A California Closing

by Robert Wintner

  “So I knocked on the door and heard voices and laughter. I waited and knocked again. I could tell there was something social going on, and I didn’t want to intrude, but it is afternoon, and I was on a social call, so I stepped around to the side, because that’s where I heard the voices coming from, though it could have been from an open window, I suppose, but you know me; I don’t stand on ceremony, and it wouldn’t have been the first window I stuck my big nose in. People do want to be friendly. That’s my experience. But it wasn’t a window. It was your back deck. This young man with this huge … camera was filming your wife. Naked. Not just naked but … oh, dear. It’s quite none of my business. But she … she was …” At this juncture Betty B can utter no more. Her breath comes short on the horrid truth, and every indication is that morality in the neighborhood may have been breached.

  “What? She was boning the camera guy?”

  “No. Oh, my, no. Nothing like that.”

  “Nothing like that? You said she was naked and worse. What could be worse?”

  “She was … posed. Posing.” Mulroney ruminates, sensing the Tweedle brothers, all eyes and ears straining for more.

  Why would Allison take up with the camera guy on the back deck? That makes no sense. “When was this?”

  “A while ago. Michael. I don’t want you to be hurt. It was simply so … It’s none of my business is what it is.”

  “But you made it your business. Don’t get me wrong, but you’re …” Whoa, buddy, thinks a more circumspect Mulroney; do not harm the baby when changing the bathwater. Talk about compartmentalizing; Ms. Highborough Billions Burnham can gulp a gob o’ pecker paste and everything is doilies and lace, but let Allison get naked on her own back deck, and the neighborhood has a disturbing situation. Mulroney needs no reminder that Allison’s ass would make Betty Burnham a good Sunday face, and the photo op potential on some behavior is far worse than on other behavior. “Keep an open mind, Betty. That’s what I do. She gets up to … you know … her own thing. I have to tell you: that lemonade wasn’t instant. It was fresh. I admire that in a woman. And word does get around. Thanks.”

  So he mounts again for the brief coast home and more pressing concerns. “Should I come along?” Betty Burnham verily croons to join the prosecution. Popping in on Allison and the camera guy might seem an intrusion elsewhere but seems natural here on the Coast with such a magnificent view of the biggest ocean in the world and luscious events unfolding.

  But no. “No, thanks. I’ll see you later,” Mulroney calls back, accelerating with dispatch as a CX-61 can do.

  In eighty more yards he turns up the drive to see a black van, side doors open on an array of photographic equipment. Leaning his bicycle against a wall, he removes his cleated shoes for better comfort and stealth. Padding around back, he slows near the end of the hedge and eases in for the close-up—small world; so does the camera guy. The scene blends seamlessly with the scene already simmering in Mulroney’s mind’s eye—hard to imagine, but there it is: spread eagle Mulroney—the Ms, that is. Allison in the buff on a chaise lounge squirms this way and that with no inhibition for the nether regions revealed. “Michael!” she calls as if glad to see him. “Look! I’m a model.”

  “I can see that. A naked model. With no discretion.”

  “How can you say that? There’s plenty of stuff I wouldn’t do. Scotty wanted me to go hands and knees, you know how they do, with a coy look back over my shoulder. That’s like the guy who offered the little girl a cookie to stand on her head to see her underpants. But I’m really not wearing any. I wouldn’t do that. That ought to make you feel good.”

  “It doesn’t. But we can discuss that later. For now, why don’t you put something on?”

  “Because. We’re not done. Are we, Scotty?”

  “We’re getting close,” Scotty murmurs, clicking away on his camera, tripod mounted, then moving into video mode. “Okay, here’s what I want. If you can arch your back, one knee up, legs slightly open … We’re going for Lana Turner above the waist, maybe Rhonda Fleming below. Get the picture?”

  “Like this?” Allison is a quick study. So is Mulroney, who moves gently to the table for a lens cover, which he installs forthwith, pre-empting objection with his own directorial debut.

