"Is that your only bag?" she said.
He stared her up and down.
"You look thinner," he said.
"Since when?"
"Since a photograph you sent."
"The strap's caught." She gestured with her chin.
He stepped forward, his frame in no way slighter than she remembered; invisible strength that seemed to dictate the space around her. She remained still for his kiss, licked lips closing on her cheek, the sandpaper chafe of his chin. His hands locked on her hips, firm, familiar, fingertips pinching as though he might try to lift her.
"Still doing push-ups every morning," he said, stepping back.
"I have a car outside. Can I carry your bag?"
"No."
She hesitated a moment and then realized he was waiting for her. She only remembered seeing his profile slightly ahead, never behind, his hand reaching back to draw her along. He fell in beside her, fumbling with the strap of his shoulder bag, glancing at Kim to see if she was looking.
Joseph saw them and popped the trunk. He was taller than her father. She introduced them and her father put out a hand. She noticed the firmness of the shake, the assessing stare. It was a ritual he claimed was unintentional.
An hour later, they arrived at the hotel. Her father refused to give up his bag to the porter, who simply shrugged and held the door.
"It's his job," she whispered, as they ascended a short flight of stairs to a wide marble landing. Spiky palms bowed toward them from both sides. Limestone columns rose five stories to a translucent marble ceiling.
"They could've landed the plane right here," her father said.
More steps led up to the lounge and tearoom respectively, filled with people, their lips moving in conversations made silent by the dimensions of the lobby. Floor-to-ceiling framed mirrors reflected the vast spaces between.
Kim lifted the bag from her father's shoulder and handed it to the porter. Her father did not argue. At the front desk, she did the talking. Her father waited until they were in the elevator to speak.
"Who's paying for this?" he said.
"I am, Dad."
The room was one of four corner suites on the fiftieth floor. The walls were paneled, upholstered in cream-striped silk. A fax machine sat on a wheeled end table. She followed her father to the bedroom. The window overlooked Central Park. A cloud drifted by. He took in the view with his hands in his pockets.
There was a brown spot on the side of his forehead, a vein that bulged, spiraling like a heating coil. She had never noticed it before.
She pointed out the roller rink and the zoo.
"You can see the Met," she said.
"Do I have time for a nap?"
She left him and went to the bar and asked for a martini. A mirror reflected the tables of businessmen, flattened them out like a picture. Cigar smoke and laughter clung to the curtains, the rolls of material gathered into tight bundles. A woman next to Kim asked for a light. Her accent was thick, Spanish, or perhaps Portuguese. She was trying to figure the tip. She asked a man what to leave. "All day my husband is in meetings," she said. "I find things to do."
Kim's father was dressed and sitting when she returned, drumming the arms of his chair with his fingers. The windows had darkened. The city fell away behind him.
"The bed's too soft," he said.
She set her evening bag down, went to the phone, and dialed the desk and asked if there was a way of making the bed harder. When she turned, her father was holding her evening bag in both hands.
"It's so small," he mumbled. "What can you fit in here?"
"Lipstick. Here."
She took the bag from him and he followed her to the door.
Robert had chosen the restaurant. The maître d' was at the door when they arrived.
"Miss Reilly, always a pleasure."
"Good evening, Bruno."
"This must be your father. An honor," he said, clicking his heels. Her father did not appreciate the act.
Bruno ushered them to their table, sidestepping to let a waiter pass. Unsure of where to stand, her father backed up. A seated couple's hands shot out to protect their drinks. The woman shifted the bracelets on her wrist and whispered into the man's ear as he stared at her father's spit-shined patent-leather shoes.
Robert rose to kiss Kim. He winked and looked past her.
"Mr. Reilly," he said, putting out his hand. His smile was wide, too generous for a first meeting, she thought. "Wonderful to finally meet you."
She looked away and took her seat.
After they settled, the captain brought the wine list.
"Is that what we're drinking?" her father said.
"Would you prefer a cocktail?"
"Doesn't matter."
Robert thought for a moment, then ordered. Her father asked for the wine list. He was curious about the prices, Kim was sure.
"A white Burgundy to start," Robert said. "After that, a fine second-growth Bordeaux."
He described the Bordeaux, pinching his thumb and forefinger for emphasis, tapping the air.
"It's often compared to Palmer." His hand was still bobbing. "Unfairly, I think, for it's superior. Some would disagree."
He tugged his shirt cuffs and rested his hand on the table. His nails were perfectly manicured, and he'd removed his wedding band.
"It gained its reputation during the reign of Louis Fifteenth," he said. "Or was it Sixteenth? There's a delightful story about the Marquis de Rauzan, who owned the estate at that time."
His hand was active again, palm up, as though feeling the weight of some invisible object. She'd never seen him gesture so much.
"Have I told you this?" he said.
She shook her head.
"Supposedly," he went on, turning back to her father, "the marquis sailed to England once with hopes of obtaining better prices. Right there in the harbor, from his ship, he held an auction. At first nobody was interested. The prices were outrageous. Rauzan was infuriated and threatened to pour every last barrel into the Thames. In fact, he started to. Picture it: one, then another, and another; wine dribbling down the hull of the ship. The horror. The Brits became so nettled, mortified, to see good vintage wine going to waste, that they caved in and paid the asking price."
