“That depends on whether my girlfriend has gotten enough sun out here.”
“You met somebody?”
“I ran into an old fling.”
Eastman was referring, of course, to Meredith. Since they’d left Saigon he had been referring to her as his girlfriend because it had the effect of making them both feel young again. “Excuse me,” he’d said to the stewardess on the plane. “Could you bring my girlfriend an extra blanket?” Meredith had laughed and shaken her head. “Oh, stewardess, my girlfriend here will have the pork loin. I’ll have the fish.” They giggled together, with great relief.
He knew he shouldn’t have admitted to Broadwater about the affair. He’d never done so in the past. Maybe he also knew that Broadwater was aware of his circumstances. Broadwater had guessed it, in fact, at the beginning of all of this. Back when Eastman had thrown out his back and Broadwater had come to his aid with Dr. Dusseldorfer.
“You came through for me this time, Baxter.”
“Take care of yourself, Alan.”
Eastman hung up.
• • •
It was high time he began thinking about the Meredith situation. Honolulu wasn’t a honeymoon, it was a pit stop on the way back to a life he wanted very much to return to normalcy. They were now fifteen hours away from Vietnam and about the same stretch of time back to New York. He needed to settle it, where they stood, because technically, though they were both still married, they were free, separated, miles and miles from their spouses. The situation had the makings of a dangerous disaster, duplicitous and ill conceived. They had never both been unattached throughout the affair. He was afraid of any ideas Meredith could be getting, as well as any ideas he could get carried away with.
He found her by the pool with her catlike sunglasses and a silk scarf wrapped around her head and knotted beneath her chin. He stood over her, casting a long, still shadow. Her skin, outside of her one-piece bathing suit, was beginning to redden. Her freckles multiplied. He’d always admired how she’d redden first and then turn to a dark tan over a long weekend.
“I just got off the phone with Broadwater in New York.”
“How did it go?”
“The room is on the Herald,” he lied, because he wanted to create an impression that their stop was not costing them anything. He didn’t want her to think later that he’d arranged it all for some premeditated purpose. “They like the piece, it’s going to print this week.”
“David will be pleased to see it.”
He didn’t like the mention of her husband, even though he wanted her to go back to him. Bringing Lazlo into it made this harder. It made him aware of how connected they all were. It reminded him of his long overdue book, his career, his debts. This caused him anxiety and worry.
“Why don’t you join me?” she said.
He dragged a chaise lounge closer to hers and sat down. “Now that you bring up David, I think we should talk.”
“Alan.”
“It’s a reasonable thing to ask.”
“Can’t I enjoy myself for this moment? How would you like to talk about Penny?”
“Fine, let’s talk about Penny.”
“I don’t want to talk about Penny. And I don’t want to talk about David. We’ve never talked like this before—not when we’re together—and I see no reason to start. Now lie down. The sun is miraculous.”
“We’ve never talked like this because we’ve never been in this situation before. And I only bring it up because of what happened in Saigon when you arrived. You implied things. That you left David because of me and I can’t have that.”
“The only reason I reacted the way I did was because of the look on your face. I was such an unwelcome sight. That was hurtful, Alan. So we had a row.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to worry, I’m not asking anything from you. If I had thought about us being together after I left David I was wrong. But how can you hold that against me? Why shouldn’t I want to see you? Why shouldn’t I think about being with you? It’s worked for this long.”
“It’s worked because it’s not a marriage.”
“Now you’re trying to hurt my feelings.”
“Don’t be mad,” he said. He held her arm. She didn’t brush him off.
“I’m not mad. I’m tired.”
“I’m going back to Penny.” Eastman gave her a probing look.
She didn’t miss a beat. “I know you are.”
“The man she’s seeing, I know who he is.”
“She told you?”
“In so many words.”
Meredith pushed her sunglasses down and stared at him. She wasn’t buying it.
“Okay,” he said, “I did a little digging. His name is Arnaud Fleishman.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He might be an academic. Maybe at her college. They could work together.”
