A California Closing

by Robert Wintner

  Mulroney itches to remind the Moutard party that the piece o’ shit toothpick construction they want to call a house, the one leaning over the cliff on untreated two-by-fours, has much better views—views that will likely hold up all the way down, when the motherfucker breaks off and falls into the ravine on a common, everyday, run o’ the mill magnitude 4.5 tremor, because the Richter Scale defers to gravity with complete disregard to demographics. The panoramic vista will be especially dramatic for those who remember to wear a base-jumping parachute—but he doesn’t say squat because he doesn’t know that the timbers aren’t treated for termites; he just made that up. And they may be two-by-six. And even if they’re not treated, him saying so won’t help matters. He could offer more delicate imagery of a house collapsing into the gulch on an earthquake of relatively pussy magnitude, but … nah.

  Make no mistake, cynicism is fun and good for a laugh, and it’s the laughter, however dark, that kept the inveterate pro fit for so many years—kept him in the game and still a triple threat where many others had retired long ago. It’s the laughter that was, is, and shall be a cornerstone of Mulroney OK Cars. Used; pre-owned; fuck it; whatever. It’s fucking cars.

  Point taken, and then it’s time to let go, to smile sweetly like the rest of the vultures gathered here together and to murmur, “Thanks, Marylyn. Good luck.”

  So the toothsome women lead their beloved clients away in a slow, segregated drift down the steps to the walkway and out, cautiously exchanging pleasantries on loveliness, from the flowers to the intricately arranged flagstones on the walkway, and to the curiously strong-looking retaining wall and the view relative to fabulous. Value is indicated at every turn, but avoided at all cost is specific value, lest the other side attack boldly in every buyer’s nightmare: the bidding war. Oh, lightning arcs with growing frequency among the eyes above the lovely, toothsome smiles. A wink and a nod never hinted so many dollars as the market adjustment shaping up in the thickening atmosphere of the flower-studded walkway among lavishly blossoming trees on this very personal stairway to heaven with views to die for.

  Judy Layne out-graces Marylyn Moutard with the double-edged farewell: “It’s so good to see you, Marylyn. You look terrific. I’ll talk to you later about that other. Okay?”

  “Oh, anytime,” Marylyn says. “Later or tomorrow. No rush.”

  The good-time boys are next, as if waiting their turn in the taking-of-leave ceremony, as if challenging Mulroney to give them the boot. But of course that challenge is also imagined, also Mulroney’s cross to bear. He steps toward Phillip and Steffen with his own tired smile, squares off, and shoots a hand to his eyebrow, as if to smooth it down. The smaller man flinches and ducks. “Sorry,” Mulroney says. “Now I’d appreciate it if you boys would scram.”

  The elder turns the other cheek and then his body for an exit with maximum elegance in obvious disdain for such ill-mannered something or other. The smaller man looks around and follows. Mulroney turns to Juan Valdez, though Juan Valdez is turned away, literally pressing his face against a window, hooding his eyes for a better look, leaving a smudge of nose grease.

  “Leave now or I’ll call the police.”

  Juan Valdez takes his time, turning slowly at last with his own challenge. So Mulroney picks up the patio phone and dials 911. “Yes. I have an intruder on the property. Yes. He’s peeking in the windows like he’s about to break in. Yes.” As Mulroney gives his full name and address and repeats each one twice, Juan Valdez eases out with methodical slowness, like a garden slug baring fang, who might ooze on over and engulf you—or engulf the flower-studded walkway and all these fucking trees and views and shit. He saunters out with assurance that he, like the old governor who fucked the maid, will be back.

  Which leaves Mulroney in another tête-à-tête with the ineffable Betty Burnham, so warm, comforting and service-oriented, though a man can’t help but wonder what fortune awaits, since oral intimacy in series must surely lead to something else. Or could life become so simple on simple needs met with a resource he can only call fortuitous and, at least for now, renewable? A potentially pesky problem rises and delineates, which is Ms. Betty’s compulsion to oversee Mulroney’s best interests. At least she’s not gold-digging, which might sound like small potatoes at first blush, but a man of uncertain means can tell you it’s a first order of concern, with modern women ready to seize the jackpot. But not Betty Burnham and her billions. She could do much better.