He laughed and looked at Kim.
"Of course, Château Margaux is my favorite. It's the parent of this wine. The vines were originally cut from that estate. That's what I mean when I say second growth."
"Mr. Sanders," said Kim's father, "you know a lot about wine."
"Call me Robert, please."
"After the war, I spent some time in France. A buddy of mine was interested in starting a vineyard. He had money, but he didn't want just any old vines. So we traveled, tasting more wines than I can recall the names of. One morning, I remember waking up in a barn with hay up my nose and a mule staring at me. That one wasn't good, I think. But we finally found one we liked and my friend made an offer."
Her father held his glass to the light. He wiped the rim with his napkin and set it down.
"I forget the Frenchman's name," he said. "Stubborn old bastard. I can see him smoking a pipe. He was the caretaker. Every day for a week we went to that man, begging, raising our bid each time. He'd open a bottle and sit us down and ask us to tell stories about the war. His English wasn't so good, but he could understand enough. You know, he gave us the vines for free. Turned out not to be a question of money. He'd lost two sons in the fighting. It was his way of thanking us. We smuggled the vines back to the States, and my friend took them out west and planted them."
"Dad, I never heard that story before."
"That's how I know what a second growth is."
"You should have stopped me," said Robert.
"I did."
Robert laughed. The sommelier was opening the wine.
"Did you keep in touch with your friend?" Kim asked.
"Jim Burr."
"I'd remember that name," she said.
The som
melier presented the cork and poured Robert a sip.
"Stayed on as a reserve."
"What about the vineyard?" Kim said.
"One foot in, one out."
Robert nodded for the glasses to be filled.
"His helicopter veered unexpectedly and smacked into a tree."
Her father clapped his palms. The sommelier jumped, spilling wine on the table.
"I'm so sorry," he said. Her father said nothing as the man folded a napkin over the wet spot and finished pouring.
"At least that's what I heard," her father said finally. "Korea hadn't started yet."
Robert thanked the sommelier, paused, and lifted his glass.
"Semper Fi," he said.
Kim's hand trembled as she clutched her glass. She wanted Robert to smile somehow or nudge her under the table; some discreet sign to show he wasn't so painfully serious. No matter how insulting, it would have been a relief. But he kept his drink aloft and held her father's stone-jawed stare.
"To Jim Burr," she said, hastily drinking.
Her father still hadn't moved. Then, slowly, he took up his glass. He held it rigidly before him, eyes locked on Robert's, lips moving slightly as though in silent grace, then jerked the wine to his mouth, snapped it back, and drained it. He brought the glass down hard, rattling the silverware, and wiped his lips with his napkin.
"It's very good," Robert said.
"Look," said Kim, "there's George Davis. Doesn't he own a bison ranch near Denver somewhere?"
"He says bison's the meat of the future. Cheaper and healthier than beef. I still haven't tried it."
The headwaiter appeared with the menus, and she opened hers quickly. They were written in French. She sipped her wine and started through the appetizers: crab cakes with mustard sauce on a bed of sweet-pea greens, tuna tartar, white asparagus tips with truffles. She didn't look up until she'd finished reading all the entrées.
"Do you have any questions?" she said, glancing at her father.
"I don't."
"You should try this," she said, leaning over and pointing.
He glared, but when the waiter returned, that's what he ordered, holding out his menu and pointing just the same.
"It's very good," said the waiter.
Robert handed his menu to the waiter. "So, Charlie—may I call you Charlie? Your daughter has told me some harrowing stories. Do you miss it?"
"Miss what?"
"I mean the edge. Life after war must pale."
"I miss having a gun pointed at me."
"I don't mean that, obviously. I know people who have had your sort of experience, and the period after—"
"You know someone who fought in Korea?"
"I mean from the accounts I've read, articles—"
"I haven't read many articles."
"You didn't fight in Vietnam, I understand."
"I was too old."
"You almost sound disappointed."
"I'm not."
"Would you have wanted to if you could?"
"Would you?"
"Well, I don't think so."
"I didn't want to."
"You didn't believe in it?"
"Of course I believe in war. I fought in two of them."
"Can we talk about something else?" said Kim.
Her father put his hand on her arm.
"No, sir," her father said. "Don't mistake me. I would have fought if they'd asked me. I trained soldiers to go there."
"Was it the politics of the war?"
"Sure it was politics."
"I mean, when you say you didn't want to go."
"No."
"It wasn't?"
"What are you aiming at, Mr. Sanders?"
"Most people I've talked to share your sentiment. They were ambivalent."
"I don't follow."
"That's why it was so horrific."
"No worse."
"It tore our country apart," Robert said. "I'd say that's pretty horrific."
"Horse shit."
"Yes, but—"
"You can point to specific fights and details, and I'm here to tell you, there's no difference between any of them."
