Current Affairs

by Raskin, Barbara;

  “Sure.” Mickey nods. “I know exactly what we should do.”

  Bo gives Mickey a “Who’s we, white man?” look that Mickey misses completely.

  “I’m going to phone him in a little while,” Mickey says. “We’ve met socially out here over the years. Then I’m going to tell him I’m in possession of some property of his that I’d like very much to return to him tomorrow. No questions asked. Then, when I see him, I’m going to ask him to guarantee our safety in exchange for the papers. End of story. A gentleman’s agreement.”

  “That simple, huh?” Bo stirs in the high-backed rocking chair in which he chose to sit.

  “That simple,” Mickey confirms.

  “And what do we get out of it?” Bo asks, putting a little twist on the word “we.”

  “We?” Mickey repeats, holding Bo’s look. “We get some peace and quiet. We get some safety. We get out of the way of the fucking train that’s about to run us over.”

  Bo is quiet. I lower my eyes, pretending to study the cover of a New Yorker parked on the wicker table beside my chair. Amelia runs inside, letting the door slam behind her.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Bo says, looking at Mickey.

  “What? You wouldn’t do what?”

  “Trust him.”

  “Why not?”

  “For the same reason you shouldn’t get into a pissing contest with a skunk. Given the odds, you can’t win. Even if he wants to keep his word, his buddies can decide to free-lance and go after you on their own.”

  “I’ll work it out,” Mickey grunts, rearranging himself into a rich kid’s kind of sprawl on the glider. His body spreads out greedily, filling more space than it actually requires. “He wouldn’t double-cross me. I know how to cut a deal.”

  “I don’t think you’re right,” Bo says. “I’ve already gone to see him. I talked to him for more than an hour. I told him he’d better call off his pit bulls because even if he has protection from his Republican pals in the Justice Department, he’s got no goddam protection from me. I also told him that if anyone hurt Natalie or her sister I would hold him personally responsible. That I would come and get him. Like this.”

  Bo puts an extended index finger next to an imaginary temple and makes the sound of a gunshot.

  “You what?” Mickey groans. “You’re out of your fucking mind. Who asked you to do a stupid thing like that? I wanted to give him those papers back and end this thing.”

  “Forget it,” Bo repeats. “Russo said it was out of his hands. He said he couldn’t stop the dealers from chasing you down while that DEA document was floating around out there.”

  “But wasn’t he saying everything would be all right if he got his papers back?” Mickey asks.

  “Maybe. But I told him I didn’t know anything about that and it wasn’t his property anyway.”

  “You’ve got a real intelligent friend here, Natalie.” Mickey settles back into the glider again. “I had the whole fucking thing worked out and now he’s gone and blown it for us.”

  “It’ll be okay, Mickey,” I say nervously. “I’m the one who should be scared, and I’m not sorry Bo did what he did. That interview is a powerful piece of evidence. It could blow the lid off Contragate and the whole drug scene in D.C. It’s too important to trade away for some unguaranteed promise by a shyster lawyer that his thugs might leave us alone.”

  “Whatever,” Mickey says disgustedly. “I’m out of it.”

  We sit silently in our seats watching the purple sky turn black, hearing night insects slapping against the screens, feeling mired in this impasse.

  “Well, just forget about it for a while,” Mickey finally says. “We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

  “Good idea,” I say gratefully.

  Mickey’s on his feet, headed into the house, when suddenly he stops and turns around.

  “Why don’t you stay here while you’re on the Island?” he asks Bo. “Plenty of room, as you can see.”

  “Well, thanks. That’d be very convenient. Nice of you to ask.”

  Later Mickey drives into town to buy pizzas for dinner. After we eat, I take Amelia upstairs to choose a bedroom. She selects a small stuffy dormer room with two prim twin beds and one little window. I try to persuade her to choose again, but she refuses. Then she starts begging me to stay with her until she falls asleep. I finally agree and, pulling off my dress, lie down in my bra and panties. Amelia is on her tummy in the next bed, her arms and legs stretched out like butterfly wings. She is watching me closely so I don’t escape.

  I close my eyes.

