by Mike Heppner
Warmed by the alcohol, she reached for her boyfriend’s hand. “We both will.”
The whole room turned toward Heath, who, ever since sitting down, had become gradually more self-conscious about Allison’s being in his lap. “I guess I’ll try,” he said, staring at her fingers interlocked with his own.
Pike came to the rescue. “You’re scaring the kid, Gregg. Surely he doesn’t want to go to fund-raisers for the rest of his life.”
“Heath doesn’t mind fund-raisers,” Allison maintained.
Heath considered what to say for himself, then decided. “It depends what it’s for.”
That settled, Pike reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “I should take you with me when I go up to New Hampshire next month, Heath. I’d like to shoot a little documentary before I get to work on that mountain. Have you got a decent camera?” Before Heath could answer, Pike handed him the card. “I’ll buy you one. Nothing fancy—maybe a Beta-cam SP. All of my old shit’s out of date.”
Allison snatched the card away. “I don’t like this,” she said.
Pike smiled. “But Allison, this is a great opportunity for him. Besides, don’t you want to see what I’m doing up there?”
The smug look on his face infuriated her. “Not really. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s disgusting. You’re not proving anything to anyone, you know. So you’ve got a lot of money, so what? So do we. At least we give our money to people who deserve it.”
“Don’t be so certain about that. There’s more than one way to spend a dollar. Me, I prefer to spend it on myself.”
“Whatever.” Shaken up, she got to her feet. “This wine isn’t any good. I’m gonna open another bottle. Heath?”
Reluctantly, Heath followed Allison out of the room. With his daughter gone, Gregg saw fit to help himself to another splash of Scotch. He offered the bottle to Pike, who grunted and said, “Just a swig. I’m due at Mediterraneo in under an hour.”
Pouring, Gregg felt compelled to fill Pike’s glass all the way to the top. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to get him drunk. “I don’t see where you get the money to do these things,” he said, thinking of the land Pike had recently acquired in New Hampshire.
Pike laughed. “Now, Gregg, don’t go lecturing me about money. You’re not exactly frugal yourself.”
Gregg nodded judiciously. There was truth to this: whatever stunt Nathaniel pulled, however wasteful or eccentric, Gregg countered it with a very public act of generosity. He thrived on the idea that, in the twenty-plus years that they’d known each other, he was undeniably, unambiguously, on the side of the right. Inside, however, another Gregg Reese, the one who sometimes found his own family history too much to bear, watched with envy as Pike spent millions on unworthy causes, getting away with things that would’ve sunk the Reeses.
“You’re lucky, Nate,” he said. “You’re all alone in the world. No expectations, no dynasty to uphold. No mother looking constantly over your shoulder.”
This last was a topic of great amusement to Pike, who’d endured Keeny Reese’s wrath from the time they first met. With Gregg’s mother now well advanced in years and suffering from a variety of ailments, he preferred to think of her in a more forgiving light. He’d be around a lot longer than she would. “Don’t take it out on your family,” he said. “You’ve got a great kid, which is a blessing.”
“Allison isn’t the problem. It’s people like Celia Shriver and those other old biddies who keep soaking me for charitable donations. On top of which, I’m getting taxed up the ass.” Anticipating Pike’s response, he added, “I’m not like you, Nate. I’m sure you know all the loopholes, all the ways to get out of doing your part—I mean, no offense.”
Pike shrugged. Oh, none taken. “You need a quick shot of cash? I can give you a hand, buddy.”
“Forget it,” Gregg snapped. “I’ll be fine as long as this referendum goes through. I’ve got a solid budget until the end of next year, but that’s when things get sketchy. Everything that’s going to trickle down has trickled down already.”
“Thus the Allison Fund.”
“Yep.” This was a referendum Gregg had proposed along with a few of his friends in the Rhode Island General Assembly. If approved, many of the charitable organizations supported by the Reese Foundation would receive their hefty subsidies from the state. Gregg didn’t like talking about it. The fact that he’d done such a bad job of managing his finances—oh, no one would come right out and say it, of course, but he knew what they were thinking—filled him with a shame that was second only to the other shame in his life, the one that couldn’t be named.
