Last Resort

by Alison Lurie

  “I figure you do always worry about your kids, though, no matter how old they get.”

  “Mm,” Molly murmured noncommittally, for she no longer worried about her children, who were all in their fifties and well established in life. Instead, ever since Howard died, her children had worried about her.

  “And now Barbie’s got this idea in her head about some kind of endangered walrus, except in actual fact it’s not endangered. I asked the concierge at the Casa Marina this morning.” Myra gave her cheerful loud laugh.

  “The manatee,” Molly suggested. “But you know, even if it’s not officially endangered, I think its numbers are declining in Florida.”

  “Exactly. It’s not fitted for the modern world.” Myra laughed again, then gave a little fizzing sigh. “Barbie’s always been more comfortable with animals than with people ever since she was a little girl, you know. In college she was mad about whales. She was always playing records of the funny noises they make, like balloons popping and squeaking underwater, till I practically went out of my mind. And then she had to fly to Alaska and go out on a boat and look for them.” Myra rolled her eyes upward, signifying baffled exasperation. “What I’ve never been able to understand is, why couldn’t she get het-up about some animal or plant that’s endangered in Oklahoma?”

  “Perhaps there aren’t any,” Molly suggested.

  “Aw, I’m sure there are. Or if not, those environmentalists will invent some. But it doesn’t matter, because I gave her a talking-to, and she’s going back to Washington with me in a couple of days ... Oh, thank you. That looks real lovely.” This was to their waiter, Dennis, who had just set an elaborately decorated shrimp salad in front of her.

  “You want to know the truth,” Myra continued after the first few appreciative bites. “I’m glad to be getting Barbie out of here. There’s an atmosphere about Key West I don’t like. All those bars, and drunken bums and stray cats everywhere. It’s a godless place.”

  “Oh, I don’t really think that’s true,” Molly said, wondering if Myra was one of those Christian rightists they were supposed to have so many of in the Midwest. “Why, there’s forty-four churches in Key West alone, I counted them once. And that’s not including the Jewish temple and the Zen Buddhists.”

  “Where there is great need, there will be many temples,” Myra said, as if quoting. “All you have to do is walk down the main street after dark and you’ll see what I’m talking about. Well, you said you never go there, but let me tell you, it’s disgusting. The drinking and fighting you see, and the expensive property defiled with excrement and vomit.”

  “That’s just the tourists,” Molly explained, slightly disgusted herself by Myra’s description, which took no account of the conventions of mealtime discourse. “They do get a little wild sometimes, but after all they’re on vacation.”

  “That’s no excuse. I realize everyone needs a break once in a while. But there’s a loose, perverse atmosphere here, like you never get in most American resorts. You know what I saw yesterday on the beach at the Casa Marina?” Myra leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I saw two men kissing each other, smooching right out in public. And they were both half naked. They wouldn’t dare try that in Tulsa, let me tell you.”

  “I suppose not,” said Molly, who had never been to Tulsa and now had even less desire to go.

  “No. And honestly I don’t care for the scenery,” Myra confided. “Everything so damp and overgrown.” She gave a little head-shake of distaste. “And there isn’t even a good golf course.”

  “No,” Molly agreed. She was reminded of a theory of her husband’s, that travelers were always drawn to landscapes that echoed the internal geography of their minds. Calm, even-tempered, slightly lazy people felt most comfortable in the plains or beside clear, placid lakes. Somewhat more active types were at home among rolling hills and sparkling streams; while the extremely adventurous and intense responded instinctively to alpine cliffs and crags and deep ravines and the pounding of towering cascades. Perhaps there were also people who preferred their scenery wet or, like Myra, dry.

  While they ate Myra reverted to the topic of real estate. Once Molly would have joined in with interest, but she was past that now. Probably she would never rent, buy, or remodel a house again. She let her attention drift to the sun-bleached sky, the sea lit with sparks of light like bits of broken mirror, and the toasted triangles of her excellent turkey sandwich, each one pierced with a toothpick fizzed with red cellophane.