  The sun is up before I am the next morning and Amelia is not in her bed. I hurtle down the stairs.

  Mickey, wearing a woman’s small white terry-cloth robe, is reading The New York Times at the kitchen table. Amelia is seated beside him wearing her lavender bathing suit inside out. When she sees me, she starts acting silly and begins picking Cheerios, one at a time, out of her bowl, biting each one as if it’s a doughnut.

  I feel an enormous rush of relief that she’s okay and that Mickey’s been taking care of her.

  “Good morning,” Mickey says, smiling at my frantic arrival.

  Since he’s wearing boxer shorts, he takes off the robe and holds it open for me. I back into the arc of his arms, slip into the robe and tie it shut before turning around again.

  “Good morning, Amelia,” I say like a cheery Mary Tyler Moore, bending over to kiss the crown of her head. “Where’s Bo?” I ask Mickey.

  “Went to work,” Mickey says, walking over to the counter. “Hunting and gathering again. What do you like in your coffee?”

  “Bourbon.”

  He smiles. He likes that. He nods that I should sit down. He brings me a cup of black coffee.

  Amelia watches us silently, expectantly. A little drop of milk trickles down her chin and falls into the scooped neckline of her “ba-ling” suit, as she calls it.

  “Looks like a great beach day,” Mickey predicts like a recreational director at the start of a luxury cruise.

  I have been married long enough to be suspicious of good humor in the morning.

  “The Times says the temperature of the ocean this year is the highest ever recorded. Right when swimming’s been outlawed. Who says there isn’t a God? Or that She doesn’t know what She’s doing?”

  Uh-oh! He is clearly loaded for bear.

  “What did you do last night?” I ask, tasting my coffee.

  “Bo and I played Nintendo. And discussed Russo some more—”

  “Let’s go to the oshum,” Amelia suggests sweetly, letting her spoon slide inside the bowl to a milky grave.

  So we do.

  Amelia makes friends with a little boy on a nearby blanket.

  All I have to do is reoil her every few hours.

  Mickey and I begin to get acquainted. He’s been married twice and has three middle-sized children, two from his first wife, one from the second. He claims to have been politicized at Swarthmore (“Michael Dukakis’s alma mater”) during the early seventies and then socially traumatized by New York’s nouvelle society during the roaring eighties. He claims to be a maverick, a renegade, a traitor to his class. From what I’ve read about him and seen in the last few days I can’t imagine why he thinks so, but that’s clearly the bottom line of his self-image.

  We return home around one o’clock. Bo is still not back. Amelia eats lunch and naps until three-thirty. Then we drive to Southampton, park the Rover and walk along Main Street. By now I am so tanned I feel as if I’ve been cast in bronze. I am wearing old shorts and a faded T-shirt that assert I am an Amagansett economy-class person just popping wheelies among the wealthy for an afternoon.

  Today the world looks like an acid trip to me, totally repainted in primary colors. The Southampton street scenes seem to have been sketched in broad chalky strokes, the sky and horizon with a bright blue marker. The sidewalks are filled with casual summer people. Too rich to care how they look, they are, nonetheless, perfectly tanned 10’s,
A-list lean and limber. They’re feeling good, too, happy to exhibit their summer styles, their seasonal goodwill.

  A few people toss quick glances in our direction, recognizing Mickey despite his claim of having long ago abdicated his place in their social scene. Regardless of how he feels, he is, of course, really one of them. Indeed, he’s more than that. He’s a hero of theirs, admired more for not playing strictly by the rules. He is the unorthodox, unconventional super-rich stud-scion of the Teardash family. Maybe a prodigal son, but still their prodigal son.

  Walking beside him across this perfect stage set makes me feel like Cinderella. Amelia scoots ahead of us in spurts of excitement before stopping to wait until we catch up. Again and again we pause to study shop windows that offer whimsical togs and toys for the rich. People can vacation in this greater New York overcharge area confident its pricey stores will produce the extravagant luxuries they need.

  The salt smell of the sea perfumes the atmosphere.

  A dicey breeze ruffles well-coiffed hair.

  The late-afternoon sun strokes flawless complexions.