  “Not like that. What I think we’ll go for is Lucille Ball above the waist and Doris Day below. Get it? Get the picture? Look, Scotty. Let’s get something straight here. You’re a young guy. You got your camera. You want to shoot my wife naked. Right? That’s my wife. I’m her husband. She’s naked. You’re taking pictures. You may not realize the risk you run here.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Threat? From me?” Mulroney takes the other lens cap and sails it like a Frisbee, then picks up the tripod and camera and swings it like he once saw Jimi Hendrix swing a guitar, with finality on impact. Sure, it would have been better with some lighter fluid and a Zippo, but as noted, a man must be practical. “Next time I’ll aim for your head. Now. Does that sound like a threat?”

  “Michael!” Allison calls, hardly coy, over her shoulder, hands, and knees.

  “You’ll hear from my lawyer,” Scotty replies.

  “Hell-oh-oh!” calls Judith Elizabeth Cranston Layne mere paces out from rounding the corner, her exuberance overflowing like a riverbank, a muddy one. “Did I tell you, or did I tell you? Is this the most fabulous view of the entire ocean, or what? Oh, wait! Watch this! Oh, hello! It’s only me. Sorry to interrupt—oh, God. Oh, my!”

  “Sorry. Please don’t let us interrupt,” says the woman in tow. “I’m Midla. Midla Danyte. I’ve admired your lovely home for the longest time. I’ve driven out of my way for years just to pass by, and every time I wondered who is lucky enough to live here. Every time I knew it would never be me because it would never be up for sale. Because, who could ever live here and even think of moving? Was I ever surprised to see it on the market!”

  XVI

  Party at Mulroney’s

  Everyone knows her parents didn’t name her Midla, so there’s no point in dwelling on her past or a given name that seemed so wrong. She’s probably processed many issues in coming to terms with herself and what her name should be. Why focus on perilous, depressing youth, when we might witness the very real results of successful adaptation to success and feelings of well-being—and precisely whom this woman is processing, on her way to being?

  Plain to see is originality in her hair, tummy, jaw line, laugh lines, crow’s feet, lips, hips, breasts, nose, abs, high thighs, and hind side, for starters. Then it’s on to the very most exquisitely tasteful tattoos and rings and pins and staples arranged just so to give the effect of … art. This crowd understands evolution. The intellectual/spiritual continuum thrives in the land of the open mind, where all ripples fade in progressive context, which is key to whom a person has become rather than whom a person no longer is, which may have been an old person the new person struggled for years to be away from, which might sound awkward but makes perfect sense among growing population segments of the new life in happier times. Maybe the new life is part and parcel of the bold economy because we can’t very well scoff at money, which isn’t to revere greenbacks per se but rather to recognize the mobility and accessories that money can buy. Materialistic? Perhaps, but fun, and that is the critical point we strive for: these new times want to be happier. Don’t you?

  Or are you stuck in the same old stodgy stuff?

  Her name may have been Jane or Linda or Sally. So what? What harm to anyone if she calls herself Midla? No harm is what, not even in the extra effort required in remembering new names. Like when the gal who cuts Mulroney’s hair, Bonnie, became Isis Rianan because of the power of the I, not to mention three of them, along with the power of Isis, Egyptian Goddess of Power, and Rianan from the old Fleetwood Mack song, which sold a powerful heap of albums for a powerful mountain of moolah. Bonnie swore she felt better the very minute she became Isis Rianan. She knew it was a good move, even as her friends struggle
d with it, forgetting it or mispronouncing it and then shrugging and calling her Bonnie. She estimated that the full conversion in usage from the old name to the new name would take a year or two and would be well worth the effort. Mulroney advised, “You’re crazy. Fleetwood Mack. You want to sound old? Or passé? How about Isis Islii? I just made that up. Five fuckin i’s. Two of ’um fucking capitals. You like i’s, don’t you?”

  “I like it!” Bonnie cried, changing just that quick to Isis Islii, which was like transplanting a young tree soon after planting it, which should not be okay, with the roots reaching for life and getting traumatized again and stunted from too much transplanting. Shouldn’t it?

  “Hey, how about Isis Islii Isley? You could be the long lost sister of the Isley Brothers. They’re old too, but man. They were the real deal, much better than Fleetwood Mack.”

