“Hampton,” said Veronica. “The beach.”
“With a baby?” said the Salesman.
“I was seventeen,” she told him, shrugging him off. “And you’d trapped me. Can you blame me for trying to escape?”
“No,” said the Salesman, circling her, “but why is it that, whenever you tried, you failed?”
“I didn’t try that often,” said Veronica. “I was a good girl.”
The Salesman laughed. “A good girl?” he said. “What about that play your brother wrote about you and your, uh, exploits?”
Veronica blushed, looked down at her feet. “That play wasn’t about me,” she said.
“Oh, he may have embellished a little,” said the Salesman, “but it was about you. I may be slow, sweetheart, but I ain’t that slow.”
“It wasn’t about me,” said Veronica, noting that, out of the darkness, a familiar pair of buildings were emerging. It was her grandfather’s house, in the years after his death, when the family was still deciding what to do with it. The paint job on the barn was half-finished, the sign that had once read ‘Garage’ replaced with one that read ‘The Theatre.’
“It wasn’t about you?” said the Salesman, leading her toward the barn’s open doors. “Then what about the way you and Desiree looked at each other on opening night, when we all went to see it?”
He extended a hand, which she took, and he led her inside.
5
DiFranco–Maguire
She could not recall taking a seat, nor sitting through her brother’s tedious curtain speech, nor even the first two-thirds of the show. One moment, they were at the door, the next the play was reaching its climax.
And Veronica was torn, not sure which drama the Salesman had brought her here to witness: the farce playing on stage or the romance playing out in the seats. The Salesman had found them a place opposite Vern and Desiree, the stage thrust between them, but that didn’t clear things up at all. The way the actors stood, the way the scenes played out, Veronica could always see her younger self off in the distance. She felt a headache coming on as she struggled to focus on foreground and then background, background and then foreground.
There was a single young woman on stage now, a blonde in her early 20s—cast first and foremost, Veronica remembered, because her hair was the opposite color of Vern’s. The character she was playing, according to the photocopied program Veronica consulted, was Nica, and she was shouting.
“No!” Nica called to someone offstage. “You can’t. You can’t do that! You can’t! You’re a... and he... he...”
And then, there came a knocking, not from the door Nica was shouting at, but from another on the other side of the stage.
“What now?” grumbled Nica.
“Chinese food!” said the woman at the door.
Nica did not cross to welcome the delivery person. Instead, she remained focused on what was happening behind door number one. “I didn’t order any Chinese food,” she said.
“The order was placed by a gentleman by the name of Tim.”
In her seat, Veronica laughed. That name hadn’t been changed to protect the innocent now, had it? Then again, was the Runt really innocent? Of anything?
Nica continued her watch at door number one as she called back, over her shoulder, “All right. Come in. Door’s open.”
Onto the stage walked a young woman wearing Birkenstocks, a flannel, and an Ani DiFranco t-shirt. Veronica laughed at the lazy stereotype, then noted her brother’s one attempt at originality: a backwards baseball cap from Intercourse, Pennsylvania that he had picked up on a family trip to that state’s largest auto show the year their grandfather died. But she was sure it didn’t mean anything beyond the connotation that the girl was loose and a lesbian. Her brother was inscrutable, yes, but he was also shallow and incapable of nuance.
“You’re not Chinese,” said Nica, sizing up the delivery person—Andi, according to the program.
“You’re quick,” said Andi.
“And you just lost your tip,” said Nica, rifling through the pockets of her denim mini-skirt. “Cash only, I suppose?”
“Actually,” said Andi, “the order was prepaid on your...”
“Fiancé?”
“Yes,” said Andi, setting an enormous brown paper bag down upon the living room table. “Your fiancé’s credit card. I just need him to sign a copy of the receipt and I can get out of here.”
Nica slumped into an armchair. “You’ll have to wait a couple of minutes,” she said, gesturing to door number one. “He’s in the bedroom, fucking my best friend.”
“Interesting relationship,” said Andi.
“You’re telling me,” said Nica.
