The Penalty for Holding

by Georgette Gouveia

  "Dad" was Mort James, a wiry man—smaller than his imposing wife, the former Catherine Van Duzen—with white hair, a bald spot and the quick manner of the ace newsman he had once been.

  "Cuban?" Mort asked, offering him a redolent cigar.

  "No thanks, sir, I don't smoke."

  "Sir? Mort, please." He considered the cigar in his hand.

  "To think these lovelies were once illegal here. But you'll find in life that plenty of things that were once illegal aren't now and vice versa. And that what's legal isn't always moral and vice versa. But where are my manners? Sit down, have your cake and eat it, too," he said with a laugh, adding, "let me Irish that for you," as he poured more than a wee drop in Quinn's latte and Quinn eased into a soft-as-butter red leather chair.

  Mort's study was a classier version of a man cave, complete with first editions of works Quinn knew he would never read. One, however, popped off the shelf like an old friend.

  "This is a particularly good translation of The Iliad," Quinn said. "We used it at Stanford."

  "Brenna tells me you studied classics there."

  "That's right."

  "You're something of an oddity for a football player, aren't you, Quinn?"

  "I'm something of an oddity for a human being, sir, er, Mort."

  "That's right. You'll get the hang of it. I like oddities, being one myself. How else can you explain a mutt like me winding up in a place like this?"

  "I think, Mort, some people are just meant to make the leap and others aren't."

  "The leap, huh? I sometimes wonder if it was worth it. The Van Doozies, as I like to call them, were fated for vessels. The first Van Doozies came to America on a seventeenth-century Dutch ship, where some, having landed and looked around, puked their guts out and promptly expired. But a few survived and thrived to amass vast quantities of property and wealth in Manhattan and the Hudson Valley.

  "The most famous Van Doozie, Cyrus Senior, sailed on the Titanic, where he did the gentlemanly thing and required his manservant to go down with him and the ship. They say the ghost of his wife, Amelia, who did not accompany him, still haunts the docks of Manhattan's West Side, waiting for the husband who will never return.

  "It may have been a fitting metaphor for their marriage. As Cyrus Junior escorted his mother from her vigil-in-vain, another son, Hugo, awaited the rescuing Carpathia and Cyrus Senior's surviving mistress, whom he whisked to the countryside, where she and her illegitimate Van Doozie baby were never heard of again—illegitimacy being such a thing in those days.

  "You're shivering. Are you cold? It's this damn air conditioning. Spring has barely sprung but already Her Highness—my wife, Catherine—insists on keeping the temperature set on Arctic.”

  Mort got up from his favorite bottle-green leather chair and adjusted the thermostat, pretending to shoot it when it refused to budge, which made Quinn laugh.

  "Catherine: When I met her she was Kate, sometimes Katie—a rebel with a cause and without a pause. But everything ends, including the sixties, and yesterday's radical is today's conservative. Catherine, as she is once more known, is more Van Doozie than thou, if you get my drift."

  "I think I do," Quinn said, imagining an icy smackdown between Catherine "Van Doozie" James in one corner and his own mother, "El Syd,” in another.

  "All of this is by way of telling you what you're up against, but don't let that stop you. You and Brenna have my full support. I know you're a bit young for her. And, as a former editor, I don't believe in shitting where you eat—perhaps not the best expression in these circumstances. But if you're what makes my daughter happy, who am I to stand in your way?"

  "Mort, I—"

  "No, please, let me finish. I try to be a supportive parent, but the truth is I hate Brenna covering you guys for The Record. Being beside men but not with one: Call me old-fashioned but to me, it's no good for a woman. Someday if you're lucky enough to have a daughter, you'll understand. Did you ever hear my son?"

  "Cy James? Yeah. Great acoustic singer-songwriter."

  Mort nodded. "Plunged off his apartment balcony—or fell, some said. That's what drugs will do to you. After that, I wanted Bren, our only surviving child, just to be safe. I wish she stayed at New York Rumours. But she couldn't stand working for Vienne Le Wood. Now if it had been back in the day when your aunt ran it—there was a newswoman. Terrible business that. Loss is something we never outgrow.”

