Fast Start, Fast Finish

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “She doesn’t get along with her family at all. Never has, really.”

  “I told you I was only half serious.”

  “Anyway,” he said, smiling up at her, “I snore like crazy.”

  She fell across him and cried out, “Oh, God! Don’t say things like that! When you say things like that I feel like dying!”

  It was the Japanese gardeners. The Japanese gardeners of Southern California were the geniuses who could plant and grow a thing like a strawberry lawn. Or a deep garden planted with nothing but ferns. That garden and that wide strawberry-planted lawn sloped down across her mind, met the low stone wall at the edge of Stone Canyon Drive, framing the beautiful house beyond. She could see each white shutter, each curtained window that looked out onto the marble terrace. Strange how much more vivid and poignant the vision of that house had grown since she moved east. How did she know that the terrace was paved with marble squares? It had to be—to have the same perfection that the house itself had. The house was in the château style, but not ornate. No, utterly simple, understated, quiet, serene, and elegant. Perfection. Its windows faced the rolling golf course, and the road was lined with cedars and eucalyptuses. Twin yews at the gate that opened into the curving drive. She had seen that house in every season, at every hour of the day and night. (At night it glowed.) In her mind she had sat on the terrace, lounged beside the pool beyond (there had to be a pool). She had roamed through all the rooms and knew each room, each closet, each piece of furniture in infinite detail—each color, each small object on each shelf and table, each silver candlestick, each crystal vase. She had selected everything, right down to the tiny silver dinner bell which she kept at her right hand when they entertained. Such selectivity, such passionate care, was important in a house like that, where never a trace of dust should show upon the hearth, where fires were lighted silently by a padding someone in slippers on chilly evenings, and where candle flames flickered against silk-covered walls.

  It was important because, in these rooms, lived people whose lives were similarly ordered, perfect—so perfect that they hardly ever thought of taking trips, it was so comfortable and orderly and pleasant in Bel-Air. Bel, hyphen, Air—which meant (didn’t it?) Beautiful Air, the air of living spaciously and beautifully calm, simple, understated, quiet, serene, and elegant lives. People whose rugs, when they arrived from Bloomingdale’s (and they wouldn’t buy their rugs from Bloomingdale’s in the first place) would not turn out to be somehow the wrong color.

  “Sounds lovely,” Genny McCarthy said. “Do you have any pictures of it?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” Nancy said. She went to her desk and fished out a picture that she had taken of the house one day.

  “Oh, it is lovely!” Genny said. “Just beautiful. I don’t blame you for being homesick. But don’t worry, sweetie—the way you’re fixing up this place is just scrumptious.”

  “I just wish that rug didn’t have so much blue in it,” Nancy said. “It didn’t look so blue when I saw it in the store.”

  “It doesn’t bother me. I think it’s darned pretty.” Genny said. “I think the room could use a touch of blue.”

  “Anyway, I’ve got nearly everything done. And here it is July, and I’ve got the whole summer ahead of me, and nothing at all to do.”

  “Boy, I wish I could say that,” Genny said. “I wish I could be a lady of leisure, but I was looking at my calendar this morning, and I’ve got something going nearly every day for the next two months.”

  “But you’re so active, Genny—in so many things. You’ve got—”

  “Listen,” Genny said, “I haven’t forgotten we’re going to give you a golf lesson. I’ll find time to squeeze that in one of these days, don’t worry.”

  “But in terms of myself,” she said. “My children have all reached an age where they’re pretty independent of me, and—well, I was reading a book the other day that said that women of my age often need—some other kind of fulfillment.”

  Genny winked at her. “Not thinking of taking a sweetie-pie, are you?” she said. “Whenever I hear the word ‘fulfillment’ I think of just one thing.”

  Nancy laughed. “No. I’m thinking of getting a job.”

  “A job?”

  “Yes. Working at something.”

  “Well,” Genny said, “frankly, if I were you I’d spend more time thinking about whether you and Charlie are going to join the club. Just between you and me, I’ve heard that the membership committee is getting a little antsy-pantsy about it—wondering when you’re going to decide.”

