by Fiona Maazel
The men whisked Rita through the side door, followed by Crystal, who stopped to say something to a security guard, himself secure behind a receiving desk in a booth. Bruce lingered by the entrance, marveling at the grounds. Twenty acres? Sixty? By the time he went inside, Crystal was gone. Rita too.
He asked the guard for directions.
“Driver’s license, please. Arms out, please.”
Bruce was getting frisked. “This is totally over the top, don’t you think?” The frisking continued. And a search through his bag. “What the hell?” Bruce said. “You better have the president in there for me to be going through all this. Hey, if you all are so by the book, why wasn’t my wife patted down? You think a pregnant woman in a sled can’t blow up a house? Maybe she’s got a bomb under the blanket—ever think of that?”
“She has security clearance.”
“Security clearance,” Bruce said. And thought: So maybe Crystal’s godmom really is God.
The guard was unpacking his bag. Bruce always traveled with this bag, so it was complete with items unsuited to today’s excursion but handy in a pinch. Tums. A hank of rope. Pajamas.
The guard said, “I might as well confiscate the whole thing until you leave. Unless you want to walk around with an empty bag.”
“That’s fine,” Bruce said. He’d had the foresight, or luck, to have put his video camera in the inside pocket of his jacket—a great big poofy jacket—which had somehow escaped the security guard. He was going to count his blessings and move on. “But, just out of curiosity, what’s the danger in pajamas?”
“Your receipt,” said the guard. “And here is one for the camera. Electronics are logged separately.”
Bruce dove into his pocket, but the camera was gone.
He stared into the booth. At the monitors along the wall. Each was split into quadrants and each quad appeared to broadcast from a different room. Five monitors, twenty rooms and scenes, among them an overhead view of an auditorium jammed with people, at least two hundred, and, in a clearing by the wall, his wife on a cerise banquette, sipping juice.
“Meeting’s that way, sir,” said the guard.
Bruce walked down the hall. It was paneled in wood, and underfoot were carpet runners in royal blue with sangria trim. He kept walking but found no meeting, just doors that were locked, except for one, which was ajar. He peered inside and listened. Listened hard, heard nothing. How could this building assimilate the noise of two hundred? It was all limestone and brick. In places like this, men were eviscerated on the rack, and their screams were heard for miles.
“Hello?” he said. And then louder, because in this parlor was a cup of tea, steaming; a half-eaten red velvet cupcake; and a cigarette butt smoldering in an ashtray. “Anyone here?”
He stepped inside and nearly upset a cart of desserts. Éclairs, profiteroles, soufflés. Poppy-seed cake and tiramisu. He eyed the spread and felt it narrated something of his future, like he’d snatch a dessert and indenture himself to the fabled witch of the house. He stepped away from the cart. Gingerly. Touch nothing. The cigarette smoke nested in his eyes. He put out the butt and spun around.
“Jesus,” he said, and he brought his hand to his chest. “You scared me to death.”
“My apologies, sir.”
It was not the guard but a man in a tailcoat—a butler, it seemed—whose sir was of a different caliber altogether.
“Oh, well, that’s okay. I’m probably not supposed to be here anyway.”
“Mrs. Anderson will be in shortly. She asks that you make yourself at home and enjoy a pastry.”
“That’s very nice, but I’m just here for—”
He paused, recalling what Crystal had said about her godmother. How much she knew. Whatever they were doing, however ridiculous, he didn’t want to blow it. Rita would get in trouble; Crystal would be mad; they’d all look at him funny in homeroom. He threw up his hands.
“For the party?” the butler said.
“Yes.”
“Very well. I will tell Mrs. Anderson that you do not wish to see her.”
“Wait, don’t do that. I mean, who? Never mind. I’ll just have this custard thing here. And a brandy, if you got any. I can wait for a bit.”
