But Elizabeth, concentrating on his voice, heard it change every time he talked about— "The camera," she said, cutting him off. "Tell me about the camera."
"Which one? My first? You wouldn't believe it—a little Brownie; remember them?" And then he was talking about Greg Roscov, who had wanted to be a photographer but finally had to admit he wasn't good enough to stand out amid all the competition. "Everybody could afford a camera, and the chances of people getting good pictures kept going up
and if you weren't a genius. . . . Well anyway, I gave it up. And then I found this little station in Chicago, one camera, one director, and people doing shows in Polish, Lithuanian, Italian, Spanish—you name it, they had it. Anybody who couldn't get on any other station could get on that one, and I don't know who the hell watched it—maybe just the relatives of whoever was on—but it didn't matter because they let me have the camera."
"Have the camera?" Elizabeth repeated softly. "The way you have a woman?"
"Well, yeh, that's the feeling. . . . She can be a tricky mother, you know."
Elizabeth kept her face calm and interested, but excitement was running through her. There was always this perfect moment in an interview when she found the secret center that made each person special. "So it's a contest?" she asked quietly. "To see who's in charge?"
"No contest." His voice was scornful. "You push that mother around, you get her where you want her—doing what you want her to do—and it's the same when you get things right with your woman, getting her where you want her. And that's what life is all about, right? I mean you feel it."
"And I wouldn't, is that it?" Elizabeth asked. "That's what you mean by a man's world?"
He grinned again. "You got it. Be unnatural to see you wrestling . . . well, you wouldn't want to, right?"
"What about your wife?" she asked. "Do you treat her the same way?"
He shrugged. "Home and work ... if you're smart you keep 'em separate. My wife would think I was some kind of frigging idiot if she heard me talk this way." A slow frown sliced two deep lines between his eyes. "Shit." He looked around. "I forgot. They been running the tape?"
"It's only a test," Elizabeth said. Shading her eyes, she peered beyond the platform. "We have enough, don't we?" she asked in Boyle's direction.
"Plenty," his voice replied, but it was Tony who walked onto the set while workmen dimmed the lights and cameramen pulled back their cameras and someone appeared to take the microphone Elizabeth removed from her lapel.
Tony knelt before her chair. "You have made me the happiest man in the world. Dearest Elizabeth, you are an enchantress. Greg"—he turned and held out his hand and Greg automatically shook it—"you're a prince of a cameraman and you've made my day. We won't use it if you don't want, but I want to talk to you later; perhaps we can convince you what a
gem you've given us. Thank you, Greg." His voice was dismissive. "I mean that. You've been enormously helpful to the show."
Standing, Greg looked down at Elizabeth. "Did I make an ass of myself?"
She stood beside him and kissed his cheek. "You were wonderful. You paid me the greatest compliment of all: you were honest. That's why I'm so grateful. And we won't do anything without your permission. I prom-ise."
He nodded. "I believe that." He hesitated, then kissed Elizabeth as she had kissed him. "Thanks. I had a good time. You made me feel like you really cared about what I said."
Elizabeth watched him walk away. Tony, still on his knees, leaned an elbow on the leather chair and propped his head on his hand, watching her quizzically. "You're more impressed with honest Greg than with me. Whose idea was it to use makeup on him?"
"Mine. Tony, please stand up. I need the chair."
"Why?"
"Because I'm shaking all over. Was it really all right?"
"You know it was more than all right."
She nodded, sitting down as Tony perched on the arm of the chair. "I'm looking for compliments. I know it was good. But it started badly and I was afraid—"
He kissed the top of her head. "Here comes Bo, full of energy. He'll be a pompous prig and pretend he knew all along how wonderful you are. You were sensational; you got honest Greg to bare every macho inch and you did it in a way that made everybody, including Greg, love you. From this moment, my enchanting Elizabeth, you are part of my show. And we are going to be the greatest team the world has ever seen."
