Gay Place (33 page)

“Is it lice or louse?” Neil said.

“What …? Who —”

“Who-what?” Neil said.

“I’m sorry I must have the wrong — Who is this talking please?”

“David McNeil Christiansen. It’s the full name, you see. It sounds good and the visual image is really very nah —”

“Neil? Neil, talk nonsense to me, sweet … Go ahead.”

“I … I … got in about seven. The girls are lovely. They really are. Perfectly delightful. Why is it you’re such a good mother?”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“No.”

“Because I spend all the day with them. We invent games. We put on plays. We put dresses on the dog and wear lipstick and paint our toenails and —”

“Next week they learn the cha-cha. And the week after, feminine hygiene?”

“Oh Neil. You never let me know … Are you going to bed, going out, waiting up … What?”

“I’ll probably stay around here.”

“All right. I’ll be home shortly.” There was a note of impatience, of disappointment in her voice. “Do you want me to come home?”

“Yes.” He did not know why. But he rather imagined he really did.

“All right. Goodbye …”

He began to lower the receiver, but then he heard a clicking and another voice on the line. It was getting to be like a party. Just
everyone
was there. So many nice people on the phones. The voice was insistent, a little irritated.

“Yes … Yes …
Yes
…?

“What?” Neil said.

“Yes sir? Can I help you sir?” It was a prissy voice, he decided.

“Where am I,” Neil said. “I haven’t had the pleasure of —”

“This is the night clerk, sir.”

“What?”

“This is … Oh, I’m sorry. You must be calling
in.
I thought you were the party in … I’m really very —”

“What am I calling?”

“The Skyliner, sir …”

He broke the connection and poured himself another drink. One of the girls cried out in her sleep from upstairs. “No!” she was insisting to some unknown accuser. He sat on the edge of the chair for a moment, listening, but she did not sound another protest. “No!” he said to himself, aloud in the empty room. Lee Wiley was singing about the old ace in the hole on the phonograph, and there was the scent of gardenia mixed with nextdoor roses on the heavy, honeyed evening air …

H
E WAS AWAKENED BY
the absence of sound. He stirred in the chair, his eyes still closed. Something was wrong, hideously wrong, the evening all out of joint. For a moment he was unable to isolate the disturbance in his head. Then it came to him that there was no sound in the room, not even the usual roaring in the ears. He opened his eyes and looked at Andrea. She was standing next to the phonograph; she had turned down the volume.

“Get some music on the f.m.”

She punched buttons and spun the radio dial. He wondered if he ought to rise and kiss her — if he
could
kiss her — but before he was able to move she walked past him and seated herself in a sling chair.

She was breathtakingly pretty. How was it? How come the romantic image persisted? Why didn’t the ankles swell, the calves collapse, the sweet mouth sag? Here was Andrea — altogether more desirable than at any time in his experience; never farther away from him, never more unattainable, than at this moment. She smiled.

“How long will you be here?”

She was wearing a loose-fitting cotton knit dress, bare-armed and open round the throat. The pumps were linen, some kind of Paisley print. There was a notable absence of jewelry and she still apparently disdained cosmetics except for the eyes and mouth. She was slim and nearly flat-chested and he sat there gaping at her.

“Well?”

“I … don’t know yet. It all depends on what I decide.”

“Decide? Decide what?”

“Whether to keep this job — or try to keep it.”

“Oh. Well, if that’s what you want …”

“That’s the point. If I knew what I wanted, there wouldn’t be —”

She got to her feet suddenly and stood looking through the open glass doors onto the terrace. “God! The weather has been wonderful. Little showers in the afternoon and then the evenings are just unbelievable. I thought I might drive to the beach with the girls next week … Unless you’re still here.”

“Perhaps we can all drive down together if I’m still here,” he said. But then it occurred to him he ought to be making speeches, public appearances, at every opportunity, if … “The girls really are fine,” he said.

“Aren’t they. I’ve never enjoyed them so much as these last few months.”

“Would you like a drink? I’ll make you one.”