“Forget him, Alan. The problem isn’t with him.”
“Why should I? It’s not like she’s done this on her own. If he wasn’t in the picture how would this have happened?”
“It would have happened with somebody else. Alan, as someone who shares in Penny’s struggle with being monogamous, I can tell you he is just a fixation. And he’s probably not the first. She’s going through a midlife crisis.”
“She’ll come to her senses.”
“Or she won’t,” Meredith said. “And you have to be prepared for that.”
Eastman lay down and imagined the reality of being alone. He thought back to when he had driven Penny to her mother’s, the days and nights in crippling pain, reading poetry and somehow not reading it at the same time.
“You’re right. Let’s not talk about it,” he said.
“Order me a drink,” she asked. “I’m going to take a nap.”
“You’re getting red.”
He looked into the basket at her feet and found the sunscreen. He put some on his hands and worked up a good cream. Then he rubbed the lotion on her shoulders, arms, and chest. Her skin was hot from the sun. He moved down to the bottom of the chaise to her legs.
“Oh, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you,” she said.
“What’s that, doll?” He was happy again, rubbing the lotion into her thighs.
“I think I may have found a new author. You’ll be very pleased.”
“Who’s that?”
“Take a guess.”
“Well, ma’am, as one can intuit,” he said with a Texas accent, “I’m busy with these here purty legs.”
They laughed.
“Anne Channing,” she said. “The reporter you mentioned. I met her over breakfast while you were asleep and we got to talking. We completely hit it off. She has this incredible book she’s working on about the war. A book that goes for the heart, not just the politics. It’s about the people, Alan. That’s what we want to read about, isn’t it? The voices of the people of Vietnam. You were right. She really knows her stuff. I can’t wait to get my hands on it.”
For some odd reason, while he worked his way from Meredith’s thighs to her ankles and feet, Eastman grew more and more displeased listening to Meredith’s enthusiasm. He didn’t remember mentioning Channing to her. If he did, he couldn’t understand why he did, because he was intentionally keeping the two women apart. A flush of embarrassment overtook him. He concentrated on applying sunscreen to Meredith’s feet, even in between her toes.
“Alan?” Meredith asked.
He was thinking about the night he kissed Channing out on the balcony of the presidential palace. He had punctuated their lousy conversation by forcing himself on her. He let her down. Channing respected him and he let her down. But if Meredith knew, it would ruin him in her eyes. Even though he was desperate to end their affair, it mattered to him that she not know anything like this occurred while she
was in Saigon. Those were the rules. He didn’t want to be forced to defend himself.
“I’d watch out for her,” he said, his voice two octaves higher.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she’s an odd duck, that one. If I can be honest, I caught her in a number of lies on more than one occasion. She’s not all that trustworthy. I mean, she’s got guts. Don’t get me wrong. She goes places I wouldn’t necessarily go. Tried to get me to come with her to Cambodia before you arrived. And I had half a mind to go with her, I told you this. But I would never leave you in Saigon alone. Out of the question. I found that not all of her stories added up. She embellishes a lot to make herself seem more accomplished than she is.”
“What did she lie about? You know how you can be intimidating. Maybe she wanted to impress you.”
“Maybe,” he said in such a way as to lend Meredith’s idea validity. His tactic seemed to be working, but he knew he needed to push further if he was going to kill Meredith’s interest in Channing. Kill, he told himself. Kill this book. “No, that can’t be it,” he continued. “I can tell these things. I’m a good judge of character. I hate to say this, Meredith, but she’s a liar, flat out. It was really disappointing, too, because I thought she had something. I liked her. But if you were to publish that book you’d have to have it fact-checked twice over. Hell, maybe three or four times. I offered her my expertise while I was staying at the Continental. I would have read some of her work, given her notes. But this book of hers, I don’t know what she told you. . . . She hasn’t written a word of it. And I doubt she ever will. Some people, you just know they have the determination to write a major book and to wrestle with it, right to the end. I don’t get that sense with her.”
