Best Friends

by Thomas Berger

  This was an unpleasant reminder of the earlier part of his day. It was not easy to keep anguish at a distance.

  “Is this furniture yours? And that tapestry?”

  “Some of it is inherited stuff. The rest is on loan from Mrs. Swanson.” Whom he identified for Suzanne.

  “She lives in the rest of this castle?”

  “In the sense that I’m her only tenant,” Roy said. “I think she actually occupies fewer rooms than I’ve got. She’s almost ninety, with a female companion in her late seventies.”

  “Bet you’ve got a rent-free deal for mowing the lawn and carrying out the garbage,” said Suzanne, lightly punching him in his right biceps. She winced. “What have you got up your sleeve? A wooden arm? I think I busted a knuckle.”

  They were entering what might have served as a dining room had not Roy furnished it as a gymnasium instead, with floor mats, loose weights, a lifting bench, and a tall, elaborately branched contraption of black steel that in another context might pass as a work of kinetic art.

  “Your chamber of horrors,” Suzanne noted. “And that’s your torture machine. What kind of hell have I gotten myself into?” She went to the Bowflex and touched one of its many extremities. “This is that exercise gadget I’ve seen advertised on TV. I didn’t know anybody actually owned one.” She turned back to him. “The mystery of your arm is solved. In my line you seldom encounter anyone so healthy.”

  “I’ve been working out since I was a kid. It just got to be a habit. I probably couldn’t stop now if I wanted to.” With women he often felt as if he should apologize for weight training. With men it was the other fellow who was put on the defensive, unless he too performed heavy lifting—but if he had a job in which it was a requirement, he felt superior to the recreational athlete.

  She smiled. “I can find it in my heart to forgive you, but only if you give me a real drink and not some cat piss from the Juiceman.”

  “I’m not too much of a nutrition crank,” said Roy, conducting her along the hallway and into the kitchen, “and no teetotaller.”

  “Now this,” said Suzanne, who was still wearing her raincoat, “is the first room that makes sense. It’s big enough without being outlandish. It’s also the first that looks as if it could have been used by servants. I like that long table.”

  The kitchen was smaller than the Grandys’, but had ample space for a big central table of oil-finished wood under a hanging lamp. Roy took away Suzanne’s coat and returned to list for her the available libations. She chose Maker’s Mark, neat. She had meant it when asking for a real drink. Roy had heard that the hard stuff was coming back into fashion, but had not till now met any female who displayed that taste. Perhaps he was on his way to fogeyhood. When he looked at Suzanne with age in mind, he estimated she was probably still in her twenties, younger than he by five or six years; Francine had been almost three years older. He was not attracted to youth as such. There was something about Suzanne, despite her wisecracking insolence, that seemed basically old-fashioned. Perhaps it was her white uniform; nursing was not a fashionable profession for the young women of today.

  “What did you do with your hat?” he asked when they were seated at the table with their whiskey.

  “I had already put it in the car when I spotted you looking like you were going to faint.” She swallowed the remaining third of the liquid in her glass and narrowed her pale-lashed eyes. “You’re not one of those who likes to be paddled by someone dressed as a nurse?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” His drink was diluted with water and ice. The cubes clinked unpleasantly against his teeth, so he rose and ditched them in the sink, then reinforced his glass from the bottle, which he afterward brought to the table. “I don’t want to be accused of plying you with strong drink, so please help yourself.”

  “I trust you,” said she. “Mostly because you do not call me Suzie.”

  He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “He who avoids diminutives, in a minimizing world, can be relied on absolutely.” He could not remember whether that was a quotation.

  She became solemn for a moment. “This is a professional question. You’re not drunk, are you? That wasn’t why you looked like that in the parking lot?”

  “This is the first alcohol I’ve had all day. I’m feeling it already, on an empty stomach.” He lowered the empty glass. “What would you like to eat? There are some places I can call for edible take-out. Say, the veal chop and wild mushrooms from the Maison or white truffle pasta from San Pietro.”

  “I’ve never eaten that kind of stuff,” Suzanne said. “It would be lost on me. I probably couldn’t hold it down.” She poured herself a stiff portion of Maker’s Mark. “I’m not playing poor little poor girl, believe me, but I can’t afford expensive food, and while my friend of recent memory could, he spent it all on his wife and kids.” She swallowed some bourbon. “As he should have, let it be said! I’m no enemy of society.” She drank some more. “I’d settle for some crackers and cheese, though I guess what you would have is Brie.”

  He went to the fridge and peered within. “How about Gorgonzola?”

  “Is that full of blue veins? I see enough of those when I take a shower.”

  “Cashew butter?”

  “Is that like peanut butter only with cashews? Where in the hell would you get something like that?”

  “My brother-in-law,” said Roy. “Somebody gave it to him, and he thought I might eat it. I haven’t. That was months ago. It might be rancid by now. I’m going to toss it one of these days.”

  She was at his side, looking into the almost vacant refrigerator, holding her glass. “You eat every meal out? That must run into money.”

  He pointed to the condiment-laden shelves in the door. “I live on whole-grain mustard, cornichons, and pepperoncini.”