  Quinn didn’t respond. He couldn’t go there—not without getting emotional. And that, he had learned, was not something a man did, particularly in the presence of another man. Instead, he watched Mort puff on his cigar as if he were playing a wind instrument, contentedly creating rings of smoke. There was something satisfying in savoring the enjoyment of others, Quinn thought, even if smoking were a filthy habit. For his part, he continued eating his cake and sipping his latte in silence—grateful for the dessert, the company and Mort carrying the conversational ball.

  "Anyhow, speaking of Vienne, no doubt you received an invitation to her American Arts Club Ball in a couple of weeks? Don't look so surprised. I know, because she and Her Highness are part of the coven that runs what passes for polite society in New York. You've accepted?” Quinn nodded mid-sip. “Good. It would've done you no good to refuse. Work with Vienne, and doors in this town will open for you. Cross her, and you'll live to regret it.

  "Besides, you won't be the only representative from the sports world. Vienne always stacks the deck with idle football studs—baseball players being immersed in the start of their season and hockey and basketball players at the end of theirs. So there will be plenty of gridiron guys like Mal Ryan—he always gets an invite—and Tam Tarquin. You'll have lots of support."

  Yep, lots of support, Quinn thought as he made his way out of Mort's study in a stupor. He'll be the belle of the ball, the Cinderella from Hell with both Prince Charming and Prince Not-So-Charming in the same place. Quinn was still mulling the prospect—which thrilled him as much as it terrified him—as he bid the other guests good night and thanked his hostess, who seemed to be as relieved to take her leave of him as he was to depart. He didn’t have to look far for Brenna. She was right at his elbow.

  "Let me walk you out,” she said, taking him by the arm.

  "Listen, I know what my father wanted to talk to you about, and I'm sorry. He was a newsman for so long, but he forgot the cardinal rule of journalism: Don't believe everything you read—or write.

  "I'll let him know that while you and I are friends, we're both too busy with our careers. You won't mind ending a relationship that never existed?"

  He paused and smiled. "We'll always have Park Avenue."

  As she shut the car door, she had a look on her face that Quinn had seen once before, late at night when, too tired to read but not tired enough to sleep, he was surfing the tube and came across some old movie in which Gregory Peck was a reporter and Audrey Hepburn, the princess he loved and lost. Brenna looked at him just the way Peck looked at Hepburn—with all the wistful longing for a love that could never be.

  Guess that makes me Audrey, Quinn thought, as Brenna wrapped a pink paisley shawl tightly around her sleeveless gray silk sheath and walked back into the apartment building, sheltered once again from the night.

  Thirteen

  Every year, The American Arts Club Gala was billed as "the party of the century." And every year it seemed to live up to that billing, leading Quinn to wonder, even in the age of digital hyperbole, how many "parties of the century" could there be? And how could anyone judge, given that the century was still quite young? Nevertheless, this year's had to be one of the parties of the century, Quinn thought. He was used to being photographed, but never had he seen as many flashes as went off when he stepped onto the red carpet. He staggered back, surprised and a little frightened, as if he had suddenly been punched in the gut.

  "Quinn, Quinn, over here," the paparazzi shouted. "This way. One more. That's right. Beautiful."

  The directions were
punctuated by questions like, "What'd'ya think of the Temps' chances this coming season?"

  It seemed to Quinn that the paparazzi worked overtime to keep up a steady stream of chatter—as if the quality of the photograph were determined by the amount of conversation.

  "I think our chances are great."

  "Do you think you'll be the team's number one quarterback?"

  "I think you have to earn it every year. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you have everything you need," he said, adding his traditional news conference sign-off.

  He was glad to escape inside until he realized the red carpet continued up the grand staircase, atop which Vienne Le Wood stood rooted like a Roman empress. The Temps' entire O-line could not have gotten past her Imperial Majesty, clad in her usual severely elegant black.

  "Good evening, Ms. Le Wood. Thank you so much for inviting me."

  "Delighted to have you, my dear," she said, drinking him in from head to toe. "And don't you look splendid in that fitted Armani Collezioni tux," she added, squeezing his right bicep in a way that suggested she'd prefer he be wearing nothing at all.

  "Yes, well, I best press on to the show," Quinn said, blushing.