  “Oh, we do want to join the club, of course, but—”

  “You know the policy. Once you’re asked, if you refuse, you’re never asked again.”

  “I know that, and—”

  “I’d hate to see you start out in this town on the social blacklist, sweetie.”

  “Of course, Genny. I understand.”

  “And the thing is, you’ve been using the club so much—that’s what’s been getting them so teed off. At least your husband uses it. He’s always playing tennis there with Tessa Morgan.”

  “Well,” Nancy said, “I’m glad you like what I’ve done with the house. I needed somebody’s opinion. I seem to have trouble making friends in this town—except for you, Genny.”

  “That’s why you need to join the club. Goodness, but they play a lot of tennis! Is he really still painting her portrait?”

  “Yes, but Charlie says the posing makes her nervous, so they break up the posing sessions with tennis. That’s why the picture seems to be taking forever. And of course Charlie’s such a perfectionist. But I’ve been thinking, Genny, when it comes to decorating—”

  “He’s a damn good tennis player, I’ll say that for him. So is she, for that matter.”

  “Charlie’s always played beautiful tennis against a woman,” Nancy said. “His sister was a superb player too, and they used to play a lot together. But as I was saying, about decorating, there’s so much—”

  “Well, let’s hope that it’s only tennis he’s playing with Tessa—right?” She laughed. “That woman! I don’t know what she’s got, but whatever it is the men come drooling around her like a bitch in heat. What’s she got that I haven’t got—so she gets it and I don’t?” She held up a hand in feigned alarm. “Don’t tell me! I know!”

  Nancy laughed. “Oh, Genny, you always cheer me up!” she said.

  “Here’s a new one. Do you know why Democrats are sexier than Republicans?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You never heard of a piece of elephant, did you? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

  “Oh, that’s priceless, Genny,” Nancy said, not getting it at all. Then, getting it, she laughed again and said, “Oh, yes!”

  “And while we’re on the subject,” Genny said. “Whatever happened to that friend of yours who had herself in trouble? Everything come out all right, no pun intended?”

  “Yes. I—I heard from her the other day. Everything was fine. She says you were a godsend, Genny. But now, listen to my plan—”

  “You didn’t bring my name into it, I hope!”

  “Oh, no, of coarse not. But anyway, decorating this house has taught me something—it’s taught me how much I don’t know about it. So I’ve been thinking—”

  “Well, anyway, speaking of Tessa—she’s a funny dame. She’s been acting awfully funny with me lately, and as you know, I’ve been one of her most stalwart supporters in this town. Why, they wouldn’t even let her set foot in that club if it weren’t for me. So the other day she comes into the bar and goes waltzing right by my table without even bothering to say hello! A funny dame.”

  “Charlie says she’s a very—complex personality.”

  “A truly lonely woman,” Genny said soberly. And then, “You mean to say you’ve never met her?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “That seems awfully funny. You mean Charlie’s never introduced you? And he’s with her so much.”

  “Oh, I’ll
probably meet her at some point. I’d like to. But at the moment it’s a business relationship they have, a working relationship, and I don’t like to interfere. Which brings me to my idea about going to work.”

  Genny paused briefly to light another cigarette.

  “I’ve always been interested in houses, but I’ve never—”

  “It doesn’t—bother you that they’re together so much?”

  “What do you mean by that, Genny?” Nancy asked.

  “You trust him, then.”

  “Of course!” she said somewhat sharply. “Implicitly!”

  “Don’t get mad,” Genny said hastily. “I think it’s—well, wonderful. You’re so lucky. You have such a solid marriage. I wish I could say the same for mine.”

  “After more than eighteen years, I feel I know Charlie pretty well,” Nancy said.

  “Lucky. You’re both lucky. You two have really got it made.”

