The Romantics

by Galt Niederhoffer

  “It’s so obvious where he is,” she declared as she traipsed up the lawn toward the house. She turned toward Jake, who was trailing behind, and was greeted by a slap of wind. “If you were Tom,” she said, “where would you be?”

  Jake paused and looked up at the house, tilting his head back to survey the structure in one glance. “Honestly, if I were Tom, I’d be in Lila’s bed right now.”

  Tripler frowned. She instinctively bristled when compliments were paid to her friends. Compliments were in finite supply, she felt, and their distribution unnerved her.

  “Possible,” she said. “But unlikely. He’s way too scared of Augusta.” She paused and made a reluctant confession. “She did look amazing tonight.”

  Jake nodded wholeheartedly. “She always looks good to me.”

  Tripler registered a measure of relief. In praising Lila, Jake had simultaneously slighted his own wife. “You always had a thing for her,” she teased.

  “Me and every other guy on campus.”

  “But your crush always seemed more tender than most.” She pointed toward the third floor of the house, the single lit window that glowed in the center. “That’s her window up there, you know. If you want to take a last shot.”

  Jake sighed. It was Tripler’s special talent to turn the most innocent conversation into a controversy. “You’ve found me out.” He sighed, then sped up toward the house.

  Northern Gardens looked wildly different at night than it did in the daytime. Whereas sunshine cast a picturesque glow on the house, darkness lengthened its pleasing proportions, causing the house to look foreboding. This quality was even more pronounced from Tripler and Jake’s position on the lawn. Looking up at the house, the four-story structure seemed ghoulishly tall, its Victorian flourishes—ornate trim on the eaves, swirling wooden brackets on the porch—overwrought and manipulative, like gumdrops on a gingerbread house. The only lit window in the house—in Lila’s bedroom on the third floor—added a strange macabre note, evidence of the quintessential madwoman, locked in the attic.

  Still, Tripler was not easily daunted, and climbed the stairs to the porch.

  Jake remained still, feet fixed to the lawn, debating his next move. Was it too late to bow out of the search? Would that make him look weak or, worse, callous? He could think of nothing worse than barging into a house full of sleeping guests. One unlucky step on a creaky floorboard—this house was surely a minefield—and he would face Augusta, mouth agape, in a hastily lit hallway. What excuse could he possibly offer for trespassing?

  “Why, hello, Mrs. Hayes. Just wanted a last glimpse of your lovely daughter.” And then, a polite do-si-do in the hall. He would sooner die. He looked back toward the ocean, then to the Gettys’. A whispered apology and a sprint across the lawn seemed like his best option.

  Sensing Jake’s unease, Tripler assumed the chipper tone of a camp counselor. “Come on, this is going to be fun,” she said. She crossed the porch and opened the back door confidently, as though she were returning to her own house after a pleasant evening out.

  “Are you coming?” she whispered.

  “What are we going to do?” Jake barked. “Jump into bed with them?”

  “No.” Tripler sighed. “We’ll just crack the door, make sure he’s alive, then leave.”

  Jake said nothing. He continued to stare sullenly at the back door.

  Tripler crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. “Don’t be retarded,” she said.

  Jake remained still for another moment. In his own home, he was accustomed to winning arguments like this, so much so that he was almost curious to discover how it might feel to lose one. A rush of wind rattled the door as though cued by Tripler to goad him inside. Lacking the energy for a dispute, he crossed the porch and followed Tripler into the house.

  In some ways, Jake Chapman was more vulnerable than most to the influence of his peers. He was, even as he neared thirty, a hopeless mama’s boy. Raised in Cambridge, the son of a Boston socialite and an English professor, he had been cursed with the worst of two worlds: an oppressive emphasis on status and a shortage of cash. This confusion of values had resulted in a confusing childhood. While Mrs. Chapman provided invitations to all the best cocktail parties, Professor Chapman ensured that Jake had something to say when he arrived. While Mrs. Chapman shared her memberships with her son—the Country Club in Brookline, the University Club in New York—Jake’s father shared Marx and Engels and explained the evils of the elite.

