The Easy Way Out

by Stephen McCauley

  “I think I heard that, too,” Arthur said.

  “And that new thing with what’s-her-name is supposed to be bad.”

  “What’s-her-name?”

  “The one with the hair.”

  “I remember reading that,” Arthur said.

  When the bell rang, I jumped out of my seat and leapt for the door. Sharon stumbled into the apartment mumbling apologies, carrying a large white shopping bag. She had on her green poncho, and her hair was all caught up in a brightly colored knit hat she’d picked up in Jamaica. Although the light in the hallway was dim and I couldn’t tell for sure, I thought I noticed a trace of lipstick around her mouth.

  “It’s about time,” I whispered. “Ryan was getting ready to leave.”

  “I’m sorry, Patrick. I really am. It was unavoidable. I have to cut back on my work load.”

  She walked into the living room, leaving behind her a strong smell of something I couldn’t quite place. I lingered in the hallway a moment longer, trying to figure it out, and then realized, with some dismay, that the smell was of ginger and garlic. In the living room, Sharon was standing near Ryan’s chair, shaking his hand and rambling on about the business transaction that had held her up so long.

  “He’s going to L.A. tomorrow, but he has a phobia about airplanes and a list of airlines as long as your arm that he absolutely won’t use. I spent about an hour explaining that Air New Zealand doesn’t fly direct Boston to L.A. Then he tells me a half-dozen types of aircraft he won’t board. I was with him for an hour and twenty-five minutes.”

  Obviously, she’d been at home, napping. She pulled off her cap, and her long hair cascaded down her back. Ryan remained standing, looking at her with kindly bemusement, his hands jammed into the back pockets of his pants.

  “I like your sandals,” he said. “So how’s the guy getting to L.A.?”

  “No idea. I convinced him he should be seeing a shrink. I mean, it doesn’t take much to figure out that this plane aversion has something to do with his penis.”

  Ryan looked across at me. “Now, did you say ‘penis,’ Sharon?”

  Clearly, this discussion had some potential, but Arthur intervened. “What’s in the bag?” he asked.

  “Promise me you won’t get upset, Patrick?” She slipped her poncho off over her head and tossed it onto the sofa next to Arthur. “I was so late, I figured the least I could do was bring some food along. I hope everyone’s in the mood for Chinese.”

  Sharon’s generosity was legendary among her friends. It often happened that she’d show up at someone else’s dinner party with the entire meal in tow. She did have good taste in Chinese food, but it seemed to me Sharon’s compulsive gift-giving had more to do with her insecurities than with her generous spirit. Not to mention that my sandwiches were destined to be upstaged. I was about to object, when Ryan loudly proclaimed his devotion to Peking ravioli.

  “You’re in luck,” Sharon said. “I’ve got three orders in here.”

  Arthur, whose left eye had developed a twitch, made a plea for my sandwiches, but Sharon merely frowned, a gesture as close to an apology as I was likely to get. “The things with the hard bread? Well, they’ll keep. I mean, they’re stale already, aren’t they?”

  “And Arthur made a salad.” I was overwhelmed with affection for Arthur’s perfect cucumber slices.

  “Well, how about this?” Ryan asked. “We can have Arthur’s salad with the Chinese food. And then you can wrap up the sandwiches, Pat, and we can all have them for lunch tomorrow. We could just spread newspapers out on the floor here and pass the containers around.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Sharon said. “No offense, Arthur, but I can’t get comfortable in this furniture.”

  She headed off into the kitchen to get plates, and Ryan sat back in his chair with a grin. “Not what you’d call a shrinking violet. Hey, Sharon!” he called out. “I brought some beer. It’s in the big blue cans in the refrigerator. Help yourself.” He started chuckling quietly. “As if anyone could stop her,” he said to Arthur.

  * * *

  Later, when I thought back on the dinner, it seemed to me I should have been able to predict what happened. But obstinacy had prevented me from doing so, and it came as a surprise.

