Last Resort (18 page)

“Really.” Molly realized that she had never considered Jacko’s situation from this angle.

“Someone must be doing an appraisal, to settle the estate. But Perry doesn’t appear to know anything about it. Doesn’t have any idea how to look out for his interests, and his family’s interests too of course.”

“I guess he has other things on his mind,” said Molly.

“Oh, I know.” Myra swallowed; her face lengthened. “Naturally I’m very concerned about his health; that’s why I just dropped everything and came to Key West. And poor Sis is devastated. Well, it’s a tragedy.”

“Yes,” Molly agreed, warming further. Myra was vulgar and prejudiced; but she evidently had a good heart. Even though Jacko didn’t like her, when she heard that he was ill she had rushed to be with him. Maybe I could get a small drinks party together for her after all, Molly thought. I do owe a great many people, and there’s that new caterer Kenneth was talking about—

“When I think what Perry might have been,” Myra was saying now. “He had the name and the looks and the personality: there was nothing he couldn’t have accomplished in politics with the right kind of backing. I had big plans for him.” She sighed. “But then he came to Key West and was hypnotized by that disgusting old man, and quit law school, and decided he was a pansy. I wouldn’t have let him get away with that if he was my son, but Dorrie’s always been soft. Still, it about broke my heart.”

“Ah,” Molly murmured. An alternative Perry Jackson appeared in her mind: equally charming, equally loved, but heterosexual, and a successful lawyer and politician. He would be married to some really nice woman and have delightful children, and would live to a normal old age. Wouldn’t that have been better, after all?

“I don’t like to ask you this, but for Dorrie’s sake, I must,” Myra. continued, lowering her voice and at the same time leaning forward to block out the raucous yakety-yak of the people at the next table. “How much time does he have?”

“I don’t know,” Molly admitted. “I don’t think anyone does.” Maybe this is what Myra wanted, she thought, and tried to answer helpfully. “It could be ten years, if he’s lucky. And perhaps by then they’ll have found a cure.”

“God willing,” Myra said. “But has Perry had any of the symptoms yet? Those awful purple spots they get, or the pneumonia?”

“Not that I know of.” As she lied, Molly winced with distaste: she had been brought up to believe that nice people do not mention the details of illness at mealtimes—or if possible, at any other time. But after all, Myra was his aunt; she had a right to know. “He’s worried about something,” she admitted. “His T-cell count, it’s called.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of that. When the numbers start to go down, it’s a bad sign. Well, we’re all in the hand of the Lord.” Myra rummaged in a white lizard handbag framed in gold. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Uh, well, if you could wait—” Molly began. Ever since Howard had been diagnosed with lung cancer she hated to see people smoking—sucking in and breathing out death.

But Myra already had a cigarette between her shiny red-painted lips, and was flicking a gold lighter. Soon a thin gray ectoplasm, like the wispy dirty-white substance exuded by spirits in Victorian séances, rose and circled her head. Keep that up, and you could be dead before Jacko is, Molly thought—maybe even before I am.

“Lissen, when I order something, you goddamn bring it, okay?” At the next table, the loud voices that she had been trying to ignore for some time were raised further. She glanced round at the occupants: two middle-aged couples in bright resort wear, navy and acid yellow predominating. The larger and more red-faced man, the one who was shouting, was obviously drunk.

“Now, Al!” “Take it easy, Al,” cried the others.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I was just—” their waiter, Dennis, began.

“I don’t give a shit what you were.” The man’s voice rose over Dennis’s explanations and the remonstrances of his companions, attracting the attention of people at nearby tables. “I asked you for another beer fifteen minutes ago, it still isn’t here. And these goddamn fritters, whatever you call ’em, they look and taste like turds.”

“I’m very sorry, sir. If you’d like to order something else, I’ll bring you the menu—” Dennis began edging away.

“Hey, you come back here!” the man shouted, even louder. Dennis continued to retreat. “Damnit, I’m speaking to you, you dumb little Chink!”

Understandably, Dennis did not obey. Instead, breaking into tears, he stumbled toward the kitchen. Many customers were now gawking at the scene, and a chorus of voices rose at Al’s table, trying to subdue and reason with him.

