by Mike Heppner
At noon, when Marlene left to pick up something for lunch, Stuart went into the bathroom and jerked off. His body was filled with nervous energy from writing all morning, and he needed some quick relief. Asking Marlene for sex would’ve taken too much time out of his day.
She could read the guilt on his face when she returned. “Did you jerk off while I was gone?” she asked.
He reacted indignantly. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing, it’s just that your face is all red, and your hair’s messed up. You look like you’ve been jerking off.” She set two deli sandwiches down on the kitchen table. “I don’t mind, Stuart. You’re free to do whatever you want.”
He laughed to hide his embarrassment. “Well, I didn’t, okay? As a matter of fact, I’ve been working on this fucking Reese book all morning.”
“I was just asking. Don’t get mad, eat your sandwich.”
Stuart wasn’t hungry. “Why did you say that just now?”
“No reason. I was just making an observation.”
She pushed one of the sandwiches toward him, but he pushed it back. “Some observation. That’s like saying, ‘Hey, did you just take a shit?’ ”
Marlene calmly unwrapped her sandwich. “We’re married, Stuart. We’re allowed to be open with each other.”
Rather than argue with her, he reached for his lunch. A few bites into his sandwich, he asked, “So what are you up to this afternoon?”
“I don’t have any plans. Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your hair.”
This response didn’t invite further conversation, so he said nothing and wolfed down the rest of his food.
After lunch, he went back up to his office and polished off half a dozen pages of the Reese book. When he came downstairs, he found a note from Marlene saying she was walking to Acme Video to rent some movies. Acme was a small, independent store that specialized in rare, imported and art-house films of the sort that people like Heath Baxter liked to watch.
When she got back, she said, “I’m having dinner with the girls tonight, so I picked up a few extra videos in case you got bored. What’s the name of the actor that you like so much?”
He shook his head. Marlene was always asking him questions that were so vague he often couldn’t guess what she was talking about. “I like a lot of actors. I like Malcolm McDowell,” he said.
“No, that Polish guy—the one with the bug eyes.”
“Oh, Klaus Kinski.”
She brightened. “That’s it. The man at Acme helped me pick a couple out. I couldn’t remember what the actor’s name was. I kept saying, ‘Bug eyes, bug eyes.’ ”
“Yeah, well, those guys at Acme know everything.” Stuart walked over to the table, where she’d set the videotapes. He’d already seen both of the films, Fitzcarraldo and Aguirre, the Wrath of God. He wondered what movies he would’ve chosen for her but then realized he had no idea. I don’t know what she likes, he thought. I don’t know anything about her.
Setting the cassettes down, he said, “I didn’t know you were going out tonight.”
“It’s my regular night, Stuart. Do you want me not to go?”
“Oh, no, have fun. I’ll just miss you, that’s all.”
“Are you sure? Because I can cancel.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “Marlene, relax. I’m not going to run away. I’ll still be here when you get home.”
They had some time to kill, so they had a glass of wine in the living room while waiting for Carla to pick her up. A compact disc played softly in the background, part of a classical music sampler Marlene had bought at the mall.
“I was just thinking,” she said, “why don’t we move out of town? There’s no reason for us to stay here anymore. You can write wherever you want, and I can always do . . . something.”
“Where would we go?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe Connecticut?”
“If we’re going to move to Connecticut, we might as well stay in Rhode Island,” he said. This logic made no sense to him, but he didn’t care. “What brought this on? Aren’t you happy here?”
“You’re not, Stuart. You’re not happy. You’re not happy with me, and you’re not happy with yourself. I’ve made you unhappy.”
She became teary eyed, and he put his arms around her. “Honey, I thought we were over this. What can I say? I’m happy enough. This is as happy as I’m going to be.”
She knew she was annoying him, so she made herself stop crying. “You’re right. Anyway, Carla will be here soon. I should do my makeup.”
He took her arm and pulled her back down on the sofa. “Wait a minute. Don’t just run off like that. I don’t get it, Marlene. You seem perfectly fine all day, and then you’re a wreck.”