He sat down in a chair that was probably a hundred years old. Victorian, maybe. Blue velveteen, cream frame, crimped seat and back. He bit into the pie. It was an individual serving, the size of his palm. He’d wanted to shove the thing in his mouth whole, but that was always when the lady of the house walked in. Wow, this custard was good. Smooth and light. He decided to sample the strawberry cheesecake puff. And a few truffles, because they were exotic; it said so on the labels, scrawled in cursive. Like someone in the kitchen had taken the time to write in this elaborate hand the names of each truffle. Mint julep. Pepper vodka. Ceylon.
The butler returned with a brandy snifter and bottle. He was everything a butler should be. He was even bent at the waist. Ten years from now, he’d be an L.
“Care to join me?” Bruce said. “There’s clearly enough for two.”
A documentarian needs people.
The butler demurred.
“Some other time, then,” Bruce said.
He crossed his legs. His fingers were sticky. He had slept but three hours the night before—the couch was a muddle of lump and trough—and the sugar was romping about his blood like it owned the place. He went: Okay, Bruce, let’s think this out. Mrs. Anderson, lady of the house and Crystal’s godmother, was partaking of afternoon tea and dessert when she heard you in the hall. She is a pale, recondite woman who consorts only with her godchild, the butler, and, perhaps, the executor of her estate. Most of all, she does not appreciate a certain genre of man, call him stranger, a stranger documentarian who needs people.
The butler came in. Bruce asked for another brandy.
“Shall I just leave you the bottle?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Mrs. Anderson,” the butler announced.
Bruce stood. Crumbs tumbled down his thighs. She put out her hand. She was what—four foot nine? He tried not to stoop, but it was impossible.
“Sit,” she said. “Please.”
“Mrs. Anderson, it’s an honor. You have a magnificent home.”
“Call me Lynne. And thank you.”
She settled under a lamp whose glow helped define the cut of her face. Very narrow. Unnaturally so. A face between cymbals after the clap.
“I see you’ve sampled some of our pastries. The head chef is a specialist.”
“They were great, yeah. Look, I’m sorry if I chased you out before. I didn’t mean to intrude. I think I got lost!”
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Bollinger. More brandy?”
She was so small, the rest of the room began to stand up in contrast. Walls were cream, moldings were buff. No windows, much art. Giant amphora depicting the plight of Agamemnon.
“I’d love some, yes.” He was drinking heavily now, except for the face-saving caveat that, unless you were Samuel Johnson, brandy was not drink. Brandy, Armagnac really, was just fancy after-dinner wine.
She poured with grace. Three-quarter sniff for him, half a smidge for her. She wore a red turtleneck and brown flats. The effect was to condense her frame in obvious defiance of what God had given her to work with. Think I’m small now? Think my calves are compressed and bloated in a way that’s hardly possible in nature? Well, I can do worse. And frankly, what did she care. She lived in a mansion. She had minions. And if her goddaughter’s appearance was any kind of bellwether, she had very attractive friends.
He held up his snifter and regarded the liquid inside. Such an odd vessel for drink.
She fussed with the string around her neck that attached to a stainless steel dog whistle. “Look over there,” she said. As he did, a wall packed with framed impasto art broke in half like a curtain at show-time. The reveal was a console of monitors similar to that in the security guard’s booth. Here, though, no expense had been spared for the q
uality of the picture. It was closed-circuit viewing in HD.
“Surprised?” she said.
He was not.
“Good. It gets lonely out here sometimes. Crystal has so many friends; I like to participate in some measure.”
The whistle was in fact a laser pointer, which she trained on the first monitor: a man in a button-down with chest hair sprouting from the collar, sitting next to Rita on what had become for Bruce, in the past minute, a symbol of all things coveted but unattainable—the cerise banquette with claw-feet. Monitor two, of considerably less cause for distress: Crystal and the militia kids distributing literature. Three: a king-sized bed with canopy, rippled valance, and stuffed green platypus atop the duvet.
“Looks like a nice party,” Bruce said, and he drained the last of his brandy. “I should probably get a move on. A move seems like a good idea.”
His tongue felt swollen. Unwieldy too. Enunciation would fail him in about three minutes.