  My arm bumps against Mickey’s as we walk. I am getting a contact high off him and his shadow—that open line of credit which he drags along behind him like the broken leash of a frisky puppy. In truth, Eli’s rejection of me and my sense of sexual humiliation is turning me on to Mickey. Or maybe it’s his wealth—which has the same allure as freedom.

  My superego starts doing a Q-and-A with me.

  Q. What are you thinking?

  A. I’m not thinking; I’m just playing with matches.

  Q. What are you going to do?

  A. Probably act like a moth.

  Q. Are you thinking about getting involved with your sister’s main squeeze?

  A. I’m not thinking; I’m just feeling that deliriously bloated sensation in the lowlands south of my tummy, which feels surprisingly taut. Everything’s been so crazy I’ve actually begun losing weight.

  I keep walking, but now I begin to think about Eli. He doesn’t know where I am. This is probably the first time in two decades he doesn’t know exactly where I am, who’s with me and what I’m doing. Maybe he’s been trying to find me. Maybe not. Maybe he’s feeling that same unfastened, flimsy sensation I get when I think about him and wonder what he’s doing and to whom he’s doing it.

  “I wish I’d brought my credit cards,” I say, a touch of Shay in my voice. “I’d love to get my hair done.”

  “Here,” says Mickey. “Try using dollars. They might still take them here. Amelia and I can go see that movie across the street there. The Steven Spielberg, An American Tail.”

  “Really?” I ask, thoroughly delighted. “Okay. I’ll pay you back.”

  He opens his wallet, extracts some bills and folds them inside my hand without looking.

  I feel like David Stockman.

  I’ve started stockpiling debts.

  The downside of this beautiful buzz I’ve got going is knowing that I am purposefully fueling and fanning it. I am throwing dry kindling on a burning fire. I am compromising myself to the point that I’ll have to come across if and when he sticks it to me. We have reached a steamy point in this day of teasing, where a refusal would constitute coitus interruptus.

  In front of the theater I kiss Amelia good-bye and give Mickey a thumbs-up signal. Then I run back to Elizabeth Arden’s. Once behind the Red Door, I open my fist to see three one-hundred-dollar bills. At first I feel a stab of alarm about how I’ll repay it, but then a recklessness possesses me and I tell the receptionist I want the works. I have never done this before. If I’d ever thought about it, I would have rejected it on the premise I would feel too guilty about spending money so frivolously. But now, having somehow suppressed my own moral objections, I simply turn myself in, surrender to the beauty technicians. I don’t have to say anything. They take one look at me, wonder how long I’ve been on the loose and start to work.

  The Fairy Godmother does her number on me.

  Two and a half hours later, I pay the bill, leave ten-dollar tips for everyone and walk outside, immediately missing the familiar ribbons of hair that always danced on my neck. Instead I now have a slick Joan-of-Arc head, a close, tight, shining cap that takes years off my face and smudges my gender. It’s interesting. I feel at once more boyish and more sexy. I’m on an androgynous roll.

  Amelia is jumping up and down outside the movie theater. Thrilled by the film, she starts telling me about it. So does Mickey. He says it’s a Marxist film for babies. The two of them are tight from having seen it together.

  “Great haircut,” Mickey says. “Let’s go shopping. I’ll buy you a new dress for a total … whaddayacallit? Makeover?”

  Translation: So! There’s someone home inside there, huh? Inter-est-ing. Maybe blood really is thicker than water. You’re not exactly the spitting image of your sister, but you’re sure coming on stronger now than you did before. Okay, so show me your stuff.

  “Well, we can look a little,” I say.

  Translation: I might be up for a little fooling around.

  Unconsciously, I am trying to remember the plot of Hannah and Her Sisters, which I’d seen but now can’t seem to remember. I know that somehow it relates to what’s happening to me. Maybe it’s because I’ve become part of another strange new trio. Saleswomen behind their counters comment quietly about us because Mickey Teardash is obviously much too into me to be my husband. But I don’t care. I am Queen for a Day. Shopping with Mickey Teardash is like having sex. Every moment it’s happening is outrageously exciting.