“I’m trying, Stuart.”
“What do you mean, you’re trying?”
“I’m trying, that’s all.” His grip loosened on her, and she stood up. Dabbing at her eyes, she said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m just being a silly woman.”
She went off to finish getting ready, and Stuart turned up the volume on the music just as the final, decisive chord of a symphony erupted. He wasn’t sophisticated enough to know who the composer was, nor did he particularly care.
Carla came round at six, and Marlene left with many promises not to stay out past eleven. Stuart spent the first hour trying to watch Fitzcarraldo but couldn’t concentrate. His conversation with Marlene had put him in an unsettled frame of mind. Going to the stereo, he read the composer’s name from the back of the CD case: Robert Schumann. The name of the CD was 15 Romantic Favorites, and the picture on the cover showed a couple nuzzling in front of a seaside sunset and toasting each other with flutes of champagne. Their silhouetted profiles were perfect complements to each other. This was what Marlene thought about, he realized, when she thought about love.
Later that night, he greeted her naked at the door, led her upstairs to their bedroom and—ignoring the fact that she’d had a bit too much wine with dinner—undressed her, laid her down in the sheets and made love to her.
6
Pike and Sarah were married in North Conway on the first Saturday in November. Among the guests were Stuart and Marlene Breen, Allison Reese and Heath Baxter, who’d flown in from California. Allison’s mother, Renee, was delighted to hear about the wedding and came over from London. Only Gregg couldn’t make it, but he sent his regrets along with a case of expensive French wine.
A hastily arranged ceremony took place in the meadow behind the ski lodge, where a stage was set up for a band to perform after the exchange of vows. The day was sunny and brisk; in another week, the first light snows of the season would be falling on the summits.
Pike got dressed in one of the guest cabins, while Sarah and her attendants made themselves ready in the master bedroom. When Heath arrived in his rental car, a caterer informed him that Pike wanted to see him before the service. Heath followed his directions to the cabin where the groom was combing his hair and nursing a watered-down Scotch.
Pike shook Heath’s hand and pulled him in for a bear hug. “How’s California treating you?”
Heath winced, still feeling self-conscious about his L.A. tan. “Oh, it’s okay. It’s been really hectic out there.”
“I thought Californians were supposed to be laid back.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
Pike smiled at his protégé. “You don’t have any regrets, do you?”
“No.” Heath looked away. On the floor was a suitcase Pike had already packed for his honeymoon. Heath yawned. “I’m sorry, being on a plane always makes me sleepy,” he said.
“Not me. I love flying. Do you know what I love the most about it? Getting drunk. There’s nothing like a stiff Bloody Mary at thirty-eight thousand feet.” Pike finished combing his hair, then dropped the comb in his suitcase. “Sarah and I are going to Bermuda for our honeymoon. Have you ever been?”
Heath shook his head.
“You should. You need to get out more,
Heath. Do some traveling.”
“Where would I go?”
“Anywhere! Throw a dart at the map, I’ll pay for the tickets.” Turning to a mirror on the wall, Pike began to knot his tie. “Of course you probably don’t need my money anymore, Mr. Big-shot Hollywood Director.” He laughed. “I’m just kidding. We’re all proud of you back home.” Catching Heath’s eye in the mirror, he said, “Allison’s here, you know.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to have a problem with that?”
Heath shrugged. “No.”
“Good. I want everyone to be happy. Life’s too fuckin’ short.” The knot fell apart in his fingers, and he started over. “You know, I always wished that you two had stayed together.”
It seemed an unlikely thing for Pike to say. “Why’s that?” Heath asked.
“Oh, no reason. I guess I’m just in a romantic mood today.”
After Pike had finished getting dressed, he and Heath joined the other guests behind the ski lodge. The decorations that Sarah had picked out were lavish, with a thousand blue and white garlands hanging like vines from a yellow tent that extended the length of the meadow. Five rows of folding chairs faced the stage, whose curtains were drawn to hide the band’s equipment.
