by Chris Knopf
Most of the people there under forty were hawking trays of prosciutto-encased shrimp and endive slathered in cream cheese. The rest were either flush with fresh-faced excitement or standing around nervously, looking like newly minted social aspirants. Some even younger were there only through the coercion of parents or grandparents. Whippet thin, or softened by vestiges of baby fat, slack-jawed and heavy-lidded, the girls spoke to each other without making eye contact, and the boys, some looking as if they’d recently carried off a cruel practical joke, slouched in unconstructed Armanis and woven-leather slip-ons, consoled by the certainty of outliving their extortioners, but not their bank accounts.
A huge blond woman crammed into a bright red cartoon of a crinkly red dress suddenly burst out of nowhere and almost knocked us down trying to capture Amanda in an awkward embrace.
“Amanda, the black,” she said. “Just to die.”
“And look at you,” said Amanda.
Which I did until I recognized her.
“Robin. Long time no see,” I said, putting out my hand.
“Actually I saw you last, since you were unconscious at the time,” she said, holding my hand longer than I needed her to.
“I never thanked you for driving me to the hospital.”
“Laura drove. I mopped up blood. Same diff. You’d do the same, I’m sure.”
Robin and her business partner Laura sold real estate. It had been a good few years for them, proven by her being at the fundraiser, the price of entry comparable to most people’s monthly take home. She guessed I was looking around for Laura.
“She’s home. Says she always gets drunk at these things and makes a fool of herself. In reality, hardly touches a drop. I think she means I make a fool of myself. But I don’t care.”
I’d never seen her under a bright light. The thick layer of makeup on her face smoothed out what excess weight hadn’t already filled in. Her hair, rich blond in the dim light of a nightclub, looked almost green under the diffused glow beneath the tent. She had a glass of white wine in her hand that she used as a device for emphasizing the back half of every sentence, miraculously keeping most of the wine in the glass. Maybe because she’d braced herself with a tight grip on my coat sleeve. Abby would have noticed the patch of wrinkles left by her moist clenched hand.
“I bet there’s a bar here somewhere,” I said, gently pulling back from her grasp.
Amanda slid her hand under my arm and led me away.
“You know how he gets when he’s thirsty,” she called back to Robin.
“I don’t, but that’s okay. I know how I get.”
The drink table was commanded by two Asian women with platinum blond hair and silver lipstick wearing bow ties and tuxedo jackets, sans tuxedo shirts. They looked like a pair of retro Playboy bunny, Japanese punk, off-planet archetypes, fitting into the tired old money ambience of the fundraiser about as well as a team of professional wrestlers. It made me feel a little better about my stupid T-shirt.
“The Pinot for me,” said Amanda, “Absolut for him, on the rocks. A double. Keep him occupied for a few minutes.”
I was grateful for the drink. It’d been so long since I’d been around any kind of a crowd, let alone this kind.
“It’s not that bad,” said Amanda, reading my mind. “Drink up. I’ll drive.”
Abby my ex-wife, would have been intoxicated simply by the idea of the scene under the tent. It would have been her natural element, her aspiration and fulfillment, the consummation of all she held dear. If called upon, she could have parsed the whole gathering into specific social strata, the virtuous and venal alike, guided merely by the length of dangles on an earring, or the stitching on the placket of an oxford-cloth shirt.
“Which one is Butch Ellington?” I asked.
“You’ll know.”
Right then someone over in front of the jazz band called to her, and she let go of my arm and glided away. I dealt with the sudden trauma of abandonment by refilling my glass and heading toward the periphery of the event. This gave me a good perspective on the crowd, which eventually yielded results.
Even from a distance he stood out. Average height, but made taller by an unkempt ball of curly reddish brown hair, perfectly round plastic-rimmed glasses over tired eyes, decent shoulders but a tidy pot belly balled up above slender legs slid into old-fashioned boot-flared Levis. His T-shirt was bright white, and unlike mine made of regular T-shirt cotton. Like Robin, he was using his drink, something amber on the rocks, as a facilitator of conversation, but with even more animation. His target was a tall slender woman with straight, unnaturally black hair with shiny bangs cut straight across her forehead. She leaned back a little as if buffeted by his enthusiasm, but was holding her ground.
