Jacob's Folly (30 page)

Outside, Leslie sat in his truck, staring at the Victorian house. Masha's light was out now. He imagined the house on fire. He could rescue her then. He wanted to rescue her so bad.

T
he basement of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, where the Comédie-Italienne was housed, was a hive of storage chambers and scenery machines. On Sunday mornings before the matinee, or whenever we were both free, Antonia and I would wander from room to room down there, looking for a new place to secrete ourselves. There was one room filled entirely with fire equipment. Fires were so common in theaters, the Hôtel de Bourgogne had its own reservoir under the building, just in case. I have a precious memory of my girl reclining on a coiled sailcloth fire hose. As she arched her back, her small breasts emerged from that torrent of glinting hair like little white rocks in a streaming river. I dove in. She was tiny but fierce, with padded paws, sharp nails, biting teeth. She always fought me when we made love, made me find strength in my slender limbs.

One day I asked Antonia if the count was as good a lover as I. She laughed. “But don't you know?” she asked.

“Know what?”

“Villars is impotent, because of smallpox. Le Jumeau does all that for him.”

“You mean …”

“They are a team,” she said, smiling gaily and pulling me in for a kiss. I stood up, appalled.

“Since I met you, my love, I haven't allowed it,” she said unconvincingly.

“But why—why can't he use me?”

“I have thought of that. I can't ask him, though, he would be suspicious. I promise you, most of the time it is not a matter of … His demands are not typical.”

“I know,” I said.

“I haven't set eyes on Le Jumeau for ever so long,” she said breezily.

“How can you just sit there and smile at me like this is a normal situation?” I asked, banging my head against the wall. Once she had checked me for blood, she settled back on the bed, stroking my back.

“But why is one thing worse than another?” she asked blandly. “Your prick is part of you, and it works. Lucky you. His doesn't. I feel sorry for him, in a way.”

I rubbed the growing welt on my forehead, trying to believe that Antonia avoided Le Jumeau entirely. It didn't work. I became tormented with jealousy, yet it only augmented my lust. I was permanently priapic, moving sluggishly through a thick soup of desire, barely seeing the world around me. The fact that I was betraying the count seemed irrelevant, separate. His relation to her was a convoluted business transaction. Mine was a bond of the flesh. In contrast to his paid evenings with Antonia, and, perhaps, Le Jumeau, I got mine for free; a
greluchon
was there to give pleasure. It was a courtesan's right to have her own lover. The fact that Antonia's
greluchon
was her patron's valet—this was problematic, perhaps, but I was past caring. It was her former paramour, Algrant, I worried about. Whenever I walked by his ticket window with the count, he smirked at the two of us so openly that I worried the count would take him to task for his insolence, and get an earful of truth in exchange. Luckily for me, as a rule the count arrived by the side entrance reserved for people with season boxes, so we
avoided the ticket collector. The affair went on quite smoothly for several months.

One night during the interval, I was relaxing in Antonia's dressing room, my feet up by the hearth, having brought the count a bottle of champagne in his box where he was entertaining several friends, when there was a knock on the door. Antonia and I both rose and looked at one another. The count had told me he would not be visiting Mlle Giardina during the interval. Why was he banging on the door? Antonia stalled him, I hid behind a screen, Villars stalked in and said in a voice of terrible, whispery calm, “Mademoiselle, may I trouble you to ask if there is a male person here with you?”

“But monsieur,” Antonia said, “I am about to go onstage!”

“I cannot leave until you answer my question,” said the count.

“You can see there is no one here,” said Antonia haughtily. “I did not realize that my every action was to be monitored by you.”

“Please do not insult my love,” said the count. “You have complete freedom apart from our time together. However, I have reason to believe that a man of mine is in this room, and that is a humiliation I cannot bear.”

Antonia snorted. “That's a good one,” she retorted. A merciful knock on the door warned Antonia she had a minute to get onstage. “Please go, monsieur! This is the wrong time to twist my wits.”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Gebeck!”