"The way I heard it," Peter said, slamming an apple back and forth from one hand to the other, "or the way I thought I heard it, you and Dad were the ones who were working together, going off hand in hand into the sunset of a happy old age—"
"Peter, we've been through this," Elizabeth said evenly. She pushed harder against the rolling pin, stretching the pastry dough from the center into a large circle.
"Right, but that was before you hooked up with Tony the Twit. Television's Terrible Tasteless Twit."
"Cut it out, Peter. It's a good job."
"Oh, for—!" He slammed the apple from his right hand to his left. "A job? An ordinary job? This guy's been hanging around like a leech for
years, and he finally gets you on his show, working with him, and you expect anybody to believe it's just a little old job like secretary or grocery clerk—"
"I expect you to believe what I say," Elizabeth snapped. She turned to look at him. "I have enough to think about these days without having to listen to insinuations from my son, who could be helping me get through a pretty bad time instead of making me feel even worse."
'Tni sorry; Christ, Mom, I'm sorry; I'm a dumb shit, a rotten bastard, a half-assed idiot—"
Elizabeth broke into laughter. "That's enough; you've convinced me. Now do you want to hear about my new job or shall we talk about something else?"
"Something else. You and Dad."
She sighed and turned back to the pastry, cutting small circles from the large one. "We've been talking about that for two weeks. I've told you all I can."
"Sure you have. The two of you've got different goals and different ideas about how to go after them so you decided to try doing it on your own for a while, but maybe everything will be back to normal by Christmas. Bull." He shot the apple back to his right hand. "Nobody'd be stupid enough to believe— Okay, okay, I'm sorry; I believe you. I believe whatever you say. It's just that it's awful . . . flat"
"Would you rather I made something up? Your father and another woman? Me and another man? Wife beating? Husband beating? Guns, knives, quarrels?"
"I'd rather you told me how you feel."
"Oh." She paused, then, concentrating, put a spoonful of cooked meat and spices in the center of one of the small circles, folded it over, and crimped the edges. She made four more, then said, "I feel lousy. I miss Matt and I'm scared because I don't know what he's thinking or how he might be changing or what he'll want in a month or two, and I'm worried about how this is affecting you and Holly and the way you feel about both of us, and I'm excited about being on Tony's show, and then I feel guilty because I'm not sure I should be happy about anything without Matt, and then I'm annoyed with myself because men assume they'll have their own separate career, so why shouldn't I assume the same? Also," she added recklessly, "I miss making love to my husband; I don't like sleeping alone or going places alone—it's a lot easier being part of a couple=and I don't like lying awake at night wondering what I should have done differently to prevent all this from happening."
There was a silence. "Jesus," Peter whispered.
Over her shoulder, Elizabeth said gravely, "More complicated than you gave me credit for?"
He nodded, scowling at the apple in his hand. "I guess sometimes I forget other people besides me are mixed up."
She turned. "Peter, I'm sorry. We haven't talked about you at all. Mixed up how?"
He took a determined bite from the apple. "Nothing that can't be cured by ten years of rapid aging."
Elizabeth smiled. "Maya? Your Dad and me? Going to Stanford this fall? The job at the gallery? A
ll of the above? None of the above?"
"All of the above. Don't worry about it, Mom. You've got enough on your mind."
"Part of what I've got on my mind is you. Where is Maya going in September? Stanford?"
"We don't know yet."
"Do you know if you want her to?"
"I told her I did."
"But people change."
"She thinks they should stay the same."
"So that's a problem."
Peter shrugged.
What's wrong with me? I'm so good at getting Greg Roscov to talk why can't I be as good with my own son?
"Saw Luz yesterday," Peter said abruptly. "In the Plaza, getting signatures on a petition."
Elizabeth knew he was changing the subject, but her curiosity was piqued. "Petitions for what?"
"For her mother to run for the state legislature. Luz says if you run as an independent you need petitions."