  What did happen was that Ryan and Sharon took over the whole event: spread newspaper out on the worn carpet in the living room and sat on the floor across from each other, passing the cartons of take-out food back and forth, while Arthur and I leaned shoulder to shoulder on the sofa. We would have been a lot more comfortable sitting on the floor, but after listening to Ryan and Sharon’s disparaging comments about the furniture, I felt a wave of loyalty to Arthur’s family heirlooms and insisted we sit on one of them. The dinner party was divided into two neatly defined camps: the big, hungry people on the floor, noisily and ravenously slopping down sesame noodles and cashew chicken, and the hosts, dourly ensconced on the broken-down sofa. The seating arrangement contributed to the illusion that Ryan and Sharon had been brought together for a blind date. Given Ryan’s admonishments about fixing him up, I worried over it at first; but he seemed to like Sharon almost immediately. Not that there were romantic sparks flying between the two, but they both appeared to be amused and happily entertained. They discussed Jeopardy for a good twenty minutes, then Family Feud, the Celtics, a variety of spectator-sports events, and Chinese restaurants. When Ryan tried to drag Arthur and me into the conversation, Sharon tossed us off, explaining to Ryan that the two of us knew nothing about TV, athletics, or food, a claim that I couldn’t convincingly deny.

  I felt coupled with Arthur in a way I hadn’t experienced for a long time, and although it didn’t displease me entirely, I had some fleeting envy for the two enthusiastic diners on the floor; they seemed to be having an infinitely better time than either Arthur or I.

  Ryan managed to shift the conversation to the house Arthur and I were buying, by telling Sharon how delighted he and my parents were that Patrick was settling down into happy domesticity. All his comments were directed toward Sharon, but there was a sort of cautionary note in his voice, and it was clear the harangue was meant for my ears.

  “I’ve seen the house,” Sharon announced blandly.

  “Is it as spectacular as Patrick says?” Ryan asked.

  She shrugged. “A cellar, a roof, walls, and a few windows. If you call that spectacular, I guess it is.”

  Then, changing her tone completely, she gave an obsequious speech about Arthur’s work and the invaluable service his firm provided for thousands of people throughout the state, and about how she, despite the fact that she believed in going around the law whenever possible, supported his work without reservation. I was caught off guard by the flattery, since she usually took every opportunity to make digs at Arthur. Arthur was squirming long before she finished, and when she finally did come to the end of her rant, my sofa companion commenced in an equally sycophantic mode, telling her what a wonderful service she provided for people and how the value of budget-conscious travel should never be underestimated.

  It was a little like watching two people fencing with each other while proclaiming undying devotion. Ryan beamed throughout, delighted to see everyone getting along so well.

  When the food had been polished off—even the salad was devoured—Sharon stacked up the empty cartons, stretched her legs out in front of her on the floor, and squinted at Ryan. “I’m telling you right now,” she said, “even though you probably don’t want to hear it, that you never should have left that sales job with New Balance. Athletic shoes went over the top just about the time you got out. You should have come to me; I would have told you to stay.”

  “Actually, my wife told me the same thing.”

  “Ah, yes, the wife. Soon to be ex, I hear. We’ll get to her.”

  I looked over at Ryan to try and gauge his reaction, but he was leaning back against a bookcase, his legs folded in a sloppy lotus position under him, and he seemed content, either from the beer or from MSG or fr
om some stupefying combination of the two.

  “So Patrick told you about that, too, did he? My marriage has been getting a lot of publicity.”

  “Not the marriage,” Arthur said. “The divorce.”

  “I’m not supposed to know about the divorce?” Sharon asked.

  Ryan shrugged, surprisingly unflustered. “I don’t mind that you know; I’m just not dying to hear your opinion on the subject.”

  “I can live with that,” Sharon said. “What else shouldn’t we talk about? Tony and the parents, I suppose.” She started to rummage through her huge straw bag, taking out an extra pair of sandals, a Boston phone directory, the ubiquitous battered book on time management, and a piece of rolled-up clothing that looked suspiciously like underwear. “I hope no one minds if I smoke.” This clearly was not a question put before the board. “I’m so sick of this whole nonsmoking campaign, I could choke. You’d think that between AIDS, the environment, abortion, and John Sununu, people would find a better cause than making my life miserable every time I strike a match.”

