Hello, I Lied

by M. E. Kerr

  As well as I knew him and what he was capable of doing to get his way, I still felt something for him, particularly at that moment.

  Watching him swagger around and mouth off, I could only imagine him later, knees weak from the punch of shock at finding her gone, words hard to come by. It was like watching some tough and arrogant prizefighter in the ring, and being able at the same time to see into the future when he’d get decked and go down for the count.

  I never thought the day would come when I’d have Nola Leary to thank for a night with Alex.

  “She reserved a room in a motel for her mother,” said Alex, “and Mama can’t come. And I can’t wait three more weeks to see you…. So I told her we’d take it.”

  “You didn’t tell her we’d take it.”

  “Yes I did, love. She didn’t bat an eye. All she said was we were in luck, because she’d made sure it’d be a room on the top floor with a water view. Very romantic, she said. And she said she’d like to meet you. She hoped you’d come backstage.”

  “Awesome, Alex!”

  “Then you will? Can you get the night off?”

  “I will! I can!”

  “Spend Sunday with me?”

  “Yes!”

  “And fly back Sunday night…unless we can talk them into another night. That way we’d have most of Monday, too.”

  “Great, Alex! We’ll try for Monday, too.”

  “I can’t wait! I miss you!”

  “I miss you, too!” I said. “I can’t wait either!”

  But it was the same weekend Nevada was to appear in Boston, and the Sunday Huguette would leave for the Adirondacks.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I THOUGHT OF IT as our last date.

  I’d purposely asked McCaffery for the whole weekend off, so that Friday night I could take Huguette to Sag Harbor. I got tickets for the Bay Street Theater.

  “Let’s go whole pig,” she said, “dress up and go somewhere fancy for dinner after. My treat.”

  “Whole hog,” I said. “We’ll treat each other.”

  I wore my blue blazer with the gold buttons, a blue T-shirt and white pants, but who saw me? People were turning around to get another look at her. I was thinking it would probably be the last time I’d be somewhere with someone and get stared at for a good reason. She was decked out in this simple, slinky, way-short silver dress, no sleeves, bare back, no jewelry. Silver pumps with high high heels. Joop.

  There were sad songs in the show, the worst kind of sad there is: watching someone leave who won’t come back, love-lost themes one after the other.

  I thought they’d get to her, make her bawl or make her want to leave—my own eyes filled a few times. But she was not one to wallow in it. She was a fighter, fighting back. I didn’t know what sad thoughts she was thinking of Martin. I didn’t know what qualms she might have had about running off with Cog. We sat side by side, our arms touching, me probably the only one to notice, to feel it beyond the arms. I couldn’t concentrate on the play, only the songs. I was thinking my own sad thoughts: that I was losing her, that I was very, very afraid for her, that there was nothing I could do about it…was there? I was always thinking, Was there?

  But I had made her a promise, and I vowed to keep it.

  After the play we ate dinner down on the wharf, overlooking the bay. There was a candle lit between us at the table, and a few roses in a tall vase. It was a warm evening, and small boats bobbed in the water at anchor. Some were still out; we could see their distant lights.

  She talked about the Rochans some.

  “I can’t believe my own mother and father would let Nevada manipulate them. He did it! He made it possible! They don’t have money for a move, for my school. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nevada paid Martin off, too!”

  “He’d take money?”

  “I don’t know. His family’s very poor, Lang. A big amount of money? Maybe he would. Really, it would be his only chance to own land.”

  But she didn’t dwell on it.

  She asked me about what it might be like up on the Cape. I told her I supposed it would look something like Sag Harbor in some places. I told her the plot of Bus Stop, and that Alex was playing Bo. I told her about Nola Leary and Alex.

  We talked until the candle had burned down and we became aware of the line of people waiting to be seated.

  Then we drove back with the sunroof open, stars and a moon above us.

