People Like Us

by Dominick Dunne

  “Hmm,” answered Beatriz.

  “Must have a wife and kids, a young man that age,” said Gus.

  “Two daughters,” said Beatriz Love.

  “Whatever could he have done?” Gus asked, in a rhetorical fashion, as if he didn’t expect an answer. Gus had a way, even with lawyers, of having people tell him more than they planned, so he was not surprised when she added, “Something about an account in a Swiss bank in the Bahamas.”

  “Ah, the plot thickens,” said Gus.

  “Look for a very big head to roll,” she said in a low voice, looking out the door of her glass cubicle to make sure that no one was watching.

  “Here at Weldon and Stinchfield?” Gus asked.

  “Oh, goodness no, not here.”

  Gus stared at her, knowing that more was to come. She mouthed but did not speak the two words, “Elias Renthal.” If he had not been so stunned by the name she mouthed, he would have asked Beatriz Love if she knew Lil Altemus.

  After he had said good-bye to her and thanked her for her help on the Jorgie Sanchez-Julia story, Gus, leaving, asked, “Does Elias Renthal know?” But Beatriz Love merely shrugged her shoulders. She had told him quite enough, far more than she intended, and she started putting Geraldine Sanchez-Julia’s will back in the file folder.

  “He’s giving a ball this evening,” said Gus.

  “Oh, yes, I’ve read about the Renthals’ ball in Dolly De Longpre’s column,” said Beatriz. “Didn’t the Duchess of Richmond give a ball on the night before the Battle of Waterloo?”

  All the way uptown in the subway Gus wondered if he should tell Ruby Renthal what he had heard. He felt very close to Ruby since the first night they met at Maisie Verdurin’s party when she told him about her violent experience with Lefty Flint.

  Late in the day he telephoned her.

  “Oh, my God, Mr. Bailey. You’re not backing out of dinner, are you?” asked the social secretary who answered the telephone. There was a note of hysteria in her voice. “Mr. and Mrs. Slatkin just backed out, and Mrs. Renthal is going to have a fit when she returns. It throws off the whole placement, and it’s next to impossible to get anyone at this time of the day to fill in.”

  “Mrs. Renthal is not there?” asked Gus, surprised.

  “No, the Renthals are attending a wake in Queens,” said the secretary, in an exasperated voice that plainly said that she didn’t understand what people like the Renthals were doing attending a wake in Queens, of all places, in the late afternoon of the evening of their ball when there were tables to be seated, decisions to be made, and a temperamental Mickie Minardos to be dealt with, not to mention Bobo, the hairdresser.

  “Do you know what time they’ll be back?” he asked.

  “You’re not backing out, are you?” she asked again, as if she could not deal with one more problem.

  “No, no, I’m not backing out.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Would you have Mrs. Renthal call me when she returns? There’s something rather important I must talk to her about,” said Gus.

  “Oh, Mr. Bailey, I really don’t think it will be possible for her to call you when she returns. The calligrapher is going to have to do the new place cards when Mrs. Renthal finds someone to replace the Slatkins, and Mr. Minardos has a million problems for her to deal with, and, oh dear, Bobo, her hairdresser Bobo, is out of his mind with anxiety that she’s not here, because he has to go from here to the Rhinelander to do the First Lady’s hair. Oh, my God, I wasn’t supposed to mention the First Lady. Forget I said that, will you, Mr. Bailey, so you see, it won’t be possible for her to call you, but perhaps you can pull her aside during the evening and tell her whatever it is. Is that all right?”

  “Sure,” said Gus.

  “I loved your article on the dictator’s wife.”

  “Thanks.”

  When Ruby returned home at seven, she called Justine right away and said, “You can’t. You can’t do this to me, Justine. I’ll never be able to replace you at this hour.” Poor Justine, who wanted to go more than anything in the world, begged Ruby’s forgiveness but said there was nothing she could do, absolutely nothing, and was, when Bernie arrived home, still smarting from the ice-cold freeze in Ruby’s tone of voice when Ruby said good-bye to her. She thought of calling back and suggesting Nestor and Edwina Calder as replacements, but then remembered that they were going to Maisie Verdurin’s dinner before the ball. Then she thought of the Trouts, everyone’s favorite poor couple, the Trouts, who could always be counted upon to change their own plans and substitute when there was a placement emergency, like the one she had just created. But then Bernie arrived home, and it was not a problem that she felt she could inflict on Bernie, who never had understood the importance of things like that, which was one of the things she most loved about him.

