Grigg didn’t have Triple A. “Is there a gas station nearby?” he asked.
“Not for miles.”
“God, I’m sorry,” he said. He unbelted his seat belt. “Why don’t you wait here? I’ll find a phone.”
“I’m going to walk the rest of the way,” Jocelyn told him. “While you’re getting the gas.” She didn’t think this was an unreasonable decision, but if it was, she didn’t care. She was proud of how calm she was being. She had been kept waiting, insulted, and stranded. All this, with impeccable, icy self-possession. Who wouldn’t be proud?
“How far is it?”
“Ten, twelve blocks.”
There was a vagrant across the street. He wore a Bay to Breakers T-shirt, the really classic one with the fish that looked like a shoe. Jocelyn had that same shirt, but his had Rorschach blots of grime down the front and he’d tied a bandanna around one of his biceps, as if he were in some kind of paisley mourning. He was watching them with a great deal of interest. He called out something, but not something she could decipher. “True bread” was the closest she could come.
“It’s too hot to walk that far,” Grigg said. “And not necessary. I’ll find a phone and call a cab. I really am so sorry. I had the car in the shop just last week, because the gas gauge was screwy. I guess they didn’t fix it.”
“It doesn’t matter. I just want to be with Sylvia. I don’t mind walking.”
“True bread,” the man across the street called out, more insistent now.
“I’m not staying here,” said Jocelyn.
What was ten or twelve blocks to a man in flat shoes? Grigg said that he would come then, too. They started off. This was not the best part of town. They crossed street after street at a quick pace, stepping over cans, flyers, and one plate of vomit. Jocelyn wiped her face and rubbed her mascara into her eyes. She couldn’t imagine how she must look. Her hair was flat with sweat about her temples. Her skirt was sticking to her legs.
While Grigg looked fine. No jacket—he’d left that in the car—but no real wear and tear, either. It was more irritating to Jocelyn than anything else he’d done the whole evening. It was also sort of impressive. “What do you think of Sylvia?” she asked.
“She seems very nice,” Grigg said. “Why?”
“She’s more than nice. She’s smart and funny. Nobody kinder.”
“Sylvia is in love with Daniel,” Grigg said, as if he knew what she was up to, which, of course, she was and he did.
“There’s no percentage in that.”
“But see, it’s not for you to say. It’s not for you to decide who she loves. You should stop interfering and let her work out her own happiness.”
Jocelyn went rigid beside him. “You call it interfering?” Her voice was both incredulous and deadly. It contained all the fury of finding herself walking fifteen, sixteen, seventeen blocks in the Valley heat because someone had neglected to fill the gas tank, of trying to be a good sport about it only to find herself insulted by this same someone. “To wish my friends happy? Where Sylvia is involved I hope I never do stop interfering,” Jocelyn said. “I won’t ever apologize to anyone for that.”
Would you mind if I didn’t go tonight?” Allegra asked.
All the air went out of Sylvia’s lungs. Of course I mind, she said, but not out loud, she was still Sylvia. How can you be so selfish? How can you even think of sending me off to face your father alone? How can you not know what this night is doing to me? (Why did we buy you a hundred-twenty-dollar ticket?) Please, please come.
The phone rang before Sylvia managed a word. She guessed it was Jocelyn wondering where they were, but Allegra picked up the receiver, checked the caller ID, and set the receiver back in the cradle. She rolled onto her side so that Sylvia couldn’t see her face.
“You’ve reached the Hunters’,” Daniel said. Sylvia hadn’t changed the message, on the grounds that it was good for unknown callers to get a man. She’d neglected to factor in the impact of Daniel’s voice on her, because usually, if the message ran, it meant she wasn’t there to hear it. “We’re not home. You know what to do.”
“Allegra?” Sylvia recognized Corinne’s voice. She sounded sad and possibly drunk. “We have to talk. When are you going to talk to me?
“I saw Paco today. He told me I’ve done two unforgivable things. You should have been the one to tell me this. You should have let me defend myself. I think even you’ll agree that’s only fair.”