  The arts club was not a club, or at least it hadn't been for a century, but a museum and library that held regular exhibits on American art, mainly in a vaulted Romanesque space. Lately, the museum had been featuring edgier fare like Terence Benchley's jagged antiwar installations, one of which, After Baghdad, consisted of a room of broken glass. It became the subject of controversy when a woman fell into the display in another city, cutting a femoral artery on a piece of glass. At the arts club, it was roped off in the museum's new, white, modern wing, as was a sculpture of a couple, bloodied and naked, making love. The configuration of the space—to say nothing of the crowd gathered around the nudes—had guests and pool reporters jockeying for position, locked in an awkward, "excuse me" two-step. It wasn't long before Quinn ran into Brenna—literally.

  She cleaned up real good, Quinn thought, the vintage strapless silk floral gown—with its fitted bodice, baroque bow at the waist and cascading pink-purple palette—flattering her swan neck, superb shoulders, and toned arms.

  "I didn't think The Wreck's sports department went in for this sort of thing," Quinn said, bussing her cheek. "You look beautiful."

  "Thanks, but I'm not here in my usual guise. I'm subbing for the society columnist, who picked tonight of all nights to have her baby."

  "Well, I imagine she didn't do it on purpose," Quinn said.

  "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that," Brenna said, uncharacteristically cross. "And, of course, I work for a guy who has told me in no uncertain terms that my job is whatever he says my job is. Who knows? Maybe next week I'll be emptying wastepaper baskets with the one janitor who wasn't laid off. Honestly, it just galls me. But then, I think, I could be out on my considerable ass. And I am an actual newspaper columnist, the last of a dying breed. More like a dinosaur, if you ask me. Anyhoo, despite my Van Doozie pedigree, I'm hardly a trust-fund baby. So I borrowed one of my mother's gowns, corralled my curls in my best imitation of a chignon and here I am."

  Her mood softened. "I'm sorry, Quinnie. It's just the low blood sugar talking. I'd kill for one of those fried salmon dumplings I saw floating around."

  "Waiter," Quinn said, calling over one of the pieces of man candy who worked any Vienne party. "The lady here would like a dumpling—or two."

  Quinn winked at Brenna.

  "Mmm, ambrosia of the gods," Brenna said, almost orgasmically.

  "Ah, Brenna, I see you're on the scene for The Wreck tonight," Vienne said, coming up behind them.

  "Oh, hello, Vienne," Brenna said, shooting Quinn a "just-my-luck" look as she tried to polish off the dumpling.

  "We all miss your writing at Rumours," Vienne said, adding, "I wouldn't be eating too many of those if I were you."

  Brenna smiled sweetly. "Thanks for the diet tip, Vienne. But at least my IQ is higher than my weight."

  "Meow," Brenna purred to Quinn as Vienne moved on. "And therein lies the reason I'm no longer at Rumours, that and well, I couldn't stand the pressure. There was no end to the work and no hope for a raise or a day off. But then, you know what it's like to work for someone who doesn't appreciate you."

  Quinn nodded, shrugging. "What choice do we have but to go on?"

  "Precisely," Tam said, smiling and embracing them both at once as he snuck up on them. "Brenna, you look absolutely stunning," he added, kissing her cheek.

  "Thanks but I think not as stunning as you guys," she volleyed, taking in the effect of Tam's blue-black tux. Leave it to him, Quinn thought, to wear something unusual but totally appropriate. He never misstepped, did he? He was that sure of himself.

  "Hello, you," he said to Quinn, giving him a bro shoulder bump as he clasped his hand. The effect on Quinn was like a cloudburst on the parched land.

  "Quinn?"

  The voice belonged to Mal, who had Tiffany Turkova in a slinky red strapless ball gown on his arm. She flashed Brenna a big cat grin before air-kissing her.

  "Nice dress," Mal said to Brenna in a perfunctory manner as he looked around. He and Tam didn't greet each other. OK, awk-ward, Quinn sing-sang to himself.

  "Tiffany, gorgeous as always," Brenna said, cutting through the tension. "Why don't I get some pix of you with the NFL's three quarterbacks of the moment?"

  As Tiffany obliged, flashing a shoulder and a grin, Mal glowered, Tam looked slightly less than his usual amused self and Quinn posed stiffly, wishing the night were already over.

