Because She Is Beautiful

by Cameron Dougan

"Do you have someone special to celebrate with?" she said.

  "Yes."

  Kim had never told her anything about her private life. It seemed strange not to have said something.

  "First I want to go upstairs and see that girl from the other night," she said. "She was asleep and I didn't get a chance to say good-bye."

  "You mean Brittany?" said Hetty, her smile vanishing. "Child, she didn't make it."

  When Kim got home, she went to the end of her list. She'd written two hundred names. Brittany's was the last. She drew in a cross.

  PART IV

  PARIS

  The apartment had taken a year. Halfway through the installation, Robert admitted to not liking the color scheme. They had to start over.

  "It's not as if we're not paying for it," she said to Michael.

  When the apartment was complete, Michael wouldn't return her calls. Change, she thought. She needed to get away.

  Nicole left for Hawaii. Robert and Kim had planned a few days in Paris. It was late May. The trees would be blooming, the weather starting to thaw. They would stay at the Ritz as they had in the past. But this time it would not just be for a weekend. This time she wanted to see the city, see the moon from Sacré-Coeur, wet her feet in the fountains at the Louvre, and walk barefoot under the stars. She wanted Paris beyond the landmarks she knew, the scattered restaurants they always went to, the fashion houses and the four corners of a bed.

  The night before the flight, she took out her suitcases. She laid trousers across the bed, many with the price tags attached, still unworn. If she liked a style, she usually bought two, sometimes three. She pulled down shirts and piled them one atop the other over the pants. She poured herself a vodka from a crystal carafe that sat on a gold-leafed side bar. She shook the ice in the glass and went to the closet to survey the racks of suits. The hangers were evenly spaced. No two suits touched and the sleeves fell freely, pearl and gold and jade buttons all in a row. Her father would approve.

  She wouldn't have answered the phone, except that she was expecting Robert for dinner. She thought he was calling from his cell phone.

  "Hello?"

  There was no reply.

  "Hello?" she said, louder, thinking Robert would come on momentarily.

  "Miss Reilly?" said a strange voice.

  "Who's calling, please?"

  "Joseph."

  He sounded official, as though he were waiting downstairs with the car, as though no time had elapsed since his firing.

  "What do you want?" she said.

  She pictured him in traffic on the 59th Street bridge, girders like prison bars creeping by, a steel-covered street with no view of the night sky, only flashing glimpses of the city left behind. And what ahead? Cramped car-lined streets, sooty brick duplexes with aluminum strip overhangs above the front steps—the back roads to the airport, Joseph's home. How many times had he stayed up all night driving her to parties, then returned to a sleeping wife and children, foil-wrapped cold dinners? She could still see his eyes that last night when they kissed, the shock, the helplessness as she robbed him of his dignity, abandoning her own. Did he need money?

  "I'm calling," he said, "because I thought you should know you're not the only one. I thought you should know."

  She hung up and stared at the dress she was holding, black with Robert's imperative slit up the side. She spun around and whipped it away, the hanger shooting loose, tomahawking across the room, nicking the cream wall, a wisp of plaster dust. The dress dropped like a weight, a hole in the carpet. The phone rang. It stopped and then started again. She rubbed her temples and looked about the room at the sweeping yellow curtains and the armoire with the retractable shelf and the television half pulled out, open drawers, stockings still in their packaging, and mounds of folded cashmere sweaters, a stray highball she'd poured earlier that evening and forgotten. She rushed to answer the phone.

  "You're lying!" she shouted.

  "Who's this?"

  Kim sat on the edge of the bed. She began to untangle the cord.

  "Yes?" she said.

  "Kim?"

  "Yes?" she said louder.

  "This is Rose, your grandmother."

  The voice bore no resemblance to the voice she'd heard on the phone years ago. It was weak.

  "I was expecting someone else," said Kim.

  "It hasn't been easy tracking you down."

  There was a long pause.