Beside Veronica, the Salesman held up his hands, and all else stopped. Veronica looked out at the stage, at the audience. They were all frozen in place. She stared at Vern and Desiree. They were holding hands now, on the sly. Not even hands, really. Just fingers, one hooked around another.
The Salesman tapped her on the shoulder. “Did Desiree ever actually sleep with Tim?” he asked.
“No!” said Veronica. “I told you, this isn’t about—”
The Salesman shushed her, clapped his hands once, and everyone around them came back to life.
On stage, Nica asked Andi, “You want a drink?”
Andi said, “I don’t turn 21 until October.”
“Never stopped me,” said Nica.
“And I’m driving,” said Andi.
“Okay,” said Nica. “Whatever.”
From behind door number one came a comic moan and the creaking of a bed frame.
“So,” said Andi, “is every Friday like this around here?”
“What do you mean?” said Nica.
Andi opened the bag as she spoke, pulling from it a white box and chopsticks. “I mean,” she said, “does your fiancé sleep with your best friend every Friday night?”
“No,” said Nica, tucking her knees up under her chin and running her hands over her purple leggings. “This is the first time. He’s usually faithful. And she’s usually gay.”
“Oh,” said Andi.
There came again then the sound of coming, or at least the farcical approximation of that sound. The offstage voices hollered clichés, took the Lord’s name in vain, thanked Him for their pleasure, and then trailed off.
Nica leapt to her feet, stalked over to the door, and stared at it for a moment, before turning around to face Andi once more. She jammed a thumb between her teeth.
“What?” said Andi, slurping lo mein into her mouth.
Nica looked over her shoulder as she tapped her foot on the floor. Then she blurted out, “You want to fuck?”
“Excuse me?” said Andi, setting down box and chopsticks and eyeing the door.
“Do you want to sleep with me?” said Nica. “I wanna make them sorry. Maybe if they come out here and see me with you, they’ll think twice about screwing with me again. So, do you want to?”
“Uh,” said Andi, checking her watch. “I couldn’t.”
“Why?” said Nica, clutching her hands together behind her back and thrusting her chest upwards and outwards, like a good soldier, as if to make the other girl see what she was missing. “Do you think I’m ugly?” she said as she drew closer.
“No,” said Andi. “I, uh, think you’re very attractive.”
Nica stepped behind Andi and slipped off her hat. “Then what’s the problem?” she said as she ran her fingers through the other girl’s curly locks.
“Well,” said Andi, “you’re not exactly my type.”
Nica set her fingers to work on Andi’s neck as she pulled her face close to Andi’s ear. “Ah,” she said, brushing her lips against Andi’s cheek. “but you most certainly are my type.”
Andi leapt up and away, stumbling. “Do you have a penis?” she said.
Nica giggled, then stopped, and then, finally, understood. “You mean you’re a... No, you can’t be. This is just... You’re straight?”
<
br /> “I told you you weren’t my type.”
“Wait,” said Nica, flabbergasted. “You, in the Ani shirt and the flannel and the... the... You’re straight?”
Andi sighed. “I tried to tell you.”
“I don’t believe this!” Nica shouted to the heavens as she slumped again into her chair. “Am I doing something wrong here?”
“No,” said Andi. “I just happen to like dick.”
In the audience, Veronica moved to get up, saying “I’m not watching this anymore,” but she was startled back to her seat by two things. First, the Salesman’s hand on her arm. And second, the sight, across the way, of Vern and Desiree mirroring them.
“Sit down,” the Salesman told Veronica. “Sit down,” Vern told Desiree.
And now, with the rest of the room on mute, Veronica could hear Vern say to Desiree, “I’m not embarrassed. Why are you embarrassed?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” said Desiree.
The Salesman raised a finger to his lips and all sound disappeared again, save the words being spoken on stage. Andi and Nica were both seated now, sitting on either side of the living room table, passing the box of lo mein between them.
“Do you throw yourself at delivery people often?” said Andi.
