A Wonderful Stroke of Luck

by Ann Beattie

  “But those other kids really had bad stuff happen to them. Hailey spent the summer before she came at McLean. And she still cried and pulled out her hair. I look back, and I realize Darius was bulimic. They knew, right? That he barfed into the toilet every time he ate?”

  “He was seeing a psychiatrist. He wrote stories about it that were published in the literary magazine. I hope he’s feeling better now than he did at school.”

  “Your concern for Darius is very moving.”

  “How would I know why your father enrolled you? It was a country club of schools.”

  “LaVerdere,” he said. “My father’s dead, so I can’t ask him.”

  “You’re presenting this as a situation that made you unhappy. You were popular, Big Ben. You weren’t like Jasper, always having separation anxiety from his mother. You made friends. You’ve made a life for yourself. I don’t think your father was very good at parenting, as it’s now called. Kids get shipped off all the time to far worse places. Did you hear that Ha just missed getting a Nobel? He left the same time I did, for Caltech. Word is, he’ll get it next time around.”

  “You’re trying to change the subject.”

  “A fight you had with your sister that particularly upset your father. I didn’t personally read applications, you know—though they never minded calling me in to hear about absurd architectural plans for birdhouses. One guy wanted to donate his lariat collection and add a room to the gallery to house it! I’m surprised nobody wanted to donate a roller coaster. If Michael Jackson had known about us, we might have gotten Bubbles as a bequest. I don’t remember the details. Maybe he was impulsive in sending you to Bailey. I don’t know.”

  “He said I had a fight with Brenda?”

  “In the basement? You were dancing, I think. I try to clear this shit out of my mind, too, you know. Some deep-seated resentment about your mother’s death that caused the two of you to fight? What does it matter why he did it? You got an excellent education. You fit in. I can name several girls who had a crush on you, even if Jasper seems to have been the one who was always fucking them in the potting shed. You got a scholarship to Cornell.”

  So, in his father’s version, the fight had been between him and Brenda. He and his sister—who was gone from the house at that point—turned into the ones who’d rolled on the basement floor.

  “I don’t know, LaVerdere. You’ve got the academic credentials you have, and you’re impressed with Cornell? I find that hard to believe. I’m preoccupied with somebody else’s wife, but if she were available, I don’t know that I’d take up with her,” he found himself saying. “To our mutual dismay, LouLou’s gay. She’s in a relationship. To tell you the truth, Jasper and I never seem to talk. Nobody around here’s a real friend. A woman I used to be involved with called it ‘life on the lam as a reverse-snobbery style statement.’ Maybe I’m like you. I should have stayed in New York, but I lack courage.”

  “I hope not. It’s an hamartia.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A fatal flaw. Don’t you remember our discussions of Shakespeare? Back in those days when it was so exhilarating to believe in predestination. In spite of that, or maybe in a constant attempt to escape that, our friend could circle the globe in forty minutes. Robin Goodfellow would have been wise enough to be in orbit when the towers fell.”

  “LaVerdere”—It felt much better to call him that than Pierre—“man, what are you going to do about this bad situation you’re in?”

  “I’m going to call Elin. It’s clarified my thoughts just to discuss this with you. Thanks for being willing to listen. Okay. I’m on my way.”

  “Take care,” he said. Since LaVerdere’s departure was what he’d most hoped for, he didn’t know why he felt defeated. He’d meant to project his voice, but it hadn’t worked.

  Near the kitchen door, LaVerdere turned back. It was such a predictable gesture, such a bad-movie gesture, Ben wasn’t expecting it. “We dissolved the business before your father died. Another company bought the mill from us before the work was completed. Bank loans were tight and we hadn’t counted on the expense of removing asbestos. In retrospect, we sold too cheap, too fast. He got fifty percent of what we cleared, absolutely. Elin was there when the lawyer did the paperwork.”

  “It never occurred to me that you screwed him.”