"Oh, good for her," Elizabeth said. "She told me the other day she'd about made up her mind. Won't she be wonderful? She'll wake everybody up—"
"Luz doesn't think it's so great. She says Isabel's going to campaign against the dam, and probably mess up their chance to sell their land for a pile of money and get out. It's hard to tell Luz she's wrong, isn't it? I mean, I don't have to live there. I might like to, some day, but I have a choice; to me it's a nice town and to her it's a prison."
"That's just seventeen=year=old moaning. Luz isn't in a prison; she's already planning to go to the College of Santa Fe next year. And she's known for a long time that Isabel won't sell out or leave the valley,
especially now, with a battle to fight. Would you really like to live in Nuevo?"
"Maybe someday. Since you bought that land there I've thought about it some. Will Holly be home for dinner?"
"Shell be here about eight-thirty; I told her we'd wait. Is that too late for you?"
"No, I'll munch something." He finished the apple and tossed it into the waste basket. "Mom."
Elizabeth looked at him, realizing with a pang how much he looked like his father. Except for his red hair, he could be Matt just a few years before they were married. Matt at twenty-three: tall, lean, serious, his deep blue eyes so full of love—
"Yes," she said hastily, to Peter. "What is it?"
"I didn't mean there was anything wrong about you and what's-his-name working together. I just think you got a raw deal from my father and I worry about—"
"Wait a minute." Why am I always defending Matt — except when I'm alone at night? "Let's get this straight, Peter. Your father and I made our decision together. We both agreed it was the best thing to do."
Peter scrutinized her. "He left you and us and the house and went off to live in the big city, and you thought it was the best thing to do?"
"Yes," she said steadily.
"Is he paying our bills?"
"The last time you asked that question I told you he is. Why should it change?"
"I thought it might have," he mumbled.
"You thought you'd catch me out. But I wasn't lying then and I'm not now. Why can't you trust us?"
"Because that bastard's gone off—"
"Peter!"
"—as if he's as free as a bird and you're left behind with everything on your shoulders—"
"That's enough, Peter!"
"—and it isn't fair—!"
"Probably not," Elizabeth said, surprising him into silence. "But it's the way things are right now and I'm not whining about it and I don't expect you to either, or to talk about your father the way you just did. Ever. Is that clear? I appreciate your trying to protect me—"
"Well, goddamit, somebody has to!"
"Then protect me by taking out the garbage without being nagged into it every day!" At the sudden hurt in his eyes, she said quickly, "I'm sorry,
I'm sorry, Peter; I didn't mean that; I do appreciate you; it's just that there are different ways of protecting people and you could protect me best by being my friend. Holly won't be here much—her schedule is so heavy—and I do need help around the house and someone to keep me company. That would be enough. And it would be good for both of us, to be friends."
He nodded. "I guess. But it seems like I'm letting him off the hook by doing the things he should be doing."
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it. In a minute she turned back to the counter and began filling and sealing the remaining em-panadas. "Why don't you go talk to him about that?" she asked casually.
"I talked to him about it on the phone. He said the same things you did. Different goals. All that shit. Sorry."
"But if you were with him, you could get more personal-=don't you think?—than on the telephone."
"He asked me to come. Both of us. I said no."
Elizabeth's hands stilled. "I think you should go, Peter. You can't shut him out."
"He shut us out."
"But he's asking you to come to Houston."
"You want me to go? Us? You want us to go?"
"I want you to have a father. Of course I want you to go."
There was a long silence. Peter pulled the garbage bag out of the waste-basket and twisted the top into a knot. Elizabeth started to say she wasn't ready to have it taken out, then stopped, smiling to herself. Serves me right; he'll probably take it out ten times a day. He went through the house to the garbage cans at the side of the driveway, then came back. "Well," he said, stretching the word into a drawl, as if it really weren't all that important, "I guess it wouldn't hurt for Holly and me to visit the old man. Check out what's going on, and all. Only thing is: would you mind paying for the tickets? Otherwise I'd have to just about clean out my savings account, and then I might not get to college and I'd still be here when I'm old and gray, taking out the garbage on feeble feet. . . ."
