by Jay Brandon
Kathy wandered about the room, clearly fascinated by the luxury, the opulence of it all. Michael felt a sense of failure. Up to this moment,
he had believed he would be a good provider for Kathy if she would agree to marry him. With the recession, he felt fortunate to have his job at the insurance company. It would keep a roof over their newly-wedded heads – if ever they were newly wedded. But seeing the Lefflers’ place was suggesting something entirely different. He was quickly downgrading his “good” potential provider status to “adequate.” And if this was the Lefflers’ beach house, what was their principal residence? Something the size of the Chrysler building? And where was that principal residence, anyway?
Before he had a chance to ask, Jack handed him a martini, and with his first sip Michael almost had a brain freeze. He should have had a beer. What was he doing drinking martinis? He was an actuary, not a bond trader.
Kathy was standing before a painting over the fireplace. It was a tall portrait – perhaps four feet in height – of a tall beautiful woman in a blue dress. She had very pale and flawless skin, and dark hair pinned back. At her throat was a necklace with an enormous emerald surrounded by diamonds. Kathy recognized the style, John Singer Sargent. But was it a Sargent? Jack answered Kathy’s question before she asked.
“It’s a Reginald Manderly,” Jack said. “He was a contemporary of Sargent’s, though obviously not quite as famous. I think his style is remarkably similar to Sargent’s. He has captured his subject’s beauty, her ivory skin, her carefully coiffed hair, her haughty glance.”
“Who was she?” Kathy said.
“A Boston blue blood, raised with a silver spoon. Threw it all away to
marry a poor ship captain. Broke her family’s heart, I’m afraid.”
Kathy looked at Jack with interest, hoping to hear more of the story,
but he said no more about the painting.
A voice, unmistakably Vivian’s, called “Hullo.”
Jack led Michael and Kathy back to the entryway in time to witness Vivian’s grand entrance. She swept down the stairway dressed in a long gown of white satin, with rhinestone-studded shoulder straps, and a long
low neckline. She gathered her gown with her left hand, her right holding a satin stole. Her hair was pinned up at the back of her head.
“Hullo, hullo,” she said like a debutante, embracing them in turn. “I
see Jack is making the drinks.” She took Jack’s drink from his hand. “Drink, Dear?” Jack said, sarcastically. Vivian smiled archly. “Your house is spectacular,” Kathy said.
“Oh,” Vivian exclaimed, “would you like a tour?” “Very much.”
The rest of the house was equally impressive. The grand kitchen and butler’s pantry, white-tiled, spotless, expansive, if a bit antiquated. The fixtures looked like the original fixtures. They still had different faucets for hot and cold water. And the refrigerator was the size of an ice chest. These shortcomings gave Michael some degree of pleasure; he was happy to find anything that was less than perfect.
Upstairs was a luxurious master bedroom, guest rooms off the side, looking like something out of an old Architectural Digest.
“Where’s the television, the laptop, the Ipod?” Michael whispered to
Kathy. Her fierce look silenced him.
The house tour’s pièce de résistance was the widow’s walk. At the top of a narrow winding stair, the four of them emerged onto an open breezy terrace overlooking the island. They could see the white church, the motor courts, the beach, and the old pier. It was a glorious spot.
“I have a rare treat in store in the music room,” Jack declared, leading them back down the stairs.
The music room was a hideaway beyond the salon. It had a nautical theme, a Maxfield Parrish-style portrayal of the sirens from the Odyssey, and a painting of a schooner under full sail.
“It’s the Tamoka,” Jack said, as if that was supposed to mean anything to Michael. Jack explained. “The Tamoka was the flagship of Bill McCoy, a famous smuggler from Volstead days.”
“Volstead days? You mean Prohibition.”
Jack nodded.
“So McCoy was a bootlegger?”
“Not a bootlegger,” Jack said, as if personally offended. “Bootleggers poisoned people with cheap gin made in buckets. No, McCoy was a smuggler, running rum from the Indies and scotch from the UK. First rate merchandise. That’s where the phrase, the real McCoy comes from.”
