He scanned down to find his kitchen window. He couldn’t see much inside, but he knew the light was a bright globe, the cabinets and walls white and cheerful. His father had gone out and his mother was sad about it. He sort of had understood that earlier; he thought it through now. He wished his father would stop trying to be an actor. He decided he didn’t want to go home right now. He was content to remain with Julie and never speak again.
Abruptly Brian realized It was gone. No sensation down there—the nothing felt wonderful.
“I want to talk to you about something, okay?” Julie turned on the right front burner. He waited for it to ignite with a whoosh, then stayed focused on the caress of flame and metal, wary of her question. “Brian?” She ducked to meet his eyes. Hers were as black and shiny as her hair.
He evaded them. He studied the sweep of her long hair as it came together briefly under her chin while she was bent over, then parting as she straightened. She smelled a little of pine needles.
“You listening?” she insisted.
Brian nodded. How long had it been since he spoke? It wasn’t hard, staying silent. Julie was satisfied with his nod and continued, “I think we have to talk to one of the grown-ups about . . . you know, about what we know about Aunt Harriet.”
It took Brian a moment to remember what Julie knew and didn’t know. She thinks Harriet is dying, he reminded himself.
Julie sat in the chair opposite. Her knees touched Brian’s. Her legs were way longer than his. He noticed a beauty mark on her left thigh, very dark chocolate, like the one under her left eye and at the jutting point of her high cheekbone. There were more. Above her right knee. On her left forearm. At least six more. He searched for each one. She whispered, “Jeff’s very upset. I can tell he’s very upset. We have to tell somebody he knows about Aunt Harriet. I don’t want to get you in trouble or anything about the tape machine, but maybe we can figure out some other way, like . . . maybe you overheard by accident or something? And of course you told Cousin Jeff. I mean, you’re best friends. You tell each other everything. Like I do with Nancy Weiss. She’s my best friend. I tell her everything.”
Tears gathered, clouding vision, choking him. How could he undo the knot of misunderstandings, lies, and confounding behaviors? And It. How to explain It?
The kettle whistled, then screamed. Brian covered his ears until Julie turned off the burner. He kept them covered while she poured. When she finished, she tapped his knee. “Brian. Could you take your hands away?” He lowered them. “We have to tell his parents. It’s not fair to Jeff. He must be very scared. We have to tell his parents that he knows so they can make him feel better.”
He was going to have to speak. He was sorry to. “She’s . . .” His voice was an unrecognizable croak. Shocked by the sound of himself, he stopped.
Julie prompted, “What? She’s what?”
“She’s not sick. She made it up ’cause they can’t pay your father back. Some money they owe him for the store.”
Julie looked at the hallway, then back to Brian. She was pouting as if he’d hurt her feelings. Brian expected she was going to argue. Deciding she didn’t understand, Brian continued, “Your uncle Saul owes your father money and your father wants it back so she made it up about the cancer so he won’t want it back. I think. I don’t really know.” He stood up. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He looked out the window to his kitchen below. Go home. Tell Mom you feel sick.
The sound of someone walking their way from the hall brought Julie to her feet. She moved close to Brian, whispering, “Does Jeff know it’s a lie?”
“I just told him. We can’t tell Harriet we know. We’ll get Jeff in trouble, ” Brian insisted, spooked by the prospect of more attention focused on the tape and the secrets they know. Less. He wanted less of everything.
“Why are they like this?” Julie pleaded as if he really could answer. Brian studied her lips; they were curvy and soft. He wondered about kissing a girl. Not wanting to. Curious. What would that feel like?
“Julie? Need help making Harriet’s tea?” The low rumble of Saul’s exhausted voice reached them from the foyer. They moved apart, Julie to pour, Brian sitting sideways on the windowsill, staring down at home.
Julie stepped into the dining room, showing off cup and saucer. “I’ve got it, Uncle Saul. Does Aunt Harriet want milk or sugar?”
“Just lemon,” Saul said. He waved to Brian. “Hey, Bri, come here.”
Brian dutifully crossed the dining room to the foyer. “I’m gonna pick up Jeff’s birthday cake from Zolly’s. Make sure he stays in the bedroom until I return. So he doesn’t see me bring in the cake? Supposed to be a surprise.”
Brian nodded. Saul rubbed Brian’s thick black hair, then gave it two pats. “Good boy,” he said, then left.