  “... So when I heard about poor Perry’s condition, I realized I had to come,” Myra was saying when she refocused. “I was real relieved to find that he’d inherited such a substantial piece of property, praise the Lord. Barbie’s so vague, especially on the phone, and my baby sister was hysterical with anxiety. And God knows, when it comes to practical matters she’s totally out to lunch, poor dear.” Myra raised her glance to the underside of the canvas umbrella, as if calling upon the heavens to confirm this incapacity.

  “Ah,” Molly murmured. It occurred to her that it was Myra who was literally out to lunch, and not her sister. Where was Dorrie, and what was she doing all day?

  “Of course if Perry needed it I’d try to help him out somehow,” Myra continued. “Though frankly my resources are limited. My husband passed away very suddenly about ten years ago, and he wasn’t exactly a good provider.” A shadow passed over her face, and a corresponding shadow over Molly’s. She’s a widow like me, Molly thought. I’d forgotten that.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, hoping Myra would realize that her regret was for the loss, not the lack of provision.

  “As soon as I saw Perry’s place, I knew I didn’t have to worry about him—financially speaking, that is. He’s sitting on a gold mine. There’s already three good condo units in the compound, and space for at least two more, even with the ridiculous zoning laws they have here. Luxury area, big pool, mature landscaping, off-street parking; it’s a natural. Of course the property needs some work, but I figure two million minimum at current prices.”

  “Really.” Molly realized that she had never considered Jacko’s situation from this angle.

  “Someone must be doing an appraisal, to settle the estate. But Perry doesn’t appear to know anything about it. Doesn’t have any idea how to look out for his interests, and his family’s interests too of course.”

  “I guess he has other things on his mind,” said Molly.

  “Oh, I know.” Myra swallowed; her face lengthened. “Naturally I’m very concerned about his health; that’s why I just dropped everything and came to Key West. And poor Sis is devastated. Well, it’s a tragedy.”

  “Yes,” Molly agreed, warming further. Myra was vulgar and prejudiced; but she evidently had a good heart. Even though Jacko didn’t like her, when she heard that he was ill she had rushed to be with him. Maybe I could get a small drinks party together for her after all, Molly thought. I do owe a great many people, and there’s that new caterer Kenneth was talking about—

  “When I think what Perry might have been,” Myra was saying now. “He had the name and the looks and the personality: there was nothing he couldn’t have accomplished in politics with the right kind of backing. I had big plans for him.” She sighed. “But then he came to Key West and was hypnotized by that disgusting old man, and quit law school, and decided he was a pansy. I wouldn’t have let him get away with that if he was my son, but Dorrie’s always been soft. Still, it about broke my heart.”

  “Ah,” Molly murmured. An alternative Perry Jackson appeared in her mind: equally charming, equally loved, but heterosexual, and a successful lawyer and politician. He would be married to some really nice woman and have delightful children, and would live to a normal old age. Wouldn’t that have been better, after all?

  “I don’t like to ask you this, but for Dorrie’s sake, I must,” Myra. continued, lowering her voice and at the same time leaning forward to block out the raucous yakety-yak of the people at the next table. “How much time d
oes he have?”

  “I don’t know,” Molly admitted. “I don’t think anyone does.” Maybe this is what Myra wanted, she thought, and tried to answer helpfully. “It could be ten years, if he’s lucky. And perhaps by then they’ll have found a cure.”

  “God willing,” Myra said. “But has Perry had any of the symptoms yet? Those awful purple spots they get, or the pneumonia?”

  “Not that I know of.” As she lied, Molly winced with distaste: she had been brought up to believe that nice people do not mention the details of illness at mealtimes—or if possible, at any other time. But after all, Myra was his aunt; she had a right to know. “He’s worried about something,” she admitted. “His T-cell count, it’s called.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of that. When the numbers start to go down, it’s a bad sign. Well, we’re all in the hand of the Lord.” Myra rummaged in a white lizard handbag framed in gold. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Uh, well, if you could wait—” Molly began. Ever since Howard had been diagnosed with lung cancer she hated to see people smoking—sucking in and breathing out death.