She turned to him, not really looking; their eyes did not meet. “Yes,” she said. “Some kind of gin — I’ve been drinking gin.” She stared at the new painting.

“How about that stuff in the freezer?”

“No … Emma should have thrown that out a week ago. Just tonic. Tonic will be fine.”

He got to his feet and went into the kitchen. She was sitting in the sling chair when he returned with the drink. She took a long swallow. “The bank called me this week,” she said.

“What?”

“The bank. The vice-president at the bank. He called this week. Very discreet. He sounded like a god damned undertaker, he was so discreet. He knew it was just an oversight on our part — these things happen to everyone at one time or another. Oh he was very discreet and understanding and circumspect …”

“What is all this?”

“We were strapped. The account was overdrawn.”

“Oh Christ … How much?”

“I forget … Several hundred. I got some of my bonds out of the box and put them up to cover the overdraft. But we’re still strapped.” She sat there smiling at him. She kicked off her shoes, unfastened her hose and slid them off her dark legs. She pointed at him with her feet. “Isn’t that something? Like the first year we were married.”

He sat looking at her pretty arched insteps. He decided he was getting funny about insteps.

“Well, they’re mailing my check here this weekend. Go down Monday and get your bonds back.”

“If we’re overdrawn that means we’ll probably be short again before the end of next month,” she said.

“I know … I’ll take care of it.” He had no idea how he would take care of it. Unless he arranged to borrow it from Arthur Fenstemaker. The Governor had money — endless amounts of money. He could always say he needed some pre-campaign funds. Pre-campaign funds and no campaign. He could sell his brother’s bookshop. It was the bookshop, John Tom’s bookshop, that was draining them. John Tom had always managed to make a little profit. But for more than a year now the bookshop had been a steadily losing proposition. A few dollars, a hundred dollars, and then a few hundred dollars a month. That was the famous missing few hundred dollars. How the hell did you sell an interest in a bookshop? What were they worth? All those books, those obscure volumes. Twenty thousand? Fifty thousand? More than that? Who’s to judge? He would have to find an appraiser. Where did you find an appraiser, and better still, a buyer? Of rare books. He would have to ask someone at the college. Or he would apply for a small business loan, keep the bookshop for sentiment’s sake. All that sentiment. He would pass a special bill in the Congress for sentimental owners of small, marginal bookshops.

“I could get some help from Dad,” Andrea said. “He’d be more than —”

“No, no, I won’t need it,” Neil said. Not, for God’s sake, old man Baker. He had managed to avoid doing anything so desperate as
that
up to now. He’d never been able to keep Mrs. Baker out of the picture — she insisted on the house in this neighborhood and arranged through friends to have Andrea hooked up with that Junior League crap and had even got them into the Country Club years ago. Years ago. But they had survived without the old man’s money up to now. He had just about killed himself trying to avoid it. Up to now. He had run for the legislature while he was still in law school to prevent it. He had by God to excel if only to keep the old man off his back. He had turned down a good job with a good firm to go into private practice. For the same reasons. Private practice. Very private and not really much practice: just a few retainers for occasionally visiting old friends in the State House and explaining the really significant aspects of legislation. He probably knew less about the law now than during his senior year. Hell! He would pitch over in a faint if he had to try a case. Or brief some hotshot trial attorney who
was
going to court.

He tried to think of ways of making a living if he did not hold on to the Senate seat. Right back into very private practice: not so much practicing the law as practicing
on
the law. Or he could go into the rare books business. If he really set his mind to it and worked like the devil, why he could probably clear a cool three-four hundred a month from the bookshop. Enough to pay the rent and keep them in gin. They could just let the other obligations slide until the sheriff came after him with a net, or a shroud.

“Well I’ll just let you handle it, then,” Andrea said.

They were silent for a time. The radio stations in town went off the air; the big speakers began to sputter, and he stood and switched on the phonograph again. He asked Andrea about friends of theirs. Well how are
these
and
those
and
them
? She told him all the news that flowed on in endless alternations of attraction and reaction, gossip and event … He did not know what possessed him to ask the next question. It just came blurting out of him.