Julie appeared, carrying the tea. “Did he hear us?” she asked.
“No. He’s getting Jeff’s birthday cake. We’re supposed to keep him busy. That’s all.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip. They looked down the hall, reluctant to begin the journey to Harriet’s sickroom.
“JULIE!” Harriet shouted hoarsely.
“I’ve got to give this to Aunt Harriet,” Julie said. Brian followed. No matter how much trouble she might cause with her mania for telling grownups everything, he definitely felt safest with her.
As Saul had feared, Jeff did try to leave the bedroom, rising when Julie arrived with the tea. “Here’s your tea, Aunt Harriet!” Julie announced in an overly cheerful voice while Jeff slid behind his cousin, heading for the door. Brian stopped him. “Where you going?”
Jeff’s wouldn’t look at him. Why is he angry at me? Brian wondered. He didn’t think it was fair for Jeff to be angry at him for touching his Thing. Jeff had touched his. Jeff shook off Brian’s hand and sidled out to the hallway.
Harriet was saying, “Thank you, darling. What a sweet girl. Taking care of your poor sick aunt. Thank you. This is just what I need. I’m so nauseous.” Harriet belched. That triggered a staccato string of giggles from Noah. He was sternly rebuked by his father.
Brian hustled after Jeff, catching up as he reached the foyer. He raced ahead and blocked his progress. “Where are you going?”
“Looking for Dad.” Jeff met his eyes only for a second; they drifted off to the wall of art books and sets of classics that were never removed from the floor-to-ceiling shelves, a larger version of the bracketed system in Jeff’s room. “I want to ask him if we can go play Slug downstairs until dinner.”
“You want to go out?” Brian was surprised.
Jeff stared at a wide spine with Cézanne written in tall red script letters. “I don’t wanna stay here and listen to my crazy mom complain.” He sounded bitterly angry at her, which puzzled Brian. Harriet was bad, but she wasn’t the worst of their problems. Since Brian didn’t answer, Jeff persisted, “Mom won’t let us, that’s why I want to ask Dad. He’ll let us.” Jeff stepped to the side, preparing to go around Brian.
“Your dad went out,” Brian said.
“Where?”
“He went to get your cake at Zolly’s. You’re not supposed to know.”
“That’s stupid,” Jeff whined in his nasal voice. Brian was relieved to hear his honk return. He had been speaking in an unnaturally gloomy tone. “They always get me a cake from Zolly’s.” Jeff moved past. “Let’s go. Let’s meet him.”
“No!” Brian stamped his foot. “He doesn’t want you to know.”
“That’s stupid!” Jeff yelled. “That’s so stupid!”
“What’s stupid?” asked Richard Klein. He ambled toward them on polished black loafers that made the floorboards creak. Brian’s heart pounded wildly.
“Nothing,” Jeff said. He walked boldly right at Klein. Brian was amazed, then appalled as he watched Klein allow Jeff to go by without so much as a glance, instead continuing his progress toward Brian, those greedy hands appearing from his slacks.
Brian bolted. His long, skinny legs had always allowed him to
get a good jump, that’s why he almost always won at Running Bases in the school yard. From standing still he could be at full speed within a second, stopping and reversing direction on a dime. With a dollop of malicious pleasure he saw the look of surprise on Klein’s face as Brian rapidly arrived at Klein’s position, apparently blocked, turned sideways, back skimming the wall past Klein, turning hard and fast into Harriet’s bedroom.
Jeff had stopped in the doorway. Brian bumped into him. Jeff stumbled toward the foot of his mother’s bed where Harriet was perched, sipping her cup of tea. “Watch it!” she screamed as Jeff caught himself by grabbing the arm of Uncle Hy’s chair. Harriet’s cup wobbled, sloshed a little tea into the saucer, but was essentially preserved. “What is the matter with you?” Harriet complained bitterly. “Can’t you see I have hot tea in my hands?”
“Tea in my hands!” Noah repeated, and dissolved into a fugue of giggles. Hy shushed him.
Brian smelled Old Spice wafting from behind him. He fought off a sneeze. Klein passed him, waist rubbing against the boy’s back. “I took your seat,” Julie said, rising from the wing chair near the drapes. Klein accepted her offer and in a quick graceful move sat while simultaneously hooking her by the arm. He tugged her down, saying, “Sit with me. There’s plenty of room in this big old chair.”
