Because She Is Beautiful

by Cameron Dougan

  Michael couldn't understand. It was not jealousy she felt, seeing Robert with Nicole, but fatigue. Jealousy was too black-and-white. For Robert to come to her in the night, complaining of the same wounds week after week, craving salve; to tell him simply to leave Nicole, or to even think that was a viable solution—that would have been jealousy. She never suggested that he desert her. Rather, she dug deep. She found examples in their relationship of his generosity, the ways he took care of her, and used these to contradict Nicole's portrayal of him, to reassure him. She reminded herself that it was love that kept him at Nicole's side, and love that brought him to her door, and that love, unlike jealousy, was an endless combination of true and false, a sweet painful Godlike gray. She had to find new ways to offer the same encouragements, to overcome the dim knowledge that she rarely saw Robert at his best, but always in some troubled state. All this she could bear. She certainly did not wish to be in Nicole's shoes, but there was no way of proving that to Michael.

  Robert called that morning at four-thirty, whispering, begging her not to be so daring.

  On Fridays in the summer she would ride out to the Hamptons. Sometimes Michael would drive her. Other times she took an upscale shuttle bus called the Jitney. They offered sealed cups of water and juice and small bags of pretzels and handed out magazines containing photographs of celebrities and wealthy residents seen the previous weekend. It was cold on the bus, and she would wrap a sweater around her neck and shut her eyes and listen to the crackle of pretzel bags tearing open, the anxious chatter that usually only lasted the first third of the trip, until they hit heavy traffic and people began to doze.

  Michael would be waiting at the stop in Bridgehampton with his car running. He'd roll down the window and cry out loudly so that everyone would stare, "Hey, you on the shitney!"

  The trunk would pop and she'd load her bag and creep around to get in. He'd be laughing.

  "I don't know how you take that thing," he said. "They treat you like steerage. Look at you, you're shivering."

  "Glad to see you, too."

  "You know, if you stay on, the next stop's the meat factory. You're lucky I pick you up here."

  She lunched with Michael and groups of women, clients of his who were mostly married and in their late thirties. The husbands were off playing golf or at home on conference calls with an office overseas.

  Conversations gravitated toward money: donations of note, the cost of incompetent help, recent acquisitions and how much was saved, when really it was the amount spent that counted. In sandals and frog-eyed sunglasses, clingy silk beach dresses and wide-brimmed hats, they sipped Chardonnay and nibbled at cucumber sandwiches and tuna fish on Ritz crackers, growing more gregarious as the lunch drifted by. They marveled about increased land values, tiny houses that were selling for well above their worth, and the enormous tasteless houses that were going up, Napoleonic statements of wealth, until by the end of the meal they were anything but discreet and spoke openly about spending as though it were the weather, as if what they revealed were no more significant or personal than the rolling clouds or the possibility of rain. By the time they broke from the table they were stumbling. They hugged and kissed and weaved back to their cars, off to collect the kids and the nanny from the beach or home to change for afternoon cocktails, all the while tossing back invitations for future weekends, offers to stay at their houses that by dinner were forgotten.

  Kim surveyed the different shades of lipstick marks on the glasses. Stacks of dishes filled the sink. Some plates sat on the counter with food that had hardly been touched: a sandwich with just the corner bitten off, one lying open-faced with some of the insides picked out. One woman had left a pile of neatly peeled-off bread crusts. Another had eaten only the cornichons from atop her salad.

  "You should hear the things they tell me in private," said Michael.

  "Like?"

  "How Daphne's husband is like this." He stuck out his pinky. "That's why they own a twenty-million-dollar house with thirty bedrooms. Or how Wendy's husband likes to videotape her with Asian prostitutes."

  "Get out!"

  "I choose their drapes so they tell me these things."

  "I think they're in love with you."

