Significant Others
Page 15
Booter gave Jimmy’s leg a shake. “C’mon. Let’s go see Lester and Artie.”
“Is she … uh … long-term?”
“No,” said Booter.
“You buy one of those whores down at the Northwood Lodge?”
“No.”
Jimmy’s eyes grew cloudy with reminiscence. “I bought a whore once. Nothing spectacular. Just this … nice little gal from Boulder during the war. Her name was … damn, what was it?” He sucked in smoke, then expelled it slowly. “Funny name … not like a whore’s name at all.”
“Let’s go,” said Booter.
“I always figured there’d be more just like her … or better. I had time for everything. Hell, five or six of everything.” He was mired in memory again.
Booter found Jimmy’s jacket and handed it to him. “We gotta hurry,” he said. “Lester wants to play his saw for us.”
Jimmy struggled into his jacket. “She have big titties, your girlfriend?”
Booter chuckled. “You ol’ whorehound.”
“I’m not as old as you,” said Jimmy. “God damn, where do you get the energy?”
Booter shrugged and smiled.
“The only big titties I ever see are around this place.” Jimmy sighed elaborately. “Old men and their big titties. It’s so depressing. Where the hell is my hat? Some of those fellows out there could use a brassiere, Booter. Ever notice that?”
Booter found Jimmy’s hat, a model he’d worn since the fifties, when he’d seen a similar one on Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady. He handed it to Jimmy and said: “You look as young as I’ve seen you in a long time.”
In point of fact, Jimmy’s bypass had whipped at least thirty pounds off him, imparting a sort of crazed boyishness to his face. “What is it that happens, Booter? Why do we all start looking like old women? What the hell is it? Revenge?”
Booter preceded him out of the tepee, merging with the tide of returning Jinks-goers. A screech owl heralded their exit. Jimmy caught up with him and said: “My wife’s Aunt Louise had a full mustache by the time she was seventy.” Booter kept walking.
“There’s a message there,” said Jimmy, sighing again. “There’s a terrible message there.”
Midnight Quartet
THE ROAD ABOVE MONTE RIO WAS RUTTED AND UNLIT, DEADLY AFTER DARK.
“Are you sure this is right?” asked Thack. He thinks I’m a flake, thought Michael. Useless with a hammer and useless in a car. “Well,” he said evenly, “she said it was the very last house on the road.”
“Yeah,” said Brian, “but is this the road?”
“That’s what I was wondering,” said Thack. Now they were ganging up on him. “What other road could it be?” he asked.
“That last turnoff,” said Thack.
“Yeah,” said Brian.
“But it was heading down, wasn’t it?”
“Hard to tell,” said Thack.
There was nothing to be gained by capitulating now. “I’m gonna keep on,” said Michael.
“Whose place is this, anyway?” This was Brian again.
“I dunno,” said Michael. “Some friend of hers rented it.”
“Male, female, what?”
Michael chuckled. “Male, probably. Didn’t you read her book?”
“I looked at the pictures,” said Brian.
“I can’t believe you didn’t recognize her.”
“She looked different.”
“I wouldn’t have recognized her,” said Thack.
“She’s a big star,” said Michael, irked with them both for not understanding the honor they’d been afforded. “And she’s so accessible.”
“I noticed,” said Brian dryly.
Thack laughed.
“You’re both pigs,” said Michael.
The crumbling road became a driveway, which led them up the steepest incline yet.
“This is crazy,” said Thack.
“Yeah,” said Michael, “but I think this is it.” Ahead of them, caught in the headlights, lay an enormous moss-flecked chalet.
“Jesus,” said Thack. “It looks like a Maybeck.”
“A what?” asked Brian.
“He was an architect,” Michael explained. “Early twentieth century.”
“You know his work?” asked Thack.
“Very well,” said Michael. Take that, Mr. Butch-with-a-Hammer.
He parked next to a white sedan behind the chalet. There were broad stairs leading to the second floor, where the living quarters seemed to be. The ground floor was shingled-over storage space.