“Well how are the Christiansens — what about them?”

Andrea looked up at him coolly. Her gaze was level and imperturbable; she did not have to ask what he was talking about.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, “I just don’t know …” She was silent for a moment, and then: “… Are you happy? I’ve been very happy, very content these last few months …”

“If not exactly continent,” he said.

“What?”

He made no reply.

“I mean I’ve felt really serene for the first time in years,” she continued. “It’s a nice feeling, I can tell you. I do exactly what I want to do. Life is awfully well ordered. I don’t sit around wishing I were in Taos or Aspen or Cuernavaca. If I wanted to go I would go. But I don’t, you see. It’s like the alcoholic with the booze hidden in the commode. I can rest easy ’cause I know it’s there …” She laughed quietly to herself, as if looking inward. “I feel like a great happy bird.”

“Well that sounds fine,” he said. He seemed to have found something fascinating on the label of the whiskey bottle.

“Do you want a divorce?” she said.

He continued to stare at the bottle. “I … don’t … think so,” he said.

“I suppose it
would
rather bitch up your politics.”

“Oh hell. It’s not that — it’s not that at all.” But now that he thought about it, it was — it certainly was.

“Well … Like I said, I’m content. It’s entirely up to you.”

“But god
damn
,” he said, “how long does this go on? Where does it end? Where does it lead to? It’s like working without pay. Is it just going to be an interminable
blah
?”

“Is that how you feel?”

“Well. I think I love you — or as if I’m teetering on some brink, half in and half out of love for you.”

“Really?” She appeared to think this faintly amusing. “I don’t believe I feel anything. Anything at all. For you or anyone. I was just so tired, so God-awfully exhausted when you left … I’ve just been enjoying being alone … I feel saintly.”

Now Neil was amused. He started to say something, but she continued to talk.

“I think it would probably be a lot better for you … politically, at any rate, if we just let things ride. For appearances. Perhaps someday I might want a divorce — I might want to remarry. Who’s to say? I like things as they are. I’m happy.”

“Appearances? I never knew you thought much about appearances.”

“Well, there are the children to consider, and —”

“Where’s the Skyliner? What is it — some motel?”

She ground out her cigarette as if she were about to leave the room. But she stayed in the chair and looked at him. “What did you do — have the operator trace the goddam call?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I wouldn’t — you’re right — I really wouldn’t.”

They were silent, looking at each other.

“Well what were you doing there?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said. She smiled. It seemed to satisfy nothing. Then she said: “God! Here it is again. You’ll never understand, but I was feeling so good until I knew you were in town. And now here it is again.”

“You don’t feel any of this is a husband’s prerogative, then?”

“What do you think you are?” she said. “A priest in the confession box? If I went around wondering what you’ve been up to while —”

“You wouldn’t believe me, etcetera,” he said.

They fell silent for a time, like half-primed athletes, breathing lightly.

“Oh Jesus …”

“You’re right. Oh Jesus. And I felt so good all day.” She left her cigarette in the ashtray and got slowly to her feet. “I’m going to bed …”

“Where shall I sleep?” he said.

“With me if you like … I don’t care … If you’d rather not you’ll have to get some linens out for the other bedroom.”

He stood and looked around. He pulled the glass doors shut and switched off the phonograph. After a moment, he got his bag from the hall and followed her up the stairs. He undressed and hung up his two suits. Andrea was in the bathroom. He moved on down the hall, looked in on the bare cubicle reserved for guests. A few feet beyond he could hear the children breathing softly in their sleep. He checked their covers and returned to the main bedroom. Andrea was slipping out of her clothes; she was silhouetted against the french doors — there was a false balcony leading off — and she was uncompromisingly lovely in the soft light.

“Damn!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I … can’t … get out of this thing.”

“When did you start wearing girdles?” He moved up behind her and began unfastening hooks.

“It’s the clothes this year … You have to.”

When she was out of it, she continued to stand there, looking out through the doors and across the narrow balcony, her back still turned to him. He could see her bare shoulders begin to tremble, and when she finally moved to face him tears were running down her cheeks.