  "Judith Haines, whom you just met—the one in the white skirt that looked like a dust ruffle—a month ago she gave birth to her third child. Today, she'd just come from giving her personal trainer a blow job. Supposedly, her husband's sleeping with Daphne in one of those thirty bedrooms. That's unconfirmed."

  "They're all crazy."

  "No, they're normal. You're crazy. Everyone cheats but you. We're all a pack of horny baboons."

  "I'm hardly moral."

  "Nonsense, you're the most moral person I know. It's almost boring. You should have heard Oscar the other night talking about you and Robert. He called it true love. It nearly brought up my stuffed quail from dinner."

  "Is love so distasteful to you? You liked Robert once."

  "Oh, look, a piping plover." He pointed. "That bird there."

  "You know everything."

  "I do, don't I."

  Poolside afternoons: Michael reclined in a chaise longue, sipping daiquiris from foot-tall glasses. He'd started a collection of tiny paper umbrellas and stuck them between his toes. "To keep them cool," he said. She did the same.

  " 'Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,' " he said. "Shakespeare."

  "I thought love was blind."

  " 'The course of true love never did run smooth.' "

  "So they say."

  "Shakespeare again."

  "Enough already with Shakespeare."

  "I forget who it was who said, 'When you look at love it disappears.' "

  "Is this your idea of a lecture?"

  " 'If in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure—' "

  "Am I afraid?"

  " 'Then it is better for you—' "

  "You've been busy."

  "You're making me forget. Something about nakedness; nakedness, I always get hung up on that word, wait. . . ."

  "Then it is better for me—"

  " 'To pass out of love's threshing-floor into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.' "

  "Impressive. You've memorized a lot."

  "I've collected a few ditties. Daiquiri musings, I'm calling them, for your edification."

  Michael's friend Oscar was playing tennis with three other men. The court lay at the far end of the lawn. From where they sat, they couldn't see much, but they could hear laughter, the pop of shots, and the racing footsteps.

  Michael brought up the end of the century. He was planning his eve.

  "You already know where you want to be?" Kim said.

  "No, but I know how I'd like to be."

  He ran off a list of cities.

  Machu Picchu: "There's magic there."

  Madrid: "They give a very good party."

  Venice: "Everyone in masks on boats. I have a cape I've been saving."

  "Why not be sailing?"

  "I want to be someplace specific."

  "Under the stars."

  "A palazzo on the Grand Canal. I know someone. I should call him tomorrow."

  "It's seven years away."

  "Darling, have you tried calling some of the restaurants? They're filling up. Maybe I should stay home that night and just take a bath. That's where I shall be, in my tub. I'll call the maid in and have her take a picture. Where will you be, love?"

  "Maybe I'll take a bath too."

  "Excellent choice. All the world will be bleary-eyed and sweaty, and we'll just be rising from our warm soak, smelling clean, ready for the new millennium. I'm going to call all my friends and tell them. They'll be jealous."

  Oscar had peeled off his shirt and shoes and was sprinting barefoot across the lawn to the pool. He launched into a high arching dive, feet perfectly pointed. There was hardly a splash. Bubbles marked where he
'd entered the water.

  "Very dramatic," said Michael when Oscar surfaced. "Now let's try to keep some of the water in the pool, shall we?"

  Oscar gave him the middle finger.

  "Look at him," said Michael. "Like a little boy." He called out, "How about a cannonball now?"

  Oscar began swimming laps. A swell of water preceded his gliding body and slapped the end of the pool as he flipped and pushed off and surfaced, coming back the other way. Kim sipped her drink and watched his hands, the steady reaching, the rhythmic slicing of the clear surface. The years had been like this.

  Her thoughts returned to the millennium, to people's place in time. Her father had been to war. Even Robert had his place: the son of a son, an heir in a line of heirs dating back to the 1300s, Northern Scotland, and the Conquests. He could recite his lineage, the deeds of his forefathers. Kim had no lineage or defining experience. Two generations back, a boat ride erased the past. What had she contributed to history? Time was running out on the most obvious of possible legacies. Soon she'd be able to say that her womb really was a spare part. There was no point trying to attach more significance to one year than another. The millennium would be the same.