  But Myra already had a cigarette between her shiny red-painted lips, and was flicking a gold lighter. Soon a thin gray ectoplasm, like the wispy dirty-white substance exuded by spirits in Victorian séances, rose and circled her head. Keep that up, and you could be dead before Jacko is, Molly thought—maybe even before I am.

  “Lissen, when I order something, you goddamn bring it, okay?” At the next table, the loud voices that she had been trying to ignore for some time were raised further. She glanced round at the occupants: two middle-aged couples in bright resort wear, navy and acid yellow predominating. The larger and more red-faced man, the one who was shouting, was obviously drunk.

  “Now, Al!” “Take it easy, Al,” cried the others.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I was just—” their waiter, Dennis, began.

  “I don’t give a shit what you were.” The man’s voice rose over Dennis’s explanations and the remonstrances of his companions, attracting the attention of people at nearby tables. “I asked you for another beer fifteen minutes ago, it still isn’t here. And these goddamn fritters, whatever you call ’em, they look and taste like turds.”

  “I’m very sorry, sir. If you’d like to order something else, I’ll bring you the menu—” Dennis began edging away.

  “Hey, you come back here!” the man shouted, even louder. Dennis continued to retreat. “Damnit, I’m speaking to you, you dumb little Chink!”

  Understandably, Dennis did not obey. Instead, breaking into tears, he stumbled toward the kitchen. Many customers were now gawking at the scene, and a chorus of voices rose at Al’s table, trying to subdue and reason with him.

  Almost at once a tall, portly, well-dressed man, whom Molly recognized as the manager of Henry’s Beach House, bustled up to the table, followed by two other waiters. “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked smoothly.

  The chorus turned toward him, attempting to explain, but Al’s voice drowned theirs.

  “That dumb waiter of yours, he forgot my order. So I complained, and he insulted me.”

  “I’m very sorry that happened,” the manager said soothingly.

  “That’s not true,” a woman’s voice insisted—Myra’s voice, Molly realized with dismay. Though she rather enjoyed watching public scenes, she had a horror of being involved in one. But Myra, who was perhaps somewhat tipsy herself, continued to defend Dennis. “The waiter was very polite, and that’s more than I can say for him—” With her smoking cigarette, she pointed directly at Al.

  At another table, a couple of young preppies joined in on Myra’s side. “Yes, that’s right!” they cried. “He was out of line. He used a racial epithet—”

  Al’s face flushed even darker, and he seemed to swell to twice normal size. “You shut your trap, you interfering old bitch!” he told Myra, making a clumsy, threatening gesture that knocked over a glass on his table. The woman next to him grabbed for it, but missed, and it smashed on the deck between the two tables, splashing Coca-Cola.

  “Now look what you’ve done, you big dope!” the woman cried, pointing at Molly’s silk skirt, which had suddenly acquired an ugly brown stain.

  A freezing change had come over the manager’s countenance. Complaining of a waiter is one thing; insulting a patron and causing a public disturbance very much another.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, but now in tones of threat rather than conciliation. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you and your party to leave.”

  “Yeah, says who?” Al began to struggle to his feet, imperfectly restrained by the squeaks of his female companions and the growls of the other man. Maybe he’s going to hit the manager or Myra, Molly thought, becoming frightened. Or even shoot them, who knows; this is South Florida after all. Should she try to hide under the table?

  But Al only stood there, large and swaying, evidently registering that now, beside the manager, he was confronted with two muscular waiters.

  “Okay, okay, we’re going!” he shouted. “Glad to. Goddamn pansy place! Shitty food.” Followed by the two women, he staggered between the umbrella-crowned tables toward the exit, continuing to curse as he went. The other man, lagging behind, nervously thrust a handful of bills and what sounded like an apology at one of the waiters.

  “I’m very sorry for the disturbance,” the manager told Myra and Molly. “Please try to forget it.”