“You seem to know a lot about that period,” Michael said.
“It was . . . well it must have been a glorious time,” Jack said, looking wistfully at the painting of the Tamoka. Michael had to admit that Jack loved his history, and seemed like an expert on the Twenties.
Kathy had wandered over to the piano and began fingering a tune. Vivian sang along to Kathy’s melody. Vivian could obviously sing,
even Michael could tell that, and he sensed that she wanted to perform. “Play something, Kathy,” Vivian said.
Kathy shook her head. “I don’t play,” she said sadly. “But Kathy, you like to sing!” Michael volunteered. “Then I’ll play,” Jack proclaimed, “and Kathy will sing.” “Oh please do,” Vivian said, but she did not look happy.
Jack was already sitting down at the piano and playing the introduction to a song. Just how he played the piano with only one good hand was a mystery to Michael, but Jack managed. After all, he’d prevailed in volleyball one-handed.
Kathy stood where she was, shaking her head. Jack smiled at her, and she came toward that smile. Hesitantly, she approached the piano, nestling into the curve as if she had been born there. Jack played with an easy style, rarely looking at the keys, but instead looking at Vivian and then more often at Kathy. Michael decided Jack was doing what accompanists do. Still Michael couldn’t help but feel ignored. After all, he was in the audience too.
The song was a ballad, a torch song. The lyrics were sad, the singer regretfully realizing that she didn’t have a “ghost of a chance” with the guy
she liked. Michael thought it was an odd phrase, a ghost of a chance, but then he knew as little about poetry as he did about music.
Kathy really put herself into it. Why, if Michael hadn’t known better it seemed like Kathy didn’t think she had a ghost of a chance with Jack. She really lent a realistic mood to the lyrics. And then the song was over, Jack and Vivian applauded, Michael joined in, and Kathy curtsied appreciatively.
“That was transporting,” Vivian said, but her voice had an edge to it. “Splendid,” Jack said proudly.
Michael felt he was expected to say something, so he added, ”Yeah, Honey, you’re pretty good.”
Suddenly, silence.
“Did I say something wrong?” Michael said. “Kathy says I have no ear for music.”
“This calls for something really special,” Jack said. “I know – the finest champagne.” And with that he went to the salon and returned with a magnum bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a tray of glasses.
Michael read the label. “1921!” he exclaimed.
“I’ve been saving it for the perfect occasion,” Jack announced, managing the cork removal with expertise and filling four fluted glasses. “Rumor has it that this very bottle was left over from a famous deck party aboard the Exchange, a schooner used by rum smugglers. It was docked in Nassau harbor, and several smaller boats, like the Bacchus, pulled up and anchored alongside. The Exchange’s deck was lit with silver candelabra while the crew served a repast of Senegalese, poached sea trout, and haricots verts, paired with a chilled Poligny Montrachet. For dessert, fresh lemon tart AND finally – this very champagne.” As far as Michael was concerned, Jack recited the menu like someone who had been at the party. Or was it simply like a man who had not eaten in a long time?
“To us,” Jack said, raising his glass, his voice once again boisterous. Michael raised his glass, but he didn’t care for champagne. Some of
his most persistent headaches had come from drinking champagne. Worse, th
e party conversation turned again to the 1920’s, the history and fashion, two subjects in which Michael had little interest.
Truth be told, he was tired of the whole evening – the stupid paintings, the boat pictures, the history lessons, and the champagne. Most of all, he was tired of the Lefflers.
“Kathy,” he said, “maybe we should call it a night.” “Oh, no,” Jack said. “The night is young!”
“I think Michael is bored with the conversation,” Vivian said. “Michael?” Kathy said.
“Well.”
“If you’re bored,” Kathy said, “why don’t you go home?”
“That’s right, Michael,” Jack said. “We can bring Kathy back to the cottage.”
“No, no,” Michael said, fearing Kathy’s wrath. “No. I guess I just need some fresh air.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Vivian said. “Michael, why don’t you take the
Mercedes for a spin?” “Seriously?” Michael asked. “Absolutely,” Jack replied.