Pike spotted Marlene and Stuart in the crowd of guests and walked over to greet them. Stuart looked much the same, but Marlene was nearly unrecognizable. She’d lost some weight— not too much, just enough to accentuate her natural shape, which was appealingly plump. Her black hair, worn short in the spring, now fell to her shoulders, giving her a more youthful, less severe appearance. In addition, someone had taught her about makeup. Gone were the days of heavy rouge and silver-blue eye shadow. For the first time, Pike could see her face.
“Marlene, you look sensational,” he said, kissing her hand. “You make me want to move back to Rhode Island.”
She blushed. She hadn’t seen Pike since her trip to the mountains and still thought of him as a beautiful wizard of a man. “Thank you,” she said.
“So you’re staying in New Hampshire, then?” Stuart asked. His arm was around Marlene, and he seemed proud to show her off.
“We’re not sure,” Pike said. “We might hold on to the brownstone, in case we ever feel like driving down for the weekend. I like the pace up here. Nice and slow.”
Stuart couldn’t take this seriously. “Well, if you ever get bored, you can always go back to Mount Independence.”
“Not anymore—I sold it.” Marlene and Stuart stared as Pike explained, “Back to the government. Really, guys, I didn’t need it anymore. I’d already had my fun with it.”
Given all the hard work Nathaniel had put into the project, it seemed rash to just turn around and sell it. Ah, well, Stuart thought. On his wedding day, the man should be allowed to do whatever he wants.
Across the banquet area, Heath was talking to Allison, who’d driven up with the Breens. Though she and Heath had spoken on the phone recently, they hadn’t actually seen each other in two months. He had expected to feel awkward around her and did. His only consolation was that he’d be back in L.A. in another forty-eight hours.
“Weddings always make me sad,” she said. Her hair was done up in golden curls that left the back of her pale neck exposed. “I guess I don’t like ceremonies. If I ever get married, I don’t want a ceremony. We’ll just fill out the paperwork and that’s it.”
Heath didn’t want to think about her getting married. It was fine for them not to date anymore, but he hadn’t yet reached the point where he could chat casually about it.
“We don’t have to talk, you know,” she said. “I think the service is about to start anyway.”
On stage, in front of the curtain, a microphone was being set up for the justice of the peace, who’d just arrived and was looking for a place to leave his jacket.
Heath drew closer to Allison. “I think you’d really like L.A. I mean, not to live there but . . . well, you know what I mean.”
“It sounds nice,” she said dully. From her purse, she pulled out a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses and put them on. “Right now, I’m happy being in Rhode Island. Did I tell you I met my father’s boyfriend? We’re having Thanksgiving dinner together.” Twisting the knife a little, she asked, “Do you remember Thanksgiving last year?”
“Yeah.”
What he remembered was spending the night at her father’s house, staying up late, drinking too much and, in the end, being too exhausted to have sex in her room, something they’d never done before (and now never would).
Allison laughed. “I just remember getting so high on that hash I brought down from Amherst.”
“Yeah, that was pretty crazy.”
“I was such a stoner back then.”
“You were great,” he said impulsively. “I liked everything about you.”
Just in time, Pike joined them with a special guest. Heath felt silly meeting Renee Reese now, after breaking up with her daughter. She was a handsome blonde in her late forties— taller than Allison and with a habit of showing off her lean, equine profile. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her immaculate dress from Armani smelled hideously of cigarettes. She and Pike were holding hands.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said in a clipped voice. “Shall we all sit together?”
“You three sit,” Pike said. “I have work to do.”
Renee pulled him down for a quick kiss. “Good luck, champ. Don’t lose touch, okay?”
“I won’t,” he promised, and wrinkled his nose at her. “I always liked it when you called me that. Sarah calls me ‘chief,’ and you call me ‘champ.’ I’ve known some pretty neat women in my time.”
Renee glanced sidelong at Allison, then back at Pike. “It’s not us, it’s you. There’s nothing sexier than a man who knows what he wants.”