I didn’t see much of Jonathan in him, but I expected that.
Back-to-back with Butch was a large woman, almost his height, with a round face and frizzy gray hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore a blousy native dress with lots of pleats and heavy embroidery that tried unsuccessfully to divert attention from her zaftig figure. She had rings on her toes and a massive necklace made of multiple strings of little wooden balls. I thought about rows of peasants turning them out on tiny little lathes. Like Butch, she was energetically engaged, in her case with a natty old guy in thin wire-rims and white patent-leather shoes.
Amanda must have caught sight of them at about the same time. I saw her working through the crowd in their direction. She got there several steps ahead of me.
“You probably know everything about coastal sand flow,” I heard Butch say to her as she approached. “Amanda’s lived here her whole life,” he said, spotting me coming in on a separate tack. “Everybody thinks sand comes in from the ocean like the waves, only of course it doesn’t, because even the waves are deceptions. The coast is actually just like a river, flowing parallel to the beach, the direction changing with the tides and winds, the intensity dependent on vast oceanic and subterranean forces nobody can even imagine much less control. These fools with their bulkheads and abatements. It makes you laugh. Everything they do makes it worse for themselves. Building castles made of sand, metaphorically speaking and then some, don’t you think, Amanda? Man, you are a stunning thing. Isn’t she, Dione?”
By this time he’d turned his back on the tall black-haired lady and was gathering Amanda into a much more fluidly executed hug than the one Robin had given her. Dione jumped into the action, wrapping her arms around the two of them. I kept a safe distance.
“I want you to meet someone,” said Amanda in a muffled tone from somewhere inside the crush of affection. I waited for her to emerge.
“Butch Ellington and Dione O’Connor, this is Sam Acquillo.”
“Aquila. You must be an eagle. An Italian eagle,” said Butch, grabbing my hand in a sturdy handshake.
“It’s Acquillo. Add a C, change the O to an A, then add another L. Probably means pigeon or something. Or ‘stay clear of eagles.’”
Now that I was closer I saw Butch had the tuck of a scar on his upper lip that usually meant a cleft palate. I listened for the telltale in his diction, but didn’t hear it. Or the words went by too fast to discern.
“I haven’t actually lived here my whole life, Butch,” said Amanda, “but I know the coast is like a river. I’ve actually swum in the Atlantic Ocean.”
“So you’re both Italians,” said Butch, “you must be related.”
“Only by neighborhood,” I told him.
“Sam is really a Frenchman, he likes to say” said Amanda. “I think because the French are more likely to offend ordinary Americans.”
“Then why aren’t you Sam Aigle?”
“French Canadian,” I said. “More likely to offend ordinary Frenchmen.”
Standing with the Ellingtons made you feel like you’d just been dragged out of a theater audience for use as an onstage foil. Though more benign, innocent as they seemed in their unabashed gusto.
“I think Amanda is just a doll, don’t you, Sam?”
Dione asked me, smiling hugely.
“Her mother was a doll maker. Might explain it.”
“Hey,” said Butch to Amanda, “I was thinking of you the other day at the studio. We were talking about the Giant Finger Up the Ass of Authority and where in hell we’re going to construct it. And Edgar said, what the hey, what about the WB building? Am I right? Aren’t we talking, like, huge empty space, out of the weather? Sitting there doing nothing? And it’s, like, yours now, right? Think how that’d make you feel, knowing you made it all possible.”
He took hold of her by the shoulders, which caused her to stiffen slightly.
“Come on, Amanda, don’t get all authoritarian on me.”
“So a Giant Finger Up the Ass would be therapeutic?” she asked.
“It’s a sculpture,” said Dione for my benefit. “Plate steel. Gobs of rivets and welds. Thirty-seven feet high, Butch is thinking.”
