American Appetites (34 page)

Still Roberta persisted, as if they were really talking of something else, “Why
don't
you bring her along, though? Labor Day weekend. The camp breaks up about then.”

When their children were younger, and life had seemed, strangely, for all its surface difficulties, far easier to negotiate, the McCulloughs and the Grinnells had often spent parts of their summers together: at Cape Cod, or in Maine, or near Lake Placid in the Adirondacks, where Glynnis's family owned a camp (the “cottage” slept twelve adults, the property consisted of five hundred acres of pine forest); one memorable time the Grinnells met up with the McCulloughs in Italy, in Bellagio, where Ian was concluding his residency at the Rockefeller Center, and, in a rented van, the families made a tour through Italy, Greece, the south of France, Spain, and Portugal—an adventure of some six extravagant weeks that would one day be reduced, with the anecdotal economy of picture postcards, to a very few vignettes starring one or another of the principals. Do you remember, Denis would say, that night in Milano; do you remember, Glynnis would say, that dreadful hotel in Valencia; and Roberta would press her hands over her ears, and Ian would laugh and threaten to stalk out of the room: no more tales of tainted seafood in Majorca, Rome in clamorous traffic, the polluted air and maniacal street traffic of Athens, the scavenger birds over Apollo's shrine at Delphi, the melancholy fact, taken from an unusually frank guidebook, that Sophocles' Colonus is now the site of an industrial slum. Ian himself had frequently risen to the occasion, travel-weary, insomniac, dyspeptic, reciting Oedipus' “I have been saved / for something great and terrible, something strange” at his most inspired hour. But he could not remember what followed, or had preceded, that hour. Diarrhea, perhaps.

“We were always so happy together,” Ian said.

Roberta said, “What? This line is buzzing.”

“Our summers. We were always so happy.”

“Yes. Oh, yes, of course. That's why,” Roberta said, speaking quickly, “we want you to come stay with us. And bring Bianca too if you can.”

Ian said faintly, “Yes, yes, I'll try,” and hung up rather abruptly.

He thought, But am I free to leave Hazelton—with the trial set for November 30? He would have to check with Ottinger; he really didn't know.

He thought, Of course I won't take them up on the invitation, they are only being kind.

HE DROVE UP
to Cape Cod alone at the very end of August, nervously apprehensive of the visit—for Glynnis's absence would be more potent than any presence, in such close quarters—but innocently content, even at times rather ecstatic, with the drive itself. It was not a long trip, as trips go: not quite three hundred miles. But he was determined to enjoy each mile.

He fantasized Jonathan Hamilton, who had never sinned. Or had yet to sin.

When he arrived at the cottage the Grinnells had visitors, not houseguests but visitors from Provincetown: friendly enough people, they seemed, their names passing too quickly for Ian to catch, their handshakes quick, too, though sincere enough; or so it seemed. It was the sort of situation in which Ian quite naturally depended upon Glynnis to remember names and to attach them to the correct faces; he'd long ago stopped making any attempt at all. Denis shook his hand happily and Roberta embraced him, a bit stiffly, Ian thought, but kissed his cheek, invariably the right cheek, out of years of habit, and welcomed him, seemed quite genuine in welcoming him, remarking upon “how dramatically different” he looked—his hair combed forward in the new way, the green plastic lenses clipped over his glasses. The several bottles of wine Ian had brought were taken from him, with thanks, and if any of them, Ian included, had an impulse to look around for Glynnis, that impulse was discreetly blocked.

Denis, whose breath smelled, not disagreeably, of beer, was wearing swimming trunks and a sweat-stained T-shirt; his mood was aggressively sociable, as Ian rather liked it. He opened a beer to hand to Ian and said, “Where's Bianca? I thought Bianca was coming?” and Ian said, “No, she has a job with the—” as Roberta interrupted.

“I
told
you, Denis, Bianca has a summer job; she couldn't come,” Roberta said irritably, looking now at Ian and, beyond him, at the others. “He never listens to me; he nods and agrees but doesn't
listen
,” and they all laughed, Ian included, and, after a moment, Denis. One of the women said, as if to ingratiate herself with the company, “Albert is exactly the same way.”

