Because She Is Beautiful

by Cameron Dougan

  "I'm late for my birthday."

  "You don't wanna miss that."

  She drained the second drink.

  "So you're on your way to a party?" he said. "You're sure dressed real nice."

  He signaled the bartender.

  "What she's drinking," he said.

  He cracked his knuckles and tried to slip off a wedding band without her seeing. She tipped her glass back and let the third double vodka run slowly down her throat.

  "Gettin' older's no fun," he said. "You sure don't look—"

  "What's your name?"

  "Ralph."

  "You've got someone who cares about you, Ralph?"

  "I—"

  "But suppose you didn't. Let's pretend you only think you do. Deep down you know you don't."

  "Maybe you better lay off the booze, lady."

  "Ralph, imagine nothing you do matters. Nobody needs you. Nobody wants you. You're a worthless piece of garbage. But—"

  She opened her purse, peeled two hundred-dollar bills from her clip, and crumpled them into a ball. She grabbed the man's hand and slapped the wad of money into his palm, closed his fingers around it, and gave the fist a pat.

  "Now you know how I feel."

  She slid from the stool and the floor seemed to rise up to meet her. She steadied herself against the bar and saw Joseph at the door, watching. Ralph started to unball the money.

  "I can't—" he was saying.

  She headed toward Joseph, who held the door. She wanted to scream.

  "So what's the surprise?" she said.

  The maître d' met her with outstretched arms.

  "I am older and you—you are younger and younger. It is unfair."

  He led her to a round table in the center of the room. "Happy birthday!" came the chorus. Then she saw Michael.

  "Birthday girl!" He slipped a hand under his jacket lapel and held it there as though feeling for his heart. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  She leapt forward and wrapped her arms about him and squeezed.

  "Have you been drinking already? You sneak. Say hello to the others," he whispered. "They're waiting."

  She circled the table, shaking hands with the Stevensons and Johnsons.

  "Robert's running a little late," she said. "Any minute now."

  She sat opposite the empty chair reserved for Robert. The waiters brought pink champagne and a smattering of amuse-gueules.

  She hung on Michael's shoulder. "I don't know if he's even coming."

  "Shh," he whispered. "Don't worry. Focus on the positive."

  She gulped champagne.

  "That we're here together," he said, "like old times. It's been too long."

  "Who are these people?"

  She knew who they were, though. John and Ellen Stevenson were just back from a tour of California; Robert, fishing for an invitation to Ascot, was having them up to Westchester for the weekend to play golf before they headed back to London. George and Elaine Johnson lived in Palm Beach year round, less than a block from Robert's house there. They'd flown up to visit their son and see a few shows. They were sponsoring Robert at a country club.

  "Strangers," she said.

  "What about me?" said Michael.

  Kim leaned on his shoulder again. "Robert doesn't know we're not speaking."

  "Were we not speaking? I thought you were just so fabulously busy."

  "He's not here, but you are. You're my gift. I looked for you in the trunk earlier."

  "You have been drinking. Pity. I've got catching up to do."

  "Hurry, hurry."

  "Kim," said George, sitting to her right, "Robert's sung your praises for a longer than long time."

  "And here we all are," said Kim.

  Elaine, who sat to Michael's left, clutched a sun-blotched hand to her freckled chest. Bangles tinkled down her wrist. Her face was like a porcelain mask.

  "To meeting on this happy occasion," said George, raising his glass. "And to the Stevensons for surviving the West Coast."

  The Stevensons sipped their drinks in unison like a pair of synchronized swimmers, trying to ignore the empty seat between them. It was like a charity dinner, Kim thought. She should have turned Joseph around from the get-go.

  George's voice boomed in her ear. "You know what Frank Lloyd Wright said? The country slopes down toward California, and eventually everything loose winds up there."

  Kim felt as though the table were tipping. Robert needed her to be stronger than his wife. What if she couldn't be?

  "Michael," she whispered, "he's not coming. Tell me what to do. What would Nicole do?"

  "Nicole?"