  She takes his hands into hers and squeezes just so with her own sweet smile; it arcs no electricity and is sincerely loving. She appears to be realized at a level reserved for the truly evolved, where caring and helping are equal to great wealth, or at least they’re made possible by great wealth. “I do love your place,” she says.

  “Make me an offer, baby.”

  “Oh, you …” she giggles, and there you are: love, what every sentient being longs for, once the money thing is all worked out.

  “I guess this turned into one of those days. Man, oh, man.”

  “Yes, I can see that it has. Well, you know what these kids today are saying: shit happens.” She giggles. “I have to tell you, I love talking like that. I didn’t use to. I think I was repressed. It’s like … like the other … with you. Do you take my meaning?”

  “I think I do. You don’t seem at all repressed. You seem natural. You’re spontaneous and in the world. No hiding away for you. You’re comfortable in your own skin, as they also say. Are you telling me that your joie d’vivre is a compensation?”

  “Maybe. In part. Happiness is always part of a balance. Isn’t it? We have a choice, I think, most of the time. Besides that, whatever you think is possible is already partially true. You know? Well, you remember what I told you about my husband?” Mulroney bunches his brow quizzically. “You know, about being so good at … something?”

  Mulroney feels suddenly like a failure there on the patio, with the wife forcibly dressed and disciplined in the kitchen, and an old lady from just up the road teasing him on another lip lock.

  She titters with anticipation and says, “He only asked for it twice. Can you believe that?”

  “You made him ask?”

  “Not formally. But I thought he should at least indicate an interest.”

  “An interest? I can’t think of a man on the face of the earth who wouldn’t demand Betty’s delights daily—if he thought it would do him any good. I mean the demanding part.”

  She caresses his arm and laughs elegantly, as a woman of leisure can do when she’s amused. “You do know how to make a girl feel good.”

  Careful, Mulroney thinks, sensing the perfect opening to ease through on a grant, or maybe a loan, unsecured, to keep Mulroney World moving along. But no, not now. Not with ovations that sound like teen romance and a dash of acid flashback thrown in. And not in a direction that feels hazardous, make that perilous, like the cliff under the house with the untreated two-by-fours.

  Simply receiving by virtue of asking could define heaven on earth in some quarters, but simplicity fades on prospects of retiring to her house for ten minutes of fundamental need fulfilled and a personal check. It would not be simple. It would be thick. “Thanks for stopping by, Betty. You may have saved the day.”

  “You’re welcome, Michael. You owe me one. Don’t you?”

  “You know I do.”

  She squeezes his hands again and turns, coy as a deb, as she likely turned fifty years ago, though now she glances back with fewer inhibitions than a deb, with the carefree abandon of a downsized heiress to billions, as she hints at the lovely, unshackled times ahead. She too saunters down the flower-studded walkway with—Could it be?—a swing in her ass? A suggestion? A tease? A practiced resuscitation? An invitation to drive the Chevy home? An aging woman’s attempt at rebellious behavior redux? A debutante at sixty-something, come home to the old playing field? Of course, it’s all that and more of the same. She compensates her ample hindside with a pucker and quiver recalling the subtext on the
Big M OK Cars sign: Satisfaction Guaranteed.

  But Betty B has soothed a savage beast, which is the restless stirring of life unlived—her own life, that is. She is a walking, talking demonstration of sense, or what she makes of it, and she has a point—“Hey!” Mulroney calls. “See you on the corner, huh?” And he smiles at a first thought of affection all day—or in many days—for a game gal and a happy woman besides.

  Well, except for the affection he feels for Allison, really.

  Betty B sees and also feels. “By-ee!” she warbles, killing the warmth with that thing they do. Then again, a guy could cut a gal some slack, especially a game, happy gal, especially when she’s not going jugular at the first scent of commissions. Oh, but she has the teeth, as necessary.

