THE PRESIDENT IS COMING TO LUNCH

by Nan

  The most popular landlord in New York scanned the table tops as a proofreader looks for misspelled words. An empty water glass on 63 needed a refill. Where was the busboy? The three-top at 80 was waiting too long between courses. Where was their coffee? There could be a hundred reasons why the pace was off. It happened all the time. Why hadn’t Steven checked on it? Everything seemed to be taking forever. Most of all, it was taking forever for Cal to arrive.

  Libby bent down to pick up a napkin in the aisle. She was unable to take her eyes off the fat man at 81. “Andre? Is that you?”

  Andre Riley had gained nearly a hundred pounds. He rose clumsily, unable to control his new girth. “I’m in here somewhere,” he said, leaning over to kiss the air in front of her lips. Breathless, he sat down. “Don’t say anything.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “And don’t call the police, either.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a check. “I added on interest.”

  The check was for $14,400. It covered Andre’s 1987 lunches after he had been fired as story editor at Warner’s. She folded the check and smiled. “You bastard. One postcard from Sicily?”

  “They only had one postcard in Sicily!” He became serious. “Lib, you haven’t changed at all. You still look the same.”

  “I could always count on you to say the wrong thing.”

  “Not anymore. Watch my lips.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Grandma Moses!”

  “What?”

  Andre’s eyes flashed with excitement. “I have the merchandising rights to Grandma Moses.”

  “You mean like T-shirts?”

  Andre inhaled the Haut-Brion 70 in his glass. “I mean like a six-part series. Major funding. An Emmy,” he said, catching his breath. “I mean like you should have seen them at PBS. Wall-to-wall hard-ons!”

  “You really think they bought it?”

  “I know they bought it! Listen, by now Alistair must have hemorrhoids from sitting in that farcockta chair. How much Brit shit can you take? Who needs another episode of ‘Barbara Pym Gets Her Period’?”

  “Andre, do you have a deal or not?”

  He tapped the table with his fat forefinger. “I have every penny in this project.”

  Libby waved the check in his face. “Every penny?”

  Andre shrugged. “I meant well. I wanted to show good faith.”

  Libby smiled as she tore up the check. “Well, you know what I always say. The laughs are on the house.”

  Andre reached for her hand. “How come I never got you into my famous Biedermeier bed? God knows, I tried. Even before I was broke.”

  “That was the best insurance policy you ever took out.”

  “Libby darling,” he said, sipping the Haut-Brion. “I still can’t pay for lunch.”

  She took his hand. It was cold. Sweaty. “What’s one lunch between friends?”

  Andre spoke softly. “I need five lunches.”

  Libby shrugged. “Did I say I was counting?”

  He squeezed her hand. “There’s something else.”

  “Oh, Andre!”

  He looked deep into her eyes. “Libby,” he whispered desperately, “I’ve just got to have a better table!”

  Steven tapped Libby on the arm. He was angry. Although only twenty-three, Steven had a lifetime of injustice stored in his dark eyes. As he led her down the aisle, she stopped just long enough to change Barbara Walters’s order from smoked trout to duck.

  “But I hate duck!”

  “Not my duck!”

  Once at the service area, Libby leaned over and took off one of her new shoes. “They must figure if you can afford two hundred bucks, you aren’t going to do much walking.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Dustin?”

  Libby groaned. “Dustin! Mea culpa!”

  “I know it’s your culpa. It’s always your culpa. You never put names in the book.”

  “Right.” She looked anxiously into the room. “There’s no table for Dustin.” Libby put a hand to her stomach. “I wish to hell Cal would get here.” She smiled nervously. “You know, I could really use a hug.”

  “Dustin?” he said coldly.

  Libby pushed her foot back into the shoe. “You can be a real son of a bitch, Steven.”

  “Shall I quote my mother or my boss?”

  “Both.” A deep breath. “Dustin.” Suddenly, she was angry with Steven. “You’d think it was the end of the world! Who’s sitting at 13?”