“It might be fine, Butch,” said Amanda, “I just need to figure things out.”
Butch was already smiling, but the smile grew, stretching the shiny white crimp in his upper lip until you could almost see through the translucent scar tissue. He gripped both sides of Amanda’s head and kissed her hard at the hairline. I took a step closer, out of habit.
“I love you, Amanda, have I told you that? You need some help figuring, I’ve got this guy who rehabs factory space in Brooklyn. I can give you his number. He buys our paintings, some of the big ones. He’s cool. He’s like this dharma plutocrat. Like some Eastern European, Czech or something. Beautiful-looking guy, like sixty-five years old. Shaped like a bull. Loves to fuck. Women, I think, mostly. Hey you want something to drink? What’s that, wine? Gimme your glasses. Don’t stop me, I’m foraging. Nobody move. Dione, talk to Sam. You know French.”
He left before I could guide him on vodka selection. Dione beamed at us like an Irish-American Buddha in drag. Her face was broad and slightly freckled, contrasting nicely with her gray hair, threaded with streaks of dark brown. A light gleam of sweat had formed on her forehead and under her eyes. She wore no makeup, and doubtless no perfume, beyond the naturally occurring, which was easily discerned in the hot wet air beneath the tent.
“I don’t speak French,” I told her, “though I’m thinking of beefing up my Spanish. Coming up a lot lately.”
“Muchisimas personas Españolas pobres en el pueblo,” said Dione.
“Give it a generation. We’ll be working for them.”
“I hate polyglots,” said Amanda. “I always feel left out.”
“Sam is more optimistic about the prospects for our locally exploited Hispanics than I am,” Dione explained. “But it’s a nice thought.”
“I told Ling and Lo they could stay at the studio tonight if they wanted,” said Butch, arriving with the drinks bunched precariously between his two hands. “They work out of Newark. I mean that’s just nuts driving all the way back there. That’s not their names, Ling and Lo. I made that up. Probably a grave insult. If their fathers heard me I’d have a Samurai sword up my ass.”
“No improvement on a giant finger,” I said, helping extract the vodka from the middle of the cluster.
“How about you, Sam, from out of the City?” he asked.
“North Sea. Shorter drive.”
“I grew up in Shirley. I’m tempted to move back there just for the address. Shirley, New York. It’s like a dumb joke. ‘Where you from?’ ‘Shirley’ Who you calling Shirley?’ I could never say Shirley without saying, ‘Shirley you jest.’”
“Funny town.”
“You haven’t been here your whole life, though. I can tell from your accent. Sounds off-island. Connecticut?”
“Stamford.”
“Butch is amazing with accents,” said Dione, proudly.
“People have no idea how many American accents there are. Not as many as, say, sixty years ago, when elocutionists say we had, like what, five thousand. Now, I bet there’re only, what, eight hundred. Half of them within a two-hundred-mile radius of New York. TV wrecked regional accents. But they keep popping up anyway. Not just geographic but demographic. Every twenty-something in the country now talks like a Valley Girl. The human impulse to distinguish ourselves by place of origin is irresistible. Explains all these new reference groups. Identify with the tribe. How long you live in Connecticut?”
“Twenty years, give or take.”
“I figured. Not that Fairfield County is exactly Connecticut. More an appendage of Manhattan. New England doesn’t start till north of New Haven. North of Fairfield County you’d think you’re in Chicago, which makes no freaking sense at all. Pronounce car like care.”
“On Oak Point we avoid the word altogether. Ride bikes.”
He pulled back at that with a theatrical expression of astonishment. He pointed at me, then back at Amanda.
“Hey I just got it. You’re in Amanda’s new principality. Sucking up to the princess, eh?”
“Butch, honestly,” said Amanda.