  "Your father is sick. A neighbor found him in time. They say it was a mild heart attack. He's back home but scheduled for surgery in two days. I just wanted to let you know. I have the number of a priest who—"

  "For what?"

  "Well—" She paused. "I thought you'd—in case—"

  "There's no in case. What do the doctors say?"

  "They say he'll be okay."

  "Why are you calling then? Why isn't he calling?"

  "I thought you would want to know."

  "Did he ask you to call me?"

  "No." Her voice trembled.

  "Because he will be okay. He knows."

  "But—"

  "You don't understand. Nothing can kill him. He'll outlive you and me, everybody. He'll be fine. He'll fight and win this time and he'll fight it and beat it the next time and the next. You have no business calling here. If he needed me, he'd call himself. If he wanted me to come, he'd call. He's conscious, right?"

  "Yes."

  "And he didn't say he wanted me to come?"

  "Your mother didn't want us to come either."

  "I don't care."

  "She told us not to."

  "I don't believe you. I was there. I was by her side. I know why you didn't come. Don't presume to know what she really wanted or what my father needs. And don't you dare think you know what I should do. You don't know my father or me or anything. Don't ever call here again. Do you understand?"

  "I'm sorry," she said. "He's been very kind these past years. There was nobody else. He loves you very much."

  Kim hung up and reached for the glass on the nightstand and shook the ice loose. She circled the room, staring at the phone as though it might ring at any moment. She refilled her drink and went around the room again, rubbing her forehead with her free hand. The television was loud. Finally she returned to the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed.

  "Hello?" came the voice. Did he sound out of breath?

  "Daddy—"

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. Grandma Rose called."

  "What did she want?"

  "You've been taking care of her?"

  "I haven't been taking care of anyone."

  "She seemed grateful."

  On television, a weatherman pointed to a map of the states. There were patches of rain and wavy lines, fronts with arrows showing direction and movement. City temperatures began to flash: Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle. . . .

  "Is it really eighty degrees in San Francisco?" she said.

  "Huh?"

  "Dad, I want to come."

  "What?"

  "To be there."

  "What did that woman tell you?"

  "I can be on a plane tomorrow."

  "Don't go doing that."

  "It's serious, Dad."

  "Goddammit. In, out—that's what the doctor said."

  The weather report ended and cut to a commercial. The television seemed to grow even louder.

  "So what are you doing?" he said. "Everything fine?"

  "I'm supposed to fly to Paris," she said.

  "That's perfect. That's grand. You do that."

  "Tell me to come, Daddy."

  "I never got to take your mother. That fellow going with you? What's his name, Bob? I have to have a talk with that boy."

  "I don't want to go now."

  "Damn it. Don't start worrying about something that ain't worth—" He took a deep breath. "Look at what you're doing. I told you—"

  "I want to be there."

  "No! I don't want you here. If you show up, I swear
. . . don't."

  "What hospital? At least tell me the hospital. Please. Don't make me call Rose back."

  "You promise to get on that plane to Paris?"

  "I promise."

  "Cross your heart."

  "Yes, Daddy."

  He would be fine. She would know when the time came, she told herself. And it was true; nothing could kill her father: bullets, hate, disease, love, not even prayer.

  Robert was late picking her up. His new driver, Angell, sat in the front seat, beating a rhythm against the wheel with flat palms. She could hear the radio through the windows. He looked slowly in her direction, then looked away as though he hadn't seen her, hands smacking the wheel, head bobbing, sideburns below his ears. She waited for him to get out of the car and open her door. He whistled through his teeth as he swung his legs out and moved slowly. His hand lingered over the door handle as though daring her to say something. Robert had his head turned. There was a lot he was willing to overlook to be able to say he had a driver named Angell, a former state trooper. He would boast of Angell's tattoos over cocktails. "He shot a man. I don't know if that's what got him removed from the force." Then, fueled by the shock such statements would elicit: "He carries a Beretta." He'd pat his calf. "Right here." He seemed proud, almost, as if he were living dangerously, performing an act of courage in hiring such a man.