He was trying too hard. Meredith’s expression went from disappointment to annoyance. “Well,” she said, “I had the most intelligible conversation with her and I got quite the opposite impression.”
“That’s how I felt when I first met her, too. But she took a turn somewhere.”
“This seems hard to believe, Alan.” Meredith shook her head and turned off in the direction of the palms just outside the pool area.
Meredith wasn’t easily swayed. Having already stepped both feet in a pile of shit with this Channing business, what could he do now? Either cower like a politician caught with his tail between his legs, or finish her off.
“I was trying to put this lightly,” he said. “But she came on to me. And I wasn’t having it. She was hurt. Naturally. I get it. But she turned into a real cunt after that. Lied to everyone at the bureau. Tried to ruin my reputation. No one believed her, of course.”
“When did this happen?” Meredith sat up.
“A couple of days before you arrived.”
“I don’t understand; you spoke so highly of her.”
“I was being nice. Maybe I was thinking about your new feminist imprint. I mentioned her to you, I guess. I wasn’t thinking. It wasn’t such a big deal, after all. You know I don’t hold a grudge.”
“Okay, now I know you’re lying. You can hold a grudge longer than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Not against a troubled girl like that, I don’t. Anyway, considering you’re now interested in her I thought I should mention it. I just don’t think she’s worth a damn.”
“Well, I do. And to make this trip worth a damn, I’m going to make sure I follow up with her in New York and see for myself.”
Meredith waved to the waiter for another drink and waited in silence. She was disappointed. Eastman had moved to his chair and took off his shirt while sucking in his gut. He applied the magic lotion to his arms and shoulders, twisting his upper body to reach those most difficult parts, posing in a side twist for her. The waiter brought her drink.
“I thought her book sounded quite interesting,” she said.
“In the end, it’s your call. Maybe she’ll turn around and write something major. Who knows. This is just one opinion.” Eastman shifted in his seat and called to the waiter. “Hey, chief. Bring me a Blue Hawaiian. Hold the umbrella.”
“You know,” said Meredith, “she did blush when I mentioned your name. It made her uncomfortable. I played it down and pretended we weren’t together at all. That we were old friends. I mean, she probably assumed I was with you. I was staying in your room. But soon after we talked about you, she rushed off.”
“See?” Eastman said. “Odd, that one.”
“But what writer doesn’t have their eccentricities? It sounds like she had a crush on you is all. And then she was hurt when you turned her down.”
“So she smeared my good name? Spread rumors around the bureau. That’s some reaction. It’s vindictive. She acted like a hateful bitch.”
“I don’t appreciate your tone. I find it disgusting. You know, Alan, you think you’re good at hiding your feelings, but they come out of your mouth and just present themselves as if on a tray.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re threatened by her. You’re afraid she’s going to write a better book than you and that’s frightening to you. You’re acting the same way you do with Norman, because in your mind it’s a great competition. It always has been. But you know, I’ve been in this business just as long as you have and those I choose to work with aren’t competitors in your intellectual Olympics. And I think you should take a good look.”
“Well, there’s not even a book, is there? So I don’t know why we’re arguing like this.”
“Because you’ve insulted me.”
“Insulted you how? I was trying to help.”
“You’ve insulted my judgment.”
“For that I’m sorry, okay? If there is a book by Channing, then I think you should read it and make up your own mind. I’m always willing to be surprised. Though I doubt you’ll ever hear from her again.”
Meredith laughed. “When there is a book, believe me, you’ll know. And I can’t wait to see the look on your face.”
That evening they had dinner in the hotel restaurant, overlooking the harbor. Beyond the sailboats he could just make out the lagoon. And over the hill beyond that was Pearl Harbor, at least he thought that’s where it was. If he could visit Pearl Harbor in the morning before he finished his second dispatch he could reference it, perhaps as a quick afterword. He could place in the reader’s mind that moment in 1941 that he remembered so well. Perhaps he could quote from the poem he penned under the spell of the attack (“Of What May Ne’er Come to Pass”). He still had it somewhere. Wouldn’t that be a nice little jab in Broadwater’s side? The rejected poem now printed in a far more important publication. No, that was all wrong. Besides, he liked where he and Broadwater stood now. They had a nice editorial relationship; he shouldn’t shit on it too much.
