Fast Start, Fast Finish

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  He stopped still and in a mock gesture clapped his hand to his forehead. He closed his eyes. “Word for word,” he said. “She wants a two-hour conversation reported word for word.” He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I’m really still kind of in a daze from it all.”

  She kissed him quickly again. “Oh, darling, I’m so thrilled! You can’t believe how thrilled I am, how relieved—”

  “Relieved? Why are you relieved? Don’t tell me you thought she was going to throw me out or something.”

  “Oh, no, but I did run across that letter of hers the other day, unpacking, and I thought—oh, dear, she is a little vague! I mean that letter could have been interpreted as being a little vague. I’m just so glad to know it wasn’t, that she meant everything she said.”

  “Now fix us a little drink,” he said.

  “All right,” she said. “But let’s make it just a quick one, okay? I have kind of a festive dinner planned for all of us—to celebrate.”

  She went into the kitchen, and over the clatter of ice trays being cracked open and cubes dropped into glasses he heard her say, “I’m going to offer my beautiful body to people like Canaday and Stuart Preston in return for some rave reviews.”

  From the living room he called to her, “And how was your day?”

  “Oh,” she said, “let’s see—oh, Mother called.”

  “What’s on her mind?”

  “You know Mother,” she said. “She was worried because I hadn’t written. And upset because we didn’t stop in—Oh, God damn it!”

  “You all right?” he called to her.

  From the kitchen she laughed shrilly. “I’m spilling everything!” she said. “I’m so excited. Oh, and Edgar Willey called. I told him you’d call him back this evening.”

  “Probably wants me to join his liquor pool or something,” Charlie said. “Or sell me a pair of electric garage doors. Or—”

  She appeared in the kitchen door carrying a drink in each hand, and as she came toward him into the light he saw that tears were standing in her eyes. Her hands shook, and as she walked, more bright tears spilled down across her fingers from the filled and trembling glasses that she carried.

  “Hey,” he said gently, “what’s this?”

  “I’m so proud of you!” she said.

  A festive dinner, of course, was bound to lose some of its festivity when it had to be eaten in the kitchen. Nancy apologized for that. But the dining room was still waiting for its final coat of paint, and in view of that Nancy had certainly made the best of things. She had set the kitchen table with her best silver and linen, had placed a bowl of tulips in the center, and had set silver candlesticks with lighted candles on the kitchen countertops. Then, at dessert, she produced from the refrigerator a bottle of Mumm’s champagne. Looking around the little table at his children’s faces in the candlelight, Charlie was struck all over again with how much they looked like Nancy. With a little pang he thought, I might have had nothing to do with any of them at all. Except Harold, perhaps. Harold reminded him a lot of himself. But Maggie and Carla were like two sides of Nancy’s character. Maggie, the middle child and darker than Carla, was like the dark side of Nancy—the brooding, thoughtful side, the side of Nancy that withdrew into long silences from time to time, the moody side. And Maggie tonight seemed even more quiet and remote than usual, sitting there toying with her food, her thoughts a million miles away and deep in some adolescent problem. But Carla, the youngest, was Nancy’s bright side. Every family had, he supposed, one totally uncluttered child, and theirs was Carla. Carla was like a perfectly balanced canvas. Just looking at Carla’s cheerful and animated face could always make him feel better. And tonight, though Maggie was silent, both Harold and Carla were full of happy chatter. “Dad, is it true you’re going to paint Tessa Morgan’s portrait?” Carla asked. “Did you really meet her, Dad? What’s she like?”

  “Now where in the world did you get that information, Carla?” he asked her. “Harold, will you do the honors and pour the wine?”

  “If I can have a glass myself, Dad,” Harold said.

  “You all have glasses,” Nancy said. “You can all have a little—just half a glass.”

  “Mom said so,” Carla said. “She told us you were going to paint Tessa Morgan’s portrait.”

  Charlie looked at Nancy, who was busy spooning strawberries into glass bowls. “I said might,” Nancy said. “Might paint her portrait. There’s a difference, Carla.” She looked up at Charlie. “I forgot—Genny McCarthy told me,” she said.

