by JoeAnn Hart
Phoebe banged the back of her dreaded head against the oak. “It’s not like I’m asking for the world. What’s so hard about going vegan? What’s so difficult about a goose sanctuary?”
“The geese need to be culled, not given a sanctuary,” said Nicastro, taking a bite. “Three pounds of manure from each one, every day, is a health hazard.”
Phoebe took in breath to respond, but Nicastro put up his hand as he swallowed. “And if the Club went vegan, you’d lose my favorite cook. Then you’d lose me.” Then again, he thought wearily, the way things were with him and Vita right now, maybe he was already lost. As it was, he’d had to leave the club-house because it smelled of Vita’s stock, a scent so tantalizingly feral it made him restless, propelling him outside to work off his arousal with a brisk walk. Anything to keep himself from going downstairs to the kitchen and throwing himself into her pot to poach in her juices. “And never mind giving up meat, how could I live without the egg?”
Phoebe squeezed her body. “But people die of salmonella from eating eggs.”
“Not nearly as many as will die at this Club Vegan of yours because they can’t get inoculated with serums and vaccines made from eggs.” He adjusted his elastic waistband. “Phoebe, I know you don’t think it’s fair that humans have power over animals, but believe me, microbes and bacteria have a great deal more power over us. We’ve no defense against them. No defense against fear and paranoia either.” He took a bite to even the edge of the bar. “Besides, if God didn’t intend for us to eat animals, why did he make them out of meat?”
Phoebe looked away while Nicastro and Gerard chuckled.
“Look, Phoebe.” Nicastro rolled the soft nougat around in his mouth. “You have power over this defenseless man. Does he have less rights than a chicken?”
“I’m not doing anything to him!” said Phoebe. “He did this to himself! Besides, I’m not going to eat him when this is over. He gets to go free and live a happy life. I’ll probably just go to jail. And for nothing. I won’t even get publicity out of it.”
Nicastro suppressed a smile and turned to behold Gerard. “Is that true? Will you leave here uneaten and go on to live a happy life?”
Gerard held his wrists together as if shackled. He looked at Phoebe with a wistful expression. “I am already happy.”
Phoebe edged farther away, but Nicastro registered Gerard’s look. Biology was so blissfully blind to politics and personality. But then, how else could nature ensure a good mix of genes, individuals being as difficult as they were?
“How is Vita?” he asked, the teeniest bit of warbling in his voice.
“Busy,” said Gerard. “You know how insane a kitchen gets right before a big event. Not that I’ve seen her lately. I’ve been pretty tied up.” He held up his chain and grinned.
Nicastro rubbed his gallbladder under his right ribs. His diet had been terrible since he stopped letting Vita feed him, worried as he was about thievery in the kitchen. But was it worth forgoing the pleasures of Vita’s talents? He didn’t know. He took a deep bite from the top of the soft bar, leaving tooth imprints in the nougat. He would be at the banquet, though—how could he possibly resist? He pushed up another inch of candy bar and severed it at the wrapper. “Phoebe, if you tied yourself up, you can untie yourself as well. That’s how I remember it being done.”
Gerard rearranged his jacket pillow. “Man is born free, and yet we’re all in chains, aren’t we?” (That was a good line. He could not wait to get started on his book!)
Phoebe touched the padlock near her dirty ankle. “No. I hid the key at home.”
“Tell me where it is. I’ll go get it. I haven’t seen your mom in a dog’s age.” He wiped the corner of his mouth with his finger, then licked it. Maybe it was time to make nice.
Phoebe made a low animal noise. Gerard wondered how to spell the sound: Arrrr-ggg-hhh.
“You can’t just unlock me!” Phoebe pulled at her dreads. “I’ll have suffered for nothing. Animals are being killed and tortured every minute. Corporations are destroying the foundations of life with gene-splitting. But we don’t have to wait until there’s no life left at all. We can do something. There has to be some justice.”
“There’s a difference between vengeance and justice.” Nicastro picked at some nougat in a back molar. “Watch you don’t become what you hate.”
