Lionel smiled, rubbed his hands over his eyes, and yawned. Harry pulled out a lighter with the Knights of Columbus crest and flicked it open like a torch and Lionel wheezed with laughter. Choked and wheezed until Harry’s thick flat-nosed face went red with pleasure. Harry, you’re the reason I sleep at night.
But Lionel, it turned out in the end, was doing nothing that could be proved against him. Even the eventual fire that took out two floors of file cabinets and a rigged steam bath was deemed an electrical failure, while Nick had signed most of the phony order forms for stocks tied to minerals that had never been mined or even found. A tree underground? Fucking Lionel. Only Clyde, by some back-channel miracle, had kept him out of federal prison. Now every time Harry started to lay out the next project, Nick cut him off. Don’t want to know.
Oh, you’ll know all right, Harry would say. Can’t be helped. That kind of knowledge can’t be stopped. You’ll like this, Nicky. It has international flair. Just like you these days.
Nick would laugh and Harry would laugh.
It’s all about movement, like a river. You’d be the river. Think flowing, and Harry made his hands move like a current.
Forget it.
But every once in a while Nick was curious. He was coming up toward the American embassy, past the wooden cart where most mornings, a woman in a green cardigan sold just-budded peonies out of season by the fistful. He’d bought some earlier in the week for Jean, came in with his arms full, smelling like new plucked parsley. He’d bought the whole lot, everything she had left. But Mrs. Veal stopped him at the door, No you don’t, Guv. She’s given strict orders. Anything pink, no matter who the sender, right back again.
Pink?
That’s right. I know my duty. Clear as day.
Mrs. Veal.
You want me to take them off your hands now, sir?
That’s all right. It’s fine, thank you, Mrs. Veal. So he continued on to the office, dumped them wet on Tania’s desk instead. I don’t care, he said. Whatever you want, Tania, just get them out of sight. And she’d blushed, Right away, sir.
He stopped still and listened. He could swear he heard Harry sneaking up behind him and spun around to catch him. But it was quiet now. Scanning the shadows, peering into the square, he couldn’t see him hidden anywhere. Nick grabbed hold of the iron railing, and felt his body sway a little. Finally he let go, and stepped back to look up at the front windows of the flat, all dark for once. He missed that, coming up to the house, and seeing the porch light yellow as a moon, and the blue night-lights for Cubbie and Lily, and Jean always reading late, always waiting up, so the light from their room shimmered through the French doors and then out in wavy lines until it disappeared over the black invisible water.
He thought about Clyde, what a tight knot he’d tied around Nick for all those years. But a knot that had clarified, narrowed his choices. When Lionel’s tree proved rotten, it was Clyde who forced Nick back into life for Jean’s sake. Saturday mornings, Clyde and Huey would pick him up and drag him along on all of Clyde’s usual rounds—the track, the golf club, the marina. And any jerk who wouldn’t give Nick a straight handshake had Clyde to deal with. But Clyde was dead, and Cubbie was dead, and Lionel was a soulless prick who’d used him and now wanted to line him up for a second round.
He pawed through his pockets. Maybe he’d dropped his key along with everything else into the lap of the girl with the sparkling shoulders. The front door had long been locked for the night. Christ, he was tired. He sat on the wide step for a moment and caught his breath, tried to draw air deep into his chest, but it caught in his throat, as if Clyde and Lionel and Harry all had their thick claws right around him. He closed his eyes and the black water filled his head. Then he opened them, saw the sharp lights of the American embassy like something in a prison yard. What were they thinking when they built that place?
18
Lily sat on the floor in the narrow hallway outside her bedroom. Her mother had given her the servants’ quarters and put in purple shag carpeting throughout, but all three rooms had bars on the windows left over, apparently, from the general during wartime. In this back area was also the loud spare American refrigerator and its ticking black transformer box. Her clothes were in crazy piles all around and this was the problem. Her clothes. There was no good place to keep them. Her room didn’t have a closet and she couldn’t be counted on to put them in the wall of cupboards her mother had designated in the adjoining room. All the special tags and markers, like a professional laundry, it just wasn’t appealing. But it made things easier for Mrs. Veal who took all their dirty things some mysterious place on Monday evenings and returned Tuesday mornings by taxi with a canvas-sided cart on wheels. All this was taken to be sorted out in the room next to Lily’s. Mrs. Veal refused to tidy up any mess. You’re a very big girl, aren’t you, love. Of course Lily didn’t want her tidying up. But she didn’t remember to do it herself either. So the piles grew and fermented.