  “A perfect evening,” she said in the driveway, “and why should it end? Come in. I’ll play ‘Paint Over It’ for you again. You only heard it once.”

  In the hall the light from the answering machine was blinking.

  I went in and flopped down on the nearest couch.

  I could hear Cog Wheeler’s voice.

  “Huguette? Nevada’s here. We’re hiding him in a suite at The Copley Plaza. I’m having dinner with him there. Listen, love, don’t count on Sunday. I can’t get away that quickly. Something’s come up, love. Where are you tonight? I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Next, Nevada’s gruff tone. “You’re right to give men up, honey. Cog’s got some new flame he only met last night, and they were all over each other while we had dinner here. Do you kids still say ‘flame’ or am I dating myself? Feu, in French, I believe. This is a side of him I’ve never seen before. Maybe it’s because you dumped him. I’m glad you did. Tomorrow’s the big day, honey. I’ll think of you. Don’t be mad. Je t’aime. I’ll call you after the show, if it’s not too late.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  IT WAS DARK OUTSIDE when I woke up. Plato had jumped up on the bed and burrowed under the covers between us. I still had on my Timex and my T-shirt.

  We’d opened the windows to hear the ocean’s roar before I’d lain down beside her. “Just for a minute or so,” she’d said, “just to hold me.” I’d removed my shoes because the coverlet was silk. There was a lamp lit on the table beside the bed. My wallet lay open there, an empty Trojan wrapper next to it.

  The only other light was under the huge oil painting on the wall, across from the bed. Nevada and Cali. Although they were dressed seventies style—Nevada in a plaid shirt, jeans, and Converse sneakers, Cali barefoot in a long, flowered dress, her hair spilling past her shoulders—their side-by-side, face-front pose had a formal air. He had one arm around her, the other hand holding up a white rose. She wore no jewelry. Her hands were folded serenely, below her waist. Nevada looked solemn and proud, and she did too, except for the slight trickle of blood from one nostril.

  There it was, without explanation. And there I was, with what had happened just as quirky and mystifying.

  I lay there remembering how gentle we’d been, how unhurried and calm it had seemed, as though we were floating through some lazy dream that left only this sweet, peaceful feeling.

  I smiled, realizing I’d done something I’d never expected I would do, something I’d always imagined I couldn’t do.

  Then I felt her kick the sheet away.

  “Plato, go!” Her voice was angry.

  She sat up.

  “You go too!” she said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “What’s the matter?” She got up, grabbed the silk coverlet, and flung it around her like a toga. “What do you think’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know.” I didn’t. I sat up.

  “You’re not gay! You call yourself that?” Her eyes were blazing. “You’re a lamp in wolf’s clothing!”

  “A lamb, a sheep,” I murmured. “I’m not a light.”

  “Go home, Lang!”

  “It’s still the middle of the night. You said you didn’t want to be alone.”

  “I do now!”

  I was on my feet, reaching for my clothes.

  She said, “I asked you to hold me for a little while!”

  “I did.”

  “You did more!”

  “So did you. We both got carried away, I guess.”

  “Why didn’t you stop?”

  “You didn�
��t let me, remember?”

  I scrambled across the room to get my socks and found just one. I mumbled, “I didn’t force you.”

  “No, you didn’t have to, did you?” Her eyes had fire in them. “The other one’s under the chair!”

  I stuffed my socks into the pockets of my pants.

  Socrates was asleep on the floor, my blazer under him.

  Plato was back up on the bed, sitting on the pillow, one paw bandaged.

  “This didn’t happen!” she said.

  I stuck my feet into my loafers. “If it didn’t happen, why are you so mad?”

  She pulled the coverlet around her and glared at me.

  She said, “You’re like all of them! I thought you were different.”

  “I thought I was too.” I jerked my blazer away from Socrates. I could see the eyes of Aristotle peering out from under the bed.

  “I’ll never believe anything you say again!” she said. “Not ever!”

  “I didn’t start it. You did.”

