This Vacant Paradise

by Victoria Patterson

  “And whatever happened to that other one—Scott Blakefield?”

  Esther made a face at Brenda, conveying her opinion of Scott. She directed her attention back to the article. Guys are wired to respond to even the slyest feminine wiles, she read. With these sexy suggestions, he’ll be aching for you.

  “He’s a little stupid,” Brenda agreed, “a lot stupid. But doesn’t he own an airport? Isn’t his nickname Two-Yacht-Scott? And he’s not that bad looking—if you take away his potbelly and that weird thing he does with his mouth.” Her eyes went googly and she twisted her mouth in a sideways smirk.

  “He’s diabetic,” Esther said.

  “God, Esther! So what! What were you thinking? It’s almost like you set yourself up for failure. Have you thought of seeing my therapist? I’ll give you her number. In fact, let’s call her right now!”

  “That was a long time ago,” Esther said. Find out everything you ever wanted to know about sex, she read. What pleases him, how to mix up your sex routine.

  She thought about Jeff Tyler—now, that was a handsome man. When she kissed him, his lips had been soft and lovely. And he had a sizable inheritance. But along with his healthfood obsession, he had indulged in a cocaine habit, insisting that Esther participate; he would snort a line and then chatter endlessly about a limited range of overexhausted topics (his workout routine, his dietary needs, his unhappy childhood). Their breakup had proved fortuitous, as he had become a recurrent attendee of the Betty Ford Center.

  “Well, all I can say,” Brenda said, “is that you better not mess up with Paul. I mean it.”

  “Paul and I are very happy,” Esther said.

  Brenda’s cell phone made a muffled squeal from inside her purse. Brenda shifted to wipe her hand on a towel and reached for her handbag. As she sifted through the contents, extracting a wallet-size black phone, Esther found herself pining for a cell phone, if only for the aura of importance it ascribed to its owner.

  “I was just thinking about you,” Brenda said, and then, for Esther’s benefit, she pointed to the phone and mouthed, Asshole , so that Esther knew that it was Brenda’s husband, Sean, on the line.

  Brenda paused and then said, with emphasis, “I said we’d talk about it later.” She heaved a sigh. “I don’t care,” she said, and then, “Yes, yes, I know what I said. Yes, I’ll be there. Can you just shut up for a second?”

  As Esther’s left hand was lifted from the bowl and replaced with her right hand, Esther looked at her nail lady, whose face was a mask of professional indifference.

  “I don’t care,” Brenda said, and then she hung up, placing her phone back in her purse.

  The lyrics of the theme song from Aladdin played softly: “A whole new world, a new fantastic point of view. No one to tell us no, or where to go, or say we’re only dreaming.” Even with the music, Esther could hear the air straining through a vent above her, and when she looked up, she saw that a piece of string had been tied there, shaking as proof.

  For several moments, no one spoke, as if in deference to the gravity of Brenda’s situation.

  But then Brenda’s nail lady queried, “Same color for hand?” She held up the bottle of blood-red polish that had been used on Brenda’s toes. When Brenda didn’t answer, she asked again, with measured deference, “Same color?”

  “I don’t care,” said Brenda, echoing her recent phone conversation. Her hand was on her forehead, as if all the pleasure of decision making had been taken from her.

  ALTHOUGH BRENDA AND Sean had met through the fraternity system, had shared the same goals and ideals, had experienced the same Christian upbringing, had both recently declared a renewed enthusiasm for Jesus Christ as their personal savior, and had agreed to raise their three children in the tradition of “family values” espoused by Maritime Church, they hated each other.

  Brenda had gone as far as to make “empty” threats to leave Sean (“I told him that I would take him for everything, just to scare him.”). Being devoted Christians fortified the bonds of marriage as impossible to break (divorce was referred to as “the Big D” and was not an option, because of its implications of failure and sin).

  They belonged to the segment of the upper class in Newport Beach that settled into what was expected: a pipeline from USC and back again, never straying far from their hometown. Wealth maintaining its wealth, at all costs. Everything was in service of the continuum, especially marriage and reproduction, the birthing of more like-minded souls. Raised secure in affluence and having never experienced the misfortune and upheaval of poverty, they were disciplined to steer clear of anything out of the norm.