  "You're late."

  She turned her cheek to his brisk kiss.

  "Can you turn the music down?"

  The car smelled of lemon rinds, not Nicole's lilac standby. She lowered the window and tried to forget Joseph's call. Soon her own perfume would seep into the leather, leaving its mark.

  "Do you have to go so fast?" she said to Angell. Then, a moment later: "Why are you cutting across here? There's always traffic on this street. Robert, say something."

  "You sound like Nicole."

  She saw Angell's face in the mirror, the splinter of a smile.

  She drank vodka martinis during dinner. They numbed her throat and warmed her hands. Robert never lifted his eyes from his food. He chewed mechanically and redistributed portions of meat and vegetable about his plate, avoiding her gaze.

  "My father's having surgery," she said.

  For a second, the muscles in his forehead relaxed. Then his brow leveled and he set down his silverware.

  "Is it serious?"

  "He doesn't think so."

  "What happened?"

  "Mild heart attack."

  "That is serious."

  "In, out, the doctor said."

  "A heart attack is serious."

  "My grandmother called."

  Robert stared blankly.

  "I shouldn't worry," she said.

  He nodded slowly, but she could see that he disagreed.

  "We'll have to postpone Paris," he said firmly.

  "Why?"

  "Why? You should be with your father."

  She shook her head.

  "You don't want to be there for the surgery?"

  "He doesn't need me."

  "Are you sure you've thought this through?"

  "Of course."

  He sipped from his glass.

  "He said I should go to Paris," she said. "And I want to more than before."

  His eyes dipped from hers.

  "Nicole's back," he said, after a long silence.

  He stopped a waiter and ordered another drink.

  "She's not feeling well," he said. "She wanted to be near her New York doctors."

  He stared gloomily into his glass and finished the remains and looked about impatiently for the waiter.

  "Where has he gotten to?" he said.

  "So that's why you don't want to go."

  "This should blow over in a couple of weeks."

  She set her fork and knife down.

  "I know. I'm sick about the whole thing," he said.

  "If I had flown to San Francisco to see my father, you wouldn't have told me."

  "We'll still go. I promise."

  She reached for her drink, and her jacket cuff touched her dish. Robert dipped his napkin into his water and offered it.

  "What?" she said.

  He shrugged. A busboy brought a fresh napkin and replaced his water. Kim saw the stain on her jacket and rested her arm in her lap so Robert wouldn't look at it.

  The table next to them emptied. The maître d' watched as the busboy cleared saucers and cups and smoothed out fresh linen.

  Just then, Angell walked in with the sleeves of his suit pulled up to his elbows. He pointed at Robert and started in their direction. The maître d' cut him off.

  "Your convict wants you," she said.

  Robert wiped his lips.

  "What now?"

  He threw his napkin down and got up. The maître d' stepped aside as Robert approached. People were looking. Angell was not smiling his usual proud, crooked grin as he cupped his mouth to Robert's ear. Robert didn't seem as concerned.

  "What was that about?" she said, when he returned to the table.

  "Nothing."

  "He barged in here to tell you nothing?"

  "Darling, I'm sorry about your father, really. And I'm just sick about the trip. I know it will work out. Please forgive me. I know how upset you are. You should go to see your father."

  He straightened his napkin in his lap and tugged his shirt cuffs until they were satisfactorily revealed and looked up.

  "You're firing daggers at me," he said.

  "I'm going."

  He paused and she repeated herself, sounding more sure.

  "Good," he said. "It's the right thing to do."

  "Like you know right from wrong."

  He shrugged. "I know about this."

  "You think I mean San Francisco."

  "Go tonight. I'll have Angell take you," he said.

  "Robert, I mean Paris."

  A waiter approached the table.

  "Is everything all right?" he said.

  "Yes," Robert said. "You're going without me?"