Her father, Hy, didn’t pay attention to what was going on, but Brian’s eyes went straight to Klein. He never wanted to see the man again and he wanted to make sure to see everything he did.
Julie sat on the armrest. Klein commented, “That’s not comfortable.” He urged her onto the cleared edge of the seat. That meant her waist was wedged in while her back had no support, forcing her to lean forward, which appeared to be even less comfortable than perching on the arm.
Meanwhile Jeff turned to his mother. “Brian and I want to go outside and play Slug.”
“What’s Slug?” Hy asked.
“You want to go outside!” Harriet groaned as she maneuvered to put the cup and saucer on her crowded night table: tissue dispensers, several smudged empty glasses and a bottle of Alka Seltzer.
“Until dinner,” Jeff insisted. “We want to play Slug.”
“What the hell is Slug?” Hy asked.
“It’s Chinese handball,” Brian explained.
“Absolutely not!” Harriet said.
Hearing that healthy a no, Brian gave up all hope of escape from the sickroom. He consoled himself that no matter how boring it was in Harriet’s lair, he would be safe from Klein’s hands. Brian put his back against the wall beside the TV console and slid down to his haunches. From there he had a upward angle view of the two people he most wanted to keep his eyes on: Julie and Klein.
“Ma!” Jeff honked. “We don’t want to sit around listening to you talk. We want to play.”
“No,” Harriet said firmly.
Jeff stamped his feet. “It’s my birthday!”
“It’s not your birthday. Your birthday is tomorrow. We’re just celebrating today.”
Richard Klein laughed. “That’s right, Jeffrey. We’re only celebrating your birthday. Don’t expect to have any fun.”
Noah was delighted by Klein’s irreverent remark. He lifted the Superboy comic high and brought it down on the bed over and over while chanting over and over, “It’s your birthday! Don’t have fun!”
“Stop it, Noah,” Hy said by the fourth repetition, and he reached for the comic. Noah ducked away, tumbling back until his head whacked into the wall. He moaned piteously. “Serves you right,” said his father.
Harriet twisted toward the wing chair and Klein. The movement was impressive, since for her to perform it required a full ninety-degree turn of her neck, a neck reputed to be always very stiff and painful. Lying a few feet away in her closet was a neck brace she wore at least a few hours every day, prescribed by a HIP doctor in lieu of another refill of Valium. “What I meant, Dick, is that today is for Jeff to celebrate with his family. He had a treat with his friends yesterday.”
“I did not!” Jeff complained.
“You and Brian went to the movies to see the late show.”
“Late show!” Jeff was outraged. “It was six o’clock. That’s not the late show.”
“Jeff, stop it. Stop it this instant.” Harriet glared as if powering up a death ray.
“Fine,” Jeff said bitterly. “We’ll wait until Dad gets back with the stupid cake from Zolly’s and then we’ll go out.” Having played this ace of trumps, Jeff collapsed onto the floor. He folded up: chin on his chest, arms crossed, knees rising, until he was hardly larger than a footstool.
“Your father told you about the cake?” Jeff nodded. Harriet turned to Hy. “What’s wrong with that idiot brother of yours? It’s supposed to be a surprise!”
Jeff’s head popped up. “Dad didn’t tell me. I knew anyway. You always get me the same cake.” Jeff’s neck dissolved, head drooping.
“Not always!” Harriet explained to Hy, “Last year was the first time we ordered a cake from Zolly’s. They’re so expensive,” she added. “I can’t believe you figured it out all by yourself.” She looked at Jeff’s lifeless body. “Your father must have told you.” Back to Hy: “Your brother can’t keep a secret. That’s why he has so much trouble in business. I keep telling him. In business, you have to keep your cards close to your chest.”
“Vest,” Klein corrected. Hy twisted on his folding chair—he needed to shift ninety degrees to see Klein in the wing chair. Now that Hy was looking at Klein, to Brian’s surprise (although with Klein, the surprises were so many they no longer shocked) Klein put an arm around Julie and tugged her closer so that one of her legs rode up partway on his thigh. “That’s more comfortable, right?” he asked Julie, then continued speaking to her father: “The expression is vest, right Hy? Keep your cards close to your vest. Comes from the Wild West days—poker players in fancy duds.”