“I’m getting screwed on all sides,” he said. “My mom’s idea of what a dollar’s worth is about twenty years out of date. I feel like I don’t have anyone who I can talk to about this. Allison’s too young—she doesn’t get it. It’s not her fault, it’s mine. I never taught her anything.”
Pike rose and, with a sigh of departure, chugged back the rest of his drink. He could take only so much of listening to Gregg before his thoughts began to wander.
Before leaving, he told Gregg, “You need to stop worrying so much about the Reese Foundation. It’s all a lot of self-righteous bull, anyway. Every fortune—especially yours—has an evil source. Decades and generations won’t change that. You might not be aware of this, Gregg, because you’re too far from the source.” He gritted his teeth. “But I made my own fortune. I am the evil source.”
Gregg wondered what comfort he was supposed to take from this. Even after so many years, it still wasn’t clear to him whether Pike really had his best interests at heart.
At the front door, Gregg thanked Pike for coming by. The weather had turned gray and blustery, with a patch of blue sky where the good weather had pushed off to the north.
“If you’re interested in joining me,” Pike said, “I’ll be in Concord over the holidays. I know a woman who runs a ski lodge in North Conway. You’ll like this gal—Sarah Cranberry. The Cranberrys are another old New England family, although,” he laughed, unlocking his car door, “that’s where the similarity ends.”
Gregg stepped off the porch, trying to ignore the autumn wind circling around his ankles. “Okay, I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll come up for a few days. But only to look around. I’ll go shopping at the outlets while you’re doing your business.”
They shook hands. Glancing away, Pike spotted Allison in the kitchen window, her face partially blocked by a low swooping drape. Fleetingly, he wished he’d been more polite when he’d had the chance. Ah, well, dinner, some drinks, some talk, the comforting delight of good service in a five-star restaurant. “I’ll give you a call,” he said, then, forcing himself: “Tell Allison I’m sorry if I upset her.”
Gregg didn’t know what to say, so he just watched Pike climb into the car and speed away. The wind returned, this time with an infusion of cold rain. Looking back at his house, he saw a black stream of smoke lose its shape and disperse over the chimney. Chilled and wet, he hurried inside and shut the door.
Heath and Allison were still in the kitchen, rooting through the refrigerator and setting out half-eaten wedges of cheese. Allison skipped across the room and threw her arms around her father. For the first time, he could smell her perfume, a subtle hint of something tasteful and expensive.
“We found these mulling spices in the cupboard,” she said. “We’re going to make glogg after dinner.”
He kissed her again. “You’ll have to drink it by yourself. I can’t handle that stuff anymore.”
Going to the oven, he looked inside and saw the turkey basking in darkness, its juices catching in the drip pan with a sizzle. Dinner wouldn’t be ready for another hour, but this only added to his lazy feelings of contentment, of being loved by his daughter. Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday; as much as he liked the food, what he most enjoyed was spending time with Allison, lingering over wine—even when she was a little girl, he’d always let her have a glass, maybe two�
�and leaving the dirty dishes until morning, instead trooping upstairs to watch videos on the large-screen TV. Thanksgiving was a slow-paced, low-key holiday. There was no point, beyond savoring the daily occurrences of family life, having dinner together, then quietly sending one another off to bed.
As Heath and Allison busied themselves in the kitchen, Gregg made a tour of the dining room, the table set for three, two candles flickering beside a glass decanter for the wine. Allison had put on some music—a Natalie Merchant CD, the volume set just a touch too loud. He went to the stereo and edged the music down, not so much that she’d notice and push it back up again.
Returning to the kitchen, he said to Heath, “I’m glad you could spend Thanksgiving with us.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reese.” Heath had tied his hair back in a ponytail, and Gregg could now see more of his face. Regrettably, the boy hadn’t shaved, and the black speckle on his cheeks called attention to the fact that he’d dyed his hair blond. Next to him, Allison looked overdressed; her red evening gown, with its low back and frilly sleeves, was something her mother would have worn to a New Year’s party.