“I get sound, too,” she said. “Want to hear?”
Bruce thinking: This Howard Hughes thing is weird, and I want to find Rita. Bruce saying: “Okay, and just another pinch before I go.”
He returned his glass to a side table.
“Volume two,” she said in a voice reserved for the commanding of equipment. “Volume two,” she said in a voice reserved for when your equipment does not work. “Martin!” she yelled.
The butler appeared with tray in hand. It occurred to Bruce that he had never seen a butler in person. “Fix the sound, would you?”
He nodded. Disappeared behind the console. Smacked the thing, which released Crystal’s voice in stereo. Crystal haranguing a woman with a gold bone through her nose and spikes implanted in her skull. A metal headband.
Crystal was saying, “The helix goes on the small of your back, not your hip. The sacrum is a place of power. Whatever you put there is a guiding principle. If you tattoo it on your hip, it just means you want to get laid. Makes us look frivolous.”
“Mute two,” Lynne said, and the TV went quiet.
Bruce stood. “Mrs. Anderson, I really should be joining my wife. Thank you for your hospitality. If you’ll just show me the way.” He was listing, one arm braced on a chair back.
Lynne said, “She doesn’t look too concerned,” and she gestured at monitor one, in which Rita and her new Cro-Magnon hero were sharing a laugh. “Please, stay a bit longer. Some pastry, perhaps?”
He retook his seat. Accepted another brandy. He was drunk and glad for it. Now he could say what he wanted, which was this: “You know, Lynne, I figure since I had to leave my driver’s license with security, that’s how you know my name. But how do you know who my wife is? And what’s with all the cameras? I’m a filmmaker myself, so I get wanting to look at people and their lives. But in this case, in this place, I don’t approve of it so much. Not at all. Forgive me if this seems rude, but are you looking to take a lover? Is this Sunset Boulevard?”
Lynne laughed with her whole body, pitching back and forth and finally just forth, doubled at the waist, trying to breathe. When she regained herself, her eyes were bright and cold and the tears seemed to freeze on her cheeks.
“My, my,” she said. “Aren’t you to the point. But really now, what do you mean? Your wife is Crystal’s employer. She told me.”
He frowned. Waved his hand, waving it off, and said, “Right, of course. I am, you know, a jackass.”
“What’s more,” Lynne said, “I know you like film because of Crystal, too. That’s why I thought you’d like my setup here.”
“A jackass! That’s me. Bruce J. Bollinger. Lynne, you are a fascinating creature. You are the stuff of documentaries. You’ve seen a thing or two, literally and otherwise, so how is it you think they’re having a party down there? No, I don’t buy it. I got your number, Mrs. A. I do.”
“Well,” she said, and she smoothed down her skirt. “It’s not my place to think too rigorously about what I hear. Now, tell me about yourself. Are you enjoying your new job?”
“No.”
“No? That’s too bad.”
He pushed at the floor with his feet. His feet lost purchase—this rug was no place for purchase—so he nudged them under the crust and pushed again. Backing away from Lynne had become supremely important. He was not feeling well. The pastries and sissy drink had found kin in the malfunctioning of his intestines and were colluding to make him sick. He thought Agamemnon was dancing on the vase for the way he and the other figures moved about. He considered a lamp on the desk and decided four lightbulbs for one socket was a bit much. He thought, also, that Lynne’s face was coming loose.
She moved her chair forward to reestablish proximity. “Maybe you just need to nurture your creative side.”
He looked at her and smiled. So her face was melting before his eyes—so what? It was a spiritual condition. She was lonely. He was lost. Maybe they could help each other. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “that’s my whole problem right there. I don’t even know what my job at the Department is, but I’m terrified it marks the end of a period in my life when I tried to do something that mattered. I don’t know who I am anymore. I am estranged from myself. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
She poured him more brandy. He’d gone through half the bottle and wanted something else. She offered him some Scotch. “Martin!” And then, to the console: “Volume one.”