“That’s right,” said Gerard, holding up a finger. “Love what you might be.” The other two stared at him with concern, then ignored him.
“Besides which,” Nicastro continued, “institutions don’t change. That’s what makes them institutions. In fact, people don’t change either. I guess that’s what makes them people.”
“What it makes them is beasts,” said Phoebe.
“Grrr,” said Gerard.
Nicastro squeezed up the last bit of nougat from the wrapper. “Have pity, Phoebe. In order to live as you suggest we’d have to rise above our nature. It’s not impossible. But the problem is, it’s just so much work. And if life is happy and privileged, why bother?”
“Our nature sucks.” She let herself flop hard against the tree trunk.
Gerard shook his head peacefully. “It’s not true that the members don’t care about anything. They love their museums and charities. Especially animal charities.”
“True that. They love their dogs more than they love people.” Phoebe’s voice caught in her throat. Where’d that come from? Is that what she believed? Is that how she felt about her parents, who liked animals well enough but hadn’t even gotten another dog when Ben died? Phoebe held herself very still and listened to a silence inside her so profound it was like being in the hollow of a tree. The crow in the branch above cawed. Who was more concerned about animals than humans around here?
She guessed she was. Or that’s how she’d been acting anyway. Like that dishwasher dude. She’d threatened to call the police on him, and for what? He was only trying to stay alive. If she got any hungrier, she’d be going through that Dumpster.
Maybe she was doing the right thing the wrong way. If nothing else, once she got out of this mess, if she got out, she’d move. Living with the weird parents had screwed up her judgment. She should go visit her grandmother in Sedona and see if she could find her energy there. There were probably some pretty cool enviro-dudes in Arizona to hook up with.
But how long would it take her to find the right group? She didn’t want to be alone, but she didn’t want to be messing around with a bunch of crackpots either, who cared more about their cause than about her. Who believed in violence to end violence. Where did that leave her?
The echoing silence within her expanded. It was hopeless. She rubbed her cheek, releasing tears from her eyes. Even her nose ran. “Oh,” she said, looking at the dampness on her hand.
Gerard sat up. Tears? That was in his thesis manual too. Place a light hand on the member’s elbow and lead her or him (yes, there will be an occasional him) to the privacy of your office, where a tissue box awaits. A leather-covered box will be most soothing and in keeping with the professional atmosphere of your office [see ch. 5, sec. 3—Office Decor]. Your demeanor at this juncure is crucial. You must pretend nothing is happening. Close the door behind you and go back to your business, leaving the member in distress to pull him- or herself together.
The member in distress. He shook his head. So much unhappiness, so many good fronts. And he, with his misplaced but impeccable standards, had put his faith in the integrity of the fronts, helping to reinforce them instead of tending to the human beneath. He laid his hand on Phoebe’s bare arm, not with any aim to hide her tears or stop them. No agenda. No professional courtesy. Just him.
Phoebe remained still and watchful. To her surprise, his hand spread warmth and contentment through her body. Why was his touch so familiar? Who was it? After three days of sleeping under a tree, he even smelled like someone she knew, not unpleasant either, just sort of a woodsy funk. Gerard’s scruffy head was cocked in anticipation as he stared at her,
and when she looked into his brown eyes she felt intense adoration, and then she knew.
Ben! Her old dog, the best friend of her life, her companion, her chum and confessor, her ally in difficult times, her coreveler in happy ones. She felt his loss all over again, and then she felt his presence.
Gerard. She wanted to bury her face in his hair and rub his belly, take him for a run and give him a good brushing. She wanted to feed him and tell him her troubles. She wanted him to follow her home.
Nicastro sat respectfully silent while Phoebe and Gerard had their little moment together, lost in some deep communion of thought. He split the side of the Mars wrapper lengthwise and ran his tongue along the insides. A paper bag picked up in the wind and rolled to his feet. He looked in it, then deposited his wrapper. With an old tissue, he wiped away the drop of chocolate that had oozed from his mouth and put it in the bag as well. Standing up, he brushed down his shirt and shorts. He’d better tidy up the site as well before he left, or social services would come to take the two of them into protective custody. He gathered the garbage and folded the tarps, then found both of Gerard’s Cole Haan loafers, but just one of Phoebe’s Birkenstock sandals. He caught Gerard’s eye and held up the shoe, as in, did he know where the other one was? Gerard gave him an inane grin in return, so Nicastro called it quits and nodded good-bye. He tripped on a clublike branch on the ground and used it as a cane to get up the slope.