  For a while the inevitable conversation they were both dreading, for different reasons, was postponed as they decided at what restaurant they would have dinner. Bonita, their cook, was off, because Justine had thought they would be dining at the Renthals’, but the cook was off most nights, as Bernie and Justine had never, in the ten months of their marriage, dined at home unless they were having guests. Justine hated Joe and Rose’s, which was Bernie’s kind of restaurant. Too meat-and-potatoes for her. And Bernie hated Harry’s, which was Justine’s kind of restaurant. Too “Hi, darling,” for him. In the end Justine suggested Clarence’s, even though she had had lunch at Clarence’s. It was easy, she said. Nearby. And, of course, there was never a problem of getting a table, even if the place was packed, because Justine was a particular favorite of Chick Jacoby’s, and room was always made for Justine Altemus, which Chick persisted in calling her, even after she became Justine Slatkin, with or without a reservation. Besides, she said, Clarence’s would probably be empty tonight, because everyone, absolutely everyone, was going to be at the Renthals’ ball in their new apartment.

  For a long time, during the salad and the chicken paillard, Bernie talked about Reza Bulbenkian, an Iranian American who had made a fortune in oil tankers in the Persian Gulf, and had moved to New York after the death of the Shah, where he had increased his fortune by buying up small companies who were likely targets for takeovers, in much the same manner that Elias Renthal was doing. Justine realized that the conversation about Reza Bulbenkian, whom Bernie had interviewed on television earlier that evening, was a way of avoiding the conversation about whatever it was that was so damn important they had to miss the Renthals’ ball, but each of them clung to it desperately, as if what Bernie was saying really mattered.

  “I’ve seen him. He has an enormously fat wife,” said Justine, feigning interest in the conversation, while she kept staring at Yvonne Lupescu and Constantine de Rham, who were dining together in silence farther back in the restaurant. Justine wanted to tell Bernie to turn around and look at the outfit Yvonne was wearing: a red turban, red blouse, and red knickers with red bows tied at her knees, but there was something about Bernie tonight that made her think it was wiser to listen to him talk about Reza Bulbenkian, in whom she had no interest whatsoever.

  Once, when she thought the moment had come for the topic at hand, which she still assumed to be his transfer to Los Angeles to become sole anchorperson of his own news program, she delayed the conversation by describing to him the latest news on the wonders of the Renthals’ ball, descriptions of the dresses that her friends would be wearing, and an account, as reported by Bobo, of the terrible fights that had occurred between Mickie Minardos and Lorenza, hoping that he might say, still, this late, “Oh, hell, let’s go,” but he didn’t.

  “I’m surprised to see the Slatkins here,” said Yvonne Lupescu to Constantine de Rham. “Certainly they were invited.”

  Constantine, who had still not told Yvonne that he had been invited but she hadn’t, postponed telling her, fearing her rage. Although he knew that she would never shoot him again, he feared that she would make a spectacle of herself, in her rejection, and do something untoward
, like crashing the party, as she had crashed Justine’s wedding. True to his word, Elias Renthal had left an invitation for Constantine with his secretary for Constantine to pick up. It was only for the ball. It had not been arranged for him to attend any of the ten big dinner parties that were being given before the ball, the two major ones being the Renthals’ own dinner for forty in their dining room for the Earl and Countess of Castoria, their guests of honor, and Maisie Verdurin’s dinner for sixty.

  At home, his evening shirt was ready to be slipped into, the diamond-and-ruby studs and cuff links that Consuelo had given him for a wedding present in their proper holes. His white tie was even already tied and had only to be clipped on. His black silk stockings were in his black patent-leather evening pumps. Everything was in readiness. Only his fear of telling Yvonne that he was going off without her had to be dealt with.