RITA: Oh, that’s hilarious. The saddest part of any day is when you hear the vice president is still alive.
CRO-MAGNON: Want to take a tour of the house? It’s pretty amazing, as you can see.
RITA: I’m sort of couchbound. And I’m waiting for my husband.
CM: Where is he?
RITA: Beats me. Probably trying to bleed money from the walls.
BRUCE: Oh no. No no nooooo, you did not just say that.
RITA: He makes (miming quote marks with fingers delicate and lovely) documentaries.
CM: An arty type, right. Those types are always looking for money. He’s come to the right place. I hear Mrs. Anderson is a patron of the arts.
BRUCE (swiveling in his chair to gawk at Mrs. Anderson, to gawk and leer): Well!
RITA (puffing up, happy): No, we’re done with all that. Bruce works for the Department of the Interior now.
BRUCE: I work for the Department of the Interior, and my wife is proud of me. How pathetic. You know, Lynne, this is some very nice Scotch you have here, but I am drunk. And no one is fun when they’re drunk. My son is due in four months, and I work for the Department of the Interior. I am a man he will come to admire, not for what I did, but for what I wanted to do. I have to use the john.
LYNNE (standing): There’s one down the hall.
BRUCE (sniveling): A documentarian cries. Okay? He cries. This is me crying.
“Mute one.” And the room was silent but for the snuffles of the documentarian, who rallied and said, “How did you get so rich? How does it happen? Did you inherit? What do you do? What does your husband do? Is there something for me to learn here?”
She appeared to depress a button under the coffee table. The parted wall reunited. Not one of the paintings was askew for it.
She called for Martin and said, “Make Mr. Bollinger some tea and bring it to the green room, where he will be resting.”
“I don’t want to rest.”
“Don’t worry. And don’t despair. Life sometimes offers up solutions when you least expect them.”
Bruce could not control the slack of his lips, but some part of him smiled, and later, ensconced in a guest room that was all green, he crawled into a bed, thinking: A grant! This incredibly odd, rich woman is going to give me a grant. The hours passed; he slept through them all.
ESME SAID, “Martin, just look at this.”
He looked. And what he saw sacked his self-esteem for the year. It had taken him months to perfect the anchoring system of her face. So much trial and error, but in the end, it held. She’d worn it nine times. It had even survived exposur
e to wafts of sweat and BO in a gym carnival. So why today? Her left cheekbone had mutinied. It was actually falling away from her face. And her nose—my God. It was released from the bridge and tilting floorward.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say: Esme, I am sorry. This will never happen again.” She began to laugh. “Can you imagine what Bruce must have thought? Good thing he was drunk. Good thing, for me—” She looked at Martin with reproach. “Get him home, okay?”
“I’ll do that now.”
“You’ll need the sleds. For them both, I think.”
Martin nodded and left, but at the door, Esme said, “Be careful.” It was cold out—the wind panned across the fields in great sheets—and Esme felt for Bruce and Rita. A couple expecting a child. She’d been part of such a couple once, and she remembered its pleasures. But also the ruination that came before and after and, in this arrangement of feeling: a reminder that nothing is ever as it seems.
On TV: the Great Hall. The meeting was long over, though the room was half-full. If she rewound tape of its highlights, she would have heard about weaponry and nation-states and living as one in a socialist community severed from the body elected. How was it Thurlow couldn’t prune from his ranks people who believed in stuff like this?
On another TV: Ida reading under the covers with a flashlight. Esme considered paying her a visit. She wouldn’t be home from school forever. Plus, no child should be up this late. Why was Ida still up? Esme frowned. Whatever the reason, it was, she feared, just the open eyes of anxiety atop a body of trauma nine years long.
She turned off the monitor. If she tried to comfort her daughter, she might end up exposing herself instead. Since Thurlow, she had not once turned on anyone with a look that might reveal the effluvia of her heart. Its overflow. The puffery of loss and guilt acquired in the span of her time on this earth. She worried now that for having waited so long she might turn that look on Ida, on her little child, and then what?