Lionel was pouring grappa and promising a tour, but then clasped his head and cried, Fuck!
What is it? said Roger.
Standing back outside on the sidewalk when this tableau replayed in his mind, he knows that he’d offered his hand, but all he really remembers is the grasp, and the feel of Lionel’s warm mitt through the fabric on his forearm. Then Lionel lifted the other hand, the one covering his right eye, and said, Where did you get this jacket? It’s got to be Derek Voose?
Roger knew about Derek Voose, but the knowledge was so brand-new that to be accused of owning such a jacket shocked him.
Migraine, whispered Lionel. Just fuck me.
Roger knew about migraines, too. You poor thing, he said.
It’s hell. And no doubt I deserve it. He gave a wan smile, one of his best.
Bed, dark room and bed, this instant.
Do you mind?
Mind? Of course not.
You’ll come back?
Of course.
Angel, groaned Lionel.
Not a bit, said Roger, and found his company-issued briefcase lodged against the red lacquer pedestal. He started to say something about the table and something he’d seen, just out of the blue, in a little shop upstate when he remembered that they’d have time for this later. Lionel shuffled to the door, all gratitude, but when he held it open to allow Roger to leave, the morning light rushed in. Both arms flew up to shield his eyes, and then the last glimpse Roger had of Lionel was the famous tug of the flap and the humming, rueful, laughing, Mercy. That they never met at the townhouse again didn’t much matter. He’d seen enough, and no doubt someday they would find each other in the same room, somewhere. Roger wouldn’t be an insurance adjuster forever.
Lionel let the front door close with a whisper then bounded up the central stair. Kitty! he shouted. Kitty, my love, we’re late! We’re late! They were to be aboard the QE II by three or they wouldn’t get on at all. Not even Lionel could change that.
9
Lionel would be the very last to leave. He’d already sent Kitty down to find the driver with the suggestion she circle the entire island and find them a place to have a quiet drink. That they’d end up at Eddie Condon’s was a given, but it was a nice activity and Kitty could stretch out in back and let the sunset play through the tinted windows. Polaroid technology! Lionel had told her and how the thick cameras that spit out photos on the spot were relevant to the windows on a rented limousine was beside the point. Take me to Potter’s Field, she said to the driver, Potter’s Field was everyone’s favorite joke. They intended to end up there. Life is for the loving, said Lionel. He was against ceremony and breath devoted to the already gone. The exception was his nephew and namesake, but they didn’t discuss him often, at least not in daylight. Only at night, and only once really when she first met him, had Kitty found Lionel sitting at the end of the bed, smoking, dropping ashes on the carpet, saying, Poor darling, poor darling. And she curled herself around his hips, just like that, a warm pillow, and he reached over her to find a glass or something on the bedside table to drop the cigarette into, before he leaned back into her belly first and then pulled her arms, her hands into his lap. Thank you, precious girl. That he didn’t seem to entirely recognize her in that dark room didn’t much matter.
When Cubbie was born, he arrived a month early and at New York Hospital, not at the sleepy riverside maternity clinic like Lily who was late and round and had a flame of red hair. Cubbie was born tiny with the creased face of an old lion and Lionel had what he’d always wanted, and with a sweetness he could never repay Jean and Nick gave it over to him, Cubbie. Lionel the second. Eighteen months younger than his sister Lily—Lillian—named for their mother. Jean half-asleep in the green glow of the fluorescent claimed the next baby was hers; they were not to reach back to any more Devlins. She’d done her job and they could both be satisfied. Satisfied? They were jubilant and Eddie Condon played a new song that night just for Cubbie. “Cubbie’s Lullaby.” Eight years later he promised to bring everyone in his ensemble on his own private bus down to the Jersey Shore, the whole enchilada, to play Cubbie’s own song. The kid had a song. We want to play it, he said, over and over, but no one was taking the message. Instead a high school sophomore with a wavering alto soprano sang “Ave Maria” all by herself. Like everything else in the small private funeral Mass she stuck to the Latin version, the less comprehended the better.