  Oscar burst from the pool, dripping. He shook himself vigorously and wrung water from his hair with both hands and grinned.

  "My black Lab," said Michael.

  The following week Oscar met her at the bus stop in one of Michael's cars. He had the top down. He jumped out and helped with her bag.

  "Michael had to meet a client in Montauk," he said. "He'll be back for dinner."

  "He's probably at the beach."

  "I do all the cooking anyway."

  "Nice sunglasses."

  "Thanks, they're his. I stole them."

  When they got back to the house, Oscar had a bottle of white wine open. He plunked an ice cube in his glass.

  "Want one?"

  "It's already too cold," she said. "Leave the bottle out for a bit."

  He shrugged.

  She sat at the kitchen island and watched him go through the refrigerator, laying out salad items. Three steaks were already marinating in a large glass dish.

  "Would you like to shell the walnuts?" he said. "For the salad."

  "I'm not very good."

  "I'm sure you're better than his majesty."

  He took a nutcracker from a drawer and brought her an extra bowl for the shells. Then he set to slicing vegetables.

  He asked about Robert, but she was tired and didn't feel like a drawn-out conversation.

  "Tell me something about Michael, then. A deep dark secret."

  "Like what?" she said.

  "Like what does he say about me?"

  "How wonderful and gorgeous you are."

  He threw the vegetables in a frying pan and fiddled with the burner, bending to see the flame. He spilled a little wine and laughed, dropped a rag on the floor, and pushed it around with his foot.

  "Tell me a secret," she said.

  "About Michael?"

  "Something about you."

  "Like what?"

  "Anything. Tell me about your parents."

  "They don't talk to me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't exist anymore."

  She wanted to say she was sorry, but thought it would sound in poor taste. Still, she said it because she couldn't think of anything else.

  "What about Michael's parents?" he asked. "Does he talk to you about them?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "What they're like—he won't say."

  "Have you discussed that with him?"

  "Have you met them? C'mon. It's okay to tell me."

  "If Michael doesn't want to talk about it, you should respect that."

  A car sounded in the drive, saving her. Oscar checked the vegetables. Michael breezed into the kitchen, tossing his keys into a basket.

  "So much money out there, so little taste," he said.

  He pecked Kim on the cheek.

  "Oscar pick you up okay? He wasn't late, was he?"

  "Right on time."

  "Want some wine?" said Oscar.

  "Is there any of that iced tea left? I'm going to jump in the shower."

  He headed upstairs.

  "I'll get it," she said to Oscar. "Keep an eye on the vegetables."

  She filled a glass with ice from the dispenser in the door of the fridge and took out the pitcher of tea.

  "Too much ice," said Oscar. He came over and removed two cubes, tossing them in the sink. "He likes four. Hey, don't look at me."

  "Better start those steaks."

  After dinner, Michael took a large bottle of vodka from the freezer. "Now, a game of pretend."

  "This should be good."

  Michael paused. "Okay, everything you say has to be a lie. Understand?" He set three glasses on the counter. "If by accident you actually tell the truth and someone challenges you, you take a shot. If no one challenges you, of course, you're fine. You've passed the truth off as a lie. That may be the funnest part."

  "What if someone challenges and they're wrong?" said Oscar.

  "Then they have to do a shot. Anyone can challenge."

  Oscar was already sitting on the counter. He put his feet up. Michael nodded for him to put them down.

  "How long does the game go on?" said Oscar.

  "I don't want to play," said Kim.

  "Do you mean that, or have you started playing?" said Michael.

  Oscar poured a shot and downed it.

  "I'll go first," he said.

  "It doesn't work that way. There are no turns. It's everything you say from the moment we start."

  "Who wins?"

  "Nobody," said Kim. "You two play without me."

