Guilty Parties

by Thomas Gifford

  “It didn’t turn out right,” I whispered, “that’s all. Not the way it was supposed to. Jack’s a mess and Harry has a girlfriend and we don’t have the kids we thought we’d have … and what the hell ever happened to the little red car?” I sniffed and rubbed my nose. “I loved that car—oh, the hell with it!”

  “Are you just the slightest bit sloshed, my dear?”

  “I’d better be. Otherwise I’m having a nervous breakdown.”

  “You? Not exactly nervous-breakdown material!”

  “The point is, it’s not like the play, Sal. We didn’t all just kiss and make up and dance off into the wings singing a pretty song. That’s the way it was supposed to be, but the reality is all shot to hell!” I swallowed hard, turned to look into Sally’s dark eyes, into the face I knew as well as my own. “It’s the Hope Gap, don’t you see? The gap between all our hopes and the realities … none of the other gaps matter, the gender gap and the missile gap, forge ’em, it’s the Hope Gap that gets us where we live. … Ah, Sally, what does it all mean?”

  “I’m the wrong person to ask,” Sally said. “I’ve always thought that as long as I could turn to my Belinda I could be sure it all made sense. You were the one on top of things, with your fortune cookies and the big wheel that told the future.” After a while she said: “And anyway, how do you know it’s not all going to turn out all right? It’s not over yet. We’re still in the middle of the game. Harry always says that things turn out just fine for the Ruffians—and we’re sort of the ladies’ chapter.” She lit a cigarette. Her hand was shaking and she steadied it on her knee. “Speaking of Ruffians, I see that Hacker Welles was making his presence felt on the terrace.”

  “Oh, God, I felt like a fool. I didn’t remember him, he had to tell me who he was—”

  “And? That used up ten seconds—”

  “And he was very nice. We talked about the show.”

  “He’s been in LA for years, worked on TV shows, worked on some movies. Godawful marriage to some TV star, I forget who. She was running around on the side, then dumped him for a guy with a production company, Harry told me—I’ve probably got it all wrong.”

  “Well, I’ll never see him again, anyway.”

  Sally went on, smiling faintly. “I always found Hacker absolutely impenetrable. Opaque. Oh, brainy and so on, always watching and breathing through his mouth—”

  “I’m glad I don’t remember that!”

  “Adenoids. Must’ve had ’em fixed. But he was always holding himself back, above the battle. Made me wonder who the hell he thought he was, anyway. But Harry says the son of a bitch can write—that’s a quote—and I guess he can. I mean, it was a good show, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, Sally, I’m so happy for you and Harry—it was a lot better than just good. Welles is a really fine writer, I think.”

  “Funny, you’re already in his corner.”

  She was smiling at me again and I said: “What does that mean? Funny how?”

  “Oh, Harry and I were talking about him the other day—one of our few conversations lately, actually—and Harry just said sort of casually that good old Hack always had the world’s biggest crush on Belinda! Well, it was news to me … and it turns out you didn’t even know who he was! But the fact is, he followed you onto the terrace and he looked like he was on the trail—”

  “Even if he did have a crush on me, that was almost twenty years ago, Sal.” I was becoming more than a little sick of this theme.

  “So? Maybe he’s getting around to making his move twenty years later. He’s a deep one, our Hacker!”

  Harry found us still sitting together in the study. He was grinning, spirits holding up under pressure. “What gives? The two prettiest girls at the party hiding from the Ruffians? Can’t have that.”

  “Belinda was feeling a little down about Jack—”

  “Oh, Belle,” he said, putting his huge hands on my shoulders, squeezing. “Don’t you worry about Jack. He’s a Ruffian, we stick together when the going gets tough. Support system.” He gave me a little shake and everything was supposed to be fine. “Listen, it’s time for the TV reviews. Come on out, I’ve got video recorders going so we won’t miss any.”

  “We can watch them in here,” Sally said.

  Harry gave her a questioning look, said, “Okay, I’ll stay with you two.” He poured us all fresh champagne and turned up the sound.

  The critic on Channel Two was smiling.