“I throw myself at just about everybody I get a chance to,” said Nica.
“And why’s that?”
“Because I can’t be with the person I want to be with,” said Nica.
Veronica stared across the way, listening to the play, but watching something else. Vern and Desiree were no longer holding hands. They sat only inches apart, but those inches might just as well have been miles.
“Okay,” said Andi. “So, who do you want to be with?”
“My best friend,” said Nica.
Andi gestured to door number one. “The one who’s back there?”
“Yes.”
“But why?” said Andi.
“I don’t know,” said Nica. “I guess because she completes me.”
Andi scoffed, “You’ve seen Jerry Maguire one too many times.”
“What?” said Nica.
“You haven’t seen it yet?” said Andi. “You’re not missing much. Anyway, that’s what the fucking pretty boy Tom Cruise says to that Zellweger chick at the end of the movie.”
“What have you got against Tom Cruise?” said Nica.
“Honey, I could write a book about what I’ve got against Tom Cruise.”
“Okay,” said Nica. “What’s your point?”
“My point,” said Andi, “is that you saying she ‘completes’ you is a bunch of bullshit. The only person who ever completes you is you. And putting that pressure on someone else... Man, that’s some fucked up shit. God, do you know how many unoriginal, over-sappy, under-attractive men have tried to use that one on me since that movie came out?”
“A lot?” said Nica.
Andi stood, working herself up, stalking back and forth between her chair and the edge of the stage as she spat the rest of her monologue. “You bet your ass,” she said. “I say, to hell with all this completion crap. Just come straight out and say you want to fuck and get it over with. The direct approach is so much more honest, and so much easier to deal with. If more men came up to me and said shit like, ‘Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?’ instead of this ‘You complete me’ bullshit, I’d be giving head a lot more often.”
“Well,” said Nica, pausing as the audience roared with laughter, “thank you for that insight.”
“You’re welcome,” said Andi, sitting, flush from her speech. “Now, back to the problem at hand. You want to be with your best friend, but your fiancé is the one keeping a roof over your head.”
“Actually,” said Nica, “it’s my dad who’s paying the bills right now, though Tim has all these prospects, or something. Or so they tell me.”
“Well, whatever,” said Andi, gesturing to door number one again. “Those two have been off doing their thing for a long time now. Your fiancé and your friend,” said Andi, “not your fiancé and your dad, of course. And they’re going to keep doing their thing. The real question is, when are you going to start doing your thing, and when are you going to realize that whoever comes along for the ride is just—”
Veronica leapt to her feet and shouted “STOP!” and the audience was gone, the theater empty, except for the two actors on stage.
Nica and Andi cast glances at the Salesman, as if looking for instructions. Veronica turned to look at him herself and saw him nod them off. By the time Veronica looked at the stage again, they were gone.
The Salesman stood and made his way toward the door.
“It doesn’t matter who’s along for the ride?” said Veronica, stomping after him. “I’m no romantic, but that’s a pretty fucking bleak outlook on love.”
The Salesman shook his head as he stepped outside.
Veronica followed him, stumbling as she stepped out, not onto grass as she’d expected, but back onto the subway tracks.
“Why do you place such high stock in Desiree?” said the Salesman. “Why?”
“Do you know how deep it runs between her and me?” said Veronica. “Do you know how far back it goes?”
“To the beach?” he said, a note of disgust in his voice. “To you wet with desire for a girl in a bikini too skimpy for fourteen year old to wear? I see inside your head,” he said, tapping a pair of fingers hard against his temple. “I know it all.”
“No,” she said, searching the darkness for the right place to take him, knowing it must be out there. “It goes back even further than that.”
“Really,” he said, snorting back a laugh. “Okay then. Show me.”
6
Eliot, Tallarico & Hook
The trains had stopped running for the night, so they made their way there on foot, emerging from the tunnel just outside Kenmore Square, then trekking down Commonwealth Avenue as the sun rose on an empty Back Bay.
“This is eerie,” Veronica said to the Salesman as they made the turn near Packard’s Corner, “like some movie about the end of the world.”