But it was a big party the day the Devlins set sail and Eddie Condon had access to the right ear at Cunard to get them the room with the best acoustics. The whole rig is padded, every note sinks, except in the discotheque and so they had the farewell there, all daylight and harbor views irrelevant. And if there’d ever been a “Cubbie’s Lullaby,” by now, three years later, it was forgotten. Rosemary Clooney stopped by and sang a little “Stormy Weather” as a joke, then “Someone to Watch Over Me.” And Jean took a turn on the dance floor under the disco ball—everyone stepped back to make room when Rosemary waved her forward, come on darlin’—for a slow refrain in her husband’s embrace. Moe Dailitz had the good sense to bring a showgirl on each arm. It was, all agreed, an excellent party. With press to cover what they printed the next day as the happy end to a very long story.
Tommy Foley knew how to get back from the West Side pier to the Sea Bright Bridge in under an hour he said, so their mother gave them her car to come to the send-off. Last thing, Lily showed Margaret and Tommy her L-shaped room, the only window tucked in an alcove on the short end with a tiny padded seat. For your poetry writing, laughed Margaret. For sensual pleasures with your miniature lover, said Tommy. Then, All right, Meg, we gotta go. Good trip, Devlin. Happy sailing and all that jazz. He gave her a quick heavy squeeze that she could still feel when he backed away. Margaret draped her warm arms over Lily’s shoulders. Don’t stink up the place, all right?
Yes, all right, said Lily. Don’t you.
Right, said Margaret, with a wince that Lily couldn’t come up with anything better to say and Lily felt the sink of a missed chance. All right, she said again. She had to go back to the disco immediately her mother had said, and they could find their own way to the gangplank. Hey, wait, Lily said. I can call you from our house! She was nodding fast. There’s a special phone for long distance right in the house.
Good, said Margaret. And that was it.
Now Lily felt her father’s hand on her head, just at the top like a cap, light and kind. She was leaning out as far as she could get on the very last rail, watching the harbor peel away, a busy blur; everything was a loud pressure on her ears and smelled of smoke and tar. Don’t cry now, bub, said her father and Lily tried not to.
Margaret will visit us, he said.
She won’t, said Lily. She won’t be allowed to, Lily amended because she didn’t like to contradict her father, though her mother claimed contradiction was Lily’s vocation these days. It was Anthony Moldano who wouldn’t let Margaret come to London, even if she pleaded and said, Just for the culture! Lily already knew he couldn’t spare her.
What are you doing in there? Jean called out.
This one, Nick said, holding out the black cocktail dress with the satin hem. He’d brought it home from London that spring.
All right, she said. How’s your head?
Blasted. Decimated.
No, she said and joined him in the walk-in closet. Everything about this suite was larger than need be. Palatial, presidential, royal, but the most sleek and modern of ocean liners had set aside corny titles. The suite had a number and a letter that signified an almost fantastic preferential status. They’re laying it on a bit thick, said Jean, after the two stewards had finally left them alone to rearrange their skillfully unpacked luggage. They each had a walk-in closet, and Nick had walked into hers. Come out, she pressed her mouth into his upper arm, leaned her forehead into his shoulder, the reliably salty smell of his skin as if he’d eaten the Cape Cod beach of his childhood. Her heart slowed down; she could feel it. The party and t
hen the overpowering garbage smell of the pier had made her sick, but he soothed her, just the scent of his skin. Come out now, she said. Don’t have a bad head tonight. Let me give you something.
The champagne, he laughed, croaking. Christ, I think I was slipped a mickey.
No doubt. Billy Byron sent it, along with the coffin-sized basket of fruit.
Give the guy a chance.
Sure, she said, and let go of him.
Don’t start. He was quiet and turned to her. She put both hands against his forehead. There, she said. Her hands were always cool.
He sighed. Closed his eyes. She watched his face, a small tremor under the left eye, and she smoothed it away. Kept her hands light, so as not to hurt him.
That’s a help.
Good, she said and brought her hands down against his chest. You’re clammy. You have a fever.
Yeah.
Let me check. She moved away to go find a thermometer; there must be one somewhere. She knew she’d packed it, but hadn’t seen it yet. There was a mirrored dressing area between the walk-ins with a low tufted stool, as if Jean were expecting a dressmaker.