  “You’ve trimmed your beard, Constantine,” said Yvonne, suddenly.

  “Yes, yes, I have,” answered Constantine.

  “Have you had a manicure, too?”

  “Yes, at the same time.”

  “Anyone would think you’re going to the Renthals’ ball.”

  “So likely,” replied Constantine, nervously.

  “I can’t stand another evening of sitting home and watching television,” said Yvonne, sulkily. Several times she had tried to get Justine’s eye to wave at her, but Justine had not responded to her smiles.

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Constantine.

  “What about a movie?”

  “Which?”

  “I don’t know which.”

  “Perhaps Chick Jacoby will have a newspaper,” said Constantine, an idea beginning to form in his mind.

  “Chick Jacoby is not here tonight,” answered Yvonne, bitterly. “Chick Jacoby is at Maisie Verdurin’s dinner before the Renthals’ ball, at Maisie’s table even, seated between Mrs. Frazier and Mrs. French.”

  “How in the world do you know all that?” asked Constantine.

  “Maids,” said Yvonne, wearily.

  “There is a film on Fifty-eighth Street that I wouldn’t mind seeing,” said Constantine.

  “Which?” asked Yvonne.

  “I don’t remember the name, but it’s supposed to be terribly good.” At last, he had figured out his plan.

  During the grapefruit sorbet, Bernie told Justine that he wanted a divorce.

  Justine, stunned, simply stared at her husband. She sat at the table for several minutes without saying a word and didn’t even hear Michael, the waiter with the little ponytail whom she liked and regularly chatted with, when he asked her if she wanted regular coffee or decaffeinated. Instead, she stood up and walked through the restaurant, past the table where Constantine de Rham was paying his bill, to the ladies’ room, where she threw up, rinsed out her mouth, reapplied her lipstick, removed and flushed down the toilet the seven rubrum lilies that Bobo had taken so long to set in her hair.

  When she sat down again at her table, she said, quietly, “I haven’t even written my thank-you notes yet.”

  “What thank-you notes?” asked Bernie.

  “For the wedding presents.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is it Brenda Primrose?” asked Justine.

  “Brenda Primrose?” replied Bernie, in a voice that stated the utter absurdity of the idea.

  “Hubie told me he saw you dining with Brenda Primrose at an obscure restaurant in the Village.”

  “In the first place, Justine, how in the world would Hubie Altemus even know who Brenda Primrose was?”

  “He didn’t, by name. He recognized her from the wedding. He said she was beautiful with horn-rimmed spectacles. It was I who put the name to her. I told him she wrote your copy.”

  “She does not write my copy,” said Bernie, annoyed. “I write my own copy. She does my research.”

  “Split hairs at this point. Is it Brenda Primrose?”

  “It is not Brenda Primrose.”

  The waiter brought their decaffeinated coffee.

  “Michael,” said Justine, who had been raised to observe public appearance before all else. “Could you bring me some Sweet ‘n Low?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Slatkin,” said Michael, taking a slightly moist packet from his shirt pocket.

  “I never understand why Chick Jacoby is so stingy with the Sweet ’n Low,” said Justine. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Justine, your tears are falling in your grapefruit sorbet,” said Bernie, glancing around to see if they were being observed.

  Justine looked out the window of the restaurant until she was pulled together.

  “It pains me if I have hurt you, Justine,” said Bernie.

  “Is your decision to leave me irrevocable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s not prolong this conversation.”

  “This is the movie that you wanted to see?” asked Yvonne. “I thought you despised this kind of movie.”

  “It’s meant to be awfully good, I hear,” replied Constantine.

  “I love horror movies myself,” said Yvonne.

  “Would you like popcorn?” asked Constantine.

  “A big box,” said Yvonne.

  When he returned to their seats with the box of popcorn, Yvonne was already immersed in the film and only nodded her thank you when he handed her the box.

  “I’m going to go to the men’s room,” he whispered to her, after looking at the film for ten minutes.

  She merely nodded again, her eyes glued to the screen.