Roberta, hair tied back in a scarf, shoulders, arms, legs warmly tanned, slender in a shift of some crinkled Indian-looking fabric, led Ian into the house, into “his” bedroom, with its double bed, its floral-print wallpapered walls, its dramatic view of the beach, sea, sky. Is this a bed in which Glynnis and I have slept? Ian wondered. He supposed it must be. Yes, the nubby white bedspread looked familiar. The floor of dark blue painted planks, the handwoven oval rugs, the filmy white curtains blowing in the breeze. Ian bent to the window and inhaled the salt air, and his eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. “We were always so happy,” he said. “We seemed to be living in a sort of golden age that went on and on and—”

“You don't mind sharing the bathroom, do you, Ian? It's out in the hall, through here . . . you probably remember.”

“I remember.”

Ian let his suitcase fall on the bed. He caught a glimpse of his reflection, blurred in motion, in the bureau mirror: the tinted lenses gave him a sporty look, edged with something sinister; or was it a sinister look, edged with something sporty. He had started a mustache a few weeks ago but shaved it off at Bianca's insistence. (“You look like Richard Widmark in the Late Movie,” Bianca said, giving a little scream of laughter, as she so rarely did now. “The psychopathic sympa
thet
ic killer.”)

Roberta stood in the doorway, arms folded beneath her breasts, telling Ian about their guests for the evening: who was staying for dinner and who was not, the man who did documentary films for Public Television, the botanist from Harvard, the woman violinist with the Boston Symphony. . . . As if, Ian thought, I give a damn for any of them except you.

She was looking very attractive: the ocean air suited her. The dark-gold strand of hair at her temple looked burnished as if with health.

Ian opened his suitcase, quickly, before Roberta could slip away, and turned brandishing an ebony cane, did a Fred Astaire sort of shuffle with it, and, as Roberta stared, unscrewed the cane's grip and let its contents fall onto the bed: a rolled-up backgammon board, chips, and dice. “Remember this crazy thing?” he said, grinning.

Roberta laughed. “What on earth
is
it?”

“The birthday present you and Denis gave me,” Ian said. “I mean, one of the presents. A backgammon set. I thought we could play, if . . . if we had time.” The joke, if it was a joke, seemed to have misfired; Roberta was staring at him in incomprehension. “Didn't you give it to me? You and Denis? For my birthday?” Ian asked, embarrassed. His face had gone unpleasantly hot.

“No,” said Roberta, “it wasn't us.” Then, seeing Ian's face, his look of hurt and chagrin, she said, “But maybe Denis did, on his own. I don't exactly remember. It's his sort of humor, isn't it?”

THAT EVENING THEY
ate on a picnic table overlooking the beach: Roberta, and Denis, and Ian, and a couple named Hicks, and a couple named Braun, and a middle-aged woman named Molly, a fading beauty in a sunburst sun hat, who fixed her gaze upon Ian McCullough with so singular an intensity, Ian understood she must know who he was; what he'd done. Of course, the Grinnells had thought it necessary to inform their guests, before his arrival. He did not blame them in the slightest.

Denis grilled tuna steaks, and delicious steaks they were. And Roberta served German potato salad, and corn on the cob, and sourdough bread, and chocolate mousse from a charcuterie in Provincetown. They drank beer, and Ian's gift wine, and several other bottles of wine. “Like old times!” Denis said, raising his glass, and everyone said, “Like old times!” without knowing what he meant. They passed around the bowl containing the chocolate mousse until its lovely creamy substance was scraped clean away.