  Betty Burnham’s point may be well made, though taking her point just now may be unwise, with the camera guy sneaking inside to press Allison on re-scheduling. Allison wants their session postponed, or a vigorous discussion prolonged. The camera guy is still in pursuit, outstaying his welcome or stated purpose, though some purpose is painfully evident. He’s got his camera gear put away, his cords rewound and cases stacked, awaiting only the humping of all that gear to his dented van.

  Mulroney could cut him a deal on a newer model to enhance his image and increase his rates and pump his bottom line, but why should Mulroney help a guy who’s inside trying to score with the wife? Why was he here in the first place? He wants to inspect the contents of Mulroney’s wife’s underpants, which some men might find flattering and reassuring, but Mulroney does not. She freely admitted that she’s not wearing any, and besides, this shenanigan has no relation to Mulroney’s exploits. The camera guy looks to be about thirty-five going on nineteen, like most of the guys around here, maximum horny but too lame to come out and say what he wants, and broke. He’s not so shy with Allison because she told him he’s cute as a puppy. So what, he thinks he can move on in with no reprisal? Puppy hell, he’s like most of the boys around here: pussies in flannel shirts, tattered jeans, and soft-spoken fear of women. Christ, she’s got him by two decades. He looks confident, which is her doing, but still, in Mulroney’s house?

  “Hey, camera guy.”

  The camera guy looks up, surprised but impressively nonplussed. “Yes, sir?”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m … talking. To Allison.”

  “Yeah. I got eyes. The question was more … whatchacallit… figurative.”

  “Oh. Then I’m … uh … I’m recruiting a beautiful model.”

  “Oh. Yeah. For a minute there I thought you were recruiting relations of a sexual nature with my wife.”

  So the camera guy blushes, conceding the truth. “No. I’m not. I’m not that at all. I’m not sexist, if that’s what you mean. Not like some people.”

  “Not sexist? So it’s okay to be pressing an issue with my naked wife in my home if you’re not a sexist? How come you never asked me for some up close and personal shots on my nut sack, if you’re not a sexist? You’re not only a sexist; you’re a sexist with gall.”

  “It’s not a sexist. It’s sexist. It doesn’t take an article. And I’m not pressing anything. I love her—natural modeling aptitude. She’s the best a man—a photographer could hope for. She is beautiful. I see it, even if you don’t.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re a champ all right. Now go.”

  Which is the perfect directive, allowing the camera guy to morph from embarrassment to indignation and the clean exit, with a harrumph that could have been scripted.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mulroney says. “How dare me!” He calls down the walkway, watching the ruffled camera guy carrying the whole load in one trip to the dinged and dented van. When Allison steps past, apparently on her way to lend a hand, he says calmly, with effect, “Think it over very carefully, dearest. One step farther and it’s over.”

  To his amazement, she stops. She stands beside him in a faint fidget, as if waiting for the rest of his threat. “What’s over?”

  She knows good and well what what is. Yet she presses for clarification. “You and me? We’ve been over. Haven’t we?”

  He shrugs. “You tell me. It ain’t the honeymoon anymore. That’s for sure. We get along. I guess the question is whether that’s enough.”

  “Why don’t you tell me.”

  He shrugs again. He nods. He turns to her. “I love you.”

  “You do? Why?”

  “Familiarity, I suppose. So many days together. The routine. The little things I know about you, how you think and feel. The usual stuff.”

  “You don’t act like you love me.”

  “I stopped trying. You get drunk, and I don’t love you. It’s like when we were kids we had these snails in the garden with long eyes, and if you touched the tip, the eye would shrink to nothing, then in a few seconds it would grow back out. But if you kept touching it, it wouldn’t grow out all the way. Then it wouldn’t grow out at all.”

  “So you don’t love me.”

  “I still grow out part way, but it’s getting shorter.”

  “Looks to me like you grow out every chance you get. Two can play that game, Honey. Mine’s young and cute.”

  Ouch. How could she know? “Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

  A tear rolls down her cheek. “I doubt we’ll be together. He’s really dull. I just want to get even.”

  “Even for what?” Mulroney is no politician, but he could be.