Almost at once a tall, portly, well-dressed man, whom Molly recognized as the manager of Henry’s Beach House, bustled up to the table, followed by two other waiters. “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked smoothly.

The chorus turned toward him, attempting to explain, but Al’s voice drowned theirs.

“That dumb waiter of yours, he forgot my order. So I complained, and he insulted me.”

“I’m very sorry that happened,” the manager said soothingly.

“That’s not true,” a woman’s voice insisted—Myra’s voice, Molly realized with dismay. Though she rather enjoyed watching public scenes, she had a horror of being involved in one. But Myra, who was perhaps somewhat tipsy herself, continued to defend Dennis. “The waiter was very polite, and that’s more than I can say for him—” With her smoking cigarette, she pointed directly at Al.

At another table, a couple of young preppies joined in on Myra’s side. “Yes, that’s right!” they cried. “He was out of line. He used a racial epithet—”

Al’s face flushed even darker, and he seemed to swell to twice normal size. “You shut your trap, you interfering old bitch!” he told Myra, making a clumsy, threatening gesture that knocked over a glass on his table. The woman next to him grabbed for it, but missed, and it smashed on the deck between the two tables, splashing Coca-Cola.

“Now look what you’ve done, you big dope!” the woman cried, pointing at Molly’s silk skirt, which had suddenly acquired an ugly brown stain.

A freezing change had come over the manager’s countenance. Complaining of a waiter is one thing; insulting a patron and causing a public disturbance very much another.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, but now in tones of threat rather than conciliation. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you and your party to leave.”

“Yeah, says who?” Al began to struggle to his feet, imperfectly restrained by the squeaks of his female companions and the growls of the other man. Maybe he’s going to hit the manager or Myra, Molly thought, becoming frightened. Or even shoot them, who knows; this is South Florida after all. Should she try to hide under the table?

But Al only stood there, large and swaying, evidently registering that now, beside the manager, he was confronted with two muscular waiters.

“Okay, okay, we’re going!” he shouted. “Glad to. Goddamn pansy place! Shitty food.” Followed by the two women, he staggered between the umbrella-crowned tables toward the exit, continuing to curse as he went. The other man, lagging behind, nervously thrust a handful of bills and what sounded like an apology at one of the waiters.

“I’m very sorry for the disturbance,” the manager told Myra and Molly. “Please try to forget it.”

“Aw, that’s all right,” Myra said, smiling. “Happens.” Her color was high, her eyes lit as if after a successful fight.

Molly’s heart was still pounding. I’m too old for this kind of thing, she thought. She took a long breath and slowly released the sea-green napkin that she had been clutching as if it would somehow save her.

“You okay?” Myra asked.

“Uh, yes,” she lied. “Well, I was a little worried. I thought that man was going to hit somebody.”

“Aw, no chance. The guy was bluffing from the start. All talk and no action.”

Yes, but that kind of talk is action, Molly thought.

“Hey, look at your dress.” Myra pointed. “You should get that dry-cleaned right away, and send the bill to the restaurant.”

“Well—”

“And if they give you any trouble, let me know.”

“Mm-hm,” Molly agreed, privately resolving not to do so. Myra had a good heart, she thought, and her defense of their waiter had been admirable. At the same time, she was someone whose public behavior could not be relied upon. Howard had always used to say that it was better not to get involved with noisy, combative people, if you could honorably avoid it, because there was a danger that they would be in your life forever. The same principle, he believed, applied to politics, and to noisy, combative countries; it was the thesis of one of his books.

Suppose that foul-mouthed, shouting, drunken man had had a gun, which was quite probable, and had shot Myra—or even Molly, by mistake. He would have become part of her life, however much more there was of it, and of her children’s lives.

You can come to my house for drinks, she thought, gazing at Myra as she sat there by the warm, glittering sea, wreathed in smoke and self-satisfaction. But I’m not going out to lunch with you again.

Among the overgrown brick ruins of an old fort by the sea, on the same warm afternoon, Jacko and his mother and his cousin Barbie were touring the Key West Orchid Society show. Jacko’s interest in the event was professional: many of his customers had orchids, and the care and augmentation of their collections was one of his jobs. Today he needed new specimens for a woman who loved cattleyas of the sort she’d worn to long-ago debutante balls, and half a dozen showy hanging plants to decorate a new upmarket restaurant.