Just for a change, some nights, she’d begun sleeping in the cool tidy unoccupied guestroom. There was a lot of space, no bars on the windows, and the gray silk drapes were calming. The bed she slept in had a welcoming cavity.
For two weeks, Mrs. Veal had been on holiday visiting her truant son in a reform school up near the Welsh border. You better watch yourself, said Mrs. Veal. We know he’s not the only one who knows how to vanish. Mrs. Veal winked with her entire face. It catches up. You’ll see.
How did Mrs. Veal know what her parents did not? Keep your eyes open, dearie, that’s how you get on in this life. Mrs. Veal was giving Lily tips lately, and mostly Lily appreciated it. But Mrs. Veal was gone and now piles of clothes and books and makeup and records and her guitar that she didn’t play but liked to look at had ended up in the guestroom. Clothes all over the floor, her makeup open and smeared on the ivory dresser top. A sticky bronzer with sparkles embedded in the antique finish. Her mother would kill her. But her mother never came into this room unless there were guests and so far, that had happened exactly once, when Kay Sheehan’s grandson spent the night on his way to North Africa. Then her mother had a conference in the guest room with Mrs. Veal about body odor and young men. Boys, really. Not a blessed thing to be done about it. Mrs. Veal was the authority. They had a good laugh about the sheets, and shooed Lily away. Not for your ears, love. Not yet at least. Not for a good long while, said her mother. And she looked at Lily fondly, as if she were pantomiming the wry happiness of motherhood. No one could see through this act and that astonished Lily. She was waiting for her real mother to return. For the most part, she was patient.
Lily was mortified by the idea of Lawrence and for a week she’d stayed far from school, wandering into Hyde Park instead, or sometimes Oxford Street, keeping an eye out for her mother especially around Selfridges where Jean liked to waste time as well. But she grew lonely and finally went back to Camden Town, and even to the Blue Pumpkin and there he was. Sitting by himself, his curly brown hair looking longer and wilder than at the Dorchester, his skin pale. She studied him through the lunch crowd with a sinking sadness while she ordered her sausage roll and shandy. He had such intelligent eyes. Now he was staring toward the door and spotted her. He waved and shouted hello.
It was difficult to move. Lawrence was flagging her over, delighted and surprised. She found a way to inch toward him. Where have you been hiding, love? I’d just about given up; he patted the bench seat beside him. As if they had become very close while she was gone. He was grinning at her as she pulled out a chair instead. No, no, over here, you’ll miss the show. Come on.
Outside on the sidewalk Mirabel and Elkin were having an argument. Lawrence pointed through the window to the top of Mirabel’s cape. Look, it’s actually vibrating. That’s rich.
What happened? They’re so perfect.
Allegedly, he’s an animal. He’s been getting a bit insistent, Lawrence laughed. Then he whispered, If only. Because he was glancing around she wasn’t sure he was speaking to her. Elki
n has so much shit lodged in his bloodstream, not a chance he’s an animal in any capacity. Get my drift? It wrecks the machinery. You know.
Sure. Lily bit down on a sausage roll, but didn’t take her eyes from his face. She swatted at the pastry crumbs from the crushed velvet bib of her overalls. Well, she said. Good thing you’re okay?
Is it now?
You said last summer in Umbria you gave that stuff up. Right?
Did I, said Lawrence looking out the door. Mirabel’s face visible through the etched glass looked unhappy, just the slant of her cheek and it was obvious. Elkin’s all right, said Lawrence, distracted now. He shot the cuff of his denim blazer and regarded for a long time the oversized watch on his pale freckled wrist. Lily studied the way his hair belled out at his chin. His mother made him cut his bangs above his eyebrows in a way he thought looked stupid, but she liked it, the semicircle of wavy hair framing his changeable eyes. He was just her height, but his narrow long torso made him look taller sitting straight-backed against the red banquette cushion studying his father’s watch. Two days, he said glancing up, two days and a knockoff wristwatch. My father flew in from Riyadh over the weekend to visit the block of cheese.