Remembering his ex-wife, he asked, “How’s Renee? I feel like I haven’t spoken to her in ages.”
“She’s good,” Allison said, busy arranging a half-dozen varieties of cheese on a cutting board. Although more than enough food had already been set out in the parlor, she’d taken it upon herself to assemble a tray of appetizers, complete with cheese and crackers, red caviar and smoked salmon. “I guess she’s going to Ibiza next month.”
“What’s in Ibiza?” he asked, not even certain where it was.
Caught up in her work, she sucked a cheesy film of Brie from her fingers. “You should check it out sometime. Lots of gay bars.”
Gregg winced but said nothing. Tonight he wanted only to eat and drink, to watch his lovely daughter at the dinner table. He wanted the conversation to be general and spirited, followed by the traditional movie upstairs. Lastly, he wanted to go to bed, content and just a little drunk, at eleven o’clock.
By the time dinner was ready, the candles had burned down to gnarled stubs, and the Natalie Merchant CD had restarted itself on autorepeat. Gregg, Allison and Heath passed the food around—Allison, who occasionally fancied herself a vegetarian, took a sliver of white meat just to be polite—and when the last silver serving platter finally came to a rest, Gregg lifted his glass of wine and offered a toast. “To you, Allison. I’m glad you picked me this year.”
Feeling obliged to add something, Heath said, “Thanks for having me, Mr. Reese.”
“Of course, Heath.” Gregg kept his glass raised. This spirit of toast making, which in most families rarely lasted more than a few seconds, was something he liked to hold on to for as long as possible. “You know, when Allison was a little girl, Renee and I would bring her down to the soup kitchens on Thanksgiving.”
“Thank God we don’t do that anymore,” she said affectionately.
To show that he didn’t take himself too seriously, he laughed and set down his glass. “Well, we don’t need to anymore, because you’re a full-grown woman, and your mother always did a good job teaching you strong values.”
Allison cracked up. “Mom didn’t do shit. You were one who taught me everything, not her.”
He shook his head but didn’t argue the point; he was starting to lose his focus, and he could tell that Heath wanted to eat. “Anyway,” he said, “I’m very proud of you, and I’m grateful for having both of you here on Thanksgiving.”
She reached out and took his hand. “I’m grateful for you, too, Daddy.”
Pleased, he gave her hand a squeeze. Across the table, Heath thought, I can’t believe I just met Nathaniel Pike.
5
Sixty miles away, in the rolling hills of western Massachusetts, Marlene and Stuart were getting ready for their own Thanksgiving dinner. The inn where they were staying was packed with guests—young couples, mostly, weekenders from Boston, New York, Connecticut. According to the register, the Breens were the only guests from Rhode Island.
The view through their bedroom window was of a brown fallow field and, in the distance, a margin of trees—most of them bare but some still clinging to a hint of autumn orange and red. Staring out the window, Marlene pictured her naked body striding across the bright, empty field. From the time they’d arrived, she’d kept an eye out for streaking opportunities, whether a suggestive overpass or a bend in the road. Here in the Berkshires, she could stay outside for hours at a time, maybe even bring herself to orgasm by the banks of a gushing, foamy-cold millstream. She and Stuart could have sex if they wanted. In the country, the roads and streams and skirting trailways were a constant invitation to take off their clothes and show themselves to the world.
“We’re going to have the best vacation, honey,” she said, inspecting herself in the bedroom mirror. Her skirt was a full size too tight around her waist, and her feet looked swollen where she’d stuffed them into a new pair of spiky heels. “Let’s eat quickly, okay? The less we order, the better. I’m fat enough as it is.”
A voice inside advised him to say something nice about her weight, but instead he began unpacking his suitcase. He wished that they could enjoy the evening one step at a time and not let whatever might happen after dinner preoccupy and distract them.
