“I’m sure she is.”
“She has a vagina,” dangled Peg.
“No doubt.”
“And it’s well attended to,” added Peg, thinking of Tracy’s vibrator collection.
“I’m just not attracted to her.”
“What if I told you she was attracted to you?” asked Peg. A lie, but Peg might be able to talk Tracy into it.
He shook his head. “No sale. Just for the record, I would gladly join any club that would have me for a member. I’m a member of a dozen different organizations: a bowling team, a cheese-tasting society, a neighborhood watch, a gardening club, to name several.”
“Gardening club?” asked Peg with interest.
“I breed hybrid roses.”
“I’m an interior landscape designer,” she said. “Was. In the city.”
“I dated a nursery owner once,” he said. “From the club. She was sweet. But her fingernails were filthy, and she smelled like fertilizer. She had wrinkles from working outdoors. Her hair was a disaster.”
Dirty nails and mulchy aroma. Story of Peg’s life. She wondered if any of her boyfriends had said as much about her.
“She blew me off,” said Ben, “after two dates.”
“Maybe she didn’t like the way you smell,” snapped Peg. Her charitable impulse toward him had evaporated.
“You’re angry. Alienated, for sure,” he said. “I should have stuck to our common interest in gardening, instead of saying something critical about another woman.”
“A good idea for future dates,” said Peg.
He paused, and then asked, “Under what circumstances could you possibly see us getting together?”
“You and Tracy?” she asked.
“You and me,” he said. “Be honest.”
She said diplomatically, “We both have a lot of Inward Bounding to do before we could have that conversation.”
“So it’s possible,” he said.
Eyes on plate, fork busy, she shrugged. She chewed to avoid speaking. But she was running out of food.
He said, “Just theoretically, Peg. What would it take for a woman like you to be attracted to me?”
“A woman like you,” he’d said. She was struck by the notion that, for most men, all females were of a type. To him, she was “beyond reach.” She could be (had been) a demanding neurotic who woke up her boyfriend at 3 A.M. crying and begging (Linus would call it “sudden-onset hysterical behavior”). She could be (had been) a clingy succubus who drained her lovers of emotional pulp. Or she could be (hadn’t been yet) a deranged hatchet killer, or brain-eating zombie. But that didn’t matter to Ben. All he saw was long shiny hair and an athletic body.
She said, “A woman like me could be attracted to you exactly as you are.” Which was the kindest thing Peg had ever said.
The waiter appeared (thankfully), and asked if they’d like to meet the chef. Ben was hesitant. He didn’t want to veer away from his favorite topic—what was wrong with him—but Peg said yes, they’d love to.
A spiffy man approached their table from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a cloth apron. Under it, he wore khakis and a pink oxford shirt. He was about forty, his face wide and weather-worn, red hair turning a soft silver. Half expecting the chef to be French (another New Yorker assumption), Peg was surprised by his Vermont accent.
“Albert DeWitt,” he said. “I hope you’re enjoying the meal.”
Peg and Ben assured him they adored every bite. Albert smiled amicably, soaking it up like sauce on bread. She said, “I thought you were going to join us.”
“Linus told me not to,” said Albert. “I do exactly what Linus tells me. I have since we were three years old, and things have worked out pretty good for me so far.”
“Have you lived in Vermont your whole life?” asked Ben.
“Not yet,” said Albert, deadpan, waiting for a laugh.
Peg and Ben laughed.
“Or, I should say, so far. I can’t imagine leaving. I’m a native. Fourth generation Vermonter.” He was obviously proud of that, too, along with his cooking, and his jokes.
As a native New Yorker, Peg understood the cachet of being born and raised in the city. Vermonters, apparently, were just as snobby.
Peg said, “Linus is a native, too, right?”
Albert shook his head. “Technically, Linus is a flatlander. His parents were from Boston, and they moved to Manshire a couple of years before Linus was born.”
“Before?” said Peg. “He’s not a native even though he was born here?”
“If a cat crawls into the oven and has kittens, that don’t make ‘em biscuits,” replied Albert with an exaggerated Upper Valley–ese, of which he was also proud.