“You’ve been dying to drive that car,” Kathy said. “Come with me!” Michael said.
“No,” Kathy said. “I’m happy right here. You go. Really.”
Well, he did want to drive the car. And apparently Kathy was okay
with his going without her.
“Follow me,” Vivian said.
Vivian led the way, followed by Jack and Kathy. The procession wandered down a hallway filled with more old photos of boats and into the kitchen. A door at the end of the room stood slightly ajar, and as it opened farther Michael saw the attached garage, with the Mercedes shining in the partial light that spilled out from the kitchen. It was a beautiful thing to
behold. As far as Michael was concerned, the paintings and fashions of the
1920’s were of little consequence, but the cars, now that was a different matter. Suddenly, as if by magic, the exterior garage door began slowly to rise – opening like Ali Baba’s cave to the night outside. Michael turned to see Jack, his hand on a wall switch. Kathy was watching the scene with amusement. Vivian stood alongside the Mercedes. She was dangling a set of car keys like Satan offering an apple.
She dropped them into Michael’s outstretched hand.
He lowered himself into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life.
“Don’t worry about Kathy,” Vivian said. “She’ll be well taken care of.”
“Possessed” described Michael’s driving as he raced down the island’s side roads. He fell into a sort of ecstatic trance. The whine of the Mercedes engine up close was like sitting on the back of a giant cat; the Mercedes negotiated the endless sandy curves of the island roadways like a cat, too. As he finally pulled to a stop on a remote island beach his whole body was vibrating from exhilaration. Only then, pausing for a moment on his midnight ride, did Michael realize he was lost. Not only lost but disoriented. He drove down countless lonely roads, took many turnings, trying, without success, to find a familiar landmark.
On one long, straight stretch of highway, a few figures appeared at the side of the road. They waved their hands in signals of distress and he eased the Mercedes to a stop.
It was a teenage girl and two boys hitchhiking.
“Hey, cool man,” said one of the boys, “you’re Mr. Cool to stop –
awesome car.”
“Truth is. I’m lost.” Michael said.
“I’m not,” said the girl, climbing into the front passenger seat next to
Michael.
“You guys will have to walk,” she said. “There’s only room for one.” Michael was somewhat alarmed at the girl’s proximity – and
forwardness.
“Actually, there’s a rumble seat,” he said.
One of the boys fumbled with the trunk latch, and it opened to reveal a seat wide enough for two, and the boys piled in. No sooner were they seated than Michael started down the road.
“Thanks for stopping,” the girl said with a gasp as she settled into the leather seat. “I’m Jamie.” Michael glanced at her for the first time. She was a pretty, petite blonde with an almost cherubic face. Her mouth was small and heart-shaped, and when she grinned like she was grinning at the moment, there was a gap between her front teeth. “I remember you, from the grocery store,” she declared.
The fact that she remembered him both surprised and pleased
Michael.
“Was that your wife with you at the store?” “Kathy? No, we’re not married.”
“She’s gorgeous!”
“Well, I guess I’m an overachiever,” Michael observed.
“Don’t say that,” Jamie said, turning serious. “Don’t sell yourself short.” Then the seriousness disappeared, and she kicked off her tennis shoes and put her legs up on the dashboard. She reached in her bag and got some papers and rolled a joint.
“Got a match?”
He couldn’t hear her clearly. The sound of the motor was too loud;
the boys in the back were yelling and laughing, their words unintelligible.
Jamie reached for the glove compartment. “Don’t open that!” he said.
“Why not?” she said.
“There’s a . . . ” Michael didn’t finish the statement. “There’s a gun in here,” Jamie said, producing the revolver. “Put it away!” Michael yelled.