The three of them climbed the stairs as a phalanx. Halfway up, Brian turned to Michael and said: “Let’s don’t make this long, O.K.?”
“O.K.,” Michael whispered.
As they reached the top, Wren flung open the door. “Hi, boys.”
“Hi,” said Michael.
“Your timing is perfect,” she said.
“Really?”
“Really. I’m ready to party.” She sailed ahead of them like a galleon, listing here and there to turn on a lamp. When they reached a big stone fireplace, she stopped and stuck her hand out to Thack. “I’m Wren,” she said.
“Thack Sweeney.”
“You’re quite a swimmer,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Are you another San Franciscan?”
“No,” said Thack. “Charlestonian. South Carolina.”
“Ah.” She turned to Brian. “And we’ve met.”
“Yeah,” said Brian sheepishly. “I guess so. I’m Brian Hawkins.”
“Charmed.” She dipped coyly, smiling at Brian. Michael thought she looked fabulous tonight in her pale pink sweatsuit. A satin ribbon of the same shade secured her sleek dark hair behind her head.
“Michael, my love, how ‘bout a hand?”
“Sure,” he said instantly, seduced by the way she’d made them sound like old friends. He followed her into a dimly lit kitchen with an industrial sink, a sloping wooden floor, and a pair of cobwebby antlers over the stove. She gathered glasses and dumped ice into a bucket. “Glad you could come,” she said.
“Glad to be here,” he replied stupidly. “Has your … uh … friend gone?”
“Oh, yes.” She opened the liquor cabinet. “There’s some grass in the bedroom. The cigar box on the dresser. Roll us a couple, would you?”
“Sure.” He made his way down a redwood-paneled hallway to a cozy bedroom. There, he sat on a rumpled bed and rolled joints while an owl hooted outside the window and Thack and Wren laughed over something in the living room.
When he returned, Wren was seated in an armchair next to the fireplace. Thack and Brian were on the sofa.
“There’s drinks on that tray,” said Wren, as he handed her the joints.
“Thanks,” said Michael. “I’m fine.” He sat on a tapestry cushion next to the hearth.
“In that case …” Wren struck a kitchen match against the fireplace and lit a joint. She took several dainty tokes before offering it to Michael.
“No, thanks,” he said.
“C’mon.”
“I’m on the wagon for a while. Cleaning out my system.”
She made a face at him, then offered the joint to Brian.
He shook his head, smiling dimly.
“I’ll take some,” said Thack.
“Thank God.” She leaned over and handed Thack the joint. “These Frisco boys are a lot of fun, aren’t they?”
Thack laughed.
“So,” said Wren, turning to Michael. “What’s there to do in this neck of the woods?”
“Well … we’ve been walking a lot, swimming in the creek.”
“Swell.”
Michael shrugged. “You came to the wrong place if you wanted action. There are one or two discos….”
“Forget it.”
“I agree,” said Thack, returning the joint to Wren.
“What about your friend?” said Michael.
“What about him?” She took another hit off the joint.
So, thought Michael, we’ve established the gender. “Well, hasn’t he shown you around?”
“No, not really. He’s gone most of the time.” She gave him a crooked, faintly knowing smile, telling him to mind his own business. Was she being kept? Was it somebody famous—like half the men in her memoirs?
“Michael says you’re gonna make a movie with Sydney Pollack.” This was Thack, jumping in.
“Well … Michael knows more than I do.”
“I read it somewhere,” said Michael defensively.
“ ‘Inquiring minds want to know,’ ” said Wren.
“No,” said Michael, grinning at her. “It was … maybe I saw it on Entertainment Tonight.”
Wren gave him a teasing smile. “Oh, well, then … it must be true.”
“C’mon,” he said.
“We’re just in the talking stage,” she told him. “I don’t wanna jinx it.”
“It’s such a fabulous idea,” said Michael.
