Justifications, justifications, he muttered as he shaved, meticulously. It was not the second time: he hadn’t bothered to shave for Boris, who, of course, hadn’t been bothered to shave for him either, two bleary men in the restaurant window, blinking across the brilliant white linen at each other, their beards—silver and white, respectively—glistening in the sun’s unrelenting scrutiny. They’d perked up with drink, had reached a state of conviviality at about the hour the restaurant emptied of lunch clients; and close to four, Murray had had the satisfaction—rather like that of bringing a difficult woman to orgasm—of eliciting Boris’s gargantuan roaring laugh, a fat, rolling rumble that moved his shoulders, shook the flesh inside his shirt and rattled his jowls before erupting, enormous, into the now-empty room. After this, at last, Murray could disentangle himself, head home before the cocktail crowd came through the door.
For this meeting, he shaved; and put on cologne—the gin-and-tonic smell that he considered his own, although he was in fact a scotch drinker—and a fresh shirt, a narrowly striped one of which he was particularly fond. His hands seemed to him slightly to tremble, as he brought the razor to his face, as he fastened his buttons, and he wondered whether this was merely the glut of his luncheon wearing off, a call, not infrequently heard, for the hair of the dog; or whether the tremor was born of genuine apprehension. This latter would surprise only because this ritual—the odd drink, the odd fling, the odd prolonged liaison—was as much a part of him as Annabel, or Marina, or—in an analogy that struck him as more apt—as the Pope had been. If he were more anxious than was usual—and it was true, his heart’s rhythms suggested either nerves or incipient infarction—then it was because, he chastised himself with a rueful snort as he downed a small scotch before leaving, he ought not to be fantasizing about, ought not to be seducing, his daughter’s best friend. Because she would be seduced, he was almost sure of it—something about her hesitation, in the foyer, at the dinner. Something about the tremble of her milky cleavage. A very fine dress indeed.
He saw her at once when he entered the bar, alone in the gloom at a table against the wall—where a booth would have been, had the bar not had pretensions. He would have preferred a booth—a glass of wine, red, at least, before her. She looked smaller, paler, plainer than his imagination’s portrait, her nose rather more prominent and her hair, of itself a rippling dark glory, rather unflatteringly styled, parted far to one side so that her cheeks loomed strangely broad, slablike. But even these facts, which might have been deemed shortcomings, aroused him, and when she raised her eyes and smiled—shyly, he would have said—he had to pause and clear his throat.
“My dear,” he began, bending to kiss her cheek, which was cool and sweet-smelling.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“Am I late?” He made a show of checking his watch. “I try to be punctual.”
“No, it’s not that—but we didn’t speak of it the other evening, and I wasn’t sure …”
“I don’t forget a date.” He smiled. “Especially when I’ve made it myself. I would never forget a date with you.”
She licked her lip, studied the mosaic tabletop. “And you’re worried about Marina.”
“Aren’t you? To be honest, aren’t you?”
Danielle nodded. “I suggested—I’ve suggested several times—that she get a job.”
“So she told me. Let me get a drink.” He flagged the waitress, ordered, indicated that Danielle should continue.
“And the book—I don’t know—”
“Frankly, my dear, do you really think she’ll finish the book?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s rather a bad sign, I must say, that lingering manuscript, for those of us whose livelihoods depend on completion. I’d finish it for her, if I could.”
“I think she wants it to be perfect, that’s the trouble. No offense, but she’s trying to live up to your reputation, and your expectations—she wants you to be proud of her—and it puts her under a lot of pressure.”
“I always told her not to write. Take it from one who knows, I said, when she was just a child, do anything but, anything but this. Although it does enable you, at least some of the time, to sleep in in the mornings.” Danielle’s face was grave, and Murray reached out—this was either the worst moment, or ideal—to put his hand, large and reddened, upon her small, white one. “It was a joke. She always knew it for a joke. I’m proud of her whatever she does.” She did not remove her hand; just moved it slightly beneath his, like a trapped bird. “It’s her happiness that concerns me,” he went on, conscious, above all, of the warmth of their contact, of the frailty, or seeming frailty, of Danielle’s moving fingers. “Not some measure of worldly success.”
Here she extricated her hand, gently, in order, it seemed, to tuck the great wave of her hair behind her ear. He found even her ears, which were oddly round, attractive. “I know, Mr. Thwaite.”
“Murray, please. Murray.” He said it emphatically.
She nodded, again at the mosaic table. “Murray, then. I know it is. I think it’s in her, the problem. Self-esteem. I mean, I know she’s confident, we all know that, but on some other level, she’s not been—I suggested a job because I thought it’d help her confidence, her momentum. I guess I thought having some other work might help her finish the book.” Murray raised an eyebrow. “Or not. Maybe not. But either way, she’s not finishing the book as it is.”
“No.”
“And in fact, I may have found a job for her. I’m not sure.”
“She hasn’t spoken of it to me.”
“No, it’s not definite. It would be with Ludovic Seeley’s new magazine.”