  And so, Esther thought, they would stay married, and they might possibly destroy each other—hate rising and increasing, spinning out of control.

  “She’s changed,” Sean had jokingly said one evening, in relation to his wife, who was present and in full audible range, despite his pantomime of speaking to Esther in confidence.

  Brenda expressed her reaction with a full grimace and a shake of her beautiful head.

  “Really, she didn’t used to be this mean.”

  “Fuck you,” Brenda proposed, “you fucking asshole,” and she left Sean and Esther for her bedroom, so that they spent the next few hours together, watching television and snacking on popcorn.

  Remote and sarcastic, full of fury, and ready to demolish her husband, as well as anyone who stood in the way of what she wanted, Brenda had changed and was continuing on her path. Beauty and wealth had fostered high expectations, and she was constantly being disappointed.

  The more time Esther spent with Brenda and Sean, and the more time she spent in the Caldwell household, the better she understood that her role was to be a buffer between husband and wife.

  Later that afternoon, after her nail appointment, Esther met Sean at the Newport Beach Golf and Country Club for a short round of golf, in Brenda’s place, at Brenda’s behest.

  “Brittany fell off the swing,” Brenda said. “Maria called. Brittany’s fine. Don’t worry. She’s not hurt. I think more than anything it scared her, really shook her up. Would you meet Sean for me?”

  Esther had not yet witnessed the maternal instinct displayed so abundantly in her friend, and so was pleased to help. And besides, she had the advantage of Brenda’s calling the pro shop, instructing that Esther should select the golfing attire of her choice (“Put it on our tab.”).

  Esther chose an outfit that could succeed outside of a golf course, gaining a favorable wardrobe addition from her small favor. It occurred to her only as she was trying on spiked golf shoes that Brenda might have exaggerated her maternal flair for the opportunity to be away from her husband, knowing that Sean wouldn’t complain about Esther as a replacement.

  Despite being hairy, Sean had lost most of his head hair in his early twenties and was compensating with a mustache and a trimmed beard around his wet, pink, poutish mouth; as she approached him sitting at a table in the country club bar, his lips pursed into a smile and he rose and opened his arms.

  “Esther,” he said, leaning in to kiss her on each cheek—“like the French,” he explained—his hands at her biceps.

  Something about his breath wasn’t fresh: cocktail peanuts and alcohol and a general neglect of oral care. He’d gotten fat—sturdy—like many of her male peers. The marrieds were the ones who tended to gain weight, feasting on meals as a main form of entertainment or adding sympathy pregnancy pounds.

  The men he’d been drinking with at the table observed them keenly. One had a wiry and nervous presence, and the other was fat, a patch of sunburn at the back of his neck where his hair had recently been cut short, sunblock neglected.

  Sean introduced her, and she understood that despite their both being lawyers, they weren’t adept at small talk with the opposite sex—all blustery bravado and attempts at cool detachment. She didn’t have the patience or inclination for the conversation, and, fortunately, Sean led her away within a few moments.

  “Your friends are�
�—she was going to say nice, but it was a lie, so instead she opted for the universal and non-committal—“interesting.”

  “Oh, yeah, Esther,” he said, “sure. Most of my friends, I don’t even like.”

  THE GOLF CART whirred and buzzed along the path, clubs rattling. The golf course was sparkling and unreal, like a fairy tale, and Sean spoke philosophically while he drove: “I used to think that golf was a cruel joke on the upper class,” he said. “Think about it, Esther: Who would be dumb enough to spend money on a sport that is more like a strange form of torture? Hitting this little ball with a club, and then you can’t even see it. Half the time, you’re searching for your ball. But now I understand.”

  “What do you understand?”

  He paused, in deep contemplation. His left hand steered the cart, fingers balanced at the wheel, and his right hand rested on his bulky, hair-covered thigh.