  "You have to play," said Michael. "Darling, don't quit us. We're so used to lies. Won't it be nice to spot the truth for a change?"

  "So everything has to be a statement?"

  "No, just every statement has to be a lie."

  "Sounds boring," said Oscar. "There should be a way to win."

  "It sounds boring to you," said Michael, "because you don't like to think."

  "I think anything that requires one to think is boring," said Kim.

  "Ah, she's entered the fray with flying colors."

  Michael smiled. She didn't say anything.

  They went back and forth. Mostly Oscar got stuck doing shots. It became difficult to tell if he was really trying or just playing to get drunk. Michael would say, "I think designers these days aren't using enough rayon." Then Oscar would pipe in, "I love rayon," and Michael would challenge. Oscar would giggle and down his shot and Michael would roll his eyes.

  "The things we're learning," he said.

  "I've got one," said Oscar.

  "One what?"

  Oscar refilled his glass, then glanced at Kim. "He likes to look at pictures of naked women."

  "Only one woman," said Michael. "There's only one woman for me, Oscar. Didn't you know that? Ever since we met. It's you, Kim. I'm madly, deeply, head-over-heels in love with you."

  A smile played on his lips.

  "Well?" He stared at Kim. "Aren't you going to challenge?"

  Kim stood and turned. "I knew this game was dangerous."

  "You're not going to challenge?"

  "I'm going to bed."

  "But—"

  Oscar shushed him. "Sometimes you're cruel for the sake of it."

  "Now that I'm going to challenge."

  "Asshole."

  "Double challenge."

  She heard them laughing as she walked up the stairs. Then she heard footsteps.

  Michael stood in the center of the foyer looking up at her. His shirt was partially unbuttoned.

  "You should have challenged," he said.

  Oscar was calling him.

  "Go play," she said.

  "French toast in the morning?"

  She nodded.

  "In bed?"

  "I'm not playing anymore."

  "Sweet
dreams," he said, turning.

  "Michael?"

  He stopped and looked back.

  "Have you never told Oscar about your parents?" she said.

  "That would have been a good question for before."

  "Have you?"

  "Let's not talk about it. Sleep tight, darling."

  Kim learned to play bridge, took tennis lessons from a sandy-haired Australian at the Meadow Club, and drank Southsides made with real crushed mint. She stood at the outskirts of brick patios during endless cocktail hours, gazing out over barberry hedgerows and Scotch broom as the sun kissed the sea. Sometimes she would bump into Robert. He never seemed surprised.

  "Who are you with?" he would ask.

  "Michael."

  Ends of summer felt like endings.

  She cut her hair short, after a style she'd seen. At Michael's urging, she let it go dark, and it was odd at first, the reflection she saw, like an awkward memory. Robert refrained from commenting. She could tell he hated it. When she discovered gray hairs, she dyed it blond again. She started going to the gym.

  The hours, the days could seem so full. But there was rarely any spillover of activity from one day to the next. Sometimes she liked that feeling, the freshness of the morning and what lay ahead. Certain things were the same, though: the afternoon light creeping across her living room floor, the blinds clicking from a draft, the brick and cement apartment buildings buried beneath decades of soot, dull chunks of sky outlined by a thousand jagged rooftops.

  Wind gathered, stirring the courtyard trees, shaking the window in its frame. Her tea grew cold, the mint smell strong, enveloping, then unnoticeable.

  Michael had called that morning to cancel lunch. He had sounded distressed on the phone, but then he usually sounded cross in the mornings. She had trained herself not to take his moods personally. She spent the afternoon running errands, then returned home to get ready in case Robert was free for dinner.

  Michael phoned again that evening.

  "I'm waiting for Robert to call," she said.

  "Don't want to go tying up the line for the old all's clear," he said. "Don't want to impose myself, botch the romantic fun, third wheel, and all that fiddledeedee."

  "Have you been drinking?"

  "Why, do I sound like I've been drinking?"

  "A little."