  "Yes."

  She ordered dessert and coffee. The busboy cleared the glasses. Robert pursed his lips against his closed hand. He stared a long time at the check before signing it.

  The busboy grinned at her as she went to stand. She'd forgotten about the stain on her jacket and she quickly covered it with her hand.

  The maître d' hurried to assist with her chair.

  "So sorry, Madame," he said, glaring at the busboy.

  Then back to Kim: "You must forgive him. Today he is a father."

  The busboy beamed.

  Robert insisted on dropping her off.

  "I wish you wouldn't go," he said. "Aren't you being a little cruel?"

  She lowered the window. She was sweating, and the air chilled her forehead.

  "Darling, did I say something? Just tell me. I'm sorry about the trip. I would have told you about Nicole."

  He stared at her.

  "It's getting cold. Why don't you—"

  She pressed the button to raise the window.

  "Tell me," he said. "What can I do? Say something."

  She shook her head. "I don't know what to say."

  The bedroom was a wreck, clothes strewn about, her closet wide open, every light glaring. She collapsed on the mound of clothes on the bed and waited for the phone to ring, for the continuation of Robert's pleading. She stayed up all night thinking, staring at the art on her walls, botanical prints that Michael had chosen because she'd instructed him to, because she'd liked the idea at the time. "No, for the bedroom," she'd said, as though they were relevant to her past and she needed them close for comfort. Pretend hand-me-downs. Souvenirs of a stranger's life, a false travel log of memories, connecting her to random places—nowhere, nothing, no one. She opened a drawer and took out the plaque she'd received from the hospital. She went to the wall and took down one of the prints and hung the plaque in its place. She stood back and gazed at it, stuck between two Redoutés. Volunteer of the year. So many names. So many crosses.
It occurred to her to pray and forgive, to ask for the strength to bless her father's soul for any pain he might endure.

  She finished packing before Robert finally called.

  "I'm still going," she said. "You can call me at the Ritz."

  "I wish you wouldn't. Your father—"

  "Don't you dare pretend to be concerned."

  In his voice she heard exhaustion. It was not in him to put up a fight.

  "Perhaps I can join you. I'll have Angell take you to the airport," he said.

  "Don't bother."

  She phoned Saint Vincent's. Hetty was not in. Kim left a message explaining that she wouldn't be able to make the following two Friday nights. . . . Maybe three. She was leaving the country. Not to worry, she'd be all right. She would make up the days as soon as she got back.

  She called for a service to meet her and take her to Kennedy. Within a few hours, she was on a plane. She woke as they were landing. It was early morning in Paris. It was the day of her father's surgery.

  At the Ritz, a broad-shouldered valet carried her bags from the taxi. Another held an umbrella. People huddled under the overhang of the hotel entrance, waiting as porters in long raincoats ventured across the cobbled Place Vendôme, whistling for taxis and waving their arms in the rain. A wet foot-marked red carpet led to the revolving door. She was too tired to attempt French. She gave her name at the reception desk and the man responded in English. He welcomed her and asked about the flight. A room was ready, a beautiful one overlooking the inner courtyard.

  "I know you specifically requested one in front," he said, but explained that for early check-in there were no front rooms available. If she preferred, she could take the room that was ready and they would move her that afternoon.

  She could think only of lying down, of shutting the door to her room and being alone.

  "You've had a long flight," the man said. "You will feel better after a bath and some breakfast."

  A porter led her to her room and pushed open the door. Light from the hall fell on hundreds of white roses, bunches upon bunches in porcelain vases on the night tables, on the dresser and vanity, and a gilded writing desk. He went to the window and opened the curtains. Blooms the size of grapefruits perfumed the long room and sitting area. The walls were upholstered with silk, the color of the clouded sky. She called down for a bottle of champagne and searched for a card, stretching the phone cord across the room as she went from bouquet to bouquet. The porter set her bags in the closet. By the time she got off the phone, he had gone.