“How unfair,” said Peg. “To live in the same town for decades, to be born here and still to be an outsider.”
Albert laughed loudly at that. “No one in Manshire thinks Linus is an outsider,” he said. “They wouldn’t have elected him mayor if they did.”
“Linus is the mayor of Manshire?” asked Ben, as surprised as Peg was.
“He adjudicated at my wedding,” said Albert. “He’s married a hundred couples at least, but never been married himself. Everyone in Manshire is waiting—praying—for that day.”
Peg felt herself blush, not sure why. Albert seemed to notice, his eyebrows rising.
She quickly changed the subject. “If Linus told you not to sit with us, how are you going to report back to him about our date?”
He said, “I’m not reporting anything. Your date is none of my business. I’m just giving Linus the tape.”
Ben said, “The tape?”
Albert reached under the tablecloth, and ripped something from the bottom of the table. He brought his arm back into view, and showed them the microcassette recorder, duct-tape tacky, the spinning wheels inside still recording.
Ben stammered, “That’s…that’s an invasion of privacy!”
Albert frowned at Ben’s reaction. He said, “You knew you were being monitored.”
“Not covertly,” said Ben.
Peg sympathized. Ben had said those things about Wilma. She tried to remember if she’d said anything inflammatory.
“That’s the way we always do it,” said Albert. “Linus likes an element of surprise.”
Ben said, “This is an outrage!”
Albert wasn’t up for Ben’s outrage. He said, “Tell you what. I’ll send out some white chocolate mousse, with a raspberry sauce and a sugar cookie.”
“And coffee,” said Peg. “If you please.”
Albert left the table, the tape recorder in his pocket. Ben dropped his head in his hands. He said, “Great! This is just fucking great. They’ll hear everything I said. About Wilma. Vaginas. Cambodians. They’ll hate me! My bad dating has reached a new low. Now I can alienate people who aren’t even on the date.”
“Wilma and Linus are professionals,” said Peg. “They have the necessary detachment. This can’t be the first time they’ve been gossiped about over dinner.”
“This is all your fault,” said Ben, his once kind eyes sizzling with anger. “You made me talk.”
Hadn’t he been saying that he couldn’t shut himself up? Peg said, “I didn’t know we were being recorded. Honestly, Ben, I’m sure they won’t care what was said. Everything is fodder for them. They won’t take it personally.”
“You believe that?” he asked.
“I do,” she said, not too convincingly.
“Under these circumstances,” said Ben, throwing down his napkin, “you can forget about us ever getting together.”
The waiter arrived with their dessert on a silver platter.
Chapter 19
When Ben and Peg returned to the Federal (he walked three paces behind her), the place was quiet. Where was everyone? she wondered. Clearly, the others were having a better time on their dates. Without a word, Ben walked straight up the stairs, into the men’s suite, slamming his door. Peg wandered through the living room, toward the back
porch.
She thought of turning on the outside light, but then again, why attract a swarm of mosquitoes? She pushed the screen door open, and stepped outside.
A yelp, the creep of floorboards. Peg turned toward the noise. Even in the dark, she could make out two figures on the wicker love seat. On reflex, Peg averted her eyes. But then she had to turn back out of sheer amazement.
Tracy sat astride Luke, his hand up her shirt, her arms around his neck. “A little privacy,” said Tracy in a raspy voice Peg hadn’t heard from her before.
Peg immediately backed herself into the living room. Tracy’s evening of stripping corn had ignited vegetative passion in Luke, a man who, until that point, appeared to have the sex drive of a potato. Peg was glad someone was having a good time. And jealous that she wasn’t.
If Tracy and Luke were back from the farm, Peg figured Gloria and Ray had to be done with their church potluck. Might they be lip smacking in a dark corner, too? The thought unleashed another blast of jealousy. Fearing the worst, she went in search of them.
Starting with the living room. All couches clear. The kitchen, empty. The light under Linus and Wilma’s bedroom door was on, though. She tiptoed closer, her ears prickling like a cactus. She crept closer, slowly, stealthfully, until she was pressed against the door, her cheek resting on its wood panels, listening.