  “You’re rich, aren’t you?” asked Suzanne. “According to your friend.” She appeared to be more curious than resentful.

  Of course this question had been directed to him before, in one way or another, usually unspoken. It always seemed rude, but he was aware that many of those to whom it was of interest, if sober, intended no insult.

  “I’ve had a small business for seven years,” he said after another sip from the glass he had returned to. “It’s consistently been in the red, even when I pay myself no salary.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Suzanne said. “That’s all I mean. If that’s the case, then you’ve got other income. I couldn’t go without a salary for seven days.”

  Sam’s gratuitous contribution was festering under Roy’s skin, but he would not reflect aloud on his friend, except to say, “He shouldn’t go around giving people the wrong impression.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not criticizing you.” She refreshed her glass from the bottle and sat down again. “Mr. Grandy himself seems to do well. He’s got some wife.”

  Roy was prepared to take offense. Fortunately he did not, for before he could ask aggressively, “What do you mean?” Suzanne said, “What a classy lady. I guess I should hate somebody like her, but I have too much awe for real quality.”

  Roy was now drunk enough so that he had to be careful of his speech, especially the pronunciation of names with sibilants. “I’m glad to hear you say that, because Kristin’s father started out as a driver for a trucking company, and her mother was a waitress at the lunch counter across the street.”

  “You’ve just stripped me of every excuse for being a clod,” Suzanne said with mock chagrin. “Except I did get moved around a lot as a kid. My dad’s a career army officer, and my mother got a B.A. and once published a children’s book.”

  “Positively lace-curtain,” said Roy. “I should go on to say that by the time Kristin grew up, though, her father had his own trucking business. He and her mother drove twin white Cadillacs.”

  “Oh.” She inspected his face, eye by eye. “You’re making that up.”

  “Of course not.”

  She displayed a triumphant if slightly blurry grin
. “My mother never published a book. She used to talk about writing one about army kids, the way they see the world.” She emptied what was left in the glass, then swallowed some air, making a deliberate process of it, raising her eyebrows when it was over. Roy realized they were cosmetically darkened, else they would probably have been pale as the lashes she forgot to color. The freckles were subdued on her cheeks, perhaps by makeup, but more prominent across her small nose. He liked her more and more, but if anything, desired her less.

  “If I don’t get out of here now, I’ll be in no condition to drive.” Yet she made no move to go, sitting there at his table in her white nylon outfit.

  “It’s already too late for that,” said Roy. “What you need is food.”

  “I have to go to the toilet.” She stood up, more staunchly than he had expected.

  “First door on the right.” He curved his finger to suggest the turn. As soon as she was gone he felt worse than he would have if he had faced the evening alone. He wished he had never imposed himself upon her.

  When Suzanne returned, he apologized.

  “For what? I’m having a great time.”

  “You’re being ironic.”

  “Really, I’m not. I might be exaggerating a little…. But I wouldn’t want to be anyplace else.” She took his hand. “I just wish I could help.”

  He related the salient events of the last twenty-four hours, omitting only Sam’s unprecedented turning on him, which, though not involving loss of life, had left a disabling wound.

  When he had finished, Suzanne took his hand again. “Come on, Roy. At least I can hold you.” She led him along the hall to the right bedroom, though she had never been here before and there was a choice.

  The answering machine was blinking redly. He disconnected it and the telephone before taking off his clothes. She was already in bed when he turned. Of her body he saw only her very white shoulders, and that was just as well, because he did not want her. Her flesh was warmer than expected when he lay down and she rolled against him. Now that he was here, he wanted to hold and not be held.

  …He understood that he had fallen asleep only when he awoke at three-thirty. The bedside lamps were still burning and Suzanne was asleep in his arms. Had they done anything? It was unlikely. He had never been so drunk as to lose that sort of memory. He visited and returned from the bathroom without waking her. He turned off the lamps and slept till the digital clock on the dresser registered, in big red numerals, seven-thirty a.m.

  The place beside him was empty and not even warm. He could not find her anywhere throughout the apartment. Finally he penetrated far enough into the kitchen to see the note, held down and obscured by its saucepan anchor:

  Roy—

  Had to get to work. Thanks for the drinks. I’m sorry I disappointed you by not wanting anything to eat. We live in different worlds. I do hope your fortunes take a turn for the better. You are a good guy.

  S.

  PS: Unless you tell me it’s okay, I won’t say anything to your friend.

  Roy discovered he was naked except for slip-on sandals and repaired to the bathroom lest it be one of the days the cleaning woman was due; he could never remember which. But she had standing orders, when arriving early, not to open any door firmly closed.

  After dressing, he reconnected the answering machine, which resumed its frenetic blinking, and the telephone, which immediately rang. He answered and heard the voice of his lawyer, Seymour Alt.

  “I’m due in court and can’t enjoy a leisurely conversation. I won’t ask where you’ve been, but I have been trying to reach you for twelve hours. Just as I advised when you came up with the idea, Francine Holbrook’s survivors, as well as those of her late husband, not only rejected your offer to give financial assistance to her children, but are about to sue you for provoking the incident which led to the deaths of the parents. Also, the police are looking for you.”