When Nicastro was out of earshot, Gerard leaned in close to Phoebe and whispered, “Birkenstock. The answer is Birkenstock, not BusinessWeek.”
She took in a breath, as if she’d just witnessed some clever animal trick. Who would have expected it? She wiped her eyes with both hands, thinking that if she could turn Gerard around, she could change anything. And not just here either, but in the real world, where it mattered. She wished she had some treat for him. Then she smiled and touched her chain. “Gerard, want to go fetch the key?”
When Nicastro reached the top of the incline, he looked back down at the couple, locked in a scene of enormous peace. He checked his pocket for another candy bar, but no, all gone. A crow, oily blue against the softening pink of the sky, swept over his head and landed in the tree to join his two cronies. What was that old nursery rhyme about crows? “One is for bad news, two is for mirth.” What was three? Or was he thinking of four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie?
He walked away, one hand on his stick, the other on his gall-bladder. He would not take any action on this right now. Not quite yet. What was needed here was time. Well, didn’t they all need just a little more of that? He chuckled to himself, then rubbed the persistent ache under his ribs.
Chapter Thirty-four
Membership Dues
THE CLUB’S lounge resembled the inside of Madeline’s head. Crowded, confused, and pulsating with competing voices, all a bit much to take. She stood at the threshold of the high-ceilinged room and hesitated, but habit got the best of her. She entered and got sucked right in, easily absorbed into the pack. The members were arrayed in canary yellows and Kelly greens, as colorful as jungle parrots, flush with drink or sport, eyes puffy from a day of squinting in the sun. Madeline was feeling overheated and unsure, already too deep in the throng to see where she stood in it. She twisted around and recognized Jay Freylinghuysen’s back, with his pink neck protruding over the collar of his blue blazer. She’d overheard at the pool that he was in some sort of trouble having to do with a car, but here he was, so it couldn’t be all that serious.
“Howard goddamn Amory,” he said, joyfully relating the day’s news to someone just out of view. “Can you believe it? Sneaky little underdog made it into the finals tomorrow. Goes to show you. Nothing fancy, just goddamn determination. A solid six-wood into the wind, right to the pin. There’s performance under pressure for you.”
She heard garbled words and knew Jay could only be talking to Eugene Hollowell. She got on her toes and glimpsed Gene’s tufted scalp. If Humpy had to step down, this incomprehensible man would be in charge. “Yes, uh um, it’s, well. I’ve, where? Oh.”
Gene was trying to escape, but Jay was too quick and put a used-car-salesman hold on his elbow. “I’ll tell you what performs under pressure. This ’ninety-three Beamer I’ve got right outside. Have a look. Your boy is going to be driving before you know it. They grow up quick, don’t they? Breaks my goddamn heart.”
Then they were gone, leaving Madeline in a clearing. She tried not to catch anyone’s eyes as she looked around for Arietta, but she was not so lucky. Beryl Hall, with a peevish smile of cunning on her deeply tanned face, approached her.
“Madeline,” she rasped. “Where have you been hiding yourself?” In her left hand she held aloft an elephantine martini glass of ice-blue liquid, with a tiny blue ice pop as a stirrer. With her other hand, she touched her hip, as if she carried a knife in her support hose. She leaned in to peck Madeline’s cheek, almost spilling the drink, then stepped back to admire the dress. “Look at you. Aren’t you the fashionable one? Here, take this. Enrico is making another batch.” She looked over her shoulder, ready to impart some intimate secret. “It’s called Smurf Pee! I won’t tell you what’s in it. You’ll have to guess.”