  “Is it true smoking raises your cholesterol?” Ryan asked.

  “I hope you’re not thinking of taking it up,” I said. Rita and Jim both smoked when I was growing up, and I still thought of it as a sophisticated and glamorous activity, even though it had nearly killed my father. I sometimes pilfered cigarettes from Sharon and surreptitiously smoked them on the back porch or in my tiny private room behind the kitchen.

  “Cholesterol is another waste of time. Americans are obsessed with having enemies. No more cold war, so we have to replace the Russians with cholesterol as the focus of evil. Give up eggs and what, you’re going to live forever? I’d happily hand over a couple of years of my life for a nice piece of fatty steak.”

  “Have you been to Hilltop Steakhouse?” Ryan asked.

  “I practically live there. Except when I’m at home eating cold cereal.” Sharon puffed out a train of perfect smoke rings. Ryan watched them, transfixed, and tried to cup one in his hands. “If I could get a job at an ad agency,” she said, “I could quit travel and make a fortune. They always advertise cold cereal with pictures of families sitting around a breakfast table. My idea is to launch a campaign called ‘Cold Comfort,’ showing lonely single people sitting in front of a TV eating cereal out of a mixing bowl while they’re watching Jeopardy.”

  “I could model for that one,” Ryan said.

  * * *

  As soon as it was discovered that one of the negligent hosts had forgotten to buy dessert, Sharon insisted we go to an ice cream shop in Central Square, which, in her judgment, sold the best ice cream in the country. “And believe me,” she said, “I’ve tried it all. I’ll need a few minutes to clean out the back seat of my car, and we can leave.”

  Like me, Sharon was very proud of her driving and miserable anywhere in a car but behind the wheel.

  “There’s no point in driving,” Arthur said. “It’s only a ten-minute walk. At most.”

  “Walk?” Ryan couldn’t have sounded more stunned if Arthur had proposed calling a helicopter.

  “Don’t worry,” Sharon said. “They can walk; we’ll drive. That way I can leave the back seat as is.”

  * * *

  The front seat, as it turned out, wasn’t quite usable, either, being the victim of failed recycling plans. Arthur and I stood on the sidewalk watching as Sharon and my brother heaved books and magazines and empty yogurt containers into the back. When there was enough room in the passenger seat for Ryan, Sharon pulled away from the curb, made a wide U-turn, and sped off down the street.

  “There’s a relief,” Arthur said, watching them go. He took a woolen cap out of his pocket and pulled it down over the tops of his impressive ears. Then he reached over and turned up the collar on my sport jacket. “Don’t want you to catch cold,” he said.

  I turned my collar down and said I thought the dinner had gone well, reminding him that the last time Sharon had come she’d launched a full attack against Gilbert and Sullivan.

  It was chilly now, but the passing warm spell had forced open the buds on all the trees. Forsythia bushes and magnolias were in bloom, and the streetlights shone down through a thin shade of new leaves. We walked along in silence, and Arthur put his arm around my shoulder fraternally.

  * * *

  Sharon’s car was parked at the door to the ice cream shop, directly in front of a fire hydrant. Her Honda was impounded by the police at least once a month for parking violations. She claimed she liked to gamble with illegal parking spaces, but gamble seemed an optimistic way of looking at it, considering the number of tickets she accrued daily. She and Ryan were standing at the end of a long line that snaked its way around the store. The cigarette in Sharon’s mouth bobbed up and down as she spoke, and Arthur and I, walking in, heard someone ahead of her in line complaining about the smoke.

  “Here we go,” Arthur said. “I hope she knows it’s illegal to smoke in a public building in Cambridge.”

  “Better not mention it,” I said.

  Of course Sharon ignored the complaints. She greeted us loudly and went back to a discussion of the airline industry with Ryan. My brother had his hands jammed into the back pockets of his pants, and although he was listening to Sharon and nodding his head, his eyes were scanning the line as if he expected an angry mob to start rioting. Eventually a tall woman in a beaded shawl came over. “I guess you can’t read the signs plastered all over every wall that say No Smoking, is that it?”