“Nothing wrong with monarchical hierarchies, darling,” he said, patting her cheek. “We’re programmed for them, too. Christ, there’s almost nothing we do that isn’t totally programmed into our fucking DNA. If it wasn’t for random mutations occurring at the quantum level, there wouldn’t be any variation in behavior at all. We’d be like an ant colony. Who have queens, by the way, not sure about princesses. And generals and soldiers, and farmers, and naturally slaves. No artists, though, that’s a cinch. Cause too much social agitation. Can’t afford the hoi polloi witnessing perfect beauty and existential truth. First rule of mass control—kill the creators.”
“But not the engineers,” I said. “Somebody’s got to build the little tunnels.”
“Sam’s an engineer,” said Amanda, finally finding a spot to jump in.
“Singing my days, singing the great achievements of the present, singing the strong, light works of engineers,” said Butch. “Walt Whitman.”
“Quite a singer.”
“My favorite. Next to Caruso. And did I mention Albert Einstein?”
“Didn’t know he could sing.”
“No, but he was a great thinker.”
“Though a lousy dresser.”
“Einstein, Caruso, Picasso, Stravinsky and Joyce. They invented the twentieth century. Along with Conan Doyle.”
“Mysterious choice.”
“Read every story. Studied them. Highly underrated.”
I volunteered to go get the next round of drinks, hoping to rest up for the next round of shagging conversational grounders. A good choice, since it turned out to be another hour before the fundraisers finally judged the donors oiled up enough to start the extraction process. After listening to the announcement over the PA, I used what energy I had left to ease up to a new topic.
“By the way, Butch,” I said. “I’m sorry about what happened to Jonathan. Must have been hard.”
The mention of his brother had a certain cooling effect on the repartee. Both Butch and Dione continued smiling, but for the first time seemed a little stuck for words.
“Whoa,” said Dione, “bummer alert.”
“Sorry,” I said again. “Probably a painful subject.”
Butch shook his disheveled head of curly hair.
“Not at all, man,” he said. “It’s totally cool. Thanks for the thought. Whole thing sucks big time. You knew him?”
“No, but I’ve met Appolonia since. I was there when it happened. Only surviving witness. Me and my friend Jackie Swaitkowski.”
“His lawyer,” said Amanda.
Butch’s prevailing look of curious anticipation, sustained throughout the conversation, was now shaded with something more complicated. I felt a little bad for him.
“Look, I really am sorry,” I said. “I just thought since I had this connection with Jonathan it was unfair not to bring it up.”
“I said it’s cool. Really, it’s cool. I’ve been working it out. Jonathan and I weren’t, like, best buds, but that was more my fault. Typical di
ckhead little brother. Always had to bust his balls. She’s a creepy chick, though. Appolonia. Could never deal with that.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said Amanda, looking at Dione. “I would have said something before, but this is all news to me.” The pitch of her delivery was a little brighter than the subject seemed to call for. It must have carried a sub rosa communication to the other woman.
“Without mystery, there’d be no revelation,” said Dione, returning the serve.
I didn’t exactly know where that exchange was heading, but I felt the need for a quick diversion.
“You ever talk to any of Jonathan’s other clients? Joyce Whithers for example?” I asked Butch, looking at Dione to pull her attention back on me.
“Not unless you consider getting pissed on at the Silver Spoon for daring to wear blue jeans,” said Butch with an edge I hadn’t heard before.
Dione took his arm.
“Forbearance, lover.”
Butch smiled at her.
“When I was a kid I had a dog that loved everything and everybody on earth. People, squirrels, field mice, cats, other dogs, he just loved the crap out of everybody. Except for this one schnauzer. The little kind. Lived down the street. All my dog had to do was see this thing and he’d bust on over there and try to tear its heart out. And the feelings were entirely mutual. I don’t know what these dogs ever did to piss each other off so much, but it was a hatred as unalloyed as anything I’ve ever seen. It taught me that our eternal universe is held in balance by these random binary units of perfectly harmonized hate. Balanced in turn by equally rare and capricious dualities of pure love. I feel blessed beyond words to have met my divine attraction in Dione.”
She hugged him and beamed. He kissed her cheek.