Another knock. The door opened. The stage manager hissed that she was about to miss her cue. Antonia panicked and ran to the stage. Like a furious bear, my master ripped away the flimsy screen, revealing me. He was reaching for his pistol when I ducked and fled, following the natural path down the wing onto the stage, where Antonia stood blazing in the footlights, a look of astonishment on her face. I ran toward her. Her leading man stepped aside as I slid past him on the waxed floorboards, coming to a stop center stage. It was hot here,
and all was saturated with unearthly light. I squinted into the shadowy, packed house: seats, carpets, walls upholstered in velvet and silk as red as an inflamed vulva, a thousand white faces staring up at me like rows of teeth. Paralyzed by this vision, I stood stock-still as waves of laughter bombarded me: the audience took me in my blue livery for a valet in the play! I became obscurely aware that my deft mistress was attempting to weave me into the plot line. Copping on at last, I was about to improvise a bit when a teapot resting on the table beside me exploded into shards. There were screams from the audience. I turned and saw the furious count reloading, stage left. I ran offstage right, jumping over all sorts of theatrical paraphernalia in my wild bid for life, clattered down the stairs, through the foyer, up another quick flight, and down a hall past the guard room, where members of the French Guard were deep in a game of cards and only noticed me once I had passed them. At last I reached the stage door, held open for my convenience by the grinning, slit-eyed ticket collector—architect, no doubt, of my ruin.

T
he night of Charcot's Women, Leslie shut his engine and lights off and coasted up to his house. It was past midnight; he didn't want to wake Deirdre. The lights in the parent trap next door were blazing, and he could hear exuberant big-band jazz trumpeting inside. Don and Libby were having one of their all-night sessions. Leslie was anxious to get inside before he was collared to umpire a fight. As he reached the door, he noticed the big orange tabby huddled on the windowsill, imploring him with a furrowed brow. The cat had been scrounging around the place for months.

“You again,” Leslie said to him with a sigh. “Okay, I give up.”

Leslie unlocked the door carefully, slinking into the kitchen, spooned some cat food into a plastic bowl, and set it outside. The big cat oozed heavily to the ground, prowled over to the bowl, and set to, its head bobbing up and down as it picked out chunks of meat and gnawed them, needle teeth exposed, eyes on Leslie. Leslie slipped back inside and shut the door.

“Do you have to rescue
everybody
?” Deirdre was standing, statuesque, in the kitchen.

Leslie walked to the sink and began to wash his hands. “I got sick of him looking so miserable,” he said.

“So he's our cat now?” she asked, leaning against the counter.

“I just gave him some food, Deirdre.”

“And that'll be you feeding him every day from now on, right?”

“I'm not saying we have to feed him every day.”

“Once you start that, there's no end to it. You can't just feed an animal once.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That cat is an aggressive animal. Our cats hate him, don't you realize that? He bullies them. He steals their food. And then you go and feed him—for what reason, your vanity? The only way to get away from a cat like that is to move.”

He was drying his hands, looking down at the dishcloth. “You want to move?” he asked.

“Where would we go? We've got the whole frigging circus to drag along anyway.”

“You mean your sons and your parents and your grandchild? That circus?”

“Oh, excuse me. Pardon me for not being perfect for two seconds. You weren't even on duty tonight, you faker.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I called the firehouse. Tommy tried to cover for you once he figured out you'd lied to me, but it was too late. So where were you?”

“I went to a show.”

“You went to a show?”

“Yeah.” He was looking at her now, right in the face, and he didn't recognize her at all.

“What show?”

“It was called
Charcot's Women
. It was about a bunch of crazy females.”

“Where was this?”

“In the city. Some tiny theater.”

“With who?”

“Alone. I went alone. Okay? Masha White was in it. Remember her? She was okay.” There was a silence then.

“Yes, I remember Masha White,” Deirdre said slowly. “And this play went on till, what, midnight?”

“I gave her something to eat and drove her home.”

“What's going on, Leslie?”

“What's going on is I went to see a friend in a show.” He walked past her, brushing her shoulder. He continued through the kitchen and up the stairs, a block congealing in his chest.

Deirdre stood at the counter, frozen. Strangely, it was his feeding the orange cat that had her really steamed. It was such a thoughtless thing to do, masked as a kind thing. Mr. Rescue. Meanwhile, their marriage was dying. But the cat, the asshole cat that would have murdered them all for a dish of slimy meat, that cat gets saved. All she wanted to do was run, take the car keys and drive away to a place where no one knew her. She could drive to California, rent a cheap apartment, get a job, write her stories, eat cereal for dinner if she felt like it. The fact was, they didn't need her here. Leslie did all the things she could have done, better than she did: he knew how to be with Stevie, he had the patience. He managed her parents. He even cooked. She allowed herself to imagine a single day without her family. In her fantasy, she was driving home by sunset; she missed them all too much.