  Alas, the wisdom of the ages and Mulroney prevailed again, and so the name adapted as nature intended to Islii Isley, avoiding terroristic association that had come onto the scene practically overnight, which seemed unfair at first, until factoring the natural happenstance of all things and spiritual corollaries stipulating no coincidence, and Magic Happens.

  The new gal, Midla, looks interconnected and cosmically receptive to vibration, magical hooey, and moolah. The Universal question remains unanswered, however, whether these or any mysteries of the universe can be sorted in the sub-orbital context of two point seven five, specifically speaking. Naturally, the buy/sell plane in constant flux relative to the moment is where we truly live—and the moment is focused on a woman in the buff, generating surprise and awe in some quarters on her state of physical fitness—which quarters include the most recent quarter bringing up the rear, which is Mutt ’n Jeff behind Aunt Bee.

  Phillip ogles.

  Steffen glances back and forth, Phillip to Allison.

  Scotty, apparently inured to loss where art is in the making, works his damaged video camera. Undeterred or compulsively stuck, he circles and pans, stepping carefully over low railings, potted plants, and ceramic bunnies—zooming in and out, kind of.

  Most admirable among Allison’s revelations is her free spirit. As if playing to her following at last, she entertains with less ceremony or encumbrance than if she were clothed, with a fluidity that most find endearing. “It’s because of her breasts,” Betty Burnham notes with humility.

  Betty dropped in, after all, establishing a pattern: uninvited and unannounced. She didn’t say hello because it’s only been a minute, and it’s a crux of nudity, society and art, hardly warranting a how-do-you-do. This is what great days are made of. Hello?

  Witnesses to the creative process are given to analysis in such a zone of intellect that is naturally populated with persons of business, art, and monumental cash reserves. Betty Burnham’s poignant perspective is soft but assertive: “They’re really small. And lovely. Oh, how I would love such freedom.”

  The Burnham words linger, unchallenged.

  In the neighborhood spirit, Betty says she just came on in when she saw Midla Danyte riding shotgun in Judy Liz Layne’s tacky white Beemer. She doesn’t say tacky aloud but rather plants the assessment precisely into an elliptical pause, as if white is the new shit. She followed the scent, as it were, down the street, as a friend in need will do, because that is who she is, which everyone who knows her comes to learn, bye and bye. She smiles serenely.

  Phillip and Steffen accompany like remora alongside a shark, securely niched in the food chain, keen on the scent of some juicy flecks. Steffen whispers coarsely, “What a great ride.” He giggles, treading gently with Phillip, crouching and whispering to avoid detection. Soon the predators will feed, leaving scraps for the scavengers.

  Betty’s presence is something, but not like Allison’s. Betty concedes, “Women with small breasts are lucky. They don’t sag. Allison’s—may I call you Allison? I feel like I know you—Allison’s are well shaped too. Don’t you think? It’s why she looks so … wonderful!”

  “I think so,” Phillip volunteers.

  Allison looks down at her breasts, first left, then right. “They are small, aren’t they?”

  “They’re perfect,” Scotty murmurs, his eye in the viewfinder aiming at the perfect orbs.

  “Everybody thinks my wife’s breasts are wonderful. Isn’t that nice?” Mulroney fetches a towel near the hot tub, seeking to end the exchange, the show, the intrusion, wrapping things up, as it were. “Sorry, you fellows have to leave so soon. Betty, I’ll bring your cup of sugar up later. Miss Layne, this is not a good time for a showing. You should call before a showing. But you know that. Don’t you?”

  “I’m so sorry. But I did call. And Ms. Danyte is a serious buyer. And she’s leaving—”

  “Please, call me Midla.”

  “Yes, leaving. That’s what I said,” Mulroney says.

  “Mr. Mulroney,” Judith Elizabeth Cranston Layne persists. “I have a cash client looking for a house in this neighborhood, in this price range, standing right here with a pulse and a keen interest in your house, which happens to be for sale. Do you really want us to leave right now?”

