Not exactly,” I said, taking the last sip of my third martini.
“How’d he get there, then, train?”
“Chauffeur.”
Cary looked skeptical.
“And Hazy was the son of one of the gardeners,” I said.
“So you’re totally fucking rich,” he said.
“Actually, no. I’m what you’d call nouveau broke.”
“Seriously?”
“Have you ever heard the expression ‘shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three’?”
“No.”
I sighed. “Okay, it means that you can pretty much guarantee that a family will go through a fortune in three generations, no matter how big it was.”
“So that’s, like, by the third generation they’re not wearing suits and ties anymore?”
“Exactly.”
“And you’re the third generation?”
“Fourth. My generation mostly sits on the front stoops of Section Eight apartment buildings in our undershirts with a pack of Kools and a scratch ticket. When we’re not screaming at our feral offspring in Laundromats.”
“Wearing real pearls, though, I notice,” he said.
“Damn right. I’m trying to claw my way back into the middle class.”
“Sure,” he said, chuckling, “like that would be a huge leap.”
I sighed anew. “My father’s lived in a VW van since 1976, and my mother just married her death-row pen pal. That would be husband number five.”
Cary stopped chuckling, his eyes gentle again. “That’s pretty, um…. Wow.”
The waiter arrived with our elk medallions in port-wine-shiitake reduction with roasted balsamic baby root vegetables. Somehow, both these foodstuffs had been teased into utterly phallic twinned towers: cockstand comestibles, Leggo-My-Lingams, a priapic plat du jour.
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