She walked into the bedroom. He was already in bed with the light off.

“Leslie?”

“You just woke me up.”

“Are you leaving me?”

“I'm trying to go to sleep here.”

“I'm asking if you're leaving us.”

“I'm here.”

“You know what I mean.”

He lay there in silence, hating her, hating himself.

“What did you mean,” he asked, “when you asked me if it was vanity that made me feed the cat?”

“I meant,” she said, “that you like to get in the phone booth and put on the cape and tights.”

“Is that all I am to you, some pathetic Joe who signs up to save people because he needs to feel big?”

“No,” she said.

“So I guess that goes for all the volunteer guys, then, the whole system, fueled on vanity. You really are your father's daughter.”

“What does that mean?”

“You're the big cynic, you figure it out.”

The next morning, rain was battering the windowpanes. Leslie answered his cell phone at seven. It was Evie. Her car had broken down; she needed a ride to a job interview at a preschool. Deirdre was pretending to be asleep. Without hesitation, he got dressed and ran out of the house through the rain.

Leslie got to Evie's condo and parked, his engine idling. He didn't want to knock in case he had to meet another one of her men. At last Evie rushed out the door, locking it. She was wearing a zebra-print slicker and a pink miniskirt with high-heeled rubber boots, frosty pink lip gloss glinting. She did not look like preschool material. She hopped into the truck, reeking of fruity shampoo, and beamed at him with her overtanned, mildly booze-puffed face.

“Everything okay?” Leslie asked hoarsely, managing a smile.

“Yeah,” said Evie. “Just need a ride, is all.”

“Well,” said Leslie, “here I am.”

As Leslie drove through the swirling skirts of the hurricane currently, according to the radio, waltzing across the Atlantic, he felt the rain outside his truck to be a solid thing, a tangible continuity of water. There didn't seem to be individual raindrops anywhere. Headlights floated
toward him, smeared and bleary as he moved along, his wipers beating frantic time, cutting ineffectual, temporary wedges out of liquid sheets that glided down the windshield like melted plastic. A red car popped up behind him, started flashing its lights, wanting him to go faster, even in this gale. Leslie slowed down instead. The radio was turned down low; barely audible frenetic guitar was mesmeric shoved down that deep. The hothead behind him was flashing desperately. Leslie slowed down to fifteen miles an hour, just to spite the guy. At last the road straightened out and the red car whooshed past him, the driver turning to glare as he passed. Leslie saluted. Chances were, the fire department would be cutting that moron out of his vehicle before too long.

The fuel light came on. Leslie pulled into the first station he saw. Infuriatingly, there was a line for every pump. He inched forward as the cars filled up and drove away. At last he was next. The emaciated woman pumping gas in front of him was clinging to an inverted umbrella, hair wet, staggering in the wind. The narrow protective roof over the tanks did nothing against this horizontal rain. Leslie pulled on his baseball cap and sighed. He was going to get soaked. The woman struggled into her car and drove off. Leslie pulled up to the tank and stared at the pumps lined up there: Regular, Plus, Premium. His hand on the door latch, he was stopped dead by a memory: Masha lying beside him in that orange bikini, black hair shimmering in the sun. He felt yearning flood him, then quicken like concrete. He couldn't move. The horn blasting behind him sent a thrill of fear through his belly. He looked in the rearview mirror. It was some jerk on his phone, some ass in a new Beemer, gesturing at him impatiently. Leslie whipped around in his seat and glared at the guy, who honked again. Climbing out of the truck, Leslie was drenched immediately. He strode up to the BMW, rain coursing down his neck, dripping from the brim of his cap. Leslie saw the man on the phone register his size as he approached him, but the guy didn't get off the phone, he just
grimaced at Leslie with an expression of anger, impatience, and condescension, pointing to the gas pump with an open hand raised to the sky, a sort of jab, like,
Pump the gas, you idiot
. Leslie didn't realize he was going to get into the BMW until he was in it, soaking the leather seat. The man still had the phone glued to his ear.

“What are you doing?” he cried. The man was small, dark-haired. Smelled of aftershave. His green rain jacket looked brand-new. “You're ruining my seat!”

“Would you mind getting off the phone, please?” asked Leslie quietly.

“What was that?” asked the man.

“Get off the phone, please,” said Leslie, touching a seam in the leather gearshift thoughtfully.