  “Myself, Esther,” he said. “I understand myself. You know, you’re not competing with anyone. And it’s an honor code. You can cheat all the time, but you don’t.” He flashed a fierce look in her direction, and she wondered if he was alluding to Brenda’s infidelities.

  “Because the game is always in my heart.” With his free hand, he tapped his chest, where, tucked underneath his rib cage, the symbolic love organ existed. “It’s really beautiful and complex.”

  Esther smiled warmly, knowing that Sean was entering a state of bliss at her attention. In the distance, the ocean looked like a shiny steel blade.

  “Do you like to golf?” he asked.

  “I used to take lessons,” she said, “but not lately.”

  “Why?”

  “Funds,” she stated simply. But in truth, she found golf dull.

  After a long pause, he said, “Money is a different kind of prison.”

  His statement prompted her to laugh. He parked the cart along the path and looked at her questioningly.

  “Only a person with money would say something that stupid,” she said, in an uncharacteristic rupture of irritation.

  He studied her for several painful moments, and she felt her face heat up at the intimacy of his stare.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Not at all,” he said. “Not at all. I want you to be able to talk to me like that, Esther. It makes me feel”—he paused, searching for the word—“useful,” he concluded.

  “You’re already useful,” she said. “To your kids, to Brenda. In business.”

  “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean. Useful—like you need me.”

  She saw that his eyes had misted with emotion. Birds twittered in the tree above them, unseen. The branches and leaves were parted just enough to let sunlight glitter through, landing on the pond water, speckling it with gold. She could hear the water trickling over the rocks from the man-made waterfall.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said, and she had to wait several moments while he grappled with how to word his question. A heron landed in the pond, sending long ripples across the surface.

  “If you were a woman—wait, no, no. You are a woman, of course, that’s not what I mean.”

  He tried again. “If you didn’t know me as a friend . . . if I weren’t your friend . . . and let’s say I wasn’t married to Brenda . . .”

  He stared down at his thigh, struggling. She saw that the skin near his ear had colored, fingers of red.

  Finally, “Would you ever think of me that way? You know? Would you ever want to be with me?”

  In a burst of sympathy, Esther threw caution to the wind. “Yes,” she said. “You’re a catch. Young, sexy, smart, funny. A real catch.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I wouldn’t lie about that.”

  “Really?” he said again, but he was smiling, and she didn’t have to answer.

  Sean’s subsequent relief and good humor made Esther sure she had responded appropriately. How easy it was to stroke the male ego, and Sean’s was dry and thirsty. One little droplet was enough to satisfy—no harm in that.

  On the second tee, a short three-par across water, Esther swung the driver and missed the ball. The workers, two of them, had cut the engines on their fairway mowers, hunched in their seats, instructed to disappear as much as possible for the convenience of the golfers. The bills of their baseball hats were lowered, as if they weren’t looking. She reteed her ball, took a deep breath.

  “Take your time,” Sean instructed from somewhere near the golf cart. She moved away from the ball. Three practice swings later, she positioned her feet in the soft grass and bent her knees, peered at her ball. Her swing started smooth, fluid, but it jerked at the end and she squeezed her eyes shut. She heard the crack of her club making contact, and then a thunk.

  “Oh my god,” she said, her hand going to her mouth. “Did I hit him?”

  She looked at the workers through the glare of the sun, to see if they were okay. Both workers stared back at her; the one who was closest to her was hunkered very low in his seat.

  His dark hand went up, his shoulders unfurled. “Is okay,” he called out. “I okay. The ball no hit me. Almost. But no hit me.”

  ON THE THIRD tee, Sean became distracted from his titanium Callaway driver selection. They stood beside their strapped and belted golf bags in the golf cart, and Esther soon discovered the cause: Fred Smith, in a red-and-gold Ferrari-style golf cart, was whirring down the path, coming their direction.

  “Isn’t he going the wrong way?” she asked.

  Sean didn’t answer, instead observing, “And apparently the speed limit doesn’t apply to him.”

  Fred wore an Irish patchwork tweed cap and a matching vest. One long leg was extended rather recklessly, and his foot seemed to skim the ground; instead of accompanying his right hand on the steering wheel, his left hand appeared to be enjoying the feel of air coursing between its fingers.