  For a time, Professor Chapman won out, steering Jake toward the writing life. A felt fedora and full access to Widener Library made this a plausible fate. Hours were clocked in Cambridge cafes; moleskin journals filled with poems about the violet hour. And soon enough, Cambridge coeds replaced the color of the sky as Jake’s favored subject. High school confirmed Jake’s promise with an auspicious prize: the Alice K. Stevenson Award for excellence in creative writing. With it, he won a five-hundred-dollar stipend and the respect of every girl in his graduating class.

  The next fall at Yale, he capitalized on the trend, camping out at the doors of the blue clapboard house that was home to the Lit, Yale’s literary magazine. In its cavernous halls, he found new inspiration: a masthead staffed by beautiful brunettes and a clubhouse where he could crash in between classes. These editors, in their strict uniform of black turtlenecks and brown corduroy skirts, seemed to Jake like modern-day muses. They were, in turn, impressed by Jake’s quintessential New England charm—he was like a real-life Holden Caulfield! By sophomore year, Jake had seen three short stories published and been tapped as a shoo-in for editor in chief. He vowed to write his first novel by the time he turned twenty-one.

  Seven years later, he had yet to write another paragraph. After graduation, he accepted a position at a prestigious New York hedge fund, promising that he would write at night and on the weekends. But as time passed, the goal slowly lost its urgency. He began to view writing as a petty ambition, a frivolous and indulgent whim, creativity itself as the pathology of the very young or very stupid. The shift was painless. Gradually, money grew to inhabit the same part of his brain that art had once occupied. The transition from a literary to a luxurious life was as easy and mindless as slipping from sobriety to a high.

  Now, as he entered the Hayeses’ living room, he wished for that very transition—from sobriety to intoxication. It was no coincidence that his mood had suffered with the fade of his wine buzz. Frantic now, he scanned the room for emergency relief. Surely, he could not be too far from the Hayeses’ well-stocked bar.

  To Tripler, the living room offered just the refuge she had craved. It was bathed in a pleasant lavender light—the weather had served as a gentle dimmer for the light of the moon. Two sofas, cream chintz with a botanical print, faced each other like rapt lovers. Their pillows were buoyant and full, as though they had just been fluffed. A cashmere throw curled across the sofa, inviting guests to settle in for a nap. The walls were covered with an elegant damask that looked, in the minimal light, like a velvety film of moss. Tripler relaxed within seconds of entering the room. Sighing dramatically, she threw herself onto a sofa with total disregard for her damp clothes. She sunk in and patted the cushion beside her, inviting Jake to join her.

  Jake ignored the summons and circled the sofa leisurely, scanning the room for a bar. He paused at a table covered with framed photographs, distracted from his mission by a Hayes family portrait.

  “Wanna know a secret,” Tripler asked. She was now reclining on the sofa, one leg dangling over the upholstered arm.

  “Sure,” said Jake. He knew perfectly well his response was irrelevant. Tripler would share her secret regardless.

  “Annie’s pregnant,” Tripler declared. “I’d say three, no four months.”

  “Wow. That’s great,” said Jake. “When did she tell everyone?”

  “She didn’t,” said Tripler. “I figured it out.”

  “Oh.” Jake nodded. He replaced a frame on the table and lifted a new one.
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br />   “She had half a glass of wine tonight!” Tripler scoffed. She might as well have outed Annie for committing a violent crime. “The girl can’t get through Sunday brunch without a drink. I’m telling you. Preggers. A million to one.”

  “Hmm,” said Jake. He replaced the current frame and picked up another.

  “I just find it so precious,” Tripler went on. “The whole veil of secrecy. I talk to the girl every day. If she’s going to bother me with all the boring shit, the least she could do is share the fun stuff.”

  Jake nodded. It was the largest gesture he could muster without losing his concentration. He was intent on offering Tripler the same portion of his brain that he devoted to reading books in bed. Without fail, within five pages, he was usually out.

  “She looks pretty chunky,” Tripler added.