  “Thank you. Then maybe I can forgive myself for trying to.”

  “You’re such a mindfuck! Now you’re telling me you tried to steal money? Think about this, man: You’ll do whatever it takes to keep me off balance. What’s going on?”

  LaVerdere walked back to the table, picked up the glass, and hurled it against the door. He said, “That’s what I feel like inside. That’s my final apology.”

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Ben said. “You think this is some Edward Albee play?”

  LaVerdere walked out. How many drinks might he have had at the bar before calling? LaVerdere’s slumped shoulders under his jacket’s thin material made him look his age. Shattered glass. What a pointless, adolescent thing to do. Walking behind him, Ben wished to be a human broom, more eager to sweep the man out the door than the glass.

  Another simultaneous but conflicting thought also occurred to him, along the lines of wishing for the worst to happen, because then it would be over. What if the two of them did continue talking? If he agreed to go to Rick’s with LaVerdere, he’d no doubt find out more. Maybe he could listen and not get caught up in the other person’s problems. He could pretend he was someone else—one who drank, say, a martini, his father’s favorite drink, titrating the vermouth he’d requested be served on the side, or prosecco with half a strawberry bobbing to the surface of the narrow flute.

  His intuition told him that LaVerdere would be headed to Rick’s. The thought of a simple drink with his old teacher suddenly took hold; certainly it wasn’t impossible that whatever further time they spent together could turn out better than he expected. What if he was wrong? Arly thought he was wrong about everything. Steve thought he was so cynical he couldn’t think straight. If anyone had intentionally broken a glass at Steve’s, Steve would have followed them outside to slug them. Drama concluded, he and LaVerdere could be just two guys spreading their legs on bar stools after the unhappiness ended: Occam’s razor; remember not to neglect the simplest explanation, though make sure—LaVerdere had stressed this—that you have all the facts. Maybe a drink would reveal a few more so-called facts. Was certain information somehow exempt from interpretation? But how could you be sure what things meant, how things were, when facts were spun into fiction, and vice versa? You couldn’t have two people who were skeptical of each other walking the edge of a razor at the same time, the way angels danced on the head of a pin. That might be downright dangerous.

  But actually, that might not be a problem because he and his teacher were both ultimately pretty dumb. Thinking didn’t necessarily get you anywhere other than lost in thought. Women were crazy—what could you do? Your buddy was dying—why not honor his last request? Your smart, pretty former student selects you, out of all the world, as the perfect father for her child? If it was true, as LaVerdere liked to say, that everyone had to invent his or her own life, you should certainly give yourself every advantage.

  His father had lied. Because he was embarrassed, or, worse, because the confusion really existed in his mind. Because he could handle the idea of a fight between his children better than he could justify tackling his son? Was that one just too fucked-up psychologically?

  He thought he’d wait five minutes, then drive to The Spotted Rick. But as he picked up his jacket and opened the door, he realized he’d run out of optimism. His great idea dissipated almost as fast as it popped into his mind. Alcohol wasn’t an equalizer; it was kerosene for the fire. It was the missile that whizzed over the peasants, who raised their hands in surrender. “Of course, if these peasants had lived in one of our inner citi
es, they’d have been immediately shot in the back,” as LaVerdere had once written, to Ben’s amazement, on the margin of one of LouLou’s response papers. Men’s actions had little to do with language and metaphor, and everything to do with testosterone and cortisol. Imagine a man as a transparent test tube holding those ingredients, and shake.