For dinner he had the steak and Meredith a salad with pineapple. The house band played ukulele and slide guitar, a simple Hawaiian melody. Together they drank a chilled champagne. He had his with a side of orange juice that he poured into his flute every few sips.
Something about the affair spoke to the little devil inside of him that needed to act out. It was the planning, getting away with it all, even the word “affair” was thrilling. And beyond the word was Meredith. To meet again and again after all these years. He cared for her. They had cultivated a true friendship. She was a powerful, decisive woman who got what she wanted. And Meredith wanted him still. It made him feel sought after, chased. And with Meredith he could talk about books, literature, his work, and feel like he’d been heard. It seemed the opposite of his relationship with Penny, where of late he felt like he couldn’t get her attention.
But the affair was dissolving his marriage. The secret life took energy away from his real life. Penny wasn’t so aloof either. She had him pegged when he was seeing Meredith again on his trips abroad in the midsixties. She knew by the inconsistencies in his behavior, by his absence. Not answering
phone calls, not being in his room until the next morning. She once said she had called him every hour on the hour at his hotel, running up quite a bill, until he picked up at nine in the morning, pretending to have been asleep. “I’ve been up all night calling you.” “I had them hold all my calls. I needed sleep,” he said. “Bullshit. I spoke to the concierge. And you know what, Alan. I don’t care. Do what you have to if it helps.” “It’s all in your head. This only happens when I’m away. You become hysterical with jealousy.” “I’m not jealous. I’m married to a liar, this is what drives me nuts. And you’re not even good at lying, that’s the worst part. You can’t hear yourself.”
To keep the balance inside himself, he thought it best to lead these two lives—one at home with his wife, and then brief excursions outside of it with an affair he could manage.
Was he wrong about himself and the great experiment he’d been conducting with his life?
Over dinner with Meredith, Eastman suggested that they take different flights back to New York, separated by at least a day. She should go first and he would follow. It would be good if they could fly into different airports. Meredith agreed reluctantly. She had wanted to stay a little longer and said he should go first. She needed a few more days out of the city. So the next day he took a cab into downtown Honolulu to a travel agency that was recommended to him at the hotel. He purchased two flights to New York, his own leaving the following evening, and for Meredith’s he paid the extra fee for the departure date to be kept open. Let her decide. As far as he was concerned he was almost home.
20.
He had that feeling he got whenever he returned from a long trip abroad. It was kinetic, a man renewed from having been somewhere and seen something. He gained a secret experience, and the memory was full, stored up with visions and anecdotes. He had new knowledge from another country, fascinating stuff for those who hadn’t gone, and he wanted to share it. He wasn’t a part of his old life yet, fresh from a trip like this. No one was waiting for him at the airport. Not his wife or a man hired to hold up a sign. No one knew he was back except for Broadwater, and he thought of the ways he could use this invisibleness to his advantage. Once he got to walking around a familiar neighborhood in Manhattan, he sensed intimations of an alternate existence. Hundreds of people passed him by on their way somewhere and he was a ghost among them. No one recognized him or sought him out. He didn’t have any appointments. He had disappeared into another part of the world and daily life continued without him. He had a different awareness now, like being a foreigner in his own city. It wasn’t something that would last. It was an edge, and in order to take advantage of it he decided he would stay out of the restaurants and the usual hangouts. He checked into a downtown hotel called the Corlear, close to the Lower East Side. The hotel was seedy, but the rooms were clean. It was the kind of hotel Wall Street types went to with prostitutes in the late afternoons. Pay for the night and stay for an hour. No one here wanted to be recognized.
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