  “Tell me something, Miss Milda …”

  “Midla. My name is Midla. And I’m not a Miss.”

  “Are you a player, Midla? Are you ready to ante up? Because, frankly, I’m tired of the nonstop parade of homes. We got too much traffic here. Are you a tire kicker or a player?”

  “How much is it?” Steffen asks.

  “I didn’t know it was for sale,” Phillip says.

  “I may be,” Midla says. “I haven’t seen it, have I?

  “Is there a Mister Dannit … ?”

  “Danyte. Our last name is Danyte. And no, we have no Mister. My life partner is Earlyin.”

  “Don’t tell me: you adopted a boy child and named him Couldbe. Yes?”

  “That’s so clever. Mind if we look around?”

  “Hell-oh-oh!” calls Marylyn Moutard with four hot-flashing wives in tow and four resigned husbands behind, just stopping in to say how they luuuv a good joke as much as the next person—and they sure as heck still love the place, so can we please get down to reasonable negotiation? Because a buyer meeting a seller halfway is called reasonable where they come from. While single dollar increments are great fun, they’d rather cut to the chase in a more reasonable way.

  “Maybe you should be shopping where you come from,” Mulroney chides. “For reasonable prices. Because once you get to the top of the hill, you pay top-of-the-hill prices, where I come from. Where were we? As I recall, you’re a little short on the money issue. Yes? No?”

  “Two million something or other,” the lead man says with forced good cheer, but he stops and turns to the sudden approach behind him and a request—make that a demand, or is that a threat?

  “Ciente! One hunnerd dollars pay right now.” Juan Valdez is seeking payment owed to his associate Ms. Rosa Berry for one monkey spanking, specifically ordered and professionally administered. His hungry eyes highlight his urgency, flitting from window locks to doorjambs to crawl spaces as if seeking a route of escape or, more likely, casing the joint. Squinting inside through the big back window, he turns to Mulroney. “You have art, Señor.”

  Is this a statement, or a prospect?

  Allison is back at the door with refreshments, losing her towel but putting it back in place once she sets down the tray bearing the wine, glasses, and napkins. “This is fun,” she says, heading back in for beer, in case anybody wants a beer, but stopping to ask the thin air between her husband and the apparent gardener, “A hundred dollars? For a massage? Must have been a good one.”

  “The hundred would be for the wank,” Phillip explains.

  Mulroney turns to the intruder; impugning character and degrading life’s good work is slanderous and may well warrant litigation, which may be an idle threat leading to a stalemate in some cases, but in this case will likely lead to a few spendy laps around the block in the process. Make that wind sprints—oh, you do not w
ant to tie up litigiously with the Big M.

  But the parry freezes at Mulroney’s hip joint, which twangs in pain down his leg like another accusation. He braces on a railing to keep from falling and with a grimace faces the collective perception of an aging man in bicycle tights and denial of the Big One. Mulroney appears to be frail from overuse, both physically and morally, and alas, evidence for the prosecution stacks up on one side while the defense gets bolstered on the other.

  Easing over to a table till the pain subsides, Mulroney smiles sanguinely. “Wouldn’t it be something if we were decrepit at middle age and grew stronger with each passing decade, till we grew old and could click our heels? I’d be trying out for the Olympics. Did you ever think about that? As it is, I need to sit down.”

  “It’s already been done,” Steffen says. “It was awful.”

  “Phillip, you and your boy can go now. You’re not welcome here, with your tasteless humor and vulgar innuendo. This is my house! Okay?” Mulroney sits, hobbled but not humiliated, at least not willingly.

  “Wait. Have some wine first,” Allison titters, setting out crystal wine glasses and beer, going back in for the three light whites she’s kept chilled these many months, in case friends might stop by. Chablis is casual enough to frill away a lovely afternoon in the serene, sweet tipsy doodle that matches the breeze and elegant wafers with Camembert sumptuously oozing, which is also on hand, just inside. She won’t be a minute.

  So the guests cease their endeavors at Mulroney’s house—at Mulroney’s expense. Scotty picks up camera parts, eyeing each for damage, sorting the evidence of assault and destruction of property.