  "Now for a few quotes," Brenna said. "How did everyone like the exhibit?"

  "Oh, I was so, so moved by it," Tiffany said, putting her short, fire-engine red nails to a neckline in which every bone was articulated.

  "Well, of course, I don't know much about this stuff," Mal said, flashing his trademark frat-boy grin as he squeezed Tiffany into silence, "and I'm happy to support Vienne in whatever she does."

  And well he should be, Quinn thought, since she'd been giving him advice, dressing—and, if the rumors were true, undressing—him for years.

  "But—"

  Here it comes, Quinn thought miserably.

  "I just want to say I hope none of our tax dollars are going to support this."

  "Naturally," Tam said, smiling, "because nothing says 'democracy' quite like the suppression of artists."

  "I'm not saying suppress them," Mal said, his rising voice threatening to pierce the icy veneer that separated his cheesy, toothsome image from his true narcissistic self. "I'm just saying I don't want to pay for this crap."

  "But if I may," Quinn jumped in nervously. "I think it said in the introduction that the artist had been a soldier in Iraq and turned to art in a VA hospital as a form of therapy."

  "If I wanted a tour, I would've used the audio guide," Mal snapped.

  "He's entitled to his opinion," Tam said.

  "Hey, hey," Brenna said, flashing them the time-out sign. "Flag on the play, guys. Otherwise, I'm going to have to penalize you, Mal, for unnecessary roughness."

  And so it went all night, with Tam, who seemed to be entertaining some private joke, casting furtive glances at Quinn, who caught Mal looking at him Mal-evolently as if to say, "Why's he looking at you?", which in turn caused Tam to shoot Quinn a "Why's he being so possessive of you?" reaction—and no Brenna, stuck with the pool reporters, to run interference.

  Nor were they helped at their table by Tiffany, who decided to flirt with Tam, leaning into him and gazing adoringly after consuming the one lettuce leaf that was the supermodel allotment. It made Quinn long for Brenna and a platter of those gluten-loaded fried salmon dumplings.

  "Is it TURK o va or Tur KOV a?" Tam asked, egging her on.

  "It's TURK o va," she chirped, flashing a set of pearly whites set off by her rich red lipstick.

  Quinn's dinner companion was Jennifer Seabert, a young woman oblivious to how lucky she was. Her husband, venture capitali
st Jonathan Seabert, was on business in Shanghai. Would that he had taken her with him.

  "I don't know about all of you," she said, "but I find this time of year so stressful, preparing the house for the Hamptons' season. Do you frequent the Hamptons?" she asked Quinn.

  "Ah, no, ma'am, we're football players so we spend the summer in training camps and preseason games around the country."

  "Oh, right," she said. Quinn could see she was mentally crossing them off her list.

  "But surely if you could, you'd be in the Hamptons."

  "Oh, I don't know, I'm more of a Jersey Shore guy myself," Tam said. "I've spent some of the best moments of my life there."

  He looked away, sadly Quinn thought, as if to add, "and some of the worst."

  "Well, then, you must be a Jersey boy," Jennifer said. It didn't sound like a compliment.

  "Close. I'm from Philly."

  "And where do your people live on the Main Line?"

  "My people," Tam said, smiling, "have done very well for themselves in this world, but they are hardly Main Liners."

  "But you're right. The Hamptons is the place to be," Mal said, as if Tam’s remarks, and thus the speaker himself, didn’t exist. He put an arm around Tiffany before adding, "We love it."

  Dinner arrived, and the group fell into a silence but not because everyone was enjoying his meal. When had food become so complicated? Quinn thought. A piece of meat, vegetables, maybe a potato, some bread or a little pasta: It wasn't rocket science. But everything had to be artistic. This chef d'oeuvre was buried under some sauce.

  "Isn't the veal exquisite?" Jennifer said. "But the sauce is too rich." She took a few bites then pushed the dish away, scrunching up her face.

  Veal: Quinn ate no baby animals.

  "What are you, a Buddhist?" Sydney had asked, after he refused to eat the lamb chops she had procured for an Easter feast in Jakarta one year. But Quinn had stood his ground.