  “Pack up all your cares and woe,” he said, “here we go, back to Harvard in the sixties, and it’s a trip to never-never-land, I promise you. Through the looking glass to a place I for one have never been—this isn’t the sixties I lived through, folks—but let me be the first to tell you, you’re gonna love it! A new show opened tonight, it’s called Scoundrels All! and it’s bound to be good for what ails you. It’s an old-fashioned kind of comedy reminiscent of George Axelrod, with some lovely, tuneful, occasionally bittersweet songs thrown in, all about a group of chums who form a club—doesn’t sound like much, but it’s about innocence and friendship and falling in love and solving your problems and getting ready to face real life later, because real life never intrudes on this fairy tale. These characters are as out of step with their time in history as possible, as remote from us as Bertie and Jeeves, and now on a hot summer night twenty years later they couldn’t be more welcome. Scoundrels All! was written by Hacker Welles, directed by Lou Silvano, and produced by Harry Granger, starring a gaggle of wonderfully talented, attractive young actors and actresses—it has the look of a winner all over it. Why? Dare I say it? Because Escape has become fashionable again and who needs Relevance? What is relevant here is that we can all take a look at youth and innocence and remember for once the way it might have been in a world without the realities that weighed so heavily on us all.”

  We were staring dumbly at one another, smiles spreading slowly, when the study door burst open. A man wearing a top hat at a very jaunty angle came in. “Harry, it’s unanimous! This thing’s gonna run forever!” He then let out an altogether shattering war whoop and in the distance the band began to play the music from the show.

  Harry put his arms around us, pulled us close to him. I heard him say: “Remember this moment, ladies. We may never be so happy again.”

  He hugged us for a long time, as if he didn’t want to let go.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE REVIEWS ENDED THE SUSPENSE, turned the party loose, raised the decibel level, and erased the smudges of fear. Sometime after we left the study Harry told me that what I needed was a dance and led me to the huge circular foyer below the balcony where the lights were low and the music loud. He threw himself into his own eccentric dance and I laughed as he clapped his hands and shouted out quotes from the reviews, punctuating them with heel-stomping of the flamenco style. He was so happy, so relieved, and I forgave him all his sins, wondering if Sally did, wondering if there was a woman he loved and where she was tonight while he celebrated with his wife.

  While I danced a slow one with Mike, I watched Sally dancing with Harry, her face sober while he laughed and hugged her. Impulsively he kissed her and she flung her arms around him, almost desperately, holding on for dear life. I felt a flood of warmth toward them, felt like congratulating them on having gotten to where they were on this night of nights.

  Mike was nuzzling my ear, telling me that he really was rather charlied, what with all the champers, his Bertie Wooster face with its steamed-over spectacles so dear. I told him he was just about the cutest thing around and he went smiling to search Blandings Castle for more bubbly. I stayed in the shadows, praying that I could make my getaway before either Jack or Peter showed up. I couldn’t imagine where they were but that was irrelevant. I spotted Hacker Welles in a group with the blond actress and he saw me, caught me before I could look away. Watching each other had become a self-conscious joke. He drifted my way.

  “Belinda,” he said, finishing off a celery stick. “So good to see you again,”


  “The reviews were wonderful. Why aren’t you making a fool of yourself?”

  “Oh, I am, in my own quiet way.”

  “You are?”

  “Oh, sure. Keep it all inside, though. But, believe me, I’m making a tremendous fool of myself.”

  “Tell me, how did you ever get to be such a great fool?”

  “Gosh, Belinda. Early to bed, early to rise, I guess.”

  I felt my laughter explode unexpectedly, champagne splashing over my hand.

  “You’re making quite a mess of yourself there.”

  “So, that was the third time I’ve caught you watching me tonight. I’d say you’re still watching me from afar, like the old days you remember so well.”

  “Impossible! You really think so?”

  “Definitely. Still trying to make up your mind about me. You’re very slow.”

  “Oh, all right, so I’ve been watching you. And I am still trying to make up my mind. I need a long time.”

  “So it would seem.”