Madeline tried to refuse, but Beryl had already spun away, off to the bar to arm herself for her next mark. Madeline was left holding the sticky glass in two trembling hands. She shouldn’t have come. The encounter in the library had been not just disturbing but ominous. What would the future be like with Arietta going around poking members with forks, compiling her incriminating data? Who was to benefit? She felt she’d been drawn into something illicit and intrusive, something just plain wrong, despite Arietta’s “boys will be boys, and girls, girls” argument. Despite Ellen’s cold legalities.
She took a sip of the blue drink, which, oddly enough, tasted orange, reminding her of the tea left untouched in the library and making her a little sick. But her thirst overrode the nausea, and she swallowed more than she intended. Best exchange it for ice water. As she turned to the bar, the sun dipped below the protection of the awning and flooded the lounge with a pink light, making her feel like she’d been thrown onstage. Forget the water. Where was Arietta? She parked her mouth on the rim of her glass as she looked around at the golfers, both men and women, sparkling with sweat as they mimed key swings of the day. Arms were flexed and hips canted, with hands clasped in the air like a disorganized rite of pagan worship. Through this forest of limbs, she saw Arnold Quilpe goose Linzee Gibbons, who jumped, then laughed a bit too lewdly. Holly Quilpe, who’d been standing next to her husband, found something fascinating to look at on the other side of the room, but everyone else was laughing and touching one another, very much alive and in their element. Would she and Charles still be a happy couple if they had something, or someone, to keep their hormones pumping?
Behind her she heard two voices whisper to each other about “the septic problem” over at Trough, and how that was the reason for moving the hole.
“Such a health hazard.”
“Can you imagine if the authorities find out!”
Poor Phoebe, thought Madeline, she never had a chance. The Club had successfully covered her up with a lie. She wished now that she hadn’t been so chicken-livered; she should have rallied the media and helped her daughter achieve her goals. What kind of a mother wouldn’t even do that?
Madeline needed air, but standing between her and freedom was Ralph Bellows, lumbering in her direction, still clutching a bullhorn from some minor official post he’d held at the tournament. He’d been away in Maine for weeks, so he would certainly ask her how their summer had been. She didn’t have the strength to turn the conversation, and she definitely didn’t have the stomach for the blue tartan tam-o’-shanter he wore on his head. She slowly wormed her way to the back wall, where she could feign interest in the trophies while she watched for Arietta. Behind the locked doors of the glass case stood an army of urns crowned with miniature golfers commemorating glories long past. Little s
ilver people, slightly tarnished, on display for all eternity. Her focus changed, and she saw her own reflection in the glass.
“Madeline Lambert? Is that you?”
Madeline turned with a smile, ready to run. It took a moment to disengage her words from her thoughts. “Oh, Isobel. How go the wedding plans? I saw Duncan and Bonnie at the Copley.”
Isobel Crane was a wiry, weathered blonde, with white linen sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. Her hair was teased in a botanical sort of way, but the warmth of the room was making it wilt. “Yes, they went to Cartier to choose barrettes for the bridesmaids. It never ends.”
“Busy, then?”
“Them, not me. I’m the mother of the groom. I don’t do anything but buy myself a plain blue dress.”
Madeline tried to join in on her laugh and failed. “They make such a lovely couple,” she said instead. But for some reason, she choked on her last two words, and returned the unnatural drink to her lips.
Isobel smiled openly, which made Madeline shudder. Isobel wouldn’t be so happy if her Duncan had fallen in love with Bonnie’s cousin Courtney, a marriage Arietta hinted could not be. Madeline felt like a tyrant even knowing so much.
Isobel held up her own blue drink, and they clinked glasses. “I see Beryl caught you too. They’re actually not too bad.” They both took long sips. “We’ll be sorry tomorrow, though.”
Madeline smiled weakly. “Have you seen Arietta?”
“She’s out on the terrace with Anne. I’m so glad to see you. Is Charles here?” She looked around, expecting he might be standing just a few inches away, then reddened to her diamond studs.
“He’s. . .” Madeline trailed off. “He’s been tied up on a project. . .”
The silence lay awkwardly between them, until Isobel leaned in and put her hand on Madeline’s arm with great tenderness. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she whispered.