  She shouted, “I was a wreck!”

  “Some wreck,” I murmured. “What did you think you were doing? How do you think I felt? I felt—”

  She cut me off. “Don’t start any sweet talk! Save it for Alex!”

  I had my blazer on.

  “I’m sorry you feel this way,” I said. “I don’t.”

  She laughed scornfully. “Oh, you don’t? Of course you don’t! And you think that gets you off the hoof!”

  I let that one go, but she had another one ready: “You’re this big operation, aren’t you?”

  “Operator,” I said. “And that’s the last thing I am!”

  I went out into the hall, Plato limping toward the stairs with me.

  She came as far as the banister to shout: “You want to know the first thing you are, Lang? You’re a liar!”

  I walked through the living room with the three sofas, two settees, ten chairs, six benches, and four potted trees.

  From the wall Nevada scowled down at me.

  I let myself out and stood a moment on the steps, brushing the dog hair off my jacket, glancing at the luminous hands of my Timex. Four A.M.

  As I went down the zigzag path, in the fog, I thought of the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ old song “Aeroplane.” Of Anthony Kiedis singing about having your pleasure spiked with pain. A few times I stumbled and fell, tears just behind my eyes, her words still burning in my ears.

  When I got closer to the cottage, I saw that my mother had left the light on for me.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I FLEW TO THE Cape in one of those small planes that never go very high. From my window I could see Long Island disappear, and I wished I could also leave behind the memory of creeping down the path from Roundelay early that morning, like some thief caught red-handed, her angry voice accusing me.

  I couldn’t forgive Huguette for blaming all of it on me, for not admitting that she’d started it and never tried to stop me. At the same time, my bitterness was mixed with amazement. I knew I would probably never make love that way again. In my mind’s eye I saw myself with her there in that moonlit room, both of us suddenly surprised by our own bodies.

  It reminded me of dreams I had where I could fly just by waving my arms, how astonished I was that I could do it, how easy it was and strangely graceful.

  If she’d only been able to accept what had happened without blame and accusations. If, for once, she’d not become that fiery fighter, forever defending her turf…. But then she wouldn’t have been Huguette. And I would probably have found myself forced to wonder where we would go from there, what would be next for us.

  She knew there wasn’t any next.

  Alex was waiting for me when I arrived at the small airport. He ran toward me, grinning and waving, hugging me hard.

  “Am I glad to see you!” he said.

  “Me too!”

  I’d never been so glad to see anyone.

  One thing I could always count on with Alex, after we’d been away from each other for a while, was that we’d find all the old soft and easy ways we had together again.

  I met Nola Leary and others in the cast, and I watched Alex play Bo.

  He’d managed to get the room through Monday.

  It wasn’t until I was on the plane again, flying back to the Hamptons, that I began to look at things in another light. Seeing Alex confirmed what I’d suspected all along: I hadn’t undergone some miraculous change. What had happened to me could only have happened with Huguette, could only have come about as it did. We were “firsts” for each other, without ever intending to be. The big difference was, I had Alex in my life and she had no one.

  Then I didn’t blame her for being angry. I blamed myself for not seeing things clearly. And I felt this urgency to see her, maybe to get the Aurora out and go somewhere away from Roundelay to talk. We’d always been able to talk. She had always taken the lead in our conversations, directed the flow. Now I would. Now I could tell her all I’d felt without making her uncomfortable. And I was aware of the tense in which I’d put that thought: I’d felt.

  I laughed, imagining her wise-cracking style: Oh, so now it’s felt, not feel, huh? You seduce the girl, then reduce the girl…. Something like that. But she’d be grinning, wouldn’t she? She’d be relieved to be off the hoof.

  I caught a cab back to the cottage, tossed my garment bag on the chair, and picked up the phone.

  “Are you trying to call Huguette?” my mother said.

  “Yes. Did she go out?”

  My mother nodded, and I hung up.