  “Anyway, Genny, what I’d really like to know is what you think of my idea of getting a job. I think I told you that Charlie’s show has been postponed until next fall, and now that the house is done I really have time on my hands. I don’t much like the idea of trying to get something in the city and having to commute, but I did think that there might be something right here in town that might do—”

  “Why don’t you join the Rootlets?” Genny interrupted. “I’ve told you about the Rootlets—we’re a garden club in spring and summer, and in the winter we work for the hospital. Last year we raised enough money to furnish thirty beds! We have a ball with the Rootlets. They’re—well, they’re a teeny bit choosy about who they take in, but if you want to join I can get you in. No problem.”

  “I’m not much of a committeewoman, Genny. Besides, I’m thinking of a real job—a productive, paying job. Not that we need the money, of course. But a job that would be interesting and rewarding and fun. I’ve talked to a number of shops in town, and there was one man I spoke to yesterday—”

  “Good God, you’re serious about this, aren’t you!”

  “Well, yes. Do you know that very attractive new decorating shop in town? The man who runs it is called Singleton—”

  “A Jew. Changed his name from Sinkler. Yes, I know him. Go on.”

  “Well,” Nancy added somewhat helplessly, “I thought he was really very nice, and it is a terribly pretty shop with awfully nice things—lovely fabrics and papers, and a nice gift department. And he’s looking for someone to help him in the shop—when he’s out on jobs, you see—and he’s interested and wants to talk to me some more about it. At first I’d be only a salesperson, of course, but if I worked out he might take me out on some of his jobs and let me work with a few of his clients. I’ve always been interested in houses, and in doing them over, and I really think I might learn something about decorating and color schemes and … well … he wants to see me again on Friday.”

  “Well, well.”

  The fixity of Genny’s stare was quite unsettling, and Nancy laughed nervously. “Oh, I’m a real follow-through girl!” she said. “Once I get an idea in my head I forge right on through with it. I’m famous for that! And this job would have a nice little fringe benefit to it—not that it matters, but it’s kind of nice. I can buy things for the house at a thirty-percent discount. I’ll probably be spending my whole salary on things for the house. There’s a pair of Italian candlesticks, for instance.… But anyway, I’m quite excited about it.”

  Genny’s leathery face continued to stare at her through gray cigarette smoke. Then she said, “Sweetie, can I level with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “If you’re going to join the club, join the club first. Then get your job.”

  “But why?”

  “Look. I can be honest with you because we’re—we’re from the same backgrounds, you and I. We’re from the same world. We speak the same language. Your family in Grosse Pointe, my family here—they stand for the same sort of thing. But don’t forget that you’re not in Grosse Pointe now. You’re not known here. You’re just somebody else from out of town. The Westmount Club is one of the best clubs in the East, and frankly, they don’t take in members who are clerks in gift shops.”

  “Genny, I’m so disappointed in you! I thought you of all people would understand. And it isn’t a gift shop—it’s a decorator’s shop; I thought you’d be thrilled, and—”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Genny said. “I am thrilled—even jealous of you! I think it’s a swell idea, and I’m all for it. It will be very—fulfilling, and everything. But I also know some of the other sons-of-bitches in this town. I’m talking about what they’d say.”

  Nancy sat very still, her hands in her lap. “It’s just that I need something to do, Genny,” she protested quietly. “Something to do.”

  “Don’t you love me, Nancy?”

  “Yes.…”

  “Then what’s the matter?”

  In the dark bedroom she turned away from him, pushed herself up on the pillows, and reached for the cigarettes, on the bedside table, and for matches. The flame on the match illumined her face for a moment as she lighted the cigarette. Then there was only the orange glow of the cigarette in the darkness to reveal where her hand was, and the smell of brimstone in the air from the match. He moved his hand slowly across her soft, cool belly, let it lie flat across the dimple of her navel, and then let his fingers rest in the warm mound of curly hair below. She didn’t move, and he hitched himself close to her.

  Then she said, “Oh, please don’t,” and moved his hand away.

  “Why not? What’s the matter?”

  “I’m tired. And—a little nervous, I guess.”