“Brian’s wife is gonna be on Entertainment Tonight.” This was Thack.
“Is that right?” said Wren, turning to Brian with the dimmest of smiles. Michael braced himself.
Brian nodded. “They’re taping this weekend, as a matter of fact.”
“My,” said Wren, “that’s quite a coup for … you know, someone local.”
There was a definite edge to this remark, but Michael found it forgivable. Mary Ann, after all, had bad-mouthed Wren on the air.
“She’s pleased about it,” said Brian.
“You should be there,” said Wren. “Can’t they use a husband?”
“She wanted me there,” he replied.
“What’s the matter? Afraid of the camera?”
“I dunno.”
“Shouldn’t be,” she said. “That chin would look great on camera.” She turned to Michael for a second opinion. “Doesn’t he have a great chin?”
“Great,” said Michael, deadpanning.
Thack laughed and exchanged glances with Brian, whose embarrassment was evident.
“It’s like a little tushie,” she said. “Two perky little hills.” She squeezed her own chin in an effort to create the same effect. “A plastic surgeon could make a fortune.”
They all laughed.
Wren winked at Brian, granting him clemency, then turned to Thack. “So … are you two … you know?”
Thack looked puzzled. “What … me and Michael?”
“Yes.”
Thack hesitated so long that Michael took over. “We’re buddies,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Thack. “We just met.”
“I see,” said Wren, nodding slowly. “You guys are worse off than I am.”
They drove back to Cazadero an hour later. Their arrival was heralded by a sally of yaps from a neighbor’s toy poodle. The people in the pink trailer had built a fire, from which sparks ascended like fireflies into the blue-black velvet sky. There seemed to be more stars than ever.
“I’m gonna take a walk,” said Thack, as they climbed out of the VW.
“Oh,” said Michael. “O.K.”
He and Brian entered the cabin, flipping on lights, kicking off their shoes. Brian went to the kitchen sink and began washing the dishes from lunch.
“I’ll get that,” said Michael.
“No problem,” said Brian.
Michael sat down at the kitchen table and watched Brian for a moment. “You feel O.K.?”
“Fine.”
“All day?”
“Yeah. I feel much better, actually.”
“Good,” said Michael. “Must’ve been a bug.”
“Yeah.”
“Wren’s nice, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” said Brian. “She is.”
“Is there more of that lemon cake in the fridge?”
“I think so.”
Michael went to the refrigerator and found the ravaged Sara Lee tin. “She likes you,” he said, plunging a fork into the cake.
“I know,” said Brian.
When Thack returned to the cabin, Brian was fast asleep; Michael was pretending to be. Through half-lidded eyes, he watched as Thack shucked his clothes and shimmied under the covers on his studio couch.
Thack rolled over once or twice, then threw back the covers and got up again, crossing the room to Michael’s bed. He knelt and brushed his lips softly across Michael’s cheek.
“Good night, buddy,” he said.
Michael opened his eyes and smiled at him. “Good night,” he said.
A piney zephyr passed through the room. Down by the creek-bank, a frog was making music with a rubber band.
Red Alert
FEELING ACHY AND COTTON-MOUTHED, DEDE AWOKE AT first light, to find D’or sitting by the river’s edge.
“There’s coffee if you want it,” said D’or, barely looking up.
“Is Anna awake?” asked DeDe.
“No.”
DeDe sat down next to D’or in the sand. High above them, a huge black bird was circling Wimminwood in a sinister fashion. She had seen these birds before, but this one struck her as an omen, a harbinger of horrors to come. “I wanna go home,” she said. “Why?”
“I just do, D’or. I don’t like what it’s doing to us.” D’or hesitated, then said: “You’re overreacting.”
“I am not.”
“You’re letting that … business at the gate get to you.” DeDe looked at her and frowned. “Who told you about that?”
D’or shrugged.
“It’s all over Wimminwood, isn’t it?” D’or looked away.
“Why are they blaming me? That’s what I wanna know.”