  “Do you think I’m blind? Everyone knows you slept with Betty Burnham.”

  “I did not. Sleep. With that woman.”

  As if scripted by a higher power, the camera guy fumbles the bundle on cue. Cases, tripods, cord, and stuff clatter to the asphalt mere paces from his dented van.

  “These kids,” Mulroney murmurs. “All theory and no common sense. My mother would have called that a lazy man’s load.”

  “He’s a nice boy,” Allison says. “I don’t know why you have to be so hard on him.”

  “Did you say hard on him? Did him have a hard on?”

  Now Allison blushes, conceding something or other, including the hard on or at least its imagined presence. “How would I know?”

  “How would you know? The same way you’ve always known the difference between medium and large. Besides, you said as much.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Michael, give it a rest for once, would you, please?”

  “Give it a rest? While you’re out on the deck buck naked with a young man in full sexual pursuit?”

  “Sexual pursuit. That’s your game, not mine. He’s an artist. You’ve heard of art before, I’m sure. They’ve had paintings of naked women for a long time now. I’m sure they were your favorites back in school.”

  “But you just said …”

  “That’s if I want it. I think you can see what’s possible here.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m not sure what you see. Betty Burnham is a very nice lady I’m friendly with. But sexual relations? What do you think ever happened to my taste?”

  “I can’t vouch for that. I only know availability and satisfaction when I see it.”

  “She’s fat! You know how I feel about fat women.”

  “Are you saying you’d leave me if I got fat?”

  What would she expect him to do? “I’m not saying anything. I just wonder what you would expect me to do.”

  “No more than I ever expected—what you told the guy when we got married, that you’d love, honor and obey me forever.”

  It was not forever. It was until the first one croaks. “Enough. I’m tired.”

  “I’ll bet you are.”

  “Yeah, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Do I have to spell it out? You’re an old man who still rides a bicycle for dozens of miles and then has sexual relations with the old lady down the road.”

  So the blush comes full circle, though Mulroney pleads innocence, since he had no s
exual relations with anyone, Your Honor, since his last bicycle ride. Honest. “I did not.”

  Just beyond the bottom steps and out on the drive, the camera guy swings open his back doors and hurls stuff inside.

  “Then why are you blushing?”

  “Same reason you blushed when I asked if the camera dude had a hard on. No reason at all, right? Betty Burnham has a warm personality. She makes everyone feel welcome. She’s open and friendly. And smart, with some interesting comments on her old life. So we’re friends. I find her easy to chat with. But sexual relations would be the product of a troubled mind.”

  “Finally, we agree. The way you stare at her chest is troubling too.”

  “So what? She’s showing nine inches of cleavage. It begs to be stared at. So? I’m guilty of looking at her cleavage. So what? How does that compare to what the camera guy was staring at?”

  “Fine, Michael. You’re tired. Go to bed.”

  “Let me share something with you, Allison. I’d hoped to spare you the anxiety—call me old fashioned. We’re insolvent. I show assets on paper around twenty million dollars. That used to be some real money, you know. You’re my wife, so those assets go to you when I croak. Okay?”

  “Or maybe I’ll get half before you croak. Okay?” She lets that sink in, sharing Mulroney’s regret on the sentiment. “You’ve done well for yourself, Michael. You’ve done well for us. It’s impressive. Okay? Why have you never shared with me, but you share now?”

  “Because I’m stroking three million in debt, which sounds serviceable on twenty in assets, except that the assets don’t cover the monthly stroke. We’re ninety days late, Allison. Ninety days and then some. We’re at the mercy of the bank, Allison, and the bank is not merciful. They’re losing money, and they’re ready to foreclose. I can get relief from creditors, but bankruptcy won’t keep the roof over our heads, and once we lose the house, we won’t get another one. So I hesitate. Oh. Kay? So I find myself thinking up the wildest, craziest schemes, like, say, befriending a lonely old lady up the road and perhaps, maybe, just maybe requesting a bit of support for a neighbor in a time of need. Okay? And your contribution to the effort is a daytime drunk and porno session with a guy in heat.”