  "I don't know anything anymore. You—can you—?"

  "Why don't we go ahead with the appetizers," he said, signaling the captain. "We'll wait until Mr. Sanders is here for the entrées."

  "Tell him two magnums of Pétrus," Kim said.

  Michael turned. "Now I can't hear you."

  "What's with the whispering?" said Elaine, pushing the bangles up her arm.

  "Kim's plotting our inebriation."

  "That needs plotting?"

  "Tell 'im, sister," said George. "Let's get that sommelier off his can."

  "Michael normally abhors extravagance," Kim mustered. "He's quite the Buddhist."

  "You're not really a Buddhist, are you?" said Ellen, eyeing his black velvet jacket.

  "After dinner, we get to rub his tummy," said Kim. "I'm first because it's my birthday."

  "Speaking of bellies," said George, holding his own.

  The sommelier brought the magnums already decanted. He poured and Michael tasted. Kim decided to go ahead with ordering the entrées. The appetizers arrived. For what seemed like hours, George droned on about golf. Periodically, he would mold his hands into a grip, waggling his wrists. The Stevensons listened, their faces disappearing behind the rims of their Bordeaux glasses. George named the eighteen toughest holes in the country and how a group of pros had jetted from one to the other over the span of a week. Then he described the different architects: Tillinghast, Ross. . . .

  A dab of butter had stained Ellen's sleeve.

  Kim willed Robert to walk in. She dared him. She would humiliate him in front of everyone. She thought of the time she'd intended to scratch the hood of his car. How many times had Nicole thrown a drink in his face?

  Six waiters appeared at the table. Glasses were shifted, plates rearranged. The waiters plucked the covers from the plates.

  Kim asked the captain to remove Robert's setting. They took away the chair and cleared the space, but the Stevensons made no attempt to shore up the gap between them.

  George demonstrated a chipping technique.

  "Just stroke it," he said.

  Elaine burst into laughter, covering her flushed cheeks.

  Kim waved at the decanters. "Two more."

  "Eat," said Michael.

  "I am."

  "Are you okay?"

  "Splendid. Splendorous."

  "Darling—"

  "I didn't tell Robert about us."

  "Of course."

  "If I had, you probably wouldn't be here."

  "That's true."

  "You hate him, don't you? That's okay. I'm supposed to be satisfied with our little party here, my prize, my bone."

  "Easy, now."

  "I can't forgive him." She turned to George and laid a hand over his arm. "I want you to swear: No more golf talk. I forbid it."

  "When we were in Los Angeles," said John, "we visited the new Getty Museum. There was a most shocking painting of a—"

  "Penis," Ellen blurted.

  "We were the only ones in the room actually looking at it. The room was crowded, but no one looked. Everyone seemed more concerned with whether they were being seen looking."

  "Get that chap more wine," said George.

  "It's like what you said before about the slope," said John.

  George stared blankly. "The slope?"

  A waiter passed, and Kim reached for his ar
m. "More wine, please," she said.

  "We've ordered it already," said Michael. "Remember?" He nodded to the waiter.

  "There's the sommelier. I—"

  "It's coming," said Michael. "Trust me."

  He took her hand and held it. Ellen stared. Kim looked away. She imagined Robert's apology like a hastily written note, dangling carrot promises of future evenings that would undoubtedly fail. She imagined him with Nicole, checking his watch. "Who do you have to call?" she'd say. "No one. No one, darling." Kim could hear him clearly in her mind.

  Everything—the wine, the dinner, the endless parade of art, tickets, coats, dresses, pins, bracelets, earrings, and necklaces, even poor Michael, for he, too, was something to occupy her—were all reminders of Robert's absence. She wanted to clear the table with one swipe of her arm. She wanted Robert to see the evening he'd planned destroyed, see the pain he was conveniently never present for.

  "When you're fucking," Michael was saying, "any view's a good view. Even a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling looks great."

  She'd heard Michael disarm acquaintances with the same jokes a thousand times. Elaine's laughter validated something stale. She wanted to tell Michael to change, to shake him and beg him to say something original. He was her surprise. He was her only friend.