Where did you go? he called out.
Here! she said. Take an aspirin. She opened a long shallow drawer beneath the white marble veneer counter in the bathroom. They’ll regret all this, she said to no one.
Aspirin makes it worse. Where’s my kit? Where’d you put everything?
Nothing can make you worse.
She had on a wrap, something velvet and new. Isn’t this hot? he said, coming into the bathroom. Loo phase one, he’d called it, just a long bank of sinks and mirrors and drawers. The tub and shower and toilet each in a separate chamber. He hiked up the back of her robe and pressed into her. She looked up and saw her face green in the fluorescent lighting over the wall of mirror. Snap that off, she said. The switch, right there.
Nick loved this bass. Listen to that, he said to the girl writhing in and out of his open hands, and he laughed to think this sound would have been impossible even a year ago. Brand-new! he shouted and pointed out some contraption floating near the low ceiling, metal tubes tucked into black quilting meant to keep the sound crisp and dry, hard on the bones, meant to move him to action his body had never known. Look at you, he yelled and now she smiled. Her white strap a flicker of glowing lavender in the strobe. He’d gone in the wrong direction, had a couple of stingers, and now the vibrations tickled his feet straight through the shoe leather. He wanted to laugh, wanted to hail something; he also felt a tug of some inner gravity, felt himself melt into an off rhythm way behind the beat, and to his surprise, and shifting interest, more interest, she met him there. Slowed her undulations in and out of his hands to something his body could mimic. Her backbone suspended on a silver string. Look at you, he whispered. So pretty!
She wasn’t actually and he’d seen her earlier and dismissed the whole notion of her look. A silver-white dress too big on top and tight around the bottom, a bottom that looked square and unhitched when she walked, too much motion below, too much smiling above, that was his first pass. But now, now that she’d located this beat and her whole body had synchronized itself with the sound he understood her for who she was, a forerunner, a herald. I’m new, she shouted. Just like you! New something, she was saying. Oh yes, she was utterly new.
You are! Newer than new, he shouted back, nodding, smiling. New! And there she was, her hip bouncing, slipping off the palm of his hand.
Jersey! she shouted.
Oh for chrissakes, he said. Please, he shook his head. Slowing further. Feeling the crash come fast now. Please, he tried laughing. Have a drink.
Can’t! she yelled, swiping a hand across her breasts. She’d done this before, part of a whole selection of gestures meant to keep him reaching and retreating. Come on, he said, irritated, panting. It’s hot.
Nope. He saw her lips move, couldn’t really hear her now; his ears had clicked off at Jersey. She spiraled around, hands moving down her body, checking for breakage, funny this, and now the hands made that pass across the breasts again, checking, protecting. Stay here, he yelled. I’ll get you something. He did a cha-cha-cha to make her laugh, up-tuned to catch the spiking rhythm. She spun away across the floor. Stingers, he cried to the bartender when he reached the bar. No, make that vodka rocks, splash of OJ. Two por favor.
Jean had fallen asleep so quickly. She and Nick in the white expanse of soft bed that rocked, she could feel it, though how could a vessel this large swing like a hammock. But it felt like that to her, Nick warm and open to her, her body nestled into him and for the first time, she felt the beginning of possibility. They slept, but she tucked her body in close to him, sure they would make love again sometime in the night, and this resting sleep just a start, just a margin between all they were leaving and then. The rocking. The softness of her body. He was right; she only needed to pry herself out of that house, out of their whole world for a while. Then she’d come back new. The last morning she’d awakened at home there’d been grackles at the feeder, the largest with a tucked wing and a puffed chest frightened off the small and female. But two little ones kept circling back to steal the pumpkin seeds. One to tease the large injured grackle, the other to feed and flee. So odd to see them there every year. Only in late summer and then they vanished. When Cubbie was tiny she told him to come indoors; she said she worried the big grackles would carry him away. But then she’d become a bird herself of course and find him; any mother would she’d said. She was dreaming when Lily asked to hear more about this. Jean admitted that usually the blue jays were the most aggressive and had little interest in stealing children. But if they did steal Cubbie, how far out over the ocean would the birds fly? The knock caught volume. A thudding in the dense wood, and a muffled voice in the corridor. She hoped they wouldn’t wake Lily whatever it was. Nick was gone.