“Nobody’s blaming you. It’s over, hon. Put it behind you.”
“O.K., fine,” said DeDe. “It’s behind me. Let’s go home.”
D’or heaved a forbearing sigh. “Hon, I promised the kids we’d stay a few more days.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because they like it here, O.K.?”
“When did they tell you that?”
“Last night, DeDe. When you were out getting drunk.”
“I didn’t get drunk.”
“Whatever.”
“I drank. There’s a big difference. Why were you getting the kids on your side?”
“What?”
“You never ask their opinion unless you want their support. What’s the big deal about staying here?”
D’or dug a little trench in the sand, then patted the sides methodically. “There’s lots we haven’t done.”
“Like what?”
D’or shrugged. “The Holly Near concert. Sabra’s doing a poetry workshop this afternoon.”
“A poetry workshop,” echoed DeDe.
“Yes.”
“Since when have you been interested in poetry?”
She felt the whip sting of D’or’s eyes. “Since when have you asked?”
“Oh, c’mon.”
Using her palm, D’or smoothed over the little trench. “If you wanna take the car, go ahead. The kids and I are staying.”
DeDe and Anna were still sunning when D’or returned from Sabra’s workshop. It was almost four o’clock, and the willows were awash with gold.
“Don’t burn yourself, hon.” D’or sat down on the sand next to Anna.
Anna held up her Bain de Soleil bottle. “I’m wearing number eight,” she said.
“Yeah, but you’ve had enough.”
Anna turned to DeDe. “Mom,” she intoned, elongating the word until it sounded like a foghorn. “Do I hafta?”
“I think so, precious. Go on. Hit the showers. I’ll be up in a little while.”
As the child scampered away, DeDe turned to D’or. “So,” she said. “How was it?”
“Interesting,” said D’or. “You should’ve come.”
DeDe shrugged. “I know what she’s all about.”
“Oh, you do, huh?”
“Or not about, as the case may be.”
D’or shifted irritably. “Meani
ng?”
“Well, she’s not talking about being a lesbian, is she?”
“She talked about it plenty.”
“Sure. Here. Just not on The Today Show.”
“She’s a feminist,” said D’or. “She’d lose her effectiveness if people knew she was gay. Get real.”
“You’re the one who’s not being real.”
D’or picked up a pebble and flung it into the river. “Since when did you get to be such a radical?”
“Is that radical?” DeDe asked. “To expect people to tell the truth?”
“When didn’t she tell the truth?”
“All the time. O.K…. When she was on Merv Griffin. She kept talking about the kind of man she likes.”
“Well … a lesbian can like men.”
“But she doesn’t say that, does she? She deludes people, D’or. It’s the same as lying. She’s a tired old closet case.”
“She’s a great poet,” said D’or.
“Well,” said DeDe. “Did you learn anything?”
“Do you really care?”
“You must’ve written something,” said DeDe.
“No.”
“You just listened?”
“If you must know, I assisted her during the reading.”
“Assisted her?” said DeDe, gaping. “Turned the pages? What?”
“Very funny.”
“Well, tell me.”
D’or raked her fingers through her hair. “One of the pieces required … interpretive body work.”
DeDe blinked at her. “Dancing?”
“Yes.”
“You danced while she read?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, swell,” said DeDe.
“I considered it an honor.”
“Who wouldn’t?” said DeDe.
D’or rose, dusting off the seat of her pants. “I don’t need this.”
DeDe followed her back to the tent. “You see what she’s up to, don’t you?”
“She enjoys my company,” said D’or.
“She enjoys your tits,” said DeDe.
D’or’s eyes flashed again. “She relates to my energy. She thinks we knew each other in a past life.”
“Oh, please.”
“Back off, DeDe, O.K.?”
“Fine.”
“I like talking to her. She likes talking to me. It’s as simple as that.”
DeDe snorted. “You think she wants you for conversation?”
D’or spun around. “Is that so hard to believe?”