  “Aw, that’s all right,” Myra said, smiling. “Happens.” Her color was high, her eyes lit as if after a successful fight.

  Molly’s heart was still pounding. I’m too old for this kind of thing, she thought. She took a long breath and slowly released the sea-green napkin that she had been clutching as if it would somehow save her.

  “You okay?” Myra asked.

  “Uh, yes,” she lied. “Well, I was a little worried. I thought that man was going to hit somebody.”

  “Aw, no chance. The guy was bluffing from the start. All talk and no action.”

  Yes, but that kind of talk is action, Molly thought.

  “Hey, look at your dress.” Myra pointed. “You should get that dry-cleaned right away, and send the bill to the restaurant.”

  “Well—”

  “And if they give you any trouble, let me know.”

  “Mm-hm,” Molly agreed, privately resolving not to do so. Myra had a good heart, she thought, and her defense of their waiter had been admirable. At the same time, she was someone whose public behavior could not be relied upon. Howard had always used to say that it was better not to get involved with noisy, combative people, if you could honorably avoid it, because there was a danger that they would be in your life forever. The same principle, he believed, applied to politics, and to noisy, combative countries; it was the thesis of one of his books.

  Suppose that foul-mouthed, shouting, drunken man had had a gun, which was quite probable, and had shot Myra—or even Molly, by mistake. He would have become part of her life, however much more there was of it, and of her children’s lives.

  You can come to my house for drinks, she thought, gazing at Myra as she sat there by the warm, glittering sea, wreathed in smoke and self-satisfaction. But I’m not going out to lunch with you again.

  Among the overgrown brick ruins of an old fort by the sea, on the same warm afternoon, Jacko and his mother and his cousin Barbie were touring the Key West Orchid Society show. Jacko’s interest in the event was professional: many of his customers had orchids, and the care and augmentation of their collections was one of his jobs. Today he needed new specimens for a woman who loved cattleyas of the sort she’d worn to long-ago debutante balls, and half a dozen showy hanging plants to decorate a new upmarket restaurant.

  Dorrie, Jacko’s mother, was in a daze of delight. Sheltered from the strong sun by a floppy leaf-green hat, she flitted from one exhibit to another with little cries of joy.

  “Oh Perry, look! The most beautiful salmon-pink ascada! I’ve never seen one so large
, it’s as if it was covered with pink butterflies. And that big brown-and-gold oncidium there under the arch, like a cloud of wasps. Or hornets. You know, once when I was a real little girl there was a swarm of hornets in the summer kitchen on the ranch. Just like that—so golden and shining. I thought they were a crowd of tiny angels. I remember the zigzag way they flew, and the sound—as if the whole room was full of country fiddlers, and everyone was dancing.”

  “Yeah.” Jacko smiled down at his mother.

  “And all these orchids, they’re doing this without any soil—just living and blooming. There must be something specially nourishing in the air here, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, probably,” Jacko agreed, thinking that the Key West air had done something for his mother too. He hadn’t seen her so happy and animated in years—not since his father died. But maybe it wasn’t only Key West: maybe it was the suggestion he’d made last night that she should stay on another month or so, possibly longer.

  A great idea: why hadn’t he thought of it years ago? That was easy: before he’d inherited Alvin’s property there was no place for Mumsie to stay. His cottage had only one room, and he couldn’t afford a hotel. Neither could his mother, who hadn’t been well off for years—and now, he’d gathered, was on the verge of becoming wholly dependent on her awful sister, Myra.

  But that wouldn’t happen, because now he could take care of her. Tomorrow he would start working on the pool house, make it really comfortable. He would repaint the bathroom—lavender blue, Mumsie’s favorite color—and get a new refrigerator. She needed a better reading lamp too, and a rocking chair would be nice. Maybe they could go to some garage sales on Saturday with Janice Stone, who always had good luck there.

  “Oh, Perry darling, come see these lovely vandas!” Dorrie cried; and Jacko followed her to a bank of pale purple orchids, each petal checked in darker purple.