The Salesman pointed to the sky. “No mushroom clouds,” he said.
“Not with a bang but a whimper,” said Veronica, smiling despite her aching feet.
“That’s from The Stand,” said the Salesman. “Right? From the mini-series they did on ABC?”
“It’s from T.S. Eliot.”
“Yes,” he said, “but it’s also from The Stand.”
Veronica shook her head and sighed. Then she told him, “You’re really nothing like him, you know.”
“Who?” he said.
“My father,” she said. “You’re what I wish he was. Like the second draft of a song,” she said, “after I’ve cut all the shitty parts, or at least most of them. After I’ve cut it down to three-oh-five.”
The Salesman had nothing to say to that. No comment about her Billy Joel reference. No nothing. Whereas the real version, her father out there in the waking world, wouldn’t have been able to shut up. Instead, the Salesman just kept on. And kept on keeping on. It wasn’t until they got there, to 1325, that the Salesman said another word.
It began with a smirk, something so small she might not have noticed it had she not been staring at him the whole time and waiting for something. Anything.
“What?” said Veronica.
“I made good on my promise, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” said Veronica, as they started up the stairs. “You did.”
“Do you know who used to live here?” asked the Salesman.
Veronica groaned, then decided to play along. “No,” she said. “Who?”
“The Bad Boys of Boston,” he said. “Aerosmith, that’s who! And my brother, your uncle, he opened for them once upon a time.”
“Did he now?”
“Sure did,” said the Salesman. “Played bass. I think it was up at Canobie Lake, or somewhere around there.”
“I never knew that,” said Veronica, rolling her eyes
, hoping he could not see what she was thinking right then and there.
“At any rate,” he said, as they made their way into the apartment, as they blended into the bustling crowd within, “what day is this? What have you brought me here to see?”
Veronica took his hand and brought him into the living room, and then she tucked them away in a corner to watch.
Vern sat on the center of the couch, with Tracy on her lap, as laughing children circled around the two of them, and around the birthday cake that sat on their coffee table. The adults stood around Veronica and the Salesman, on the opposite wall, armed with cameras and camcorders. And as the crowd began to sing “Happy Birthday,” Vern huddled close to her daughter. “Make a wish,” she told Tracy, as they leaned toward the cake. And then they blew at the candles in unison, smoke blowing back at them, the scent of melting wax in the air.
All around Veronica and the Salesman, there came one flash after another. It felt like overkill, Veronica remembered, like she’d been thrust onto the red carpet of the Grammys in a tattered old set of pajamas. But for Tracy, who at three was already becoming something of a diva, it was heaven. She hammed it up, loving the attention, posing for this camera, and then that one, never noticing, as Vern did, that one of the paparazzi had stopped shooting altogether and had lowered her weapon.
Veronica and the Salesman looked, with Vern, at a frowning Desiree. Vern tilted her head and frowned back, and Des seemed to catch herself then, forcing a big, bright smile onto her face. But Vern knew there was something wrong.
The Runt crept up behind Vern and rubbed at her shoulders, while Tracy leaned forward on Vern’s lap to swipe at the cake’s frosting with a pair of eager fingers. Across the room, Desiree was slipping through the crowd, past Veronica and the Salesman, down the hallway, toward the bedrooms. And that was when curiosity got the best of Vern. She pulled herself out from under the Runt’s grasp, set Tracy down on the couch beside her, and followed after her friend. Veronica took the Salesman by the arm and followed, too.
In the bedroom, Desiree stood by the window. She ran her fingers along the lacy fringe of the curtains that the Runt had picked out on that day, a little over three years before, when Vern had finally told him about the baby, when the size of her paunch had basically forced her to. He’d wanted to celebrate, and so he’d bought curtains at a K-Mart across the parking lot from the McDonalds where they’d been having lunch. “To remember this moment forever,” he’d said, showing her the ugly things. And she had remembered. She didn’t think her brain would ever let her forget.
Missing Mr. Wingfield Page 4