  “News certainly travels fast around here,” Charlie said dryly. “Especially non-news, like this particular item.”

  “We mustn’t count our chickens before they’re hatched,” Nancy said. “Harold, please don’t tip back in your chair like that.”

  “Sorry.” The cork blew off the bottle in Harold’s hands. “Hey!” he shouted, grabbing glasses and filling them with froth. “Hey, here’s to you, Dad—you’re going to be rich and famous!”

  “Don’t yell so, Harold!” Nancy laughed.

  “Thank you, Harold,” Charlie said. “Thank you very much.”

  “I have some news for you too, Dad,” Carla said.

  “Now, let’s not all talk at once,” Nancy said. “A little semblance of civilization, please.”

  “I’ve got something to ask you too, Dad,” Harold said. “You see—”

  “Harold, please, this is Daddy’s night,” Nancy said. “He’s just got everything set for his gallery show, and we’re only going to talk about—”

  “But if he’s going to be rich and famous, isn’t this a good time for me to ask my question?” Harold asked.

  Nancy said, “Darling, did I tell you Edgar Willey called?”

  “Yes, you did—”

  “Dad—” Carla began again.

  “Okay,” Charlie said. “Now, one at a time. Who’s first? Carla, I think you—”

  “No, you go first, Harold,” Carla said.

  Harold let out a long, low whistle and then took a noisy swallow of champagne. “Well!” he gasped. “The world is coming to an end! She’s letting me go first. Are you sick or something, Carl?”

  “No,” Charlie said. “Carla spoke up first. Go ahead, Carla. And while she’s at it, Harold, you can give me a little more champagne.”

  “You really belt it down, don’t you, Dad!”

  “That first glass you gave me was nothing but foam.”

  There was a moment’s silence and then, lowering her eyes to the strawberries and flushing slightly, Carla said, “Well, you see, Dad, there’s this newspaper at high school they call the Chatterbox, and—”

  “It’s their dumb freshman rag,” Harold said.

  “It’s not dumb!” Carla said hotly. Then, turning to Charlie she said, “Anyway, I guess you’d call it kind of a goopy newspaper, but anyway it’s called the Chatterbox, and I’ve been working on it.”

  “Well, I think that’s wonderful, honey,” Charlie said. “Goopy or not, I think it’s wonderful. Good for you.”

  “Anyway,” she went on, “they have this kind of goopy column in it—a girl named Rita Melnick writes it, she’s the smartest girl in school, and—anyway, it’s a column called ‘Let’s Know Our Parents.’”

  “Well,” Charlie said, “I think that’s an admirable notion. Let’s know our parents indeed. I fully agree.”

  “Oh, I know it just sounds grimly goopy, Dad,” Carla said quickly, “but it’s really a good column, well written, I mean, and—well, anyway, some of the stories are very good. All about different kids’ parents—what they do and all? You know what I mean? And anyway, some of the kids, including this Rita Melnick, want to know if they can interview you, Dad, and make one of the columns about you.”

  “I’m only one parent,” Charlie said. “Don’t they want to interview your mother too?”

  “It’s usually just fathers—what they do. Unless the mother does something, but in this town the mothers don’t do anything. I don’t
mean it that way, Mom. You know what I mean. Anyway, with your career, Dad, what they want to do is write a column about you.”

  “How did they hear about me? We’ve only just moved here, Carla.”

  “Oh, you know how people hear things,” Carla said. “Why, I guess you’re pretty famous here already, Dad. No kidding, you are.”

  “Well, that’s very nice,” he said.

  “Then will you do it, Dad?” she said eagerly. “Will you let them come and interview you?”

  “Tell them I’d be delighted.”

  “Oh, gee, thanks, Dad,” she said. “Really, thanks. They wanted me to ask you, but I was sure you’d say no. I told them I was sure you wouldn’t want all the publicity, but they just begged me to ask you.”

  “I always cooperate with the ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Charlie said.