  He swerved past Sean’s golf cart at the last second, leaving them in a rush of wind, and he called out, “How about it, Esther?” and then they heard him laughing, and a final, “Whhhooooheee!”

  She knew her face was red, but when Sean looked at her, she saw that he did not hold her responsible.

  “At least he’s having a good time,” Sean said. And then, after a long pause, he added, “I hope to God he’s not a member.”

  10

  ESTHER, MARY, UNCLE Tim, Aunt Lottie, George Famous, Grandma Eileen, and Rick sat around the pinewood dining table at Grandma Eileen’s vacation home in Palm Desert. Uncle Tim and Mary’s oblivious teenagers were skiing in Mammoth, and Esther was glad they were gone, since their sheltered innocence made her disdainfully jealous.

  Rick leaned across the table and lit Grandma Eileen’s cigarette with a cupped hand around a match, even though they were inside and there was no breeze, and then he lit himself a cigarette as well, shaking his hand to extinguish the match. He wore a T-shirt stenciled with puppies cavorting in a patch of flowers.

  Esther wondered if other caretakers smoked with their clients, but she understood that their relationship was unusual, and that Rick acted more like a companion. Earlier in the week, he’d taken Grandma Eileen gambling at a nearby casino, but they’d had to leave, after Grandma Eileen’s mishap. (“She didn’t want to go to the bathroom,” Rick had told Esther. “‘Not yet. Just one more,’ she kept saying, ‘just one more,’ at the slot machine. Then she sent me to cash in her chips, and I heard a security guard’s walkie-talkie thing, and I knew immediately: ‘Uh, there’s been an accident’—static-shhh-shhh—‘we need to send a janitor’—static-shhh-shhh. She almost made it. They put up these orange cones to mark off the spot.”)

  Grandma Eileen sat at the head of the table, using an empty crystal wine goblet as an ashtray, sharing it with Rick. Turkey, mashed potatoes, yams, coleslaw, salad, rolls, and assorted pies brought in from the country club had been assembled on the fine china, giving the appearance of a home-cooked meal. Six long green and red candles at the center of t
he table, set in wreathlike holders, cast a soft, flickering light. But no one had an appetite besides Rick, who, between smoking his cigarettes, ate heartily. He reached across Esther for the silver water pitcher and refilled his wine goblet with ice water.

  Grandma Eileen’s desert home was on the seventh tee, where golfers hit golf balls into the pond. The golf course was strictly maintained and reseeded every December, sprinklers set on timers, and Esther momentarily watched the whisk and turn of five sprinklers outside the dining-room window—chhh chhh chhh clack; chhh chhh chhh clack, silver wings of spray.

  At five-second intervals, water splattered against a corner of the window, leaving a sliding trail of droplets. In the distance, the mountains looked ominous and unreal, the brownish red of bricks. For a moment, nothing mattered. More and more, she’d been losing herself in melancholy reveries, and by letting herself go, she felt that she was becoming less alert, but she couldn’t help it. Her attention returned to her family and her situation.

  “I don’t like,” Grandma Eileen opined, cigarette between thumb and forefinger, “that all those Orientals are scoring higher in math and science. I saw it on 60 Minutes.”

  “They work so hard,” Mary said, eyes squinting as if the smoke caused her physical pain. She’d been agreeing with Grandma Eileen, nodding her head, and displaying such premeditated consideration that Grandma Eileen silenced the dinner table by saying, “I’m not a little child, Mary. Leave me alone.”

  Mary’s expression for a passing second was despondent. She wore Christmas ornaments as earrings, tiny red balls, and a sweatshirt bearing a sequined angel.

  Esther picked at her meal, with the prongs of her fork molding her mashed potatoes into a mountain, a trail of gravy like a waterfall. She didn’t exactly have sympathy for Mary, but she understood that her overbearing goodwill was compensation, as they’d all been disappointed by the absence of envelopes on the Christmas tree that morning, with no hint as to why.