  “The Knopf mafia.”

  “22?”

  “The Trumps.”

  “Where’ve you got Samantha Kelly?”

  “At 73.”

  “Not near Gloria?”

  “Not near Gloria.”

  “What about 101?”

  “Kissinger.”

  “Bingo!”

  “Are you crazy?” Steven whispered ferociously. “You can’t put Dustin at 101!”

  “Grow up, kiddo. All you have to do is move Phyllis and Donald to 101. No matter how they scream. Give Dustin their table. Put Samantha Kelly between Dustin and Woody and that’ll keep everyone happy. But first, call Sirio. Tell him I had to bump Kissinger and I’m calling in my chips. I need Nancy’s usual table. Tell him to open a bottle of Dom Pérignon and to bill me. Then, call Kissinger. Tell him we had a bomb scare. Tell him I changed his reservation to Le Cirque. Tell him it’s too dangerous for him to be here. Blah blah blah. Tell him it’ll do him good to see how the poor people eat.” She grabbed Steven by the lapels, pulled him close and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Now what’s the big fucking deal?”

  All the world was in love with Cal Dennis. He was the captain of the football team, the idealistic doctor, the square-jawed astronaut. He had a fresh-from-the-shower, blond, blue-eyed, all-American appeal that made his face equally at home on the covers of M and W. He was born to be a movie star.

  Libby rushed toward Cal, eager to reach him before he stepped into the room and became public domain. She blurted out the one thing she most wanted to hear him say. “Hey, babe, you look gorgeous!”

  Cal put his arms around her. “Did you know man is the only animal that can have sex three hundred and sixty-five days a year?”

  “Now you tell me!”

  He leaned over to kiss her. She was staring up at him. “You still keep your eyes open?”

  “Only with you.”

  He took her hand and led her toward the checkroom. Cal motioned for the coat-check girl to leave. Once the door was shut, he took a deep breath. Cal looked away before speaking, just as he did on screen. Then a flash of blue from his neon eyes. “It’s been a long time.”

  Libby shrugged. “A hundred years. Give or take a couple of seconds.”

  “Last time, I was on my way to Spain.”

  “To be married.”

  He smiled. “Yeah.”

  “How was it?” she asked.

  “Expensive.”

  There was a knock at the door. Tessa’s hand appeared, holding two coats. Libby took them, stuffed a claim check into her palm and closed the door. “What are you going to do now?”

  Cal smiled. He took one of the coats and hid the lower half of his face. “A remake of The Desert Song.”

  Libby started to laugh. “You can’t sing!”

  “Maybe not. But I can make love on the desert sands.” He swung the coat over his head and with a great flourish spread it on the floor. “Atop a bed of flying carpets.”

  “You really want to do it?”

  “The Desert Song? No. Make love? Yes!” He reached for the other coat and threw it to the floor.

  “Cal!” She started to pick them up. He grabbed hold of her.

  “I want to make love on the desert sands.” They kissed, eyes wide open, holding tight to one another as he slid his tongue between her lips.

  Another knock at the door. Tessa’s hand waved a mink-lined Burberry. Libby took it, gave her a check and then locked the door.

  “On a bed of flying carpets,�
� he whispered, tossing more coats to the floor.

  Libby mumbled a half-hearted, “Don’t.” She threw her arms around him. “They’re expensive.”

  Cal bit her chin. He kissed her neck. “Just think what they’re going to be worth afterward.” He smiled as Libby reached for the last coat. “Not that one.”

  Libby rubbed her hand over the fur. “I’m worth sable!”

  “Says who?”

  As Cal held the coat open for Libby, she saw her name embroidered on the satin lining. She looked up at Cal and gasped. “Says you!”

  Cal put his arms around her, pressing into the fur to feel the outline of her body. Very quietly, very off key, he began to sing, “One alone, to be my own.”

  Libby smiled as he lowered her gently onto the pile of coats. “I alone,” she whispered, “to know your caresses.” He kissed her again. She couldn’t remember the rest of the lyrics. She didn’t need the rest of the lyrics. Cal was on top of her. He was all around her. Then, he was inside her.

