Down the Shore (14 page)

The Molly hit me all at once. I was alone in the hall, drinking water from the fountain, and when I straightened up, it felt like warmer, thicker blood had rushed into my head. I steadied myself with both hands on the wet stainless steel. Everything seemed to have a pulse that I could see only in my peripheral vision, so I kept casting my gaze around, trying to catch the corkboard or some distant floor tiles before they froze again. Clare appeared in front of me when I opened the studio door, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, the party in full swing behind him. He took a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips.

“Right?” I said. “Jesus.”

“Be a darling and do a charcoal portrait for me,” Mary was saying to Jules. “I want something to hang over my mirror so I can't see how fat I'm getting.”

“I don't draw on command,” Jules said. “It's not a party trick. I'm not in the mood.”

You're lying about that last part, I thought, as he rubbed his palms together and wiped them down the length of his thighs. Mary lost interest and turned her attention to the bar. Jules stood up.

“Fine,” he said.

“Change of heart?”

Jules ignored her, placed a massive pad of paper on an empty easel, and flipped to a blank page.

“Clothes or not?” Mary asked.

Damien laughed.

“Stand just over there,” Jules said.

Mary walked to a blue piece of tape in the middle of the filthy white sheet on the floor.

“Here?” she asked.

Her shirt seemed to fly over her head and into a corner. Her bra followed it, and then she popped the button on her jeans, hooked her thumbs into the waistband, and peeled them off, decelerating as she worked them down around her ankles. When she stood up, she was wearing nothing but the silver bracelets on her wrist. Jules pursed his lips and squinted at her.

“Unlock your left knee,” he said. “Put your left hand behind your head if you can.”

Mary ran her left hand through her hair and down the back of her neck so that her fingers rested just between her shoulder blades. There was a tight swell to her stomach, a symmetrical roundness she hid under baggy or elaborate shirts, amplified as she thrust her hips forward with the pose. Her breasts were much whiter than the rest of her, one stretched taught and flat across her ribs with the tension in her arm, the other hanging soft and weighty like a piece of fruit. She stood with one foot on top of the other, a jet-black wisp of hair barely visible between her legs. Jules beckoned to Kelsey, who walked straight past her naked friend and leaned on the wall behind the easel. Most of the people in the room seemed or pretended not to notice, but I spent the next ten minutes wondering when this would be over, unsure what to do with my eyes. The drugs were ramping up, and I was breathing hard, bracing myself, unsure how far this would take me, and how much more I could take. Finally, Jules tore the portrait off the pad, folded it in quarters, and tucked it into a portfolio.

“Let me see it,” Mary said.

Jules shook his head.

“Why not?”

“It doesn't belong to you.”

“You're such a wanker.”

Jules shrugged. Kelsey, smiling, pushed off the wall and trailed a hand across his lower back as she walked away. I couldn't imagine what he had done or what she had seen in it. To watch the two of them explode and then resolve, a wave followed by a glassy lull, flat water with no memory. Someone's phone was ringing. My phone. Lit up with a call that registered as a string of zeroes.

“Hello?”

“Tom?”

My mother. I wanted to hang up, but I knew how that would look.

“Tom? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Hey. Hi.”

“Did I wake you up?”

“No, not really.”

“Is everything OK?”

“Yeah, sorry, everything's fine,” I said, moving into a corner to get away from the music.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I'm fine.”

My voice sounded flat inside my head, but any emotion I tried to layer over it made me feel like an actor on a radio drama. This was not going well. I could sense my mother's reaction an ocean away, her heightened awareness, some alarm sounding in her head.

“Is that your mom?” Clare said, getting up from the couch. “Can I talk to her?”

“Mom, hang on a second. Clare wants to say hi.”

“No, Tom, I need to talk—”

But Clare had already pried the phone off my ear.

“Hi, Mrs. Alison,” Clare said. “Hey, I just wanted to say thank you again for taking me in and everything. I really miss Princeton. And your cooking. I know, I know. You didn't have to do any of that, and it was so amazing of you.”

He went on like that for a while. I was sure she was embarrassed—and embarrassed for him—but she played along. I could picture her tight, patient smile.

“You too,” Clare was saying. “Yeah, he's right here, hang on.”

Clare blocked the speaker with his thumb, mouthed “Do I sound high?” and handed me the phone.

“Hi,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Is Clare still with you?”

“Yeah,” I said, confused. “He's right here. Do you want to talk to him again?”

“Tom, I need you to go somewhere else for a second. Somewhere he can't hear you.”

I smiled at Clare and crossed the room.

“OK,” I said, closing the door to the hall behind me. “What is it?”

“Do you remember Chuck LaPolla? Marcy's cousin who works at Goldman Sachs?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

“He came by the shop this morning because he heard from Marcy that you and Clare were over there together. He told me that Clare's dad was into some bad shit with some really scary people, that those people might be looking for him now, that they might even be looking for Clare. He was trying not to scare me, which scared the shit out of me. I mean, he drove here from Red Bank to tell me that. He's never even come into the shop before. Has Clare said anything to you?”

“No,” I said. “Definitely not.”

“Please tell me you're being extra careful.”

“Of what? What am I supposed to do? Start packing heat?”

“Please don't be smart with me, OK? I'm having a fucking heart attack right now. Clare's parents haven't been there, have they?”

“No,” I said.

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Why would they come here?” I asked, realizing it was a fair question.

“I don't know.”

“Did Chuck say what he was doing?”

“Remember how the
Times
said there was all that money that the Feds couldn't find? Apparently it got funneled into all of this black market stuff. Chuck said people knew that he was up to something weird, but no one knew how bad it was. He wouldn't tell me any more than that. He said he wouldn't have told me anything, but he was worried about you hanging around Clare all the time.”