  Elin had offered an educated guess when he’d pressed her, but she didn’t know why he’d gone to Bailey. He’d been sent there because of the dance, the humiliating dance he’d done in the basement, the day he’d discovered a box of photographs of his mother as a young woman. It was one of those mistakes after which you didn’t get a second chance, like setting a cat on fire. He’d found his mother’s high school graduation picture and been mesmerized; she’d looked like Brenda, but the brows were his, the eyes. He’d held up the photograph like a hand mirror and pretended she was his dance partner—a stupid adolescent moment. They’d swirled across the linoleum floor as jazz played on the radio upstairs. How could he have known that his father kept his secret liquor supply down there, or that he’d descended the stairs in his socks and pajamas to refill his glass? He’d seen Ben doing his best Fred Astaire imitation, dipping and swooping, eyes locked with eyes that looked back from the photograph. Who knows how long he’d watched, standing in the dark, before turning on the overhead light, too astonished even to hide his drink. He’d walked forward—if he’d found Ben masturbating, that would have been better; looking at pornography, even better. When he’d realized exactly what his son had been enchanted with, he’d not only destroyed the photograph, his thick fingers still precise enough to shred it into bits, he’d tackled Ben, the glass breaking as they fell, liquor dousing their clothes. Both had been cut. And then, ashamed by what he’d done, his father had gone upstairs and banished him as soon as he could. Elin had been home. She’d turned on the radio, having no idea what her soundtrack would accompany. Or had she turned it on to block the noise? Was it really possible she’d heard nothing? Once, as he now knew, his father had hit Elin.

  He couldn’t remember how he and his father had risen from the floor, nor where they’d gone or what they’d done afterward. He’d toured Bailey with his father with six stitches taken belatedly on his thumb where the cut kept reopening.

  He went to the window. He wondered if deer were outside. Of course they would be. If he took a walk he’d see them or he’d be startled by their shadows, by blackness shivving night’s grayness, by the sound of snapped twigs, crunching leaves, branches susurrating in the breeze. If Ginny left Steve—if she sent him off to Texas alone—if she confessed her undying love, was she really the one? She thought his fascination with deer, who carried ticks and ate gardens, made no sense. She liked big TVs and expensive clothes; she was the one who’d had their house all but bulldozed, the renovations had been so extreme. A California girl in the wrong place, probably in the wrong marriage. She was doing her best. He doubted that he and she would be soul mates, either.

  He opened the closet, still thinking he might put on his jacket and follow LaVerdere. He picked up a baseball cap that had fallen and tossed it up on the shelf where Jasper’s father’s beret still lay. The Man. His silly hat made of soft wool. It had been there a long time. It was as if he could fool himself into thinking Mr. C. was still alive, because he had this tiny part of him. Ben corrected himself: this souvenir. More bluntly, this hat. That was a conventional move of debating: to send something up, then—when it was so much larger than life that it seemed ridiculous—to deflate the exaggeration, as if it were the thing itself.

  The Man’s beret. The Man was dead—which was the real reason he rarely called Jasper; what to say or, worse, whatever he said, there’d always be his parents’ deaths left out. Jasper had once shown him a photograph of his mother’s healing incision. The photograph had notes and numbering on the bottom; it was obviously not a regular photograph. Operating room as war zone. All those battles fought with the sharpest knife blades opening the body, leaving behind red, welted roads.

  Twenty-two

  I’ve been to his apartment twice and taped notes inside by the mailboxes. He doesn’t pick up his phone. He hasn’t been back to The New School. I went there before his class was supposed to start, but somebody else was using the room. He’s gone.”

  No doubt without telling Elin, Ben thought. So how long should he wait before calling? Why had this become his problem?

  “Dale’s worried he’s killed himself. She thought I should tell you we understand why you equate us with bringing trouble into your life, but she wants you to remember how much we both care for you. She wrote you a note and tore it up. Do you hate me?”

  “No. But I don’t want to continue talking about this. Not your private life, not his visit, not where he is or isn’t. I don’t care. He can continue being LaVerdere. People who want the world to take notice don’t rush to kill themselves. Have a good weekend, LouLou.”

  “Please don’t blow me off with clichés.”

  “Break a leg. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Do unto others.”

  “You’re furious. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’ve got to get going.”

  “I understand,” she said, after a pause. “You let it all build up because you feel like there aren’t words anymore for what you need to say.”