Soft voices. Wilma’s clinical tone. The shuffling of paper. Linus must be in there with her, she thought (he’d been Tracy and Luke’s chaperone). But that begged the question: If Wilma was home, where were Ray and Gloria?
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps, the door handle jiggling. Shit, she thought, jumping away from the door as it opened. Peg zipped back to the cranny between the wall and the fridge.
She kept her mouth shut. She was impressed by her ability to do this, especially when she saw Ray exit Wilma’s bedroom. Wilma of the touch-feely hands. Wilma who’d stroked Ben’s knee and grabbed Luke’s ass. What had she just touched of Ray’s in her bedroom?
Jealousy, flaming, hot, burned in her marrow. Wilma was her rival? She’d tear her apart, she’d cut out her eyes. Then again, Peg was having some doubts that Ray was right for her. But even if he wasn’t, that didn’t mean she wanted him to be right for someone else. Or maybe it wasn’t jealousy she felt. Maybe it was anger, at Wilma, for cheating on Linus. He didn’t deserve to be deceived in his own room, his own house.
Did Peg see herself as someone who would tell a friend about his or her partner’s infidelity?
Strongly disagree. Although, as she knelt in her cranny, Peg pictured herself telling Linus the truth. His shocked expression and instant grief. Her comforting him, holding him, rubbing his back. Guiding his head into her neck, knitting her fingers in his unruly hair, whispering softly to him, planting kisses on his shoulder, lifting his head to access his lips…
To what? Kiss Linus? Peg screeched that fantasy to a halt. Clearly, she was coming undone. Too much Inward Bounding had knocked the sense from her mind. Peg crawled out of the kitchen, and dashed to the front yard. Still wearing her date dress, Peg kicked off her sandals and started running.
She ran along River Road, back toward Main Street. She stayed on the grass or the soft dirt bunker to protect her feet. But it didn’t matter. Peg barely felt the ground. She was aware only of the up and down of her legs, the warm air filling her lungs, the steady thudding of her heart. The movement of bones and muscles in coordination, faster than usual, erasing mental activity, feeling only physical strain and release.
She was back at the restaurant in minutes. Slowing after the half-mile sprint, Peg jogged by Poule au Dent, looking in the windows out of curiosity, like a murderer returning to the scene of the crime.
Inside, at a table by the open front window, she spotted Albert DeWitt in his pink shirt, sipping a glass of wine. Across from him, smiling as always, was Linus Bester.
Before Peg had a chance to duck, Albert spotted her.
“Look who’s back,” he shouted out the open window.
Peg had no choice but to respond. “I think I left my sunglasses here.” Only as the words were exiting her mouth did she realize they was true.
“I’ve got them,” said Albert, holding up her sunglasses, and his wineglass. “Come on in. Join us for a drink.”
She nodded, and went for the restaurant’s front door, all the while in a slight panic. Could she act normal? Could she pretend she hadn’t seen Ray exiting Linus’s bedroom?
Linus and Albert watched her approach them. Albert looked bemused; Linus smiled cheerfully. Poor oblivious sucker, thought Peg.
The two old friends invited Peg to sit. Linus said, “Night run?”
She said, “Just meandering.”
“You’re sweating. And your face is red.”
“Okay, I was running. Yes,” she said.
Albert poured her a glass of the same Bordeaux she’d had at dinner. “Do you always run barefoot?” asked Albert. “Like those Kenyan marathoners?”
Linus said, “Let me see your feet.”
Peg crossed her bare legs and lifted her left foot for inspection. It was dirty, but otherwise unharmed. She’d been on grass, after all.
Linus whistled. “That’s some foot.”
Peg had always been self-conscious about her extra-large hooves. “You were expecting dainty lady’s feet?”
He said, “I wasn’t expecting the leathery sole of a Hobbit.”
A party of six entered the restaurant. Albert excused himself to seat them. Peg said, “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I dropped off Luke and Tracy and came over. Albert and I have a weekly cigar date.”