  “Signs?” Sharon asked, looking around.

  “You’re right,” Ryan told the woman. “You could be a little more polite about the way you say it, but you are right.” Then he gently took the cigarette from Sharon and rolled it between his fingers until the lit coal fell off the end. He put the butt in his shirt pocket and patted it. “We’ll save this for later,” he said. “Now what were you saying, Sharon?”

  I’d never seen anyone save Sharon from herself with such tender efficiency.

  Twenty-two

  There were several standard types of clients who called Only Connect throughout the year, looking for predictable vacations. Fredrick had given them shorthand labels so the agents would know what they were getting before he put the calls through. The most common in New England from November until late March, and in many ways the easiest to satisfy, was the “Warm and Cheap.” The Warm and Cheap caller announced himself by declaring that he didn’t care where he was sent as long as it was hot, hot, hot, and didn’t cost a fortune. The first person to figure a way to economically transport large groups of people to hell will make a billion dollars. Until then, Warm and Cheaps were remarkably eager to sign up for package tours to seedy hotels in the run-down capital cities of impoverished island nations. They almost never had a good time, but lack of air conditioning kept them sizzling and lack of consumer goods and decent restaurants ensured that they didn’t spend much money. And after all, someone has to stay in Santo Domingo. The ones who seemed hesitant about leaving the U.S. could be shipped off to a sleazy motel in Fort Lauderdale or a Quality Inn in a drought-stricken region of California.

  The “Joy of Sex” callers were looking for “a quiet, lush spot where me and my girlfriend can take a vacation.” In winter, I usually sent these folks to Aspen, a spot that’s neither quiet nor lush but gives the couple the aphrodisiacal illusion that they are, or at least might run into, Don Johnson and Melanie Griffith.

  There was the “Whole Catastrophe” (“We’re thinking of taking the family to Disney this July”), the “Banana Republic” (“Could you recommend a completely unspoiled spot, preferably where they speak English and have a nice hotel with a gambling casino?”), and the “Achille Lauro Affair” (anyone inquiring about a cruise). As the calls came into the switchboard, Fredrick would laconically buzz the various agents to try and find a taker. “I’ve got a Joy of Sex on line four, Patrick. If you take this one, I won’t send you a Whole Catastrophe until Thursday. A deal?”

  Sometime in early April
, I developed a specialty with the “Party’s Over” callers, a type that, in the end, had very little to do with travel. A Party’s Over call usually involved a distressed-sounding individual, not necessarily traveling alone, although that was most common. Typically, the call began: “I want to go away tomorrow if possible, by this weekend at the latest.”

  “Boy,” I’d say, “it certainly sounds as if you’re eager to get away.”

  “I certainly am.”

  “Well, we’ll see what we can do. Did you have any particular destination in mind?”

  “It doesn’t matter where or how much it costs. The important thing is I have to leave immediately.”

  This urgency and lack of concern for destination and price were the giveaways. I’d start tapping at the computer keys to sound as if I was doing something and was properly distracted. Then I’d nonchalantly mention that it was tough to find seats with so little advance notice. Most often, the caller would announce that he himself had had little or no advance warning. Making sure I sounded only moderately interested, and banging on the computer even more loudly, I’d say something on the order of: “Not bad news, I hope.”

  No more prodding than that was ever needed. A juicy tale of adultery, betrayal, a drug-addicted offspring, a suicidal spouse, or, in the most pathetic instances, a dead pet would emerge. Once the customer got going, it was easy to ask a lot of probing questions, since what he was really calling for was to tell his side of the story to some anonymous listener. After a while, I’d suggest several preposterous holiday destinations to which it was easy to find last-minute seats: Dubai, Blue Bell, Pa., Monrovia. I’d slip in a few cautious reminders that the problem, whatever it was, would still exist upon return. “Think how much better you’d feel,” I’d end up saying, “if you stayed home and cleaned out your closets and desk drawers and paid all your bills.”