  “But gee, Dad,” Harold said, mimicking Carla’s serious tone, “with all the publicity you’ll be getting from an interview in the Chatterbox, you won’t be able to call your life your own anymore! Think what might happen! Screaming fans outside the house all the time! Begging for autographs! Mobbing you when you try to get into your car! Tearing at your suits for a little shred of—”

  “That’s enough, Harold,” Charlie said. “Carla, tell them I’ll be very pleased and flattered.” Then he turned to Harold again. “Now,” he said, “tell me what’s on your mind, Harold.”

  But it was Harold’s turn to be sulky. “Skip it, Dad,” he said, “it’s not important.”

  Nancy said gently, “Harold, dear, this was supposed to be a festive evening.” Then she said to Charlie, “Harold just wanted to know if he could have a little advance on his allowance.”

  “Harold,” Charlie said, “pour your mother and me a little more champagne. I thought we just gave you a little advance the other day. What’s this one for?”

  “Just skip it, Dad.”

  “It’s for the senior dance,” Nancy explained. “It’s a week from Friday, and there’s a girl Harold wants to take. The tickets are fifteen dollars a couple.”

  “Senior-dance tickets have certainly gone up since my day,” Charlie said.

  Under his breath Harold said, “The whole American standard of living has gone up since your day, Dad.”

  “Please, Harold,” Nancy said.

  “He doesn’t care if I go or not. Can’t you see that, Mom?”

  “I do care,” Charlie said. “Or at least I might care, if I knew exactly what it was you wanted—”

  “Well, there are the tickets,” Nancy interrupted, “and he’ll just have to rent a tuxedo and shoes. He can’t get into the old one anymore, and it seems foolish to buy a new one when he’s still growing.”

  “Why can’t he wear mine?” Charlie suggested. “We could have a tailor cut it down for him.”

  “Your beautiful tuxedo? Darling, you’re going to be needing it for the opening of your show. And after that, there will probably be all sorts of functions—”

  “Well, what else does he need?” Charlie asked.

  “He’ll need something for refreshments, flowers for the girl, taxis—”

  “Taxis?”

  “It’s rough in this town when you don’t have a car, Dad!” Harold said. “And you’d never let me take your car out at night, would you?”

  “You only have a learner’s permit, Harold, and it’s against the law to drive at night with a learner’s permit. I simply don’t want you to break the law. And as for a car of your own, that’s something you’ll just have to wait for,” Charlie said. Then, to Nancy he said, “Then, how much do you figure this evening will cost?”

  “I’d say at least fifty dollars,” Nancy said. “Including the tuxedo rental and the shoes.”

  “It seems a lot. What do you think?”

  Nancy hesitated. “It seems a shame for him not to go,” she said. “Everyone else is going.”

  “Well, then,” Charlie said, “since you asked me so graciously, Harold, you can have fifty dollars for the senior dance.” He held out his glass to Harold. “And a few minutes ago I asked you for a little more champagne.”

  Harold grinned sheepishly and poured champagne into his father’s glass. “Thanks, Dad,” he said.

  “Now everybody’s happy,” Charlie said, and with that he looked at Maggie, who had not, he realized, said a word all through dinner. She looked anything but happy. She sat, shoulders hunched, huddled over a plate of untouched food, her eyes downcast. A lock of brown hair fell like a polished scimitar across her cheek, and the candle flames drew shadowed patterns on her dark and pretty face. She sat very still, and there was a silence, because now, all at once, everybody was looking at Maggie.

  Nancy cleared her throat and started to speak. Then Charlie said softly, “Maggie? Is something the matter?”

  Maggie shook her head very slowly back and forth.

  “Maggie, dear,” her mother said. “You haven’t eaten a thing.”

  There was another silence, and Maggie’s head drooped lower.

  Finally Charlie heard Carla’s faint voice say, “Maggie’s homesick for California.”

  Maggie’s dark head jerked up and her hair flew back across her forehead. “A lot you know about it, you little fart!” she screamed at Carla.

  “Maggie!” Nancy cried.

  Then Harold’s voice said, “Is she homesick for California, folks, or is she homesick for a little punk named—”

  “Shut up!” Maggie cried.

  “—named Wally Mason!” Harold finished.