You don’t say that to her face.
I say a lot of things.
Like what?
Like how about we get an apartment and quit farting around the mini suite. I’m sick of all the cleaning ladies in and out. It’s distracting.
From what?
From what? Everything, he sighed, exasperated, and studied the new angle of Mirabel’s head. She appeared to be clutching her hair, but in a picturesque way, as if her anguish at Elkin was a game.
My mother’s like that, said Lily.
Like what?
She displays her problems like it’s all under glass, all in a museum.
Lawrence moved his head in slow motion, dramatizing his attention. You’ve got a shitload of food on your clothing there, mate. But his eyes were clearer now, and he nodded as if suggesting she should continue.
She’s always up in the night smoking and staring at nothing. And then when I try to ask her why, she gets pissed off.
Pissed off?
Well, yes, she does. I’ll just be saying, Hey, are you okay?
At least she’s got feelings.
I don’t know.
Better off than the block of cheese. My father’s never moving to London. Bethany can fantasize all she wants, but we’re stranded until she figures out that we should pack up the trunk and go back to Riyadh. Hey, come here? Lawrence knocked the back of his hand against the banquette.
Lily nodded but didn’t move.
Come closer. You’re wrecking the view, he said.
Oh, sorry, she hoisted up her book bag.
No, leave that shit. Just come here. I think Elkin’s making some progress, see?
Lily sat closer to Lawrence. She could feel the hum of his body now. Her breath got ragged and loud. She tried to follow his gaze out the etched-glass door to where Elkin’s head now appeared a dark and inscrutable hank of hair.
You can just tell he’s begging, can’t you? I’m embarrassed for the guy.
How do you know?
Elkin was nodding fast and Lawrence turned to look at her. It seemed his eyes took a minute to focus on her, almost as if he was perplexed to see her there and he was evaluating whether it was a good or a bad development. Lily, he said, finally. Little Lily.
She wasn’t little at all. Lily blinked too quickly, and her body nearly started shaking under his scrutiny. Lily, he said, his voice full of happy recognition. He leaned back as if to take her in, the delight of her. This was shocking, the happy tenderness opening up in his face. She remembered a whole list of advice from her mother, from Emma. She put her legs in the position her mother recommended as most attractive, ankles crossed, which was difficult in her boots. Then tried to get her knees angled sideways and banged into the tabletop, spilling her shandy. Beer poured off the table into their laps and then soaked the red banquette.
Christ, said Lawrence, jumping up, swatting at his thighs.
Lily wanted to weep as the warm beer saturated her overalls.
Lawrence was casing the crowded pub, but no one seemed to notice they were sopping. All right, don’t cry. We’ll just cruise out the back way. Right by the loo there’s another door. He offered his hand. I’ve got some old jeans in my locker at school, maybe some for you, too.
Lily knew getting into a pair of Lawrence’s spare jeans was impossible, but it humiliated her to have to say it. Her lap was a big dark wet blotch; she couldn’t stand up like this.
Lawrence picked up her book bag and her coat. Cover it up. Let’s go. And she followed him out the service entry of the Blue Pumpkin and back to school.
Inside the main entrance to the Working Men’s College was a staircase leading down to a pair of mahogany doors that most of the American students ignored. There on the basement level was the library. In theory the Americans had access, but in practice the place was never used. Political tracts in leather sleeves furred with dust and unpopular nineteenth-century novels never checked out by the workingmen. All magazine subscriptions had long lapsed, except a small stack that seemed fresh and urgent brought in by the librarians themselves. Two crenulated men wore white visors to shield them from the buzzing overhead sun-bright fluorescents. Lawrence waved. Good afternoon, Minks, he whispered.