“Jeff, I have to get off, okay? I'll call you back in five,” said the man. He shut off his phone but kept it in his hand.

“I need you to get out of my car now,” the man said, his back against the door.

Leslie continued to fiddle with the taut leather gearshift. Beautifully made. “What's your name?” asked Leslie.

“My name.”

“Yes.”

“Richard Demos.”

“Is that … what kind of name is that?”

“It's a Greek name.” A tremor ran through one of Demos's eyelids.

“Well, Dick. You shouldn't honk at people. It's unpleasant.” Demos shook his head, looking at his Rolex.

“I realize you're in a big hurry.” Leslie sighed. He imagined reaching across the seat and grabbing Demos by the throat of his new rain jacket.

“That's right,” said Demos.

“I'm just advising you not to be rude,” said Leslie. “Your horn is really more of an emergency tool. To be used as a warning.” Leslie
locked eyes with Demos. The eyelid twitched again. The small man's fear was gratifying to Leslie; he couldn't help it.

“I take your point,” said Demos in a tight voice. “Now can you pump your gas? Please?”

“Absolutely,” said Leslie, getting out and leaving the car door open as he walked over to the gas pump, ignoring Demos's entreaties to close it. Through the window of his truck, on the narrow backseat, he saw Stevie's baseball bat. In his mind, he reached in and grabbed it, turned and walked, unhurried, up to the guy's car, and, with one expert swing, caved in his passenger window. Then he walked back to his car, threw the bat into the cab, shut it, and started prepaying for his gas, just like nothing had happened. Immersed in the fantasy, Leslie fitted the pump into the mouth of his tank, squeezed the lever, and squinted at Dick Demos, who was backing his Beemer up. Leslie watched him retreat with a level stare. Demos flipped him the bird.

Leslie ran up the back steps of the Coe house and knocked on the door. Mr. Cruz, the butler, opened it.

“Mr. Senzatimore,” he said, smiling.

“Hi, there, Mr. Cruz. Masha said she wanted to work a couple hours on the boat—could you tell her I'm here?” His face was soaked.

“Masha and Shelley went into the city with Mr. Nevsky, they have auditions.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry. Masha didn't tell you?”

“She probably texted me. I haven't checked,” he lied.

“They won't be back till tonight,” said Cruz apologetically.

“No problem, I just thought she wanted the hours,” said Leslie.

“Come in, get dry. Have coffee.”

“Thanks, I'll get some later,” said Leslie, trying to cover his
disappointment. Cruz's sympathy for him was unbearable. He turned quickly, running through the rain to the garage, and yanked open the door, which yawned with a clatter.

The black boat hulked over him, a sulky presence in the gloom. He flipped on the lights. The hum of the fluorescents mingled with the dull drumming of rain on the shingled roof of the building. Since Stevie, sound meant more to Leslie. It made him feel guilty that he could hear what Stevie could not. At least he should appreciate it. He sat on a stool and listened, staring out the open garage door at veils of rain billowing over the lawn. He thought of her, in the city, high up in some skyscraper, raindrops zigzagging down the plate-glass windows. She was Being Noticed. Making an Impression, no doubt. The desperation that had been gathering around Leslie like a poison ground fog was drifting closer, rising. Soon he would be engulfed.

My old-fashioned fire rescue concoction stole into the hero's mind as he sat listening to the rain—but he embellished it: he imagined driving over to Masha's Victorian, saying he was there for a fire inspection. The workers let him into the basement. In his mind's eye, he saw himself taping open the lock on the basement door leading outside, then checking the back of the dryer for the gas pipe. That night, on duty at the firehouse, he crept into Masha's unlocked basement silently. On his knees, Leslie loosened the gas line feeding the dryer. He set a small fire in the laundry basket at his feet.

In his mind, Leslie drove to the edge of his district, five miles east, picked a random house, called 911 from a pay phone, reported a fire in that house, to divert the department. Sitting on the stool in Ross Coe's shed, Leslie's heart sped up: he saw himself ramming open Masha's front door, running through the smoke, up Masha's stairs, swinging open her door. He lifted her up, smashed open the window, held her face to the fresh air. Regaining conciousness, she opened her great, wet, black eyes and recognized him.

“Leslie,” she whispered.

In Manhattan, high up in a glass building, Masha was staring at rivulets of rain weeping down the high window. She was auditioning for a musical film called
My Alchemy
. Bridget had gotten her the meeting.