Elizabeth turned and rested her arms on his shoulders, keeping her floury hands away from his shirt. "Of course I'll buy the tickets. And I love you, Peter; you're very special. I don't know what"—she stopped and swallowed hard, fighting back sudden tears—"I don't know what I'd do without you, my dear, dear protector."
Peter and Holly sat stiffly, hands in their laps, faces turned toward the window, as the plane descended over Houston's Intercontinental Airport.
"I just think you ought to try to understand him," Holly murmured. "Instead of acting as if everything is his fault."
"It is his fault."
The plane touched the runway and, as it taxied to the gate, clicks like popping corn were heard as seat belts were sprung apart. "Please keep your seats," the steward said into his microphone, "until the captain has stopped at the jetway." But everywhere people were standing, taking briefcases and sports jackets from overhead bins, pulling baggage from beneath their seats. Holly and Peter sat still. "You'll kiss him hello, won't you?" Holly asked.
Peter shrugged. "You can do that part. I've outgrown it."
"Fathers and sons kiss each other if they love each other," Holly observed.
"Well." He shrugged again.
The plane had stopped. Watching everyone stand packed together in the aisle, going nowhere, Holly resumed their earlier argument. "Daddy did have to get out of Santa Fe. It's too small for him and too slow, and Mother doesn't seem to care that he needs—"
"Doesn V seem to care? What the hell does that mean? He's in Houston because he's not appreciated in little old Santa Fe? Is that it?"
"No—!"
"Mom drove him away, then. Is that what you mean? She's sitting at home, missing him like crazy, worrying about the future, but according to you she drove him away!"
"I didn't say that! I said she doesn't seem to understand him."
"Oh, for Christ's sake. She's been married to him for nineteen years; she understands him better than anybody in the world."
"Who says? People change and the people around them don't always change with them."
At the obvious truth of that, thinking of his latest disagreement with Maya, Peter hesitated.
"An
d," Holly went on, "even if she does understand him, she doesn't seem to realize how much he wants to do!"
"He told you all this, of course," Peter said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Explained his feelings and intentions in detail before leaving our happy home."
Holly looked at her hands. "You know he didn't. But he called us from Houston the next day."
"And explained his feelings and intentions in detail. ..."
"All right, he didn't! He never has, not really. Isn't that the reason we came here? To ask him ourselves instead of only hearing it from Mother?"
As the aisle began to clear, Peter stood up and yanked his duffle from the overhead bin, "I'll be damned if I'm sure why we came. Probably shouldn't have. . . .**
"Oh, stop it," Holly said wearily. Reaching down, she pulled her overnight bag from beneath the seat in front of her, "Could you shut up, just for the weekend, so we could try to have a good time? And maybe learn something? Our own parents, and sometimes I think we don't know them at all. Maybe we could find out some things. ..."
"Why not?" Peter asked, abruptly switching moods. He put an arm around Holly. "Here we are in the golden buckle of the sun belt, as the local cheerleaders like to call it; we'll put on golden smiles and have a golden time and everything we touch will turn to gold."
"Nice idea," Holly said with a wistful smile, and then they were mov= ing up the aisle and out of the plane, and in a moment they saw Matt, taller than everyone else, his eyes scanning the passengers and lighting in quick warmth when Holly waved.
"My apartment first," he said, holding Holly as she hugged him. "Then I thought we'd spend the afternoon in Galveston. Unless you had something special in mind?"
"Just to be with you," said Holly. She gave Peter a sharp look.
"Hi, Dad," Peter said. Awkwardly, he put his hand on Matt's arm, feeling the pleasurable shock it always gave him when he realized the two of them were the same height. Then, seemingly by itself, his hand moved across Matt's shoulders until he was embracing his father and Matt's arms were around him and they were holding each other and kissing each other's cheek. And Peter, unexpectedly, felt a surge of relief.
Private affairs : a novel Page 30