  The theater was only a five-minute walk from his house on Sutton Place. He raced there, as fast as he could race, recovering as he was from the bullet wound in his stomach. It took him only minutes to change from his blazer and slacks to his tail coat and trousers. He buttoned his ruby-and-diamond studs and cuff links, snapped on his white tie, combed through his beard, eyed himself admiringly in the mirror, and left his house. He wanted to be gone from there in the event that Yvonne missed him in the theater and returned to the house herself to look for him. He had at least an hour and a half still before the ball started, and the problem now was where to wait until the dinner parties that preceded the ball were over.

  “I’m just not happy, Justine,” said Bernie. They were sitting now in the living room of their apartment, one of the few times since their marriage began that they had been home, just the two of them. He talked about political aspirations that he had, saying, truthfully or not, that his alliance with a family as rich and powerful as the Van Degans would be inconsistent with his own liberal views and that now, before children, the marriage should be terminated. Home, away from public view, Justine sat on the arm of a sofa, her mouth hanging open, in a near catatonic state. How, she wondered, had she not suspected that she was losing her husband.

  “I love you, Bernie,” she said, finally, as the tears started to pour out of her wounded eyes. “I love you with all my heart and soul and mind and body. Please don’t leave me, Bernie. Please.”

  “Don’t cry, Justine,” said Bernie, when he saw the tears welling up in her eyes. “Please don’t cry.”

  Bernie felt helpless with tears. Anger he could have dealt with, but not tears. Many women had screamed at him and called him terrible names when he broke off relations with them, and it was like water on his back. For the sobbing woman in front of him, who was his wife, whose heart he was breaking, he felt compassion. He put his arms around her, patting her more than embracing her, a signal of the ebbing of love that she did not understand.

  “I love you so much,” she said over and over, putting her tear-stained face next to his, as if her declarations could revive his lost ardor.

  “I wish I knew the right words to comfort you,” he said. While he was talking, she stared down at his hands. What beautiful hands he has, she thought. She could remember when those strong hands had fondled her breasts and between her legs, with the gentleness of a feather. She longed to touch the hairs on the back of his wrist. Her desire for him was so great s
he felt as if she were going to swoon.

  “Are you all right, Justine?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “You look ill.”

  “Fuck me, Bernie,” she whispered.

  “Justine,” he said, amazed.

  “Please, Bernie. Please. Just one more time. Please.”

  “Justine, it’s not going to do any good. It’s over.”

  “I know, Bernie. Please. Don’t leave me in this state. Just once. Please.”

  She began kissing the backs of his hands. She put her own hands on his chest and started rubbing his nipples through his shirt. She brought her hands down to his trousers. She wanted to rip them open and get to the part of him that she had dreamed about for the weeks that he had been indifferent to her.

  “Justine, for God’s sake. Don’t do this to yourself.”

  She slid to the floor and threw her arms around his legs, pushing her face into the fly of his trousers. She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. He could not bear to see her in such a state and felt pity for her. Slowly, he reached down and lifted her up by placing his hands under her arms and carried her to the sofa.

  He raised her dress up to her waist and slowly pulled her pantyhose down her legs to her shoes. When he placed his hand between her legs, she was wet with desire for him. He took off the jacket of his dark suit, unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly, and let his trousers drop to the floor. As Justine stared at his legs, he kicked off his trousers and pulled down his undershorts, but he did not remove his shirt or tie, shoes or socks. Standing over her, he allowed her to bring his penis to erection with her hands and mouth, but he did not touch her breasts or kiss her lips. When he was ready, he lifted her legs and entered her, without speaking a word. He pushed in to the limit of himself and then he partially withdrew, and then he pushed himself in again, and again, and again, with long and even strokes. He did not rush her. Sex was a thing he understood, and he withheld his own climax until she had achieved hers, with gasps and muffled screams. When his climax followed, he did not pretend to not enjoy the feeling it brought, and Justine watched his face, his closed eyes, his slack mouth, as he quietly moaned and flooded her insides with the seed of a child. Finished, he did not immediately withdraw from her, but remained inside her as she ran her fingers over his buttocks and down between his legs.