  "I'm not wearing underwear," Elaine whispered.

  George was describing a golf course in Monterey.

  "You're handsome," Elaine whispered to Michael.

  "Louder, please, so everyone can hear."

  A glass dropped at a far table. Waiters scattered in all directions like crows at a gunshot. Somewhere a light flickered.

  "I keep a set of clubs in each of our houses," George said.

  "Michael, make it stop," said Kim.

  The room was blinding.

  "Michael—"

  Startled, she drew back from a cake. The neighboring tables joined in song: more strangers. She remembered the officers' voices at her mother's funeral grinding out hymns to a body in a box. She thought of her father crying.

  There were hundreds of candles. She couldn't see her name.

  "Wish for something good."

  "A slice of wicked dreams," said Michael.

  Kim blew, driving the flames, diving, shivering, beaten. Laughter—more applause. Smoke streaked to the ceiling. She watched as though she herself were floating away.

  "Michael, I need to lie down."

  "A little longer," he said. "You have presents."

  He had to help with the bows. She opened his first—a costume bracelet: gold shells embedded in plastic.

  "For when you come to the beach," he said.

  She received a silver frame from Tiffany's and shell-shaped bath soaps, a picture book full of society photographs, and a silver-sequined eyeglass case.

  "I have to wear reading glasses now," said Ellen, "and I just fell in love with it."

  "I don't wear glasses," said Kim.

  Michael gathered the gifts. Half a magnum of wine remained.

  "Aren't you even a little embarrassed?" Kim said to the table.

  "Those soaps were expensive," said Elaine.

  "What if something's happened to Robert?" said Kim.

  "You want us to call?"

  "I just wanted to see him for my birthday."

  She got her purse open and pushed back her chair. She stood and almost fell. She tried to press a credit card into Michael's hand.

  "Darling, I'll take care of everything."

  The captain was at her side.

  "Here," she said, giving him her card. "Don't let him pay."

  "I'll call you," said Michael.

  She stumbled over the bag of gifts as she left the hushed room.

  Joseph was waiting by the curb. He froze.

  "Get me out of here," she sobbed.

  She collapsed in the back of the car and buried her face in her hands.

  "He's with her, isn't he? Isn't he, Joseph? Fuck him. Fuck him!"

  She lay on the seat with her legs tucked and her dress twisted. Shadows danced inside the car. Streetlights whited out the rear window.

  When they reached the apartment, Kim was half asleep. She propped herself on one elbow and rubbed her eyes.

  "Home," said Joseph, opening her door.

  "My head's swimming. Let me sit a little."

  Joseph watched her eyelids sag.

  "I need to rest," she said.

  Joseph shut her door and stood on the curb. It was cold. He blew into his hands and lit a cigarette, and the smoke and his breath were the same. A couple passed, their coats snug to their chins. Laughter skipped up the block. Joseph stared at Kim through the window, his forehead knotted with concern. After a while, he climbed back into the car and waited some more.

  "My father always gave me the best birthdays." Kim sat on her hands. "He did lots of nice things," she said.

  She touched the fogged window, drew a cake, then smeared it.

  "You're shivering," she said.

  He shook his head.

  "I'm so sleepy."

  "It's almost two," Joseph said.

  "I can sleep right here."

  "C'mon, I'll help you upstairs," he said, before she had a chance to lie down again.

  He lifted her and got the door closed with his foot.

  "The keys are somewhere," she mumbled, dangling her open purse. Her eyes were half shut.

  She leaned against him as he studied the door. The keys looked tiny in his large hands. He tried two.

  "The pointy one," she said.

  He supported her up the flights of stairs, an arm cradling her. He unlocked her apartment door and dropped the keys in her purse. She stood in the doorway. He gazed at her. For a moment he looked as though he were about to turn. She touched his shoulder. He didn't move.

  "You smell nice," she said. "Did Robert give you that cologne?"

  She could feel his arm twitch. Her mind reeled.