This pleased him immensely. “Well, you knew me a long time ago,” he said, and they both chuckled.
Before going, Pike asked Allison to wish him well. Slightly dazed, she said, “Congratulations. We’ll be around for the reception.”
“Good. That’s the fun part, anyway. We always have fun together, don’t we?”
The question puzzled her. “Sure we do,” she said.
Beaming, he took her hand. “That’s what I like to hear. I like to see you having a good time. Nothing wrong with that.”
Renee added, “Now there’s some good fatherly advice,” then nipped off to find the bar.
An announcement from the stage called the guests to their seats, and the justice of the peace, an old acquaintance of Sarah’s from North Conway, began the ceremony. They’d decided not to have a full wedding party, only a pair of flower girls for the bride. Elaborate wedding processionals had always struck Pike as dull and pretentious, and he preferred the focus to be on himself—and his wife, of course.
In place of the traditional wedding march, a loudspeaker played the classic seventies pop song “Make It with You” as Sarah stepped briskly down the aisle, preceded by her two attendants. She wore a white pantsuit that complimented her figure better than a conventional wedding dress. Allison recognized the flower girls as part-time workers from the ski lodge.
Sarah reached the front of the stage early, and she and Pike waited for the song to finish. As they stood together, he winked at her and whispered something that made her laugh. Those in the first two rows also laughed, even though they couldn’t hear what he’d said. Then the music stopped, and the justice of the peace unfolded his speech.
Sitting next to Heath, Allison said, “Sarah looks big enough to kick Pike’s ass,” and they snickered together, drawing glances from the people around them.
When it got time for the couple to exchange their vows, Pike went first. His speech was predictably grandiose and dealt mostly with himself. Still, it sounded charming coming from him, and few people noticed that he’d referred to Sarah only once, and in the very last sentence. Her vows were more straightforward—I promise to love, honor, obey, e
tc. Both she and Pike fought hard not to crack up during the ordeal.
After the vows, Pike produced a ring from his jacket pocket and slipped it on her finger. The ring was encrusted with two-karat diamonds that outshone the chunky engagement ring he’d given her eight weeks ago. Together the two rings looked gaudy but somehow right for her hand.
The justice of the peace pronounced them husband and wife, and they gave each other a polite, chaste kiss. Once the applause had died down, Pike announced to his guests, “And now, Sarah and I would like you to stay for a special treat. This is dedicated to our good friend, Heath Baxter, who came all the way from California to be with us. Heath?” He searched for him in the crowd. “Come back home, buddy, okay? New England misses you.”
Heath did his best not to look at Allison, whose presence he could feel close to him. At this point, all attention turned to the stage, where the curtain had opened to reveal an eight-piece band standing with their instruments. At the piano sat a large, pale man whose brown hair was neatly slicked to one side and whose clumsy hands were poised tentatively above the keyboard.
Heath took a closer look. “Shit! That’s Brian!” he shouted.
Colored stage lights blossomed overhead, transforming the occasion from a wedding to a concert. The band’s first number was “Love and Mercy” from Brian Wilson’s 1988 solo album. Brian normally liked to end his shows with the tune, but this was a special gig, and he’d wanted to change things up a bit. Most of the audience didn’t know the song and in fact didn’t recognize the man on stage. It wasn’t until later, after he’d sung a couple of Beach Boys warhorses, that they put two and two together.
The lyrics to “Love and Mercy,” like those of so many Brian Wilson songs, were dopey and earnest, and Brian sang them slightly behind the beat, as if he couldn’t quite remember them. With his Ray-Ban sunglasses and Hawaiian shirt, he looked like a performer in a karaoke contest and at times sounded like it too. He no longer used his upper register—the famous falsetto that had harmonized for years with his brothers Carl and Dennis, his cousin Mike, his friends Al and Bruce. Instead, his voice sounded gravelly, broken, human, frail. If his voice had once been an honest reflection of who he was in the sixties, this was an honest reflection of who he was now.