  “I didn’t mean any of those things I said the other night,” he said. “You know that, don’t you, Nancy?”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry I said them. And I know you didn’t mean the things you said either. ‘What is said in anger, like what is said in wine, should ne’er be put to paper lest you be asked to sign.’ Shakespeare,” he said.

  She said nothing.

  “So—can’t we forget about it now? Can’t we stop fighting?” He touched her shoulder. “Huh?”

  “I’m not fighting.”

  “Then won’t you please tell me what’s the matter?”

  The cigarette end grew brighter as she drew in on it, then faded again. “It’s true what they say about smoking in the dark. You can’t taste a thing,” she said.

  “Then why don’t you put it out? Nancy …”

  “Is the portrait almost finished?”

  “Yes. Almost.”

  She stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray, and the room was totally dark again, except for soft marbly lights against the windowpanes from other porch lights through thick green leaves of trees. He put his arm around her again and said, “Come on,” and then, “Please.” She turned toward him, just slightly. “I love you,” he said. “So much.”

  “And I love you too,” her voice said.

  He tried to pull her further toward him, down from her nest on the ledge of pillows, and tried to settle himself against her. “Please, darling,” he said, but his voice seemed to come from empty, windless places. And it wasn’t going to be any good; he knew that already. The fine edge of it had been taken off. It would have been fine a few minutes ago, but she had killed it by talking, by lighting that cigarette. He should have been more forceful, determined, at the start. And now her awkward and stubborn limpness and lassitude were only making him angry—angry at her and at himself as well, which was not helping either. By making him try so hard she was making him feel embarrassed, self-conscious, childish, over-ardent, humiliated, cheap for having to beg her when he had wanted to do this only as a gift to her. Still, he tried. “Do you want me to rape you?” he whispered into the curve of her throat.

  In the darkness he heard her say, “Yes!”

  Stroking the soft underpart of her arm, he said, “Ah, I’m only kidding.”

  Sometimes, by gently kidd
ing her, he could cajole her into it, compliance. But his own machinery was no longer working right, that was the trouble now. He tried one more trick.

  After a moment she said, “Charlie, my heart just isn’t in it tonight. I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, baby.”

  A moment later she said, “And neither is yours, dear.”

  He rolled away from her, feeling almost relieved and grateful. Out of a sense of duty he had tried to perform it, the old trick, making love to one woman while thinking of another. In college he had made good love to a telephone operator with stinking breath just by thinking of the naked girl in the calendar on his roommate’s wall. The trick might have worked tonight, but not now. And it was a pity, because he had wanted it out of a sense of duty, of obligation. His gift to her, something he owed her. Compensation. Atonement. All week long he had been thinking of elaborate presents. A mink coat (August fur sales coming soon). A pair of emerald earrings (he had seen some in an ad). A new car (new models coming in the fall). All unrealistic. Gifts like those would have to wait until after he’d had his show. Love was a realistic gift. Then he thought, Gift to whom? To her or only to himself? If they had made love nicely and easily, would he have then slept easily, absolved, redeemed? What if she had suspected that? Suspected that he was making love to her in order to purge himself, to empty his dirty sediment of guilt into her? He saw her suddenly as a hole with a bright center, like a flame, where all uneasy feeling could be dumped, incinerated. And now he felt angry again, and helpless.

  Ah, what the hell.

  And of course I could make use of this anger, he thought. I could get out of bed, get into my clothes, and drive off into the night, the ballsy male rebuffed—as I’ve done before. What the hell! Then we could both have our wish tonight, and, oh, God, I’d really screw hell out of Tessa, screw the hell out of her all night long, screw her backwards, and forwards, this way and that, because she was a woman who appreciated what a man’s cock was for, and I’d show her, me, and a lot of other people, what kind of man I am, and tomorrow I could say, “I just drove around all night long.” It would be easy. And all through this furious, orgasmic vision of the sexual mutilation of her, he kept thinking, how very odd this is, when she reminds me of so many things I used to love.