  “No, she doesn’t,” said Jake.

  “You guys will know the day I miss my period,” she said. “There will be no awkward speculation phase where everyone thinks I’ve put on a few pounds.”

  “Don’t people usually keep that secret in case something goes wrong?”

  “Yeah, but that’s bullshit,” Tripler said. “It’s just another antiquated Wasp custom designed to punish emotions. If something terrible happens to me, it’s not my job to spare you from my pain.”

  It was custom when the friends convened in pairs to indulge in proprietary gossip, to discuss and analyze each other with surgical precision, exhibiting such detachment and cruelty at times that a witness might assume they were enemies as opposed to very dear friends. But this, they felt, was one of the privileges of their long-standing history, as though the time they’d spent together exempted them from basic social amenities like kindness and compassion.

  Jake nodded again without looking toward Tripler. Occasionally, she backed her way into a version of sense. It was certainly not common sense, but once in a while, it added up.

  Tripler watched as Jake lifted a frame to his face, then, tiring of his neglect, instigated a new conversation. “You guys must be gearing up, too,” she said.

  “That’s none of your business, Trip,” said Jake.

  “Oh come on, I’m Weesie’s best friend.”

  “Then I’ll let her tell you.”

  “Maybe she has already.”

  “Highly unlikely,” said Jake.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she doesn’t want them for a while.”

  “Really?”

  Jake sighed, kicking himself for the naïve mistake. Tripler had the most amazing knack for teasing information out of people. She should have put this skill to use as a reporter or prosecutor instead of wasting her mind and talent on—what was she, anyway? An actress?

  “Weesie never tells me anything anymore.” Tripler pouted. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jake said. “Besides, she’ll change her mind next week. Decide she wants quadruplets.” Tripler shuddered theatrically.

  Jake kicked himself for trading his wife’s secrets for Tripler’s consolation.

  “How is Weesie anyway,” she demanded, assuming the overly interested tone of a television talk-show host. “I feel like we’ve grown apart.”

  “She’s fine,” said Jake without looking up. He was transfixed by a photo of Augusta and William taken early in their marriage. In it, they bore an eerie resemblance to Lila and Tom—the same beauty, the same vague boredom.

  “Good,” said Tripler. “She seems good.” She paused. “I mean she seems better.”

  Finally, Jake took Tripler’s bait. “Better? Why? Was something wrong?”

  “Oh no, not wrong,” Tripler said. She played nonchalance in a way that exaggerated, rather than minimized, concern. “I just know she was having a hard time. With the job and everything.”

  “Well yeah,” Jake said. “And her father, of course.”

  “Yes,” Tripler said. “I’m so sorry. But I’d heard there’d been some improvement.”

  Jake nodded. But as he did, he swallowed annoyance again. Friendships between women so often compromised the privacy of their husbands. How was he to know what Weesie shared with Tripler about their marriage? It was like sitting in the room with a criminal detective—he had no choice but to spill everything. “And we started counseling, as you surely know.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize,” Tripler gasped.

  “Oh,” said Jake. “Well, now you know.” It was settled: He didn’t like Tripler anymore. Now that he thought of it, had he ever?

  Sensing Jake’s irritation, Tripler strained to change the subject again. She scanned the room imperiously as though she, too, owned a seaside estate and was specially qualified to appraise their parlors. “Augusta did a great job with the renovation.”

  Jake said nothing, giving up on the pretense of courtesy.

  “It kind of makes you think,” Tripler said.

  Jake responded reluctantly. “About what?”

  “Just about this house, you know. About the Hayes family.”

  Jake focused intently on the photograph in his hands, and it did its part to hold his gaze: Lila, age twelve, in a white tennis skirt. Her legs were like flamingos’ legs, all limbs and kneecaps, but her smile betrayed the same certainty and condescension she possessed as an adult.

  “You ever think there was something odd about how Tom and Lila started dating?”

  “No,” said Jake. As he stared at Lila’s picture, he could smell the sunscreen on her shoulders.

  “It was right after we came here sophomore spring. Remember, we all drove up for that long weekend?”