“All right already,” she said, replacing the gun. “Don’t have a heart
attack. You shouldn’t carry a gun around if it makes you that nervous.” She rummaged through the rest of the compartment. “You know, there’s a bunch of old papers in here,” Jamie said. Michael glanced over. In the second section of the glove compartment, there was a stack of papers, some of them yellowed with age. And sure enough there was a matchbook, and she lit the joint and took a puff. She offered it to Michael and he smoked some as well. Aimlessly, she picked up one of the yellow papers from the glove compartment and looked it over with the light from the dashboard.
“You don’t go through your glove compartment very often do you? There’s a bill in here from 1922.”
Michael slowed the car and looked at the paper. It was a yellowed invoice from a mechanic shop in Boston.
She stuffed it back in the glove compartment with the matches. “By the way, where is your lovely Kathy?”
“At a friend’s house.”
“She should keep a closer eye on you,” Jamie said, and reached out and gently touched his cheek. Then, before he could say anything, she jumped up, half standing in her seat.
“Here’s our place!” Jamie exclaimed gleefully. Sure enough they were back in front of the tourist courts.
“Michael will be so happy,” Kathy said. Once again seated with the Lefflers in the music room. “He’ll feel like he’s died and gone to heaven.” Kathy didn’t notice Vivian’s bemused reaction. In Kathy’s mind, she
had done Michael a huge favor encouraging him to take the Mercedes out on the road. It was her way of making a generous, self-sacrificing act, enough in fact to make her happy herself. In fact, Kathy was feeling more than a little drunk, and for the first time in a long time, more than a little bit free. Perhaps it had to do with the opulent surroundings which made her feel safe, protected. Or perhaps it was the Lefflers who seemed so totally in control of their world.
“It must be liberating to live like this,” she said. “Like what?” Vivian asked.
“With so many beautiful, rare things. Paintings, clothes. I’ve never seen anything as exquisite as the gown you’re wearing.”
Vivian seemed conflicted, but the music had started and there was nothing left to do but perform. Jack’s will was not something she could resist. She grabbed the champagne bottle by the throat as if to choke the life out of it – as if the bottle itself represented all her ambivalence. She turned to Kathy and said “Come on then,” grasping Kathy’s free hand in
hers.
Kathy was at the moment in the middle of a sip of champagne, and barely had the glass to her lips before she was jerked, suddenly and unexpectedly f
rom her chair. The dragging – and pulling – continued through the music room, the salon, and up the stairs. Kathy looked back.
Jack watched from the foot of the stairs as Vivian and Kathy ascended
the stairway.
At the top of the stairs, a pair of double doors opened to one of the vast bedrooms, this one all in white. At its center was an enormous round bed set off like a stage under a directed light, with satin drapes pulled to the sides like stage curtains. The entire room had the feel of an early Hollywood sound stage – a room contrived to look as if it were real – but only a reality as wide as the camera lens. This room was also adorned with nautical images – boats, dolphins, sea shells – many in black and white photographs. Kathy had only a moment to take in these details when Vivian flung open a large closet door and exposed a magnificent vista of clothes – dresses, gowns, suits – a sea of glamour.
“Try them on,” Vivian said seductively. She stood close to Kathy, her
voice almost a whisper.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Kathy protested, her eyes hardly able to tear
themselves from the rainbow of colors and styles.
“You know you want to,” Vivian said assertively. She filled Kathy’s champagne glass, then drank straight from the bottle herself and set it down on a bedside table. “First let’s get rid of this old thing,” Vivian said, unfastening Kathy’s dress. Kathy started to object, but something prevented her, and she stood submissively as Vivian undressed her.
“You are magnificent,” Vivian said in a matter-of-fact but resentful voice. As if to turn her own mind to something else, She returned to the closet and pulled a gold-colored flapper outfit from a hanger. “Perfect,” she said, helping Kathy slip it on, leading her to a mirror where both admired the result. Kathy laughed nervously at first. Oh, the dress was stunning, she had never seen anything like it except in fashion books. The outfit seemed to transport her to another time; she felt like a different person. Impulsively, she chose another dress from the closet and urged it on Vivian. Now, it was Kathy’s turn to be insistent, and the activity turned into an ever escalating game.