  They barely moved. No sweaty, breathless passion to distract from the symmetry. It was the fit that counted. They were fully clothed but she could feel his skin on hers. “Cal,” she cautioned, “we have to be careful.”

  “Sure.”

  “Any dummy can have a good marriage, but you really have to work at a good divorce.”

  “I know that. What the hell do you take me for?”

  She held him tight and smiled. “I want to take you for all you’ve got.”

  Cal and Libby had met in the chorus of a flop musical. His name was Roger and all he talked about was going to California to become a movie star. Although they were married for less than a year, she offered Cal joint custody of Steven. Instead, Libby and Steven wound up with joint custody of Cal. No matter how many marriages or front-page affairs, he always came back to them. The other women in Cal’s life were merely wives or lovers. Libby and Steven were family.

  There was a knock at the door. Libby gasped, suddenly remembering where they were. “Why is it we never have time for foreplay?”

  “Later,” he said hoarsely. “We’ll have afterplay.”

  More knocking. Libby began to laugh. “We can’t do this now.” She kissed him. “Cal! Not during lunch.”

  “Why not? Everyone out there is doing what we’re doing. Except we’re enjoying it.”

  The knocking continued. “Cal, I want silk sheets and champagne. I want you to undress me. I want us to take a hot shower and get steamy and soapy. I want us to wash each other in all those secret places. Smooth on warm oil while we whisper unspeakably dirty things.”

  Cal was frozen in place. He cleared his throat. “Why don’t we just do it twice?”

  Libby pushed against him. “Please.”

  “Don’t move! For God’s sake, hold still!” He took a deep breath.

  She kissed him. “Can’t you just put it in reverse and pull out fast?”

  “Are you crazy? You want to have to pay for all these coats?”

  Libby began to giggle. “Well, then what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the one who’s been reading The Zen Joy of Sex!”

  “You have to take your mind off it,” she said. “Think of something depressing. Something frightening. A word that conjures up nothing but horror.”

  “Like what?”

  Libby leaned over and whispered into his ear. “Agent!”

  While making his way through the crowd around the checkroom, Cal caught sight of Steven. “Hey, kiddo!”

  Steven felt Cal’s voice cover him like a blanket on a cold night. He was a little boy again, remembering how he used to throw himself into Cal’s arms and cry. “Let me stay with you, Daddy. I’ll be good.” But somehow Steven was never good enough. He was always shipped back to New York. Back to Libby.

  “You look terrific!” Cal started to laugh and put his arms around Steven. “Anyone asks, you’re my brother.”

  But Steven looked no more like Cal’s brother than like his son. Libby had cheated him of that as well. However much he hated her for not keeping his father at home, he hated Libby even more for her dominant genes. The short, dark-haired maître d’ wanted desperately to look like the lanky, corn-blond movie star.

  “So how are you?” Cal asked.

  “Well, I don’t have AIDS yet.”

  “You know, kiddo, I worry about you.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Steven shrugged, unable to stop the tears from welling up in his eyes. “Same old shit.”

  Cal hugged Steven. He held tight, patting him gently, rubbing his shoulder. Steven leaned back enjoying the masculine warmth of Cal’s grip. So unlike the embraces of his anonymous boys. He wanted to hug Cal back. But that was too risky. He was afraid of not being manly enough.

  “I have somebody I want you to meet,” Cal said. “An art director at Paramount. I told him to give you a call.”

  “You promised to stop matchmaking.”

  “You’re going to like him. He’s got some sense of humor.”

  “We all have senses of humor. We’re all artistic. We love to cook. We dress well . . .”

  Cal put his hands on either side of Steven’s face. “Will you shut up? I just want you to be happy.” Cal stared at his son and asked, “You sure you don’t have anything?” Steven shook his head no. Cal smiled and then hugged him again. They both began to laugh.