  Jake mustered a nod. His pretense of distraction had become authentic. Perhaps Tripler was right. The thought of landing in Lila’s bed right now seemed totally appealing.

  “Don’t you think that’s an odd coincidence?”

  “Don’t be retarded,” said Jake. But he was talking to himself more than her. He had seen many tennis skirts in his day but rarely one that beckoned quite so insistently. As he stared, he imagined the underwear beneath—was it plain, patterned, ruffled? Suddenly, his concern for Tom doubled. Any man with a claim on this body should not have been hard to locate.

  Tripler took silence as evidence of interest and continued to build her argument. “He asked her out three days after we got back. Three days,” she repeated.

  Finally, Jake turned to Tripler. With her legs propped up, her arms stretched above her head, she was a perfect portrait of entitlement. “We were in college,” he sneered. “No one cared about real estate yet.”

  “True, but all of this.” She gestured grandly toward the window. “It registered on some level.”

  “We’d all seen it before.” Jake shrugged.

  “You and I had,” Tripler pressed.

  Jake exhaled, disengaging again. He finally understood why Tripler and Weesie fought so much.

  “I’m just saying it registered with Tom.” She sank deeper into her cushion as though pulled by the force of her conviction.

  “You think Tom started dating Lila because he coveted her parents’ fortune?”

  “You make it sound like an episode of Dynasty.”

  “But that’s what you’re saying, right?” he pressed.

  “All I’m saying is I think it’s weird,” she snapped.

  Now Jake rose to Tom’s defense. “Tom’s no worse than anyone else in this group. Everyone’s got their little act. Laura’s a Jew, pretending to be a Wasp. Oscar’s gay, pretending to be straight. Weesie’s a bore, pretending to be fun. Pete’s rich, pretending to be poor. Annie’s poor, pretending to be rich. You’re intense, pretending to be laid-back. I don’t see the difference.”

  “And what are you?”

  “I’m just a miserable bastard, pretending to give a shit.”

  “Could have fooled me,” she said. Why did Jake hate her so much? But she pressed her point. “You grew up with all this. Imagine seeing it for the first time.” She paused to select her words carefully. “All I’m saying is I think Lila’s lifestyle appealed to Tom jus
t like her perfect tits appeal to you.”

  “I’m sure those appeal to Tom as well,” Jake snapped.

  Tripler shrugged and looked away. Though she had won the argument, she registered a painful defeat: another compliment paid to a friend.

  EIGHT

  Weesie said horribly awkward things even when she felt comfortable. When she was nervous, she could be counted on for abject mortification. She knew it was almost always better just to be quiet. But the habit was so deeply ingrained that it functioned like personality. As she and Pete traipsed across the grass to the Gettys’, she made the usual mistake.

  “The rehearsal dinner was lovely, don’t you think. I thought it was lovely.”

  “Yeah,” Pete agreed. “How about those speeches.”

  “God,” Weesie said. “I can’t believe Chip.”

  Pete sighed and shook his head, summarizing his feelings on the subject.

  Weesie racked her brain for a new topic, something that would last a few minutes, at least. “So we’ve been assigned to the bedrooms,” she said.

  “Yup,” said Pete.

  Weesie turned back toward the main house and caught a last glance of Tripler and Jake fading into the darkness.

  “You trust him, of course,” Pete asked.

  “Who? Jake?” Weesie stammered. “Yes, of course.”

  “Good,” said Pete. “That makes me feel better. ’Cause I don’t trust Tripler one bit.”

  Weesie laughed. For some reason, the knowledge that they shared this concern relieved her of it. Comforted, she walked in silence until they reached the front door of the house.

  One of the benefits of being partnered with Pete was that he turned on the lights. Jake would not have turned on the lights. Jake would have clutched her arm, terrified of every shadow and sound, including the ones he produced. As a result, it was an utter shock to Weesie when Pete dispatched her to wait in the foyer while he calmly completed a walk-through of the Gettys’, checking every dark room for signs of Tom without so much as a flinch.