Ian and Albert Hicks fell into a conversation of some seriousness and drifted away from the others, walking, with difficulty, in the sand, Ian barefoot and Hicks in sandals, each smoking a cigarette from Hicks's pack of Luckies. Hicks was the documentary filmmaker, a big man, muscular yet soft-bellied, with kindly crinkled eyes and a pointed, clipped beard, like a nineteenth-century dandy. He knew, he said, who Ian was. He'd read about it in the papers. McCullough was the name, too, of distant relatives, so there was that connection; not, of course, that it
was
any connection . . . just the name. He told Ian a story that was, in his words, a true story; it had happened to him when he was nineteen, a Sigma Chi at Cornell. “This was a long time ago, of course, we're talking about the early 1950s, and we'd had a beer party, the fraternity, and went out sailing; I got a little crew of us to go out sailing, a nasty gusty April day, on Lake Cayuga, and I was blind drunk I mean I was stoned and these fraternity brothers of mine were as bad if not worse and I was supposedly the sailor, the expert, and we got out there in the middle of the lake and the wind was rising and a rain started and next thing we knew the sail was in the water and we were in the water and one of us didn't make it, this boy I'd liked a lot; it turned out he couldn't swim, or couldn't swim well enough to save himself, and being blind drunk like he was he couldn't hang on to the boat, and when we were picked up there were just three of us, and his body was lost; and you know, there isn't a day of my life when I don't think of it, and of him,” Hicks said, spreading his fingers and staring at them, “though the lawsuit his family brought against me, for criminal negligence, was settled out of court, and they didn't get all that much. They were nice folks but they hated me; I mean they hated my guts, could have torn me open with their teeth, but
my
folks fought it in court, my father's lawyer, and we came off all right, and it wasn't that bad, I mean in the newspapers, but I transferred to Colgate and deactivated from the fraternity; it seemed the best thing to do. I feel that I am blameless, yet of course it was my fault, the shithead sailing idea was my fault; in my heart I know I'm responsible but I never talk about it. I never did then, and I never do now. My wife doesn't know. I mean, she doesn't know much. She'd just say, ‘Al, you mustn't blame yourself'; she'd say, like they all do, ‘Al, you're too hard on yourself, it was just an accident, why don't you forget it?' There is a limit to what you can tell people because there is a limit to what they can hear. Beyond that point you're only talking to yourself. . . . It's a lonely predicament.”

Ian agreed, it was a lonely predicament.

IN THE MORNING
, Denis said to Ian, quizzically, “What were you and Al Hicks talking about last night? I hope he didn't bore you.”

“Not at all,” Ian said.

“He's a sweet guy but he can be terribly intense. Does these prize-winning documentaries on AIDS victims, runaway children, battered wives. . . . I hope he didn't bore you or upset you, or whatever.”

“Not at all,” Ian said, smiling. “He didn't bore me in the slightest.”

Denis looked at him as if he wanted to ask something more, but said nothing.

It was a warm windless hazy morning, with a fishy odor, a taste of brine. The surf was subdued, its percussive rhythm muted. Ian said happily, “Last night I slept deeply for the first time in a long time; I don't remember anything, any dreams. I seemed to have been borne along somehow by the water, as if I were in the water, lifted up and let down, lifted up, let down,
in
the water, and no margin of consciousness to interfere.” He looked at Denis with wide shining eyes. “I'm so very grateful, you know, to you and Roberta. I told Roberta, over the phone,” he said, not remembering if he really had. “In all this misery, you have been so . . . kind.”

He had been intending to say “faithful.”

Denis smiled guardedly and clapped Ian on the shoulder. “Well,” he said. “Now it's morning.”

Denis was unshaven; his eyes lightly netted with blood, his face rather puffy. At breakfast he'd complained amusingly of a headache, a hangover headache, those people the night before had stayed so late and what's to be done, you can't ask guests to leave after all. . . . (Roberta had inconspicuously slipped away from the party around midnight; Ian, not long afterward. He had slept in such a bliss of oblivion, exhausted, alcohol- and surf-lulled, he'd had no idea when the party had broken up.) “You
can't
ask guests to leave after all,” Denis repeated, with emphasis, and Ian understood that the remark was directed at Roberta, who stood, her back to the men, at the stove, preparing breakfast, removing strips of bacon from a large iron skillet and laying them, as neatly as Glynnis had done, on a paper napkin, to absorb the excess grease. She was barelegged and barefoot; wore a red polka-dot halter top of a kind a teen-aged girl might wear, showing much of her smooth, freckled, golden-tanned back; white linen Bermuda shorts that hid, to a degree, the disproportionate thickness of her legs above the knees. Her hair was again tied back in a scarf, tightly knotted, and her silence, her very posture, possessed a disturbingly renitent quality Ian would not have wished to goad, as Denis clearly did.

But no response was forthcoming, no quarrel provoked. Roberta set the men's breakfast plates down before them and smilingly accepted their thanks, but did not sit with them. She'd already eaten, she said. She had a dozen chores to do this morning . . . the weekend was coming up so quickly. She drifted off, barefoot, coffee mug in hand. Ian looked after her with longing and regret. Was she angry at him? Was she angry at all? Minutes later the telephone rang, and he could hear her voice in another part of the house. He could make out no words, only the sound of her voice: clear, high, uncomplicated, melodic. He felt a sharp pang of envy, thinking, She will never greet me like that again.