Corinne was obviously just getting started. Sylvia had recently cleared the tape, so there was plenty of empty time. She felt awkward overhearing this private message; Allegra, so open about the broad outlines of her sex life, was secretive about the details.
Maybe she’d talked to Daniel. Sylvia wished she could ask him whether he knew what Corinne had done. Sylvia needed Daniel’s help to deal with Allegra. Sylvia needed Allegra’s help to deal with Daniel. No one was being any help at all.
Sylvia picked up Allegra’s wineglass and took it to the kitchen. She stood at the sink in nothing but her slip and waited for Corinne to finish. She could still hear her voice like a stream of water in the distance, no words, just a rise and fall. Sylvia washed and dried the glass by hand, the way Jocelyn was always telling her she should.
She was angrier and angrier with Allegra. Whatever had happened, whatever Corinne had done, Allegra was the one who’d left. You didn’t walk out on someone you loved. You didn’t sit silent while they poured their drunken hearts into your phone machine, as if you didn’t even hear them. People in love found the one way to stay together.
She thought of Allegra’s drawn face and reddened eyes. She thought of how hard Allegra was finding it to get to sleep at night, how at midnight and one and two, she herself would wake to hear some movie playing on the DVD player. Allegra had even talked of getting a pirated Fellowship of the Ring, although she thoroughly disapproved of pirating, although when they’d seen it in the theater she’d complained and complained about the way Gimli was being played for cheap laughs.
Sylvia thought how all parents wanted an impossible life for their children—happy beginning, happy middle, happy ending. No plot of any kind. What uninteresting people would result if parents got their way. Allegra had always been plenty interesting enough. Time for her to be happy.
How dare you, she said, standing in the kitchen, to Allegra in the bedroom. How dare you hurt my daughter so much. You pick up that phone right now, young lady—you let Corinne apologize. You let her atone for whatever it was, those two unforgivable things that she did.
You let Allegra be happy now. You let Allegra be loved.
The band was taking a break. Bernadette, Dean, and Prudie were joined at the table by a writer named Mo Bellington. Mr. Bellington had too much hair and not enough neck. Nice teeth, though. Bernadette noticed people’s teeth. Everyone did, but not everyone knew that they noticed. Bernadette’s father had worked on Bernadette’s teeth himself, with the result that, though she was now well along in her sixties, she had never lost a filling.
According to promotional materials on the table, Mo Bellington wrote mysteries that took place in the tiny town of Knight’s Landing. His detective was a cynical sugar-beet farmer who unearthed femurs and knucklebones almost every time he roto-tilled. On the table was a postcard of the jacket of Bellington’s most recent book. The title was Last Harvest. The two final t’s were knives, blood dripping down the blades into a field below. Bernadette was pretty sure she’d seen covers like that before. Nor did the title seem original. But if the artwork wasn’t wholly new, still she thought it reasonably well achieved.
“I guess you’re my group,” Mr. Bellington said, looking with obvious disappointment at the empty chairs. There was loud laughter at a nearby table. At another, someone tapped a wineglass with a fork, preparing to give a toast. Clearly there was livelier company elsewhere.
“More of us are coming,” Bernadette assured him. “I can’t imagine where everyone is. Jocelyn is the most punctua
l person alive. I’ve never known her to be late. Sylvia, not so much so. And Allegra. Don’t ask!”
Mr. Bellington made no answer and looked neither reassured nor entertained. He was a very young man to be writing books already. Bernadette could tell right off that he hadn’t lived long enough to have much to say. His sugar-beet farmer would be thinly drawn.
He walked around the table to sit next to Dean. This put his back to the rest of the room. Bernadette would have thought a writer would want to see what was going on.
If he’d taken the empty seat next to Bernadette, he’d have had his back to one of the huge columns and been able to see the dance floor and the podium and the band. Bernadette could see fully three other tables of people. But she had herself become invisible, especially to younger men. This had begun back in her fifties, so she was used to it by now. She’d become more audible to compensate.