  That was insightful. He disconnected without saying goodbye. Then, before he lost courage, he called Elin. She picked up on the second ring.

  “Elin,” he said. “What’s new?”

  He felt like someone trying to sound casual while questioning god: Okay, so you just created the world?

  “I’ve ordered tulip bulbs from a new place in the Midwest. I’m going to expand the garden. I made a drawing of plants that will fan out from the birdbath and bloom in sequential stages.”

  Obviously, she didn’t know. Elin, who’d taught him how to sniff a wine cork. Who’d explained that hats were necessary because body heat was lost through the head. She’d been a regular Miss Manners, minus irony—that is, unless she’d always known what happened between him and his father in the basement. Quite possibly, she’d been the one who’d suggested he go away to school. Not many women wanted to live with somebody else’s teenage son. How should he phrase it? Should he say, “When you fucked LaVerdere,” or “When you and LaVerdere slept together”?

  “Do you know about White Flower Farm?” she said. “I’ve ordered jasmine from them so I can inhale spring before it arrives. It’s a little extravagant, but not as expensive as good perfume. I probably should leave things the way they are, but a beautiful garden is always a selling point. Ben, I’ve been thinking of putting your dad’s place on the market. It’s a lot to keep up, and all I really need are some houseplants. Well, you can tell I haven’t worked this out yet. I’m getting older. The house is filled with memories of him. If I listed it, would that break your heart?”

  His father had bought the house as a retreat, then done nothing but worry about its upkeep—so much so that he’d ended up finding excuses not to go there. His sister had liked being there more than he had—though of course, he’d had his tree house, and his books. He’d liked the obvious: being high up. Water was more important to Brenda. She’d enjoyed her solitary rowing. She’d trained her binoculars on the birds, and researched their names and their habits. Elin had never made the slightest attempt to get to know Brenda, which made him sadder now than he’d been at the time.

  “Elin, I’m totally behind anything you want to do.”

  “I’m flattered you’ve called. I’ve heard so little from you lately—which I don’t mean as a reproach. I just love to be in touch.”

  “Elin. Did my father have financial problems I didn’t know about?”

  “Everyone has money troubles from time to time. Let’s not talk about that. You’re the one who doesn’t like to talk about money.”

  “Please answer me.”
/>   “He had some cash flow problems for a while when you were at school.”

  Cash flow problems. That euphemism replaced what word?

  “When was it, exactly, that you slept with LaVerdere?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “He was here yesterday. At my house. He told me.”

  “He did?” she said, after a pause. “Well, I guess he did. That’s why you’re calling. It’s why you’re angry.”

  “I appreciate the fact that when I ask you something, you’re honest. But you have to answer.”

  “I do?” She sounded confused.

  He waited.

  “When your father was in the hospital in Boston,” she said finally. “He came to see me.”

  “Routine visit, to check in and see how a former student’s stepmother was doing, when he hardly knew you.”

  “I should have come to Bailey more often. I know it. I felt so out of place with those other mothers. And the teachers—to be honest, some of them intimidated me.”

  “Something had to have happened before my father died between you and LaVerdere, who apparently intimidated the rest of the world, but not you. Something happened, even if it was a drink.”

  “That’s really all it was. He visited your father in the hospital. I called when he was there—I knew who he was, of course, but I’d met him only once. Twice. And your father sent him over to the house. He wanted to hear the truth about how I was doing. I mean, I think he wanted Pierre to bring word back about what shape I was really in. He didn’t call. He drove over. We had a glass of wine. Nothing happened.”

  “I’m sorry I felt I had to ask,” he said. “Believe me, though, it wasn’t simple curiosity.”

  “Why would you call wanting to talk about such things?” she said, her voice faint.

  “Don’t cry until you hear the worst of it,” he said. “Elin, he’s tested positive for HIV. Go to the doctor. Okay?”