One man looked up and acknowledged approval of his tone of voice. Lawrence led Lily across the gray glass walkways past the spiraling ironwork stairs leading farther down. History, religion dispatched in four rows each. At the end of the walkway there was a table surrounded by half-broken chairs. He paused to point out some new light brown scratches among the many scars. LOW III. She reached out to touch it. You? What’s the o stand for?
Don’t! he said. You’ll wreck it. She yanked back her hand. I’m kidding you. Sheesh, rent a sense of humor. Come on, come on. Follow me.
They veered down another half corridor. A low porcelain water fountain gurgled bubbles around a rusty drain. Thirsty?
This isn’t our part of the college.
None of it’s ours. Lawrence opened a half-glassed door on to a small storage room. Wooden lockers lined the walls with typed yellow index cards indicating various supplies, paper patterns, wrenches and screws. Some doors were ajar and inside Lily could see a helter-skelter jumble of junk. In the corner, a daybed with a quilt that looked like the one on his bed at the Dorchester, a pin-tucked seafoam-green satin bunched on top of an inch-thin mattress wrapped in beige wool. You sleep in here? Lily was shocked.
Sometimes. It’s not hard to get in at night. Not at all. It’s embarrassing really. I’m embarrassed for the workingmen. I just come when I’m bored.
Lawrence jimmied the latch on a wooden locker marked DEAD BOLTS. Inside there were tiny drawers for machine parts. Here Lawrence had stuffed his belongings: some jeans, T-shirts, socks, a plastic stunted toothbrush.
I don’t believe you!
He tossed her a pair of blue corduroys. Lily held them up and felt a wash of misery; her hand would barely fit in these.
They’ll stretch. Don’t worry. They’ll be nice on you. He was smiling at her. And then he was stripping. Taking off his pants and underpants, which were wet with shandy beer, and he was standing before her with his stick pointing out like they were playing in the woods behind the old house. She laughed and shook at the same time.
Get out of that wet thing, he said in a granny voice. Come on now, dear heart. Hurry up. You’ll catch your death.
Lily shrugged off her coat, then unhooked the clasps of her velvet overalls. She shimmied them down then tried to hide her legs. Her mother was shocked, shocked she’d said, by the state of Lily’s thighs these days, and Lily could only guess that this was a universal revulsion.
Give me that. Lawrence reached forward.
I don’t think so.
Come here. He stepped toward her, acting normal as if he were
still dressed. What are you hiding back there? And he pulled the overalls just slightly away.
Don’t! she cried, but he already was peeking down at her. He pushed the overalls back against her.
I see the problem, he said.
God, she said, and thought she would throw up, immediately, which was exactly what had happened the night her mother had been so persuasive about the state of her thighs. She’d thrown up. Said, Good night, Mom, and then puked about a minute later in her bathroom. Had a ring of red burst blood vessels, tiny ones, for about a week. What’s wrong with your eyes? her mother had said, then forgot. Mrs. Veal didn’t drop it though. Don’t start with that nonsense, she said. You know what I’m talking about. None of that in this house.
You’ve got on Marks and Sparks panties, and the nasty nylon ones, too. Lawrence looked somber now, shook his head. I never would have suspected it. No wonder. We’ll fix that in a hot minute. He was rummaging in his stolen locker again. Here you go. He tossed her a pair of black y-flaps. Catch!
Lily stooped to pick them up off the floor.
Okay, I’m turning around. Not watching. Counting to fifty and you’ll get the dry undies on you. And she laughed to see his small flat fanny, hips tilting nonchalantly. One, twenty, forty-two, twelve.
It was during the counting, Lily successfully out of her panties and struggling to get the tight black briefs on, that there came a tap on the glass. Minks the librarian’s long index fingernail, rat-a-tat-tat. What’s this? he said, eyes averted and staring at the same time. Think you can do what you like in the tunnel, any time day or night. Think again, laddie. The big feck is already on his way. I called him, not taking this one on. Minks tapped the glass again, as a signature.
Lawrence was at the door, saying, Come on, Minks. We had a deal.
Not this deal, boy-o. Not on your life. I’d get that wee pecker squared away if I were you because his nibs sounded in a twist.
The Loved Ones Page 16