She had read up on Michael Savage, after pretending for three months that she didn't care what Clare's dad had been doing. The drugs were muting the fear I should have felt about all the things she was telling me. It was like watching someone scream while you wore headphones.

“There's nothing to worry about,” I said.

“Why do you both sound stoned? It's the middle of the afternoon, isn't it? What did you guys take?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Don't bullshit me. Is this how you spend your Sundays? Fucked up on drugs? Do I need to come over there and haul your ass home?”

“No,” I said. “Relax. It's this holiday here. Raisin Sunday. Something you do with your academic family.”

“Your what? You better have an amazing explanation when I call you tomorrow, mister. Just tell me it's not opiates. And don't tell me to relax.”

“It's not opiates. Stop worrying. I'm fine.”

“I still have this fucking car sitting in my driveway. I've been trying to get Bruce Cassidy on the phone all week to make sure I'm not going to have the FBI kicking down my door for accepting stolen property or something.”

“Just enjoy it.”

“Oh no, honey. You are not in a position to be giving anyone advice right now.”

She was quiet for so long that I wondered if the call had dropped.

“Hello?”

“Tom? I'm here. Be careful, OK? I hope you two are looking out for each other.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “We are.”

•   •   •

We were leaving for hours. There would be a general movement toward the door, but there was always another side to the record, another skinny spliff, another short pour of champagne all around. Kelsey was tidying up when Damien killed the music, cut the lights, and held the door until the last of us were out.

We filled the street as we flowed over to the party on Queens Gardens, where William's guards were holding back a crowd that spilled down the front steps. William threw parties at the flats of well-heeled friends because entertaining at his place was a national security risk. We stood across the street with Damien, who made a phone call and gave a sign that we should wait. I was lighting one cigarette with another when William emerged, pointed down at us, and whispered something to a guard. And then we were in: in plush club chairs under the high pressed-tin ceilings, in the kitchen where the prince of England jumped up on the marble island and poured tequila into upturned mouths, and finally up on the rooftop, looking out over the town. There was a strong sense that we were all in this together, having come this far. Every cigarette was passed from mouth to mouth, every beer and cocktail was communal. We were taking key bumps of the Molly, which Damien had cut with coke to keep us going. Back at the studio, someone had accidentally switched the record player from 45 rpm to a faster setting, which had the same unexpected and distorting effect on the music that the coke was having on me now. Damien put his arm around me and walked me to an uncrowded corner for a private conference.

“Hey,” he said, offering his cigarette. “That thing between Jules and Kelsey? It's a little more complicated than I made it out to be when I was breaking your balls this morning. Jules used to date Mary, years ago. I don't know if anybody told you that or not. They grew up together. She thinks this thing with Kelsey is something he'll get over. Don't get in the middle of it. In fact, stay far as fuck away.”

I was squinting at him, trying to get all this new information through the blockade of everything in my blood. I needed air, but we were already outside. I needed water.

A bathroom on the second floor. I was drinking from the faucet when Mary opened the door, which I could have sworn I had locked.

“I was thirsty,” I said, as if I owed her an explanation.

“Don't mind me,” she said.

She brushed past me, worked her jeans over her hips and sat down to pee.

“Good show so far,” she said, tearing off a few sheets of toilet paper, and running them between her legs. “I'm impressed you're all still standing. You must come from good stock.”

I stepped aside to let her use the sink, but Mary matched my movement and then stepped into me with an expression that was equal parts blank and impatient, her breasts brushing against my shirt, her eyes flicking back and forth between mine, too close to focus. Finally, she cocked her head and kissed me on the mouth. Past her lips—so soft they felt deflated—she tasted like cocaine and rotten fruit. She bit down on my bottom lip and pulled me to the bathroom floor on top of her, looking over my shoulder at the ceiling as she fumbled with the closure on my khakis. She set her jaw, finally, and tore them open, which sent a single button skipping across the tile floor. I was shocked to find my pounding heart had sent blood to my cock before I had had a chance to process what was happening. She pulled me to her and I took a sharp breath as we collided, but the friction was too much. I put a hand to my mouth for saliva, only to find that my mouth was also dry, at which point Mary lost her patience, dug her nails into my hips and pulled them to her face. I had my hands on the edge of the bathtub and I remember being shocked that the world could contain two sensations as different as the cold, hard porcelain against my palms and the impossible heat and softness of her tongue as she took me all the way into her mouth and coughed me up again before pulling me back down. I felt her shudder as her legs closed around my back, and then she had her nails in me again, and I started fucking her, working her body across the floor until her left shoulder and the left side of her jaw were pressed against the tub, her eyes locked with mine. She stuck a hand between her legs to get herself off, her nails scratching me as I fucked her harder and harder. And then I felt her shudder, and her expression changed. Her eyes rolled back slightly in her head, and her skin seemed to go taut over the bones of her face. She hissed twice in quick succession and shuddered so hard that she almost shook me off. I wasn't done, but that evidently didn't matter. She lay under me with her eyes closed until she got her breath back, then put both hands on my chest and pushed me off. She left as soon as she had everything back on.

The landing was empty when I finally stepped outside, and then Clare stepped out of a bedroom and closed the door behind him. He took the stairs without so much as acknowledging that I was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at him. Damien emerged a minute later. He wasn't zipping up his fly, or tucking in his shirt, but somehow I understood what I was seeing. Damien gave me a pat on the back as he passed.

I found Kelsey in the kitchen. She didn't seem eager to talk to me, but by then I didn't care. I told her what I had just seen. She smiled without looking at me.

“Is Damien gay?”

“He just does what he feels like doing,” Kelsey said.

“Is Clare?”

“I have no idea, sweetheart. If anyone would know, it's you.”