“What do you want to do tomorrow?” he asked. The thought of spending eight hours going to galleries and antique stands didn’t appeal to him. The bookstores in the area didn’t look like the sort to carry his book, either.
Marlene went to the dresser, picked up her brush and used it to chop the snarls out of her hair. “It’s your call. We can go bumming, or we can have a nice leisurely lunch. I’ll go anywhere you’re not embarrassed to be seen with me.”
“Why would I be embarrassed?”
She laughed. “No reason, Stuart. It’s just a saying.”
“No, it’s not. I wish you’d stop putting yourself down.”
“I’m not putting myself down,” she said. With the same willfully calm expression, she tossed her brush onto the dresser and went to work on her makeup. “By the way, if you’re looking for the cell phone, I left it at home. We’re here to have fun. Let’s not worry about work or money or anything.”
“Sounds good,” he said, “but someone may need to call us.”
He knew that belaboring this would only hurt her feelings, so he didn’t. This holiday was more for her sake than his, anyway. He was perfectly happy to stay in Providence, where at least there were limits to what they could or couldn’t do.
Once they’d finished getting dressed, she said, “I’m sorry I’m so ugly and fat and bloated.”
Stuart took her face in his hands and kissed her with as much tenderness as he could muster. “You’re not ugly,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“You’re crazy,” she said, which was what she always said to him whenever he called her beautiful.
Taking their coats, they went outside and drove the quarter mile to the town’s only restaurant. Two rooms—one screened-in and open only in the summertime—accommodated the guests of the inn, plus whoever else happened to stop by. With its chipped wooden floors and tarnished wall sconces, the dining room had the look of belonging in someone’s old home.
All during dinner, Stuart kept wondering about their plans for later. The other couples in the restaurant would probably have dessert and an after-dinner drink, then drive back to their hotel, build a fire, make love and go to bed. Why wasn’t that good enough for him and Marlene? Their expectations were too high for each other. Every night had to be as fresh and exciting as the first night they’d spent together.
Halfway through dinner, Marlene mentioned going to Martha’s Vineyard in May with Bill and Carla Marshall. “I think we should do it,” she said. For a main course, she’d selected an appetizer of poached quail eggs to go with her bottle’s worth of white wine, which she’d ordered by the glass. “You’ll need a
break after dealing with Mr. Pike all winter.”
“That’s assuming we get the damn thing done on time,” Stuart said. “We might still be working on it in May.”
Looking down at her empty plate, she wished that she’d ordered something more substantial than just an appetizer. Still, she wanted to feel beautiful tonight, and that meant not having to worry about her weight. “Well, anyway,” she said, “you can always take some time off. I know how hard you work. You work a lot harder than I do.”
Stuart sulked as she asked the waiter for another glass of wine. He hated hearing her say nice things about him. These things, he knew, were impersonal and based mostly on wishful thinking. They certainly didn’t apply to him.
“I don’t work harder,” he said. “There was a time when I did, but that was long before you knew me. I don’t even know how to work anymore. I think that’s why Nate likes me. He doesn’t like hard workers.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Because (a) Nathaniel Pike is a complete lunatic, but (b) he feels threatened by people who have conventional views about money. Nate never had to work hard for his money. He had to work smart but not hard. There’s a difference.”
When Marlene’s drink arrived, she poured the little bit of wine left in her glass into her new one, then handed the empty to the waiter.
“I’m not a hard worker either,” she said, “at least not compared to some people. Carla’s a hard worker. I guess that’s why she’s my boss.” She gazed at one of the nearby couples, a nice-looking man and woman who were sitting over their espressos while a busboy cleared their dirty dishes. “I feel like I haven’t done anything with my life.”
He didn’t know what else to say, so he asked for the check and paid in cash, leaving a fat stack of bills under his water glass. Looking at the money, Marlene said, “That was wonderful,” but then remembered she’d had almost nothing to eat. It depressed her, wasting Thanksgiving on a few lousy quail eggs.