Brian saw Julie was squirming a little at the awkwardness of Klein squeezing her shoulder a second time, drawing her closer. She slid up higher on his thigh. Her short skirt flared on that side. Brian glimpsed her white panties, decorated with little yellow birds, before she reached over and smoothed her skirt down.
Hy was looking directly at his daughter and Klein, but he didn’t complain about Klein’s maneuvers. He was delighted to be asked a question by the NBC executive and eagerly agreed. “You’re right. Close to the vest, that’s the expression. Although I never played poker for real money. Just penny ante stuff. How about you, Dick?”
“In college,” Klein said. “I was in a high-stakes game. And some of the guys at the network, especially the guys in sales, they get a serious game going every once in a while. Especially when we entertain the affiliates. But I’m not a gambler. I take risks, calculated risks, but I don’t like to gamble. Don’t like to lose control.” He gave Julie’s shoulder another affectionate squeeze, scrunching her. Her bare thigh slid all the way up on Klein’s so that she was straddling his leg. Brian noticed a self-conscious look join the already pensive cast in her eyes. He watched as she brought her other leg onto Klein’s thigh and pushed her knees together, which was a much more demure posture—perched on Klein’s thigh instead of riding it. That also lowered her skirt, covering her thighs. A look of relief crossed her face at having hit upon this solution.
Meanwhile Hy chuckled and smiled at Klein. “Me too. Just the way I am. Can’t stand to lose control.”
“Ugh. You men.” Harriet waved her hand in disgust. She reached for her teacup, groaning at the effort. “Being in charge all the time. All that garbage. Forgive me, Richard, it is such mishigas. But”—she paused to sip her tea—“since we women have no hope of ever being in control of anything—”
“Not for lack of trying!” Klein said gleefully, and again he squeezed Julie. This time—Brian noticed with mounting amazement—Klein dropped his arm to her waist and pulled her squarely on his broad lap, her head seemingly growing out of his chest, raven hair flowing from under his chin, a shiny beard. “That
’s better,” he brazenly announced to the room. Julie winced out a polite smile. Brian understood why uncertainty clouded her expression—it was the confusion he had felt, that something you couldn’t name was going wrong. And for Brian, a new paralyzing mystery had been added: What is he doing with her? In front of everybody?
“Nonsense!” Harriet declared. “We’ve given up trying. You men will never give us a chance.”
Hy wasn’t interested in his sister-in-law’s topic. “Tell me, Dick.” Hy leaned forward, looking past the worried eyes and halfhearted smile frozen on his daughter’s face. “There must be tremendous stress in your job. I mean, with the constant battle for viewers . . .”
“And listeners,” Klein amended with a broad smile. “We’re TV and radio.”
“Listeners. Of course. But it’s the same battle for the audience, isn’t it?”
Klein dropped a hard-and-fast curtain on his smile. Wearing a grave face, he spoke solemnly. “Absolutely. One point in the ratings is life and death. Worse. Much worse than life and death. It’s millions of dollars.” Klein looked off sadly, a combat veteran reliving the tragedy of war.
“Incredible,” Hy said. “One point is worth millions of dollars?”
Klein shifted, moving his head beside Julie’s, apparently to have room to nod. Brian knew she could smell his perfume, that his husky voice, right at her ear, would sound as if he were inside her skull. “Three points in the ratings could be the difference between General Sarnoff making a profit or loss for the year.”
“Tell me,” Hy’s began, his voice dropping to a lower register, signaling he was about to broach a confidential matter. “I know this is getting a little personal, but out of scientific curiosity, to confirm a theory of mine, when you wake up in the morning, do you have jaw pain?”
Jeff stirred, stretching to peer at his uncle. “What?” he mumbled. Brian also thought the question was very odd, but he was distracted by keeping track of Klein’s hands. The adult’s arm had virtually encircled Julie’s waist. Three fingers on his right hand were slipping through a space created by the bunching of fabric at the lip of Julie’s skirt, snaking under it. Brian could almost feel those hot fingers on his own tummy, insinuating, an intrusion but one that wasn’t quite rude enough to justify a complaint. He tensed, as if somehow that would stop Klein’s action. He watched for Julie’s reaction. Her curious shining eyes weren’t taking in the world. They were focused inward, flitting back and forth as if hunting for an intruder. Her lips parted, about to speak. Brian was in dreadful and thrilling suspense. What if she jumped up and complained? He hoped so! What would happen?
The Wisdom of Perversity Page 19