“Seeley?”
“The Australian we were with the other evening.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Oh no, nothing like that,” but he noticed that she blushed. “He’s just someone I know. But the magazine, The Monitor, it launches in September.”
“Did he name it?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because in addition to the Christian Science overtones, it was Napoleon’s paper, as it happens. Suggests the boy has ambitions.”
“I think he does.”
“He seemed a spindly, snide fellow to me.”
Danielle shrugged, awkward.
“Are you quite sure he’s not your beau? Your secret paramour?”
“I’m quite, quite sure.”
“He’d be a lucky fellow.”
“You flatter me.”
“But of course.” He paused. “So you say he may employ Marina? To do what, I wonder?”
“I’m not sure whether it’s writing or editing.”
“And you think it would be a good idea?”
Danielle was silent for a moment. “I honestly don’t know.”
“No.” Murray examined the bottom of his empty tumbler. “One can’t know, can one? And one can’t make up her mind for her, in any event. Each of us must make our own decisions.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Would you like another? I’m going to have another.”
“Well, I …”
“It hardly seems fateful.”
“Oh.” She laughed again, tucked the cascading hair behind her ear. The delicious ear. “You never know, though, do you? What will be fateful?” And looked vaguely embarrassed. “Why not? I’ll have another. It’s the Pinot Noir.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A Helping Hand (2)
He had some explaining to do. That’s what she kept telling herself as she dusted Bootie’s forlorn bedroom. Her brother had some explaining to do. What was she to think about Bootie in New York in the first place? He was to have been home by now; and then she’d conceded, gracefully, over the summer courses, glimpsing as she did a proper enrollment—a four-year course, a degree—and the University of Massachusetts was nothing to sneeze at, she was quite sure some famous people had come out of there; and his friend, the boy from the high s
chool, a spotty boy with a scrawny neck, whatever his name was, a year ahead and a good example—he was a studious kid, she’d had him in her class—he was there already.
A spiderweb, a faint gray fluff, dangled from the ceiling over Bootie’s bed, like a shadow or an ill omen. It fluttered slightly in the breeze she created with her duster—that’s why she noticed it. But she couldn’t reach it unless she stood on the bed. She paused, contemplating. Somehow it seemed a treachery to tramp frankly, full-footed, on Bootie’s mattress, as though it suggested he might not come back. She knew this was silly, not logical, and she wiped the rime of dust from his headboard, the headboard Bert had sanded and painted a lifetime ago, imperfectly, as it happened, so that the duster always caught on a jagged splinter, and left a cotton strand behind. Out the window, she could see Hilda ambling past with her ancient lab, whose gammy leg had him shuffling, seeming miserable. The pane was streaky, on the inside. Had she really not cleaned here properly since he left? When did he go? She remembered the filthy curls of snow, the pushing buds. A long time, now.
And so what was Murray doing, giving the boy a job? Paid employment? Madness. Maybe Bootie was lying, or at least bending the truth? Maybe she’d misunderstood? She often felt, these past weeks, that she wasn’t hearing properly, or not absorbing information as she ought—for example, she’d completely confused the story Joan Swan had related at lunch last Wednesday, the story about Emma, or Irma, in the eleventh grade, whose father had killed himself. Or they thought he’d killed himself but it turned out he’d just died. Or the other way around, perhaps. Which was the point: not that Joan Swan was a particularly good storyteller, but Judy had been on some kind of autopilot—where had her mind been?—and couldn’t even tell whether listening was the problem, that is, not listening; or whether her hearing was in trouble. Either way, same result: she’d asked Joan a question that had seemed to her obvious, but that Joan clearly thought was very off, and proof that she didn’t have a clue. And maybe this had happened, now, on the phone with Bootie, although she didn’t think so. She hadn’t been thinking about other things—how could she, when speaking to her only boy? Although possibly, it’s true, thinking about all she couldn’t say—which boiled down to “Bootie, come home!”—rather than about what he was actually whispering (he did fairly whisper, because his voice was naturally low, and because he didn’t want the Thwaites to be disturbed) in her addled ear.
Hilda and the dog were long gone from the smeared frame. The sun hung low, orange, and cast an almost holy light, illuminating small, chosen moments along the street, including the porch of the Randalls’ house, sagging, with its windows boarded. So depressing. When she turned, Judy could no longer see the spiderweb over the bed; not without the light on. She didn’t want to know it was still there. She didn’t want to flick the switch. She quit the room for the hallway, for the stairs.
This, really, was the problem of late: since Bootie had left, she found her reality too changeable. She seemed to have too much control over it, in a way. There was nothing, or more precisely no one, to reflect her experience back to her, and so her experience had become her whole reality. Which she didn’t trust. Sometimes it was fine—decide to ignore the spiderweb, and it’s as if it never was. There would be no independent confirmation of the web’s existence, nor even of the spider’s. And sometimes, less fine, as at night when she awoke with a shudder in the blue gloom, and couldn’t be sure, in spite of the thunder of her blood, of her own existence. As if the quiet house had swallowed her.