  I coerced him into dancing with me.

  He held me firmly and moved no more than was absolutely necessary. He seemed not to be giving any of it a thought. I told him I was a painter, that I was having a show. He whispered in my ear that being able to daub paint on a canvas didn’t prove that I wasn’t an airhead. I gently kicked his shin. He told me that violence is always the last resort of the intellectually bankrupt. I kicked his other shin. He said he was reconsidering. I found myself wondering if just possibly I could break through his shell of amused self-protection. What had that wife of his done to him? Early to bed, early to rise. He was funny. I had to give him that.

  We were suddenly distracted by a commotion in the front hallway. Raised voices. Exclamations of welcome. Harry and Mike appeared from the hallway, beaming, flanking a latecomer.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Hacker said. “Another Ruffian—you remember Peter …

  “I suppose,” I said.

  Hacker laughed. “What a memory! Peter Venables. He and I had a real bond back then. We both thought you were this unattainable knockout and we were both too scared of you to—”

  He saw me frowning.

  “Come on,” he said, pulling me along, bearing down on the man I’d hoped I’d never have to see again. “And if you don’t remember him, don’t tell him. He’d be crushed. Tender blossom, Peter Venables. …”

  The fun I’d been having with Hacker Welles faded as the tendrils of the past squirmed out of the darkness. Talking to him had made me forget the show, Jack, Venables, Sally’s unhappiness, the works. Now, watching him go to greet Venables, grab him in a mighty bear hug, something bothered me and I felt petty. It was the Ruffians. It was the fact that Hacker had left me to go engulf Peter Venables. It was petty, but the flicker of resentment was real. I had to admit it. Hacker didn’t know how Venables had behaved with me the other night. I couldn’t blame Hacker. But somewhere inside me, I did. I couldn’t be sure his knowing would have made any difference in his feelings toward another Ruffian. And I hated that.

  “Boys will be boys,” Sally said, standing beside me. “Peter Venables. He was such a sweet boy and so handsome.” I flinched inwardly, wished I could tell her the truth. “Do you remember him? No, of course not. Memory like a sieve. But he has been a breath of fresh air to have staying here. Come on, let’s go be sociable.”

  And we were included in the group, Venables kissing Sally’s cheek, then hesitating when he turned to me. “Well, my, my … Belinda.”

  “Hello, Peter.” It was a struggle not to shrink away from him. He looked so sweet, so innocent, more boyish even than Mike.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said.

  “So much for a Harvard education,” Mike said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever actually heard anyone say that before.”

  “Well, it’s true,” Venables said. He took my hand and smiled, as if to remind me of what had happened, winked. I ignored him, pulled unobtrusively away. I listened to the chatter, watching Welles, then Sally, then Venables, wishing to God I had never been told how Hacker and Venables had mooned over their idea of me eighteen years ago.

  I was yawning, trying to eat, watching the steady rain, trying not to think about Venables, when he found me. His smile was quick, darting, gone almost before it was there, like a nervous tic.

  “Seems like kismet,” he said, “here we are again. An omen. I’ve been thinking how much I enjoyed our evening—”

  “Then you’re one sick and sorry bastard,” I said.

  He smiled again. “Why carry a grudge? Life’s way too short. I want to see you again, Belinda. I will see you. I’ve been so patient. And I meant no harm—”

  “You really are crazy,” I said. “You actually frighten me.”

  “Fear and excitement go together.”

  “Good-bye,” I said, but he took my arm. It no doubt appeared casual, but it hurt.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so,” he went on calmly, with the certainty and reason of the true obsessive, “I never thought you and Jack—much as I love the guy—were absolutely meant for each other. Just an opinion, mind.”

  I bristled like a cat being rubbed the wrong way. “Since I hardly know you, I don’t quite see how you could have formed any opinion at all. Opinions are remarkably cheap, in any case.”

  “You are such a bitch,” he said. So quiet. “You’re remote. I do like that.”

  “Listen Peter, I’m really very tired. I’m tired of you and I’m tired of playing your very childish game. It’s time to go home.”