  "Joseph—"

  His mouth opened.

  "Kiss me," she said.

  His eyes widened.

  "Do it," she said.

  She had liked his hand on her back—stronger than Robert's.

  "I said kiss me."

  Slowly he bent forward, his face intensifying as it neared hers, as though he were leaning into the spinning blades of a fan. Was he thinking of his wife? Was he thinking of his daughters? Their lips met. His body was rigid.

  "Stop!" she said.

  He fell back.

  "What are you doing?"

  He shook his head.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she said.

  "I—"

  He turned and ran down the stairs, echoes of echoes. The building door slammed.

  She went to the phone and dialed Robert. Her head was whirling.

  "Is he there?" she said, recognizing the maid.

  "Who?"

  "Is he there? Please, it's urgent. Please."

  "Hello." He came on. "Who is this?"

  "Robert," she said, "you have to—"

  "Wait." He covered the receiver. There was muffled talk, then his voice became clear. "I'm so sorry, darling. I'm so, so sorry."

  "You have to come over. Joseph just tried to kiss me."

  She was crying. She could hear Robert's breathing. She could tell he was stunned. She had hurt him.

  "He kissed me, Robert. He drove me home and tried to kiss me."

  Kim stared at the clock and guessed how long Robert would take. Time moved quickly, then the moment passed. After that, the waiting was harder.

  There had to be a lie, a lie to undo this terrible lie. He was trying to comfort me, she could say. He was wishing me happy birthday. She dug her nails into her thighs, bile rising in her throat.

  When the door bolt turned, she ran to Robert's open arms. Her hands raked his back as he fumbled to pocket the key.

  "It's okay," he said. "I'm here now. It's okay."

  "Robert, I just feel—"

  "Don't worry."

&
nbsp; "What are you going to do?" she said.

  "He's gone."

  She didn't look up.

  "I fired him," he said.

  He shut the door. She hugged him tightly and tried to breathe, to still the pounding in her chest. She pushed past him to the bathroom.

  "Kim?"

  She dropped to the tiles and braced herself against the toilet seat and retched. Finally the vomit came, bloodlike, wine gushing from her throat and nose. Robert reached over her shoulder to flush. He pulled the hair from her gaping mouth. So many times she'd stood behind her father's hunched body at the sink or the side of the drive as he shamed himself—the curses and pleas. Robert mopped her chin. Her face fell heavily against her forearm and she stared at the vile bits of food under the rim that the flushing couldn't wash away.

  When she finally could stand, Robert put his hands on her hips to steady her. She jerked back and punched his shoulder.

  "Where were you?" she said.

  She leaned close again, pounding his chest softly with her fists. She grabbed his coat sleeve and twisted and tugged and balled it. Then she smoothed it out.

  "Nicole broke her arm," he said. "I spent the night at the emergency room. By the time the doctor saw her, she was vomiting everywhere. I promise you, no one is more sorry than I."

  "I didn't—"

  "I'm heartbroken I couldn't be there. The whole thing's a complete shambles. I wanted it to be special."

  He stroked her forehead and spoke softly.

  "Happy Birthday, my love."

  After breakfast they showered and dressed. They went down to the street and signaled a taxi. Robert mumbled an address that she couldn't hear, and she hung on his arm, begging him to tell.

  The taxi turned up Park Avenue and pulled over to the curb at 59th Street. She followed Robert into a building, and they rode the elevator up and stepped out into a private foyer that led to a single apartment.

  He dangled a key and dropped it into her outstretched hand.

  The door swung quietly on well-oiled hinges to reveal an enormous gallery with antique boiserie panels. The living room was twice the size of her entire apartment. She clasped her hands and turned to Robert, who was leaning against the door frame.

  "You!" she said.

  He came toward her. She kissed his hands and tossed them away like confetti and ran through the other rooms. Robert followed slowly, calling when he couldn't hear her footsteps anymore. He found her in the bedroom, arms spread, her whole body pressed tightly to the window, dark against the glare. He came up behind her.