  Roy found the first matter so outrageous that he postponed facing it until he had disposed of the lesser problem. “The cops know where I live. I’ve been here all night. What do they want? To arrest me for murder?”

  Alt, however, preferred the former. “I don’t know yet if there’ll be two suits. Either way, it could be for big money.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We should probably begin to think about dealing. We don’t have to let on to them—as if they wouldn’t know! Francine’s brother and sister-in-law are represented by Ashford, Fine & Corrigan. There’s nobody better.”

  While being cockily aggressive with adversaries and obsequious with anyone addressed as Your Honor, Alt habitually employed a professional pessimism with clients, but Roy had never heard him this defeatist.

  “It stinks, Sy.”

  “I got to go, Roy. We can talk divine injustice on Sunday morning. I hope you’re still on.”

  “I don’t want to look at a golf club at the moment.”

  “Make your mind up by tomorrow. I need to fill out the foursome.”

  Roy listened to the messages on his machine. The first was from Chief of Police Albrecht, asking him to get in touch. The next had been left by a Midwestern scout of his who had located in an Indiana barn a rusted but restorable example of the classic Cord 810 of 1937.

  The final message was registered as of 7:22 the evening before, which signified that it had long been there when he went to bed with Suzanne. He felt an odd initial thrill when he heard the voice, but that was gone as soon as it had come.

  “Roy, Kristin. Sam has had another scare. I’m in the car now, en route to the hospital. I’ll try your cell phone again. The time is”—she paused to check and then came back to report it. She ended the call. Her voice was cool as ever and did not waste a word.

  It was now half a day later, and his best friend could well be dead. They had last parted with jealous rage on Sam’s side and bitter disgust on his own. That might have been enough to kill one of them.

  6

  Roy immediately tried to reach Kristin at the bank, but whomever it was he spoke to, perhaps for reasons of security, had no information on Sam’s condition and declined to say where Kristin might be found. Calling the Grandy house, he was obliged to speak with the Central American cleaning woman, whose distraught replies were incomprehensible to him. Maria was partial to Sam, the most generous of employers.

  Roy had no confidence that the urgent requests he left at both places for Kristin to contact him would ever reach her, but he did not know what else to do at the moment. Showing up at the hospital without first clearing the way might only damage Sam further, if indeed his friend had survived the night.

  He forgetfully phoned Mrs. Forsythe, who was not due till noon, and was greeted by his own recorded voice. He punched in the code by which he could listen to the incoming calls that had accumulated on the office machine. Most favored clients had his unlisted home number. All others used either the business line or e-mail. Roy usually let Mrs. Forsythe deal with the latter; she was the one whose fingers operated the keyboard. The texts, responses to his ads on Websites and in classic-car magazines, were supplied by him, but he disliked submitting himself in person to the Internet, which had not existed at the time his youngest cars had been made.

  He heard nothing of interest, and two messages had negative connotations. He was insulted by an offer of $10,000 on the ‘63 E-Type Jag, fully restored but needing new paint, for which he was asking a modest twenty-five large; and an overly intimate-sounding vocal note from a woman he scarcely knew would have embarrassed him had it been collected by Mrs. F.

  Though not a true man of action, as he had discovered in amateur sports-car racing a decade earlier, unwilling as he was to go quite as far as it took to finish before those who would put their life on the line for a minor trophy, Roy found motion a more useful state in which to deal with his feelings than any pursued through a static means. Meditation, contemplation of his navel or the wall, made him only more anxious.

  The reference to the Jaguar
XKE reminded him that unless it had been stolen it was parked outside, where uncharacteristically he had left it the evening before. The odd experience with Suzanne Akins now seemed like one of those inconclusive dreams that can barely be remembered a moment after awakening. He went down to the car, which was unharmed by a dry night though somewhat dusty from the driveway, started the throaty engine, and accelerated, recklessly scattering gravel, out onto the road, heading away from town. He had not really driven at speed, 100 mph or better, time out of mind. The thruway, with its long level straightaways, ideal for fast driving to the automotively naïve, was boring; also it was heavily policed, radared and lasered. The twisting back roads could be hazardous, not so much for the skilled driver as for the cyclists and runners who frequented them in strength; but once behind the wheel, with the powerful engine under his control, Roy converted his initial depression into defiance, though against whom he could not have said. Against what was a better question, the answer to which would have been: a sequence of negation, bad to worse. Sam, Francine, Sam again and still, the only affirmative having been the newly established friendship with Kristin, which soon enough was denied him.

  He drove deep into a corner, braking, then downshifting at the precise point that enabled the car to accelerate out, overcoming centrifugal force, without loss of rpms. He still had the touch. At appropriate points he glanced at the tach and not the speedometer. How fast he drove was irrelevant to the joy of driving well.

  The police car announced its presence too soon, sounding its siren when still far behind him. On a road like this, in an E-Type, he could put a second turn between himself and even a souped-up Crown Victoria before the cop could maintain adhesion through the first. And so he did, then just before a sweeping right-hand bend saw a blacktop lane on the left, probably a long private driveway to a house concealed from the main road by the grove of thick evergreens an eighth of a mile away.