“Is Wilma still at church with Ray and Gloria?” she asked smoothly.
He shook his head. “They’re back. I said hello and good-bye to them, then drove over here. I saw you and Ben on the road walking back together.”
“So Wilma knows you’re here?”
“Every Monday night,” he said.
Albert rejoined them. “Shall we?” he asked. They all rose, and Albert led them to a garden patio behind the restaurant. The patio had a full bar, benches and tables, a trellis with pink roses and a potted lilac bush, still blooming in July. Peg inhaled the summer scents, wishing she’d eaten out here instead of inside. Albert must have read her thoughts. He said, “The tape recorder picks up conversation better indoors.”
She nodded and said, “Can we sit at the bar?”
“You like the bar?” asked Linus.
“I always sit at the bar,” said Peg.
“Even for dinner?” he asked.
“Definitely.” Peg liked the long-legged chairs, plates on lacquered mahogany, the colored bottles to look at while she ate. They pulled up stools, Peg between the two men.
“Linus would rather eat at the bar than at a table, too,” said Albert. “Wilma never lets him. None of his girlfriends have let him.” He added, “That’s why he’s never married.”
Peg asked Linus, “Restaurant seating is a make or break compatibility issue?”
Linus said, “I try to compromise.”
“Speaking of compromise,” Albert said, “how is Wilma?”
Linus said, “Very well, thank you.”
Stage-whispering to Peg, Albert said, “I give it six months.”
“That’s what you said six months ago,” said Linus.
Albert produced two cellophane-wrapped cigars. He handed one to Linus. “For you, nothing but the best.”
The men stoked their cigars. The bartender, a pretty woman, barely old enough to serve alcohol, asked for their orders. Albert suggested they try some new vodka from Poland. The bartender poured the clear liquid over ice. A waiter came outside, looking for Albert. Trouble in the kitchen, he said. Their host excused himself, and handed his cigar to Peg.
Alone with Linus, she watched him sip his drink. Peg admired the way he drank it without grimacing, as if he genuinely enjoyed the flavor of uncut vodka. He turned toward her, his face guileless, the candl
es on the bar painting him in shadow.
She said, “In New York, the tabloids call the mayor ‘Hizzoner.’ ”
Linus nodded, cigar in mouth, smoke curling. “The Upper Valley News calls me ‘Supreme Imperial Eminence.’ ”
“They do not,” she said.
“Ask Albert.”
“Vermont humor seems to be based on gullibility.”
Linus said, “How’d it go with Ben?”
Peg said, “Nice trick, the tape recorder.”
“You don’t have to worry,” he said. “People gossip.”
“You get off on subterfuge. Calling the cops on me. The tape recorder,” Peg said.
“Just doing my job,” he said.
Peg said, “Let’s talk about your job. Your other job. I can use a friend in high places if I’m going to survive in this town.”
“You’ll do fine here,” assured Linus.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Albert likes you,” said Linus. “He’s a good barometer.”
“What did he say about me?” she asked like an approval-greedy pet.
“He said, ‘I like Peg.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he wants to divorce his wife and run away with you.”
Peg asked, “He does?”
Linus laughed at her and shook his head. “So much for your quick study of Vermont humor.” He sipped his vodka, killing it. “Albert doesn’t make many qualitative statements. If he says he likes you, that’s what he means.”
Peg thought of the millions of times she’d heard New Yorkers say of someone they just met, “I absolutely adore him. I am madly in love with him. He could not be more fantastic.” Overstatement was the norm. A slice of pizza or well-tailored jacket could provoke a declaration of undying devotion.
“I like Albert, too,” Peg said.
“He also said I should break up with Wilma and go out with you,” Linus added.
She swatted him on the shoulder. “I’m not falling for it again, you jackass.”
He looked her squarely in the eye, and said, “Are you going to smoke that, or let Albert’s cigar go to waste?”
She took Linus up on the challenge. Sucking slowly, she got a mouthful of blue smoke.
The Girlfriend Curse Page 13