Here, she said quietly, inward, as if answering an unkind teacher. You’re just disoriented Nick had told her once. It’s normal he’d said, but wasn’t that long ago? She’d put a robe somewhere handy, and there it was, near the fruit display, the black velvet wraparound she could barely make out, rolled in a lump like a sleeping cat. Lily must have played some game with it. Nothing was her own anymore. She pulled herself up out of the heavy stiff sheets and felt them drop away from her body like a loss. What is it? she said, but softly. She arranged the robe, belted it tightly, ran her hands through her hair, bent low to snap on a lamp, a false nautical sheathing glowed orange. Here, she said, and opened the door to a young man who looked bewildered to see her as if he were expecting something forceful, someone who might help.
Mrs. Devlin?
Yes? she said.
I’m very sorry.
But of course he’d come about Nick. Shall I follow you? Is he all right?
Yes, thank you, Mrs. Devlin. I’ll wait right here.
She almost remembered where everything was, but packing for a cruise, everything was accessorized and matched, nothing to throw on in the middle of the night. She put on a sundress and a blue cardigan and sandals, and felt a fool. Here I am, she said, snapping closed a white straw purse, and stepped into the cool dim corridor. Which way are we going?
She followed the young man through a maze of galleries and long public lounges with oversized chairs bolted into sociable clusters. Finally they came to a kind of antechamber and she laughed to see the earnest neon flash above a double padded door. DISCO! in a rakish scrawl. Back where she’d started. The bass thudded against her chest as she stepped through. So dark, much darker now. Pink cove lighting etched the ceiling, but little below could be made out immediately except the bar bottles and the piercing sparkle of the mirrored twirling ball. It must be very late because there was ammonia in the air as if the drudgery of antiseptic reversal was already under way. She half expected to see him collapsed on the dance floor, and already her body felt charged with electricity, becalmed and charged just as before. But then of course, of course! The overhead lights would be on. Just the
re, Mrs. Devlin, said the young man, and pointed to a booth, a high horseshoe of leather, and her husband head down on the small round table.
Thank you, she said, and she heard her own voice disembodied and polite as if she were being shown to a table at lunch. She smiled and nodded and went to the booth, put her straw purse down on the banquette and stood and looked for a moment. He was only asleep, only resting. She touched his cheek, cool enough, no fever now, put her hand on his back and felt the rise and fall of his breath. What was the big emergency? She almost felt angry to be brought here this way in the middle of the night, but then she spotted the young girl shivering and hunched over a couple of booths away and understood the problem.
The girl’s face was invisible, like all faces of all young girls now, this one masked by a swatch of long straight hair. Jean almost wanted to brush it behind her ears so that they could speak to one another, but instead she knelt down and looked up through the veil and said, You must be very tired; it’s incredibly late. The girl opened her eyes and focused. There you are, said Jean and thought didn’t she know how to do just this?
Here, she said. Let me get you some water. Jean brought the water, and knelt down again, the pulse of the dance floor jarring her knees, the bass line still playing thick, but like a blanket, something to hide under. Here you go. Tell me your name. I’m Jean.
The girl shook her head, which was a good sign. That’s fine, said Jean. I’ve come to take you back to your cabin. The girl seemed to accept this, and no wonder. It was a voice Jean used with Lily all the time: this is the plan. Here we go. She stood and offered the girl her hand, which was not taken, but the girl stood now too, in her tiny dress, a silver sliver of nothing. Red panties and a white brassiere and a very flat chest, all visible, Jean wanted to throw her sweater over her. She did. She wrapped the sky-blue cable-knit cotton around the girl’s pointy shoulders. She smoothed back the girl’s hair and smiled. You must be a very good dancer, she said. And the girl looked relieved, as if this were a conversation she could finally understand. She was a good dancer. She always had been.
The Loved Ones Page 9