  Maggie jumped to her feet. “Shut up!” she screamed again. Then she picked up her champagne glass, which was still full of wine, and threw its contents into her brother’s face. She stood still for a moment, as though uncertain about what to do next, while one of the lighted candles, which a splash of her wine had struck, sputtered out and filled the air with a sour smell. Then she turned and hurled the empty glass hard onto the kitchen floor. It shattered instantly on the vinyl tile.

  “Maggie!” her mother cried again. But Maggie Lord was already flying, with noisy sobs, across the kitchen. She pushed her way, banging wildly, through the swinging door, and they listened as her footsteps fled heavily across the bare floors of the house, up the uncarpeted stairs to her room. Then they heard her door slam closed.

  Charlie stood up, his feet crunching in the broken glass. “Harold, why did you do that?” he asked.

  Harold said nothing, merely wiped at his wet face with the linen napkin.

  “Dad, it was my fault,” Carla said.

  “Children,” Nancy said, “I think if you’ve finished you may be excused. Please go to your rooms now and get to your homework.”

  Carla and Harold rose from the table and left the kitchen without a word. Nancy looked up at Charlie with a brief, helpless look. “My little festive dinner,” she said. And then, “Of course the thing is, Harold’s right. It is that Mason boy, I know. There was a letter from him this morning. But I don’t know what to do.” When Charlie still said nothing, she said, “At least you and I can be a little festive, can’t we? Let’s finish our wine, and then we’ll have some coffee.” But as she said that, the telephone rang.

  Nancy reached for it and said, “Hello? Oh, yes. Yes. Just a minute.” She covered the receiver with her hand, and forming the words soundlessly with her mouth, said, “It’s Edgar Willey.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Charlie whispered and took the phone.

  Edgar Willey was in charge of projects on the Lane. He didn’t know how it had worked out that way, but it had, and whenever there were any little projects to be done on the Lane, he took over, and took charge. It was a funny thing, the way it always worked out like that, but that was the way it worked out. It was nothing official, of course, just a friendly, informal neighborhood agreement. Sure, on some private lanes like theirs—most private lanes, in fact—there were regular elected officers, president, treasurer, secretary, and all that. But on this lane they’d never needed any of that
nonsense. It was one of the unique things, you might say, about the Lane. “Now, maybe you’ve noticed, Charlie,” Edgar Willey said, “how bad the surface of our Lane has got over the winter—full of chuckholes and ruts, with big hunks of asphalt lifted up and falling out all over the street. You come down the Lane fast, buddy, and it’s hell on your tires.”

  “I always try to take it slowly, Edgar,” Charlie said. “Not just because of the tires, but because of kids on bicycles and things like that.”

  “Well, some of us like to get home fast,” Edgar said. “Especially those of us who work in an office all day—ha-ha! Anyway, we’re giving our tires hell, and our shock absorbers hell, coming over all those chuckholes. Ever price a set of shock absorbers, buddy? If you had, you’d know we’re in for big trouble—expensive trouble with our cars if we don’t get something done, and fast.”

  “Mm,” Charlie said.

  “Now, I’ve looked into it,” Edgar said, “and we could have the holes patched for about a hundred bucks. But then where are we? Contractor I’ve been talking to says the chances are these patches would all just lift up again next winter, and there we are again with another expense on our hands.”

  “Well, what’s your solution, Edgar?” Charlie asked.

  “My solution, this contractor’s solution, is to resurface the whole Lane completely—make it just like new. It would be a one-time expense, then, you see—we probably wouldn’t have to worry about it again for fifteen, twenty years. A new surface would not only beautify our Lane but it would increase property values for all of us. It’s an investment, the way I look at it. Of course a complete resurface job will cost us a bit more.”

  “Yes,” Charlie said. “How much more, Edgar?”

  “This contractor has given me a rock-bottom price, Charlie. Seventy-five hundred for the job. Divided five ways, of course, that makes a mere fifteen hundred dollars apiece for each of us.”

  “I see,” Charlie said.

  “So,” Edgar said, “I’ve talked to the rest of the fellows, and they all agree it should be done. So all we need is your okay, buddy, and I’ll tell the contractor to charge ahead.”