  Harold “Hots” Goldberg motioned Libby over to his table. Hots made his mark during the Watergate hearings as one of the young attorneys who believed Martha Mitchell. Amid a political climate of defensiveness, the defenders reigned supreme. What once happened only to movie stars and pop singers happened to Harold. He became hot. His personal celebrity attached importance to cases that were unimportant. His reputation tipped the scales of justice in favor of his clients. Hots emerged as a one-man legal system.

  He was still on the phone as Libby slid in next to him. “Darling,” he said into the receiver, “let me be the judge.” He reached for Libby’s hand and squeezed it. “Absolutely not,” he said into the phone. “You should get all the horses. Let him keep the house in the Algarve. What do you need to be cocking around with property in Portugal?” Hots hung up quickly. “So how much did this one cost Cal?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “She got that much?”

  “Hots . . .”

  “You can tell me. Client to lawyer.”

  “You’re the only one I know who can keep a secret.”

  “So tell me!”

  “I think Cal came back to ask me to marry him.”

  “Then what are you worried about? Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Hots, are you crazy? If I married Cal, I could lose him for forever.”

  The moment Fay saw Cal she recognized all the signs. The nervous half-smile. The banker’s tie. The squint because he wouldn’t wear glasses. Cal needed money. But for what? His name was always linked with the underdog, the endangered species, the lost cause. He marched on Washington. He spoke on street corners and at congressional hearings. He never missed an election or an opportunity to campaign against the Administration. As he sat down, Fay asked, “What is it this time, darlin’? Save the seals or save the Indians?”

  He leaned over to kiss her. “This time it’s save me.”

  “I figured the señorita had you by the pesetas. But you’ve been divorced often enough to know what to expect.”

  “Murphy was an optimist.” Cal laughed as he started riffling through Fay’s notes.

  She slapped her hand down over his. “At least you finished the picture.”

  He shrugged. “Vice versa. The studio took it away from me.”

  “Oh, darlin’. I didn’t know . . .”

  “Nobody does. Not even Libby. I had everything in that picture. There was nothing left for Manuela to get.”

  Fay ignored the blinking lights on her phone. “Don’t worry about it. The studio
is bluffing.”

  Cal smiled. “Yeah. But this time, they’re really bluffing.”

  “What are you going to do, sweetie?”

  “Turn a deal. Fast. Why else do you think I came back?” He looked around the room, squinting to see who was at what table. “Libby still runs the best employment agency in town.”

  Marsha Mason was sitting with Phyllis and Donald. Cal had left Fay’s table to squeeze in next to Audrey. Moina stood in the aisle, listening to Hots tell Paloma a dirty joke.

  Libby went back to working the room. She took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of imported perfumes and impossible dreams. Table after table of herbed and spiced bodies creating appetites no kitchen could satisfy. At lunch, everyone was on the menu. A deuce of East Coast production people who wished they were West Coast production people. Goulash and pasta. She told them the latest Columbia joke and left before they stopped laughing. Ashtrays full on 41. A four top: the ambitious Lieutenant Governor and his three aggressive aides. Thin smiles. Sword-fish all around. A quick handshake and a warning that she’d heard some blue suits from “Sixty Minutes” were planning to do a hatchet job on the lottery. Two women with hats at 61. Out-of-towners. They always ate the bread. She stopped Maxie as he hurried down the aisle. “What did you give Sinatra?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? Call the Bronx Zoo and find out what’s missing.”

  Libby glanced down at the plates he was carrying. Goddamn it! They weren’t putting enough dill sauce on the gravlax. What the hell was she going to do about the dill sauce on the gravlax? What the hell was she going to do if Cal asked her to marry him?

  The single at Table 51 appeared to be in his late thirties, early forties. Built like a football player. Dressed like an IBM salesman. Nice face. Curly dark hair and, as he looked up at Libby, piercing black eyes. It was the no-show, “Somebody” Birnbaum.

  “Hi,” he said with his mouth full. “You give out recipes?”

  Libby looked at his plate. “What is that?”