  He looked at me appraisingly. I felt naked. He leaned forward and began talking to me again. I blotted out the words.

  I don’t know how long Jack had been at the party. I don’t know how long he’d been watching me. Long enough, as it turned out.

  The conversation with Venables had topped off the evening, dropping me directly down Alice’s rabbit hole. I felt weary in every bone, just wanted to get back to the loft and be alone with my paintings.

  I was looking for Mike over Venables’ shoulder when I heard voices raised, not in the happy manner of those greeting Venables but in anger and frustration. Something was bubbling over and I thought at once of Tony Chalmers’ fear that someday the top would come off the Ruffians. A man’s voice, obstreperous, drunk, was coming from the front hallway and the band was playing a Gershwin tune. The man was laughing, then shouting at some unfortunate to get the hell out of the way, then demanding at the top of his lungs, “Unhand me, you cur!”

  I knew the voice and the mood all too well.

  It was Jack and I was shrinking away from the fact, trying to make myself small. First Venables, now Jack in one of his states.

  He came in yelling at somebody, heads turning his way, the music lilting onward. “He loves, and she loves … birds love, and bees love, and whispering trees love, and that’s what we should do …”

  He came on, bearing down on us. Venables stood stock-still, not quite comprehending what was going on with Jack.

  Jack, face flushed and sweating, pushed him with his chest, tottering himself and putting his hand on Venables’ shoulder to steady himself.

  Venables was laughing in a comradely way. “You seem to have tied one on, old boy!” He turned to the waiter. “More champagne for Jack Stuart!”

  Jack kept crowding him backward toward the buffet. He was ignoring me for the moment. I heard Peter’s laughter die an unpleasant death. “Come on, Jack, enough’s enough. Relax.”

  The band played and the singer sang.

  I was trapped in a bizarre self-propelled bad dream from which I couldn’t wake. Dancers were stopping to look at Jack shoving Peter. His chiseled face was red and distorted with drink and anger, his eyes were dulled with the pain eating at him from within, and he shoved harder, Peter bumping heavily into the table. Classes shattered. Peter tried to slide away and somehow avoid the inevitable.

  It was hopeless.

  Jack feinted with a left
and sucker-punched him with a right, shouting all the time, “She’s still my wife, you bastard! My wife, my wife!”

  Peter took the blow, stood there holding his hand to his face, swabbing blood from his nose. A pink bubble clung to one nostril.

  Suddenly he burst into laughter at the absurdity of it, held out an open hand to fend off his attacker.

  The laughter fueled Jack. He came at him again, swinging wildly as the onlookers gaped. And from nowhere Hacker’s arms encircled Jack from behind, yanked him backward. Jack slipped, they both tumbled to the marble foyer floor. Mike was immediately bending over to help them up. Jack bellowed, “Get away, let me at that prick … stay outta this, Hack … shit, help me up …”

  I watched them haul Jack to his feet, watched them take him down the hallway, saw the collapse of his face as he passed me, as if the keystone had been removed. I heard a voice at my side.

  “Some things never change. We’re still fighting over you, Belinda.”

  It was Peter Venables. He was dabbing at the blood with a white handkerchief. Smiling at me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  IT REALLY COULDN’T HAVE BEEN worse.

  The band had fizzled to a stop, musicians peering over the balcony railing relishing the idiocies of the rich. Everyone stood goggle-eyed and then exploded into bright, frantic conversation, as if they could by the sheer volume of their words bury the unsightly event. It didn’t work. No, I thought as I followed the combatants and their seconds down the hallway, it couldn’t have been worse.

  Peter Venables came out of the study and found me waiting. The blood had been washed away. I stared at him.

  “Got what was coming to me, is that what you’re thinking? Well, maybe … but Jack was being thick as two planks, surely. Drunk is drunk, I don’t hold it against him, but still … Look, Belinda, I’m drenched with blood and I think there may be something amiss with my nose. Harry said he’d like to talk with you and Jack. And Hacker and Mike say they’ll drag me off for a rubdown and a nightcap—”