  “She’s in New York with Mrs. Rochan,” my mother said.

  “For how long?”

  “She’s gone, honey.”

  “Do you know the number?” I was still standing by the table with the telephone on it, as though I hadn’t heard the emphasis she’d put on gone.

  Mom shook her head. “She said to tell you to read your key chain. I think she must have gotten her English mixed up.”

  “Not this time,” I said. “Was that all?”

  “She just said, ‘Tell him to read his key chain and tell him I said good-bye.’”

  My mother had a way of never prying when she knew something hit me hard. She’d ask me dozens of silly questions about everything going on in my life, but she always let me handle serious personal stuff my own way.

  I took a lot of early-morning, late-night walks on the beach after that. I’d watch the sun come up to shine on Roundelay, or the rain come down on the place, or the lights go on. Sometimes my heart would jump when I’d see another person walking toward me through the dawn fog or the darkness, and I’d dare to hope she’d come back.

  All the rest of that summer, I could not really believe that she was gone.

  But she never returned to Roundelay.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I DIDN’T GO UP to Roundelay after she was gone. I didn’t drive the Aurora, either, or do things or go places we’d gone together.

  Neither did I ever mention anything about it to Alex. He’d only want to know what it meant, and I didn’t want to analyze it, explain it, or name it. Even if I’d wanted to, I don’t believe I could have.

  Sometimes, not many, I had a few chats with Nevada, mostly about something I hadn’t done the way he would have liked it to be done. A few times he tossed in word of her. The Rochans had found an apartment on East Fifty-third Street. She was enrolled at The Bentley Academy in Pennsylvania.

  On the day we were moving out, Nevada walked down to the cottage with the videotape of his appearance with The Failures in Boston.

  I’d already read an account of it in the New York Post. The Failures had been described as “reverently in awe of rock icon Ben Nevada,” and Cog Wheeler “nearly dumbstruck by the presence of the higher power, so that he almost forgot to introduce his new song, ‘You Get Nothing.’”

  Nevada said, “Huguette suggested that you might like a souvenir.” He handed the videotape to me. “I think you’re the only good memory she has o
f this summer.”

  “Did she say that?” I asked him.

  “She doesn’t have to. You’re the only one she ever asks about.”

  “What exactly does she want to know?” I persisted.

  “Penner, she doesn’t want to know anything, in particular! If someone says how’s he doing, in passing, that doesn’t mean she wants to know what you had for dinner last night or what color socks you wore!”

  I knew his bark was worse than his bite, but he still made my mother nervous when he sounded off that way. She got the focus back where it belonged: on him.

  She asked him when he planned to make another appearance.

  He shook his head vigorously. “Never!” he barked. “It wasn’t a mistake to go back, because if I hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t know not to do it again. Someone once wrote that the return makes one love the farewell.”

  I couldn’t help putting my oar in. “Well, it got Cog Wheeler a lot of publicity.”

  “Give him credit: I fell for it,” Nevada said. “That was what he really wanted. But Huguette saw through him, didn’t she? She just dropped him like a hot potato. She learned her lesson with Le Vec!”

  Huguette had never told him that it was the other way around; that Cog had dropped her.

  And if Cog hadn’t?

  If he hadn’t, Huguette and I would probably never have found ourselves together that way.

  That night, while Franklin took my mother out for a farewell dinner, I watched the tape.

  At the very end, Cog sang the new song.

  You shouldn’t go back if you forgot something

  You shouldn’t look back if you got nothing.

  Lot’s wife didn’t have a name,

  Must be she didn’t have a game,

  When she looked back she got nothing

  If you look back there’ll be something

  You’ve got a name (You get)

  You’ve got a game (You get)

  You’ve got a refrain (You get)

  “You get nothing”

  You’ll say it again

  And again

  “You get nothing.”

  Sometimes I’d hear it on the radio, early mornings when I dressed for school. It never made the charts.