  Implicit in his act of buying clothes for me is his right to remove them at, and for, his pleasure. Being outfitted by this man is a form of public foreplay. The saleswomen understand our silent sexual negotiations and treat me respectfully because clearly this man wants to stick it to me. At least he’s giving it his best shot; this makes me one of the chosen.

  Price, formerly an elemental component of shopping, is no longer a factor. There are no limits, restraints or curtailments. Anything—no, everything—is possible. This is recreational shopping. I let the saleswomen flatter me. It’s like being licked, inside and out. These are totally different strokes—slow and steady.

  Act natural, I tell myself, studying the clothes produced for our consideration in an elegant fitting room while a younger salesclerk entertains Amelia in the front of the store. Pretend you’re Shay Karavan, I coach myself, looking over my shoulder to see my American tail in the three-way mirror. Now I have begun to resemble one of those mysterious models who lounge across expensive full-page magazine spreads, promoting designer jeans for postcoital wear. Ads for ids.

  It’s just like in the movies. I am a Before and an After. A Mademoiselle makeover. I am the ugly duckling suddenly transformed into a swan. I have a new body, new hair, new skin. Best of all, I have a new self-image. My new cap of hair caresses my head like the hand of my father, which used to descend from above to crown me with love when I least expected it.

  I no longer feel docile, dumpy or depressed. No. This is your basic Hollywood fantasy and, for once, I have the starring role. I am on the top deck of the Love Boat. This is the American way. Beauty is but another frontier. Another fresh start. Another beginning.

  I buy so many outfits I can’t remember which ones I’ve chosen. I am making a ballsy statement. I am saying both to Mickey and myself, “Let’s go crazy.” What I realize halfway through the experience, right about the time Amelia begins to get fretful and overtired, is that in all the years I’ve been with Eli, I never asked (nor would have allowed) him to treat me to such an orgy of expenditure. I would never have wasted his salary in such an extravagant way.

  But that, too, is another American tale.

  Walking back through town with our bulky shopping bags and packages, we stop to buy ice cream cones. I feel great. I feel like I finally have a date for the prom with a BMOC. Driving home in Mickey’s enormous beast of a Rover, dripping chocolate down the fronts of our shirts, we la
ugh and giggle, drunk on anticipation, excited about the silent promises we’ve exchanged, the banns we have published.

  An hour later I am sitting on the porch watching the sunset. Amelia and Mickey are in the house somewhere and I am enjoying my solitude, feeling like a toasted marshmallow. My arms have turned a dark-rum color. My nose and cheeks tingle so that I feel like a bright, shining penny. I feel pretty. Pleasing. Pleased. I am lighter than I have been in years; I am able to feel the friendly protuberances of forgotten bones.

  I actually experience a splash of resentment when I hear the screen door slam and Bo’s footsteps on the porch. He is wearing an ivory-colored linen suit that makes him look professorial, even ambassadorial. The gray in his beard and hair blend with the beige of his suit.

  “So?”

  I smile at him, expecting a compliment, some low-key acknowledgment of how I look. But he just shakes his head.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Bad news.”

  ‘’Wha-at?”

  I start to stand up as if to deflect what’s coming.

  “Jerry Russo got shot this morning.”

  I sink back into the chair, my heart thundering.

  Suddenly wet patches of sweat paste my clothes to my skin. My mouth feels parched. A dry but gummy substance has begun forming in the corners of my lips. My tongue feels swollen. It bats against the ridged roof of my mouth and sticks there momentarily before breaking away. It makes a tac sound as it comes loose.

  Bo walks back to the side door and summons Mickey outside.

  “What’s the matter?” Mickey asks, looking back and forth between Bo and me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Jerry Russo got shot this morning. In his own driveway. While he was getting into his car. He’s in the hospital. One bullet made only a flesh wound, but the other one shattered his elbow. The cops have no leads, no witnesses, no nothing.”

  “Jesus,” Mickey whistles through his teeth. “Who do you think did it?”

  “I think it was the same guys who were trying to find Shay. Alfonso and his crew. They’re really pissed. Jerry was a fool to be so careless with those papers. I’m telling you, these guys don’t fuck around. Alfonso doesn’t give a damn if he shoots his own lawyer. These guys live in a different world.”