“This whole event puts me in mind of my first husband,” she said. “John was a politician, so I know from fund-raisers! Comb your hair, dear, wash your face, and here’s a list of things you can say if anyone tries to talk with you:
“One: What a lovely event this is.
“Two: Isn’t the food delicious?
“Three: Aren’t the flowers beautiful?
“Four: Isn’t my husband the best man for the job? Let’s all be quiet now and listen to him talk! I myself am going to smile like an idiot the whole time he’s speaking.”
Even without music the room was noisy enough, the table big enough to make conversation across it difficult. Bernadette could see that Mr. Bellington wasn’t planning to try. He spoke to Dean. “If you have any questions about my books,” he said, “that’s what I’m here for. Content? Process? Where do I get my ideas? The word ‘last’ in Last Harvest is kind of a pun. ‘Last’ as in ‘final,’ but also ‘last’ as in ‘most recent.’ Ask me anything.”
There was something pompous, self-important in his delivery. Bernadette had just met him and already she was liking him less. The first course arrived, a lovely mushroom soup with maybe a dash of sherry.
“This is delicious,” Mr. Bellington said. “Well done.”
He directed his words toward Bernadette. What was that about? Did he think she’d made the soup?
“Do you love Jane Austen?” she asked. There was only one possible answer to the question. She would like to think that any man who wrote would get it right. She spoke loudly to lessen the risk of being ignored, and repeated her question just in case. “What do you think of Jane Austen, Mr. Bellington?”
“Great marketing. I envy her the movie deals. Call me Mo.”
“Which of her books is your favorite?” Prudie smiled in that unhappy way that made her lips disappear.
“I liked the movie with Elizabeth Taylor.”
Prudie’s hand had become unsteady. Bernadette saw the tremor in her Bloody Mary. “Your favorite Jane Austen is National Velvet?”
Prudie was being mean. Bernadette resolved to stop her. Soon. Meanwhile, it was good to see her putting up a fight. Not five minutes earlier her mother’s death had been painted across her face like one of those shattered women Picasso was so fond of. Now she looked dangerous. Now Picasso would be excusing himself, recollecting a previous engagement, backing away, leaving the building.
Dean coughed helpfully. Somewhere in the cough was the word “persuasion.” He was throwing Mo a lifeline.
Mo preferred to go down. “I haven’t actually read any Austen. I’m more into mysteries, crime fiction, courtroom stuff.” This was disappointing, but not damning. On the one hand it was a failing; on the other, manfully owned up to. If only Mo had stopped there.
“I don’t read much women’s stuff. I like a good plot,” he said.
Prudie finished her drink and set the glass down so hard you could hear it hit. “Austen can plot like a son of a bitch,” she said. “Bernadette, I believe you were telling us about your first husband.”
“I could start with my second. Or the one after that,” Bernadette offered. Down with plot! Down with Mo!
Dancing master Wilson complained about certain figures, such as “lead down the middle and up again” or “lead out to the wall and back,” noting that they were angular and dull. “Straight lines,” he said, “are useful, but not elegant; and, when applied to the Human Figure, are productive of an extremely ungraceful effect.”
“Start with the politician,” Prudie said. “We’ll get to the others. We have the whole evening.”
Bernadette loved to be asked to tell a story. She settled in for a long one. Anything for Prudie. “His name was John Andretti. He grew up in Atherton.”
John made the best first impression. He had an instant charm; you were the most fascinating person in the room. Until someone else caught his eye.
I met him up at Clear Lake, where we were tapping on the Fourth of July. It was my last year with the Peppers and we weren’t the Little Peppers anymore, because we were kind of grown-up for that. We were the Red-Hot Peppers by then. And I was the shortest. I was the last stair, even though I was nineteen years old.
My family was supposed to go to Hawaii for three whole weeks that summer. I was so looking forward to it. But my father felt he couldn’t leave his patients for that long, and so it was a trailer instead of a bungalow, a lake instead of the ocean. One damn tap dance after another. Madame Dubois had us all in polka dots that year. There was a flamenco craze. Going on in her brain.