She hadn’t felt this way when Bootie had been at Oswego, and hadn’t expected to feel it this time. Then again, she hadn’t expected him to go like this, running away from home in all but name. Amanuensis, Bootie had said—which must have been Murray’s word. Trust Murray to use a ten-cent word when a regular one would do. He meant secretary. That’s what her brilliant boy would be doing. No shame in it, he’d said. Pound did it for Yeats, you know. “My brother is no Yeats” had been her response, tart enough, she trusted, to suggest that she wasn’t floundering in the conversation.
In the kitchen, in the dusk, she considered supper. The frozen chicken potpie would take too long, and leave leftovers. A salad involved chopping. Was she even peckish? She couldn’t quite tell; but it was the hour. Which was stronger, ritual or indifference? Which more real? What could it matter? And now did she have to accept that Bootie would never come home again? In which case, she reflected, opening a can of baked beans and careful not to nick her thumb on the lid, she ought to send him his dress shoes. She’d noticed them just now, shiny as beetles, neatly pointing to the wall at the foot of his bed, in uncharacteristic order. They were, she suddenly understood by this incongruity, evidence of the nature of his plans before ever he left home. Not her imagination. She felt pretty sure this was reality.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A Helping Hand (3)
You probably don’t see it, because it’s so, I don’t know, unlikely or something, but I think he’s incredibly sexy. That’s what I kept thinking, the whole way through. I was there for a couple of hours, and they just flew by. He’s just—what is it?”
“Magnetic?”
“Exactly. He’s magnetic. And there’s a way he has of speaking to you as though you were the only person who could possibly understand—”
“Trot out the clichés for us.”
“But not in a cloying way. He’s wry, you know? Ironic. Very British.”
“I know,” said Danielle, “except that he’s Australian.” She sighed, closed the computer file in front of her. She’d been trying to generate a proposal that would please her boss, pull ratings, get her noticed. She’d thought Ludovic Seeley was a good bet; but maybe plastic surgery was better. Women dying in doctors’ offices while having lunch-hour liposuction. It would raise some of the same questions about integrity and authenticity in a more dramatic fashion. “So tell me about the interview. What’s the job on offer?”
“Oh, Danny, it’s as if it was made for me. As if it is made for me. It’s incredible.” Danielle could tell from the slight gurgle in Marina’s throat that she was lying on her back with her knees up, probably on her bed—a posture Danielle had known since freshman year, one at once feline and jubilant. Marina sat up when she wasn’t happy.
“Did he offer you something?”
“He basically said it’s mine if I want it. I told him I’d think, but—”
“What is it?”
“It’s editing a cultural section. Not ditsy cultural, like listings—he wants essays, serious but controversial essays on cultural issues.”
“Such as?”
“Such as anything, really. Questioning essays. Like, is PEN really a worthwhile institution, for example. Or a renegade appraisal of modern art, the New York art scene, is Matthew Barney a fraud, that kind of thing.”
“Okay. Guaranteed to help you win friends and influence people.”
“I won’t write the pieces, unless I actually want to, until there’s something that really grabs me.”
“How convenient. In the meantime, you can encourage aspiring young writers to get hoisted on their own petards.”
“Excuse me?”
“You can commission people with nothing—which means, everything—to lose, and have them write blistering exposés that will ruin their careers forever.”
“Hey, you know—”
“Sort of the journalistic equivalent of being a meter maid. Sounds great.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Sorry. Bad day at work.” Danielle bit a hangnail, went on. “It’s just a risky undertaking, around this town.”
“But somebody’s got to tell people that the emperor has no clothes.”
“Yeah, he gave me that line, too. It’s oddly persuasive, for a minute or two.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? It’s not a line. It’s a passionate commitment. He’s an extraordinary guy—if you spent any time with him …”
“We ha
d lunch, remember? To talk about my idea for a show?”
“I know. But all the more reason he’d be guarded around you. The magazine is secret, right now—it’s his baby, you know. He wants to take the world by surprise.”
“Sure, of course.”
“You should be happy for me. You’re being really weird.”
“Have you said yes, then?”
“Not yet. We’re having supper tomorrow night, and I said I’d give him an answer then.”
So that’s how it was. Danielle tore at the hangnail with her teeth, could feel the skin pulling too far: a small, live pain. Of course it wouldn’t have occurred to Marina that Danielle might be interested. Marina who had said once, drunk, freshman year, as they lay on their beds fully dressed, each with a foot, still shod, on the floor to slow the room’s spinning: “You’re so lucky, really, Danny.”
“Why’s that?”
“You never have to worry about whether guys like you for your looks or for you.”
Danielle had made a joke of it; she’d teased Marina, so that it was one of their oldest shared comedies. But still. She ought to have known that Ludovic Seeley, in such matters, would be no more a revolutionary than the next guy. Of course they were having supper. And that hand, light and strong, would settle in the small of Marina’s back in that numbing, spiderlike way he had; and he would manipulate her every way he wanted her.
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