Dorrie, Jacko’s mother, was in a daze of delight. Sheltered from the strong sun by a floppy leaf-green hat, she flitted from one exhibit to another with little cries of joy.

“Oh Perry, look! The most beautiful salmon-pink ascada! I’ve never seen one so large, it’s as if it was covered with pink butterflies. And that big brown-and-gold oncidium there under the arch, like a cloud of wasps. Or hornets. You know, once when I was a real little girl there was a swarm of hornets in the summer kitchen on the ranch. Just like that—so golden and shining. I thought they were a crowd of tiny angels. I remember the zigzag way they flew, and the sound—as if the whole room was full of country fiddlers, and everyone was dancing.”

“Yeah.” Jacko smiled down at his mother.

“And all these orchids, they’re doing this without any soil—just living and blooming. There must be something specially nourishing in the air here, don’t you think?”

“Sure, probably,” Jacko agreed, thinking that the Key West air had done something for his mother too. He hadn’t seen her so happy and animated in years—not since his father died. But maybe it wasn’t only Key West: maybe it was the suggestion he’d made last night that she should stay on another month or so, possibly longer.

A great idea: why hadn’t he thought of it years ago? That was easy: before he’d inherited Alvin’s property there was no place for Mumsie to stay. His cottage had only one room, and he couldn’t afford a hotel. Neither could his mother, who hadn’t been well off for years—and now, he’d gathered, was on the verge of becoming wholly dependent on her awful sister, Myra.

But that wouldn’t happen, because now he could take care of her. Tomorrow he would start working on the pool house, make it really comfortable. He would repaint the bathroom—lavender blue, Mumsie’s favorite color—and get a new refrigerator. She needed a better reading lamp too, and a rocking chair would be nice. Maybe they could go to some garage sales on Saturday with Janice Stone, who always had good luck there.

“Oh, Perry darling, come see these lovely vandas!” Dorrie cried; and Jacko followed her to a bank of pale purple orchids, each petal checked in darker purple.

Several feet in the rear, Barbie Mumpson trailed behind her relatives, dragging her feet and looking sullen and sweaty in the damp heat. Wet, sticky patches had formed under the arms of her yellow-and-white-checked shirtwaist dress, and her hot, swollen feet hurt in their white pumps. She’d slept badly the night before, worn out by the effort of packing and by the knowledge that in a few days she would be in Washington with Bob, unless she could get up the nerve to go down to the beach and drown herself first.

Barbie’s mother claimed that everything was going to be fine back in Washington. “You won’t have any more problems with Bob,” she’d promised. “I gave him a good talking-to. Put the fear of God into him.” The trouble was, Barbie didn’t want Bob to be nice to her because he was afraid of God, or of her mother. That wasn’t like love, she’d cried; it wasn’t even like marriage, not the way she had imagined it when Bob proposed to her.

Mom had said Barbie’s romantic ideas were irrelevant. For better, for worse, her place was with her husband; it was in the Bible. It was her job to be her husband’s helpmate, especially in politics, where the wife was an important part of the public image. But probably she wouldn’t be of any help to Bob’s image anyhow, Barbie thought. She’d mess up again somehow, and make things worse for him, and everybody would be angry at her just like they always were.

“Hey, Barbie. If you’ve seen enough, why don’t you go with Mumsie and get something to drink?” Jacko asked. “I’ve got to negotiate for some plants. There’s soda and stuff over there, under that big banyan.”

“Okay,” she agreed listlessly; she had seen enough long ago. Like some lovers of animals (not including Wilkie Walker), Barbie had no particular love of plants. For her they were merely habitat and fodder; it was important that they be preserved to ensure the survival of mammals and birds, but they were without intrinsic interest. Many of the orchids on display looked kind of creepy to her, with their twisted and tasseled shapes, their quivering antennae, their thick, fleshy petals, their peculiar colors: neon purple, chartreuse, beefsteak.

“Oh, this is all so glorious