by Ann Beattie
She wasn’t in the mood for a party. She poured a shot of Jack Daniels and drank it while she watched the evening news. She decided to wear her 1940s dress: navy-blue, with bouquets of carnations and ribbons floating across the rayon. She put on her high heels. She brushed her hair and made a knot with part of it at the nape of her neck. Her mouth was still sticky when she put on lipstick. She thought that she smelled like a bourbon factory, but since she had already put on her lipstick, she didn’t want to brush her teeth. She sprayed on perfume. She put on a rhinestone bracelet she had bought at the Ben Franklin. If Mary hadn’t pulled into her drive, she would have had another drink.
Mary was in such a good mood, it was almost contagious. Procol Harum was singing “Whiter Shade of Pale” on the radio. The car, a Datsun 280 ZX, had been part of her divorce settlement. She had also gotten the country house, in Bristol. In the winter she went back to Boston, where she restored paintings at the Museum of Fine Arts and was studying Raku pottery. It was no wonder that men found her more interesting to talk to than Myra. Myra was exactly Mary’s age, but she felt younger. Older, actually. She was just less sophisticated.
There was a man at the entranceway to the house with a walkie-talkie. He gave Mary’s name—he announced Myra “and guest”—and waved them in. A peacock was strolling around the front lawn. The front door was open, and there was a roar of noise inside. Some people were playing croquet on the side lawn. Myra suddenly felt nervous. It wasn’t going to be her kind of party, but now that she was here, she was going to have to go through with it. She stayed with Mary. They found the bar, in back of the staircase, and stood in line. The bartender had on wraparound, black sunglasses. Myra could not tell when she had his attention because he did not seem to be looking anywhere in particular. She stepped aside and let Mary take care of getting them a drink. The drinks were served in plastic cups, and Myra carried hers with exceptional care, so she would have something to concentrate on. She looked outside; there were faerie lights in the evergreens, and they seemed to border a pool. “Let’s go outside,” she said.
It was a pool. A naked man was lying on his stomach, stretched out on a green float with a turtle head at one end. The man’s head was resting on the turtle’s neck. A man came over who thought he knew Mary. They went through several possibilities, but it did not seem that they had met. As they were talking, someone that Mary did know—a man Myra had never met—came over and introduced his little boy. The boy had a peacock feather. “Tickle her with the feather,” the man said, and the boy shyly turned his face to his father’s leg. Myra had never seen so many men in white pants. Myra went back to the house and got another drink for both of them. This time, as she studied the bartender, she realized that he was blind: he knew where the bottles were, obviously; stopped pouring, she guessed, by how heavy the glass was. She wondered how many other people had realized he was blind. She took the spritzers and walked out back again. She didn’t see Mary. As she was standing there holding two glasses, a man came up and said, “One for me?” “I don’t know where my friend is,” she said, feeling foolish. “For me, then,” he said, taking the glass.
“I’ll bet everybody here is dying to know who everybody else is,” he said.
“Who are you?” she said.
“Somebody who’s out of his league,” he said. “There are people in the bushes over there, smoking opium. Who are you?”
“I’m Myra DeVane. I write for the newspaper.”
“Goddamn,” the man said. “Everybody’s a writer.” He took a sip of his drink. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m from California, and everybody there is writing a screenplay. Here, there are novelists and journalists and poets all over the place.”
“Are you on vacation?” she said.
“I’ll tell you the truth,” he said. “I’m crashing this party. A friend of mine told me about it. I was going stir crazy. I’m in limbo, waiting to see if an assignment turns up that will take me to New York. I’m going to give it through the weekend, and then I’m just turning around and going home. Although this is suitable excitement.” He raised his glass to the swimming pool. The man had gotten off of the raft and was swimming around. A woman was in the water with him. The lights had come on at the bottom of the pool, and as they moved through the water, it seemed that their limbs were unusually thin and long. Perhaps they were; if she was right, the woman in the pool was Christie Brinkley. She was holding on to the edge, sweet-talking a dog who had come to sniff.
“You’re not writing about the party, are you?” the man said.
“No,” she said. “I’m sort of crashing, too. I came with a friend.”
She never knew what to say to men. He seemed pleasant enough, and fairly attractive; she wanted him to stay and talk to her so she wouldn’t be standing alone.
“What assignment would you be doing in New York?” she said.
“Photographing an elevator,” he said. “Pardon me?” she said, leaning closer. The dog was in the pool, swimming, and the woman was laughing.
“Photographing an elevator,” he said. “Somebody put a million dollars into designing Art Deco elevators. I don’t know New York very well—I can’t remember what building they’re in. The owner is getting cold feet about letting them print the name, because he thinks people will think he’s a rich pig and blow the thing up.”
He finished his drink. “Would you like me to make a run this time?” he said.
“Sure,” she said. “Thank you.”
Christie Brinkley and the man were playing keep away, tossing a yellow ball back and forth, while the dog swam wildly and snapped at the air. One man tiptoed up behind another and pushed him toward the pool. He didn’t push hard enough to throw him in, but the man’s drink spilled on his white pants. Mary came up, with a Japanese man. “Mr. Yamamoto,” she said, “this is my friend Myra. Mr. Yamamoto, if you can believe it, is quite an expert on Japanese pottery. We met by the bar over there …”
When Myra’s new friend came back with drinks, Mary and Mr. Yamamoto drifted away, into another circle of people who exclaimed with delight when they saw him.
“The tennis courts are lit,” the man said. “Do you by any chance want to play a game of tennis?”
She was feeling a little high. “Why not?” she said.
They maneuvered past the large group of people gathering around Mr. Yamamoto and walked down a flagstone walkway, which ended where the grass started to get high. There was a tennis court below, but two people were already playing.
“Doubles,” he said. “Come on.”
By the time they got there the people were having such an energetic game that neither of them wanted to interrupt. They sat and watched until the mosquitoes started to bother her.
“There were none around the pool,” he said. “Let’s go back.”
She could feel the bites stinging her neck. She held her cup against them. She wondered if the man felt stuck with her, but the next second, she didn’t much care if he did. She realized that they had never told each other their names. She introduced herself.
“Edward Bartlett,” he said.
“What part of California?” she said.
“L.A.”
A crowd had gathered around Mr. Yamamoto, who was standing on his head. Several of them applauded. The wet dog was standing just outside the circle of people, peering in. A man in a ten-gallon hat, jeans, and a sleeveless denim jacket turned away, smiling, and her eye met his. It took her a second to realize that it was Hildon. The woman who was with him turned. Myra was looking at Lucy Spenser. Lucy had on a white miniskirt, a pink T-shirt, and an unzipped camouflage jacket. She had a mane of light-brown hair. She looked very much like her picture. Edward was waving. “There’s my pals,” he said.
“Who?” Myra said.
“Lucy and Hildon,” he said. “Actually—do you and Lucy know each other?”
“Not really,” Myra said. “We’ve talked on the phone.”
“She sure has
been nice to me,” Edward said, still holding his hand up in greeting as they walked toward them. Myra wondered why Hildon had on … what else could she call it but a costume?
“Lucy,” Hildon said, “this is Myra DeVane.”
“I didn’t realize you knew each other,” Edward said to Hildon.
“Myra’s writing a story about Country Daze,” Hildon said.
“How are you?” Lucy said, extending her hand. Cool. Pleasant. Myra was never prepared for it, when a woman held out her hand. She shook her hand.
“Are you the hostess’ friend, or the host’s, or both?” Hildon said. His hand hovered behind Lucy’s back. Lucy had kept the smile on her face too long; Myra understood that Lucy was not particularly interested in meeting her. If Lucy thought she was spying, that was outrageous. Just outrageous.
“The host’s,” Myra said.
“You know our host?” Edward said. She remembered that she had told him she was crashing. No way out of it now. “Yes,” she said, hoping that the host—whichever one he was—didn’t materialize. Someone jumped up, grabbed his knees, and cannonballed into the pool. It was getting dark.
“Well, it’s good he’s your friend, because that way you can say hello. I understand that our hostess left.”
“She did?” Hildon said.
“She took the dog and left,” Edward said. “Our host—your friend—was apparently unprepared.”
“Unprepared for what?” Myra said.
“Her leaving,” Edward said. He shrugged. “I was talking to the bartender yesterday, and he told me.”
“You’ve been here since yesterday?” Myra said.
“No. I just came both days.” He looked at Lucy. “Thanks for the hot tip,” he said.
“Any time,” Lucy said. She smiled again, and turned to leave.
Myra didn’t like the way Lucy was acting. Or rather, that she let it show that she was acting: that she was being perfectly polite, temporarily. And she didn’t care if Myra lived or died.
“I love her column,” Edward said. “Don’t you love that column?”
“Yes,” Myra said. “Have you been friends a long time?”
“Just since I came here on assignment. They sent me to do sketches and take photographs of Nicole Nelson.”
“Nicole Nelson?” she said. “What’s the connection?”
“She’s her niece.”
“Her niece?” Both aunt and niece were involved in the broken hearts biz?
“I’ll tell you something really off the record,” he said. “Nicole’s been sneaking into town to see a guy who’s a dishwasher at the inn. Can you imagine? He told her his room is plastered with Stephanie Sykes pictures. That must be the strangest feeling for her.” He shook his head. “You can’t print that,” he said. “Swear you won’t.”
“I wouldn’t,” she said. She liked it that he trusted her. He was nervous (and anybody who trusted a reporter was foolish, categorically), but he trusted her, and he was right to. It was obviously more than Lucy Spenser did.
“Hey, listen,” he said. “Assuming I don’t have to go to New York tomorrow, would you like to have dinner?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Give me your phone number,” he said, taking out his wallet and looking for a piece of paper. He found a cash register receipt. He gave her his pen. She wrote her name and number on the piece of paper, remembering as she wrote that you don’t write your name: you just assume that the man doesn’t have a collection of names and numbers. Of course, since he actually does, yours is always the one that stands out.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “There are public courts, apparently. Maybe we can play.”
“Great,” she said.
He held up his hand in parting, even though he was standing two feet away. He was quirky enough to charm her. She smiled goodbye. As he walked away, she started to feel as awkward as she always did when she was alone at a party. She looked for the outside bar, found it, and got another drink. Straight wine this time. No one talked to her, so she sipped it and walked around. She saw the man and the little boy again, and wondered how it could be that the dog hadn’t killed the peacock. Then again, there was such a crowd that perhaps the dog had just not encountered the peacock. What a coincidence, really, that out of this large crowd, Edward had talked to her, and that it was Lucy Spenser who had told him about the party. She walked around, looking for Mary. She went inside, finally, and looked in the living room. When she came out, Lucy Spenser was sitting alone, on the stairs.
“Lose Hildon?” Myra said.
“He’s outside,” Lucy said. “I’m just taking a breather.”
“It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” Myra said. “Have you been here before?”
“No,” Lucy said.
Stony politeness. What did Lucy think she was going to write? She wasn’t trying to create a scandal out of nothing—she was just doing her job. It wasn’t as if anything she had said or done had indicated that she was a piranha.
“It must be nice to have a friend like Hildon,” Myra said. “Someone you’ve been close to that many years, and now you even work together.”
“How do you mean?” Lucy said.
How did she mean? She meant, in English, that Lucy was lucky to have a close friend, and to have the further advantage of working with that friend. It was also nice that he was her lover, but Myra had not meant that; she had meant what she said.
“I meant what I said,” Myra said. “I don’t have the slightest interest in what you do with your private life. I’m not nosing around for information. It’s just a coincidence that we were invited to the same party.”
She saw why reporters turned mean; if everyone was that on-guard, that hostile, it was bound to anger the reporter and make her lash out, to get even. All right, she envied her. But she never intended to do a hatchet job. She hadn’t said anything shitty to Lucy. She didn’t deserve this. Not knowing where she was going, but wanting to get away, she started up the stairs. Much to her surprise, Lucy stood when she passed her. She was following her up the stairs. Myra stopped.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said. “I apologize. I know I was too on-guard. It’s one of my problems. It’s my problem. I’m sorry.”
“I honestly don’t have any interest in the fact that he’s your lover,” Myra said.
“Who?” Lucy said.
“Hildon,” Myra said, pointing off into space.
“Hildon and I aren’t lovers,” Lucy said.
“Lucy—I know you are.”
Lucy was looking at her. Her hand was on the zipper to her jacket. She was as still as a statue in a wax museum. She was just looking at her.
“Les says he is,” Myra said.
Lucy’s eyes widened. She dropped her hand to her side. “You know Les?” she said.
Myra had gone too far. She didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t know what your opinion of Les is, but mine isn’t very high,” Lucy said. She turned and began to walk down the stairs.
“He’s sorry,” Myra heard herself saying.
Lucy turned again and looked up at her.
“Listen,” Myra said, “I don’t even know him. I’ve been trying to call you. I was in the mail room. Hildon told me to go ahead and go through the mail. He wrote you. The letter is there.”
“What are you talking about?” she said.
“Hildon wanted me to see the mail. There was a letter to you in the pile. It was from Les.”
“What did the letter say?” Lucy said.
“It was about your affair with Hildon. He said he wanted to see you again.”
“Les Whitehall wrote to inform me that I was having an affair with Hildon?” Lucy said.
“He just mentioned it. He was talking about seeing you again.”
“Where is he?” Lucy said.
Myra shrugged. “I don’t know him,” she said.
“There wasn’t a postmark?”
“I didn’t notice the postmark. Lucy: I do
n’t care. I just wanted you to know.”
Lucy sat on the stairs. “Les doesn’t care either,” she said. “It’s just completely out of character for him to do anything instinctively. I couldn’t be more surprised.”
12
POLICE Sergeant Brown was always unhappy. His partner, Sergeant Pasani, was equally unhappy, but for a different reason. He was unhappy because Brown was unhappy, and there was no reasoning with him. Many things made Brown unhappy. Pasani had told him for years that he was his own worst enemy. You just can’t go around thinking that McDonald’s food is going to be steaming hot. It’s like expecting the hamburger to be served on a French roll. It isn’t going to happen. The bun is going to be mush, and the food is going to be tepid. It’s just going to be what it is, and having a debate with the cheery high-school girl at the drive-in window, even if you’re a cop, and as big as a barrel, is going to do you no good. Day after day, Brown decided they should have lunch at the drive-thru McDonald’s, and day after day, Brown could hardly chew for finding fault with the food. Brown also hated the car they drove around in. In particular, he hated the suspension system. “You want to be suspended, go home and get in a hammock,” Pasani said to him. Brown didn’t like Reagan or Mondale, and you couldn’t even say Jesse Jackson’s name in his presence. He liked one of his three children and so far the fourth had a fighting chance; his wife might be pregnant with a girl, and the one child Brown liked was his girl. He had mixed feelings about his wife. He had recently learned the word ambivalent. Every day, he mentioned to Pasani his ambivalent feelings about Essie. Pasani wasn’t married—he had been married for less than a year, long ago; his wife had run off with the house painter—and Brown had created quite a fantasy life about Pasani, and all the women he had, and what a good time he had, and how few responsibilities he had. Pasani usually took the bait and spent long periods, every day, trying to dispel Brown’s illusions, but it did no good. These fantasies were a necessary part of Brown’s existence. It depressed him to have to tell Brown how unadventurous and how unmeaningful his life was, so unless Brown was really out of control, he rarely even broke into Brown’s monologues anymore. He automatically pulled back the bun on top of his cheeseburger and gave Brown his pickle. This kept Brown’s raving about the need for “some taste, some flavor” down to a minimum. After two years of riding in the car with Brown, he was at least used to him. He was able to guess pretty well when he should speak and when he shouldn’t, and just because he was tired of hitting his head up against a wall, he had learned to be quick to make concessions. Brown was even in his dreams; the night before, he dreamed that Brown drove them over a cliff. He often dreamed that Brown shot him. In the dreams, they were always at McDonald’s. Then Pasani realized that the drive-thru line ended on a steep precipice. Brown became so angry that he gunned the car, and they fell what seemed like a million miles before Pasani woke up, clutching the sheets. In the dream in which he was shot, they were again in the line, approaching the window, but when they got there Brown wasn’t handed the food, but a gun. He simply grinned and turned and shot Pasani.