Dad came with us, because he loved to fish. There was mercury in Clear Lake, from the old mines, but we didn’t think about that at all then. Now they tell you to only eat one fish from that lake a month, and this after years of cleanup. I didn’t like fish, so I would pick at my plate, even though Mother was always nagging us to eat it. She used to call fish “brain food,” which is what we all thought back then. Now I read how they’re putting warning labels on tuna. But eggs are good again. You have your good fats and your bad fats.
I once bit the end off a thermometer just to see if I could. Turned out to be dead easy. I spit the mercury right out, but Mother was so upset she gave me ipecac anyway. Then there she was all those years later, trying to get me to eat those fish.
I went swimming a lot, which was probably no better for me. I’d just learned to water-ski. So I was out on the lake one day, and John cut too close with his boat and upended me in his wake. Steered round to apologize and picked me up, shouting to my father how he’d take me in to shore. He used to say that he’d landed me like a fish. You’re the littlest thing I ever pulled out of the water, he used to tell me. I should have been made to throw you back.
He was a good politician, at least as far as the getting elected went. He remembered people’s names, and not just their names, but the names of their wives, husbands, children. He had a narrative line.
Bernadette nodded politely to Mo. “People don’t always realize how important that is in running an election. The voting public likes a good plot. Something simple.”
John’s was a classic. Or else it was a cliché. He was born real poor, and he made sure you knew that straight off. His speeches were all about his hardscrabble background—the obstacles overcome, the disappointments survived. The pledges he’d made to himself when discouraged. As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again. Brave stuff.
With just a hint of some old betrayal. This was the genius part. Nothing too specific, but the clear implication that he was too good to give you the details. Not one to tell tales and all. Not one to hold a grudge. You had to admire him for his generosity as well as his determination.
In truth he was the angriest man alive. He kept a list of insults. I mean an actual list, and there were items on it that went back twenty years. There was this boy named Ben Weinberg. They’d gone to school together; John’s father worked for Ben’s father. Ben had brains, friends, athletic ability, and lots of old money. The best of everything. John had to struggle so to get one-tenth of what was just handed to Ben. In the story of John’s
life according to John, John was Oliver Twist and Ben was Little Lord Fauntleroy.
One day when John was sixteen Ben called him a nasty little climber, and there it was, twenty years later, number three on John’s list. His mother had places one and two.
“So easy not to be a climber when you’re born on top,” John said. We were married by then, and I was starting to get a clue. Before that I bought it all. I didn’t see the list until I made my first appearance on it. I was certainly no judge of character back then.
I hope I’ve learned a thing or two since. No one with real integrity tries to sell their integrity to you. People with real integrity hardly notice they have it. You see a campaign that focuses on character, rectitude, probity, and that’s exactly when you should start asking yourself, What’s this guy trying to hide?
But, there you go. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, just as they say.
“Tout le monde est sage après le coup,” Prudie said. “Yes, dear,” Bernadette answered.
After Lloyd and Mattie left to get married, Madame Dubois said we couldn’t any of us date anymore, as it was bad for the act if we got reputations. We were to remember we were ladies. So John and I snuck around, and finally I left my dancing shoes behind and we ran off and got married in Vegas at the Wee Kirk o’ the Heather. There was the nicest woman working there, Cynthia something-or-other. I remember she said she’d been a clerk at Woolworth before this job, and she missed the free fabric ends she used to get. Isn’t it funny, the things you remember? The chapel had some dresses, and I tried them all on, but they were too big for me. I really was the tiniest thing back then, couldn’t fit into anything off the rack.
So Cynthia altered a skirt for me right on the spot, and she combed my hair and did my makeup. There were a few couples ahead of us; we had a bit of a wait. She gave me a cigarette. I never smoked in my life but just this one time—the occasion seemed to call for it. Cynthia pointed out how now I was going to be Nettie Andretti; I’d never even thought of that. I was going by Nettie then. That’s the day I began using my full name, Bernadette.
The Jane Austen Book Club Page 16