"That wasn't—"
"Whether it's Bunker Hill and you're staring down two hundred and you've got just the stones at your feet, or you're lying face first in mud, trying to pick a sniper out of a tree and you've pissed your pants you've been still for so long."
"Dad." Kim turned away.
"War is war, six of one and half a dozen of the other—all red in the end. I trained marines to be men."
"Yes, and then they didn't receive any support from back home."
"A marine doesn't need support."
"You didn't feel sorry for them? If they didn't believe—"
"Mr. Sanders, do you pity me?"
"Of course not."
"All those so-called whining veterans—they're just a bunch of candy-assed momma's boys who thought they deserved a pat on the back because they had to shoot people and then found out their long-haired friends back home didn't respect them for it. All they did was insult my memory. If Patton had been alive, he would have slapped each and every goddamn one of them."
"Certainly you respected—"
"For that matter, if he'd been alive, we would have won that damn war."
"You respected the men you trained, though, didn't you?"
"That's the difference. People only care about themselves now."
Kim stood abruptly. She excused herself and went to the powder room. She shut herself in and sat down, clutching the folds of her dress in her lap, gathering them to her chest and face.
To see her father side by side with Robert—to observe Robert's finery, the sharp points of his perfectly folded handkerchief, gold conch-shell cuff links, stiff starched collar, and Windsor knotted tie—then to see her father, his brown puckering suit, matted shoulder pads sitting off his shoulders, that took nothing from his piercing expression, was to acknowledge that his dignity came from somewhere else, a place she hated to respect but trusted, where limbless men lay propped against trees, faceless, tags on chains torn from their necks. Robert could be stripped of his dignity. Her father could stand naked, hobbled and slouched, eyes glazed and full of drink, and nobody—nothing—could deprive him of his. There was no denying it. It came from the inside, from lasting memory. Her father's stern gaze, the lines in his face—cut deep like driftwood, split by the ocean, dried by salt and sun, and washed ashore—and his inability to discuss the trivial set him apart from Robert's eagerness, his fluff.
She pulled up her stockings and straightened her dress and wondered if a little of the light her father cast on Robert didn't fall on her as well. She checked her hair.
When she returned, they were talking easily. The subject had changed to Robert's investments. There was a play he was considering backing. Her father was grinning.
"You'd think I'd have learned my lesson," Robert said, rising and helping Kim with her chair. "My first brush with theater production was a disaster. Darling, I was just telling your father about my past foolishness, that gangster musical I thought would be a smash."
He turned back to her father.
"There are much wiser uses for a million dollars."
"A million?"
Robert sipped his wine. The dinner came.
"So what's this play about?" said her father, taking up his knife and fork.
"Charlie, it's far too embarrassing."
"Tell me."
"You'll say, 'Robert, why not just give the money to me?' "
"Should we order another bottle?" Kim said, finishing her glass.
"We did, love, remember?"
"Give me a clue," said her father. "Who's the star?"
"No one."
"No one?"
"No one you would know. I'm afraid it's all about cars. The actors play cars and wear roller skates like that play a few years ago, and skate on ramps. They sing about being cars, what it feels like to sit in heavy traff
ic or get rear-ended."
Her father's mouth hung open.
"There you have it."
"You're right," her father said. "You should just give me the money."
"I can't even say I had a boyhood fascination with cars. I know it sounds preposterous, but you have to admit, if you had the opportunity to invest in something so positively absurd . . . a grown man on roller skates singing about getting his oil changed. . . . As a conversation piece alone, the investment's worth it, don't you agree?"
Her father nodded.
Kim stared at him. His nose had reddened. His lips were pale. The second bottle of wine had been decanted. The waiter brought new glasses. Her father watched expectantly as the wine was poured, tapping the rim of his glass for more. The waiter continued to pour, filling the glass uncomfortably full. Robert beamed. Usually such a stickler about etiquette, he seemed not to care.
He talked about other investments, brushing off losses as mere amusement and savoring the successes. There was so much her father seemed willing to overlook. Was it the gambler's thrill? Horse races or paintings—was there any difference? Only with Robert there was no losing all his money because there was too much. It was there in the end, handed down like a blessing. To see her father's wide-eyed gaze undid all she had credited him with. She thought about the nights he stayed out, with her mother alone in the kitchen, watching the clock, taking his plate from the table and wrapping it in foil and going back to the chair and waiting.
When the check arrived, her father took out his wallet. But Robert had given his credit card before dinner. The slip was already prepared.
"You will treat when we visit you," Robert said, and this satisfied her father.
They stood up. Bruno was at the table to help.
"You will come back again," he said to her father, smiling. He escorted them to the door and shook Robert's hand.
"Now, where's Joseph?" Robert said, looking up and down the street.
"Did you like dinner?" said Kim.
"You have to tell me what I ate," said her father.
Robert was smiling. "Goose liver."
"Goose?"
"That's right."
Her father nodded. "It was good."
Kim looked away.
At the hotel, Robert waited in the car. She rode the elevator up with her father and saw him to his room. He stood in the doorway, swaying from side to side, his face flushed from the wine. She stepped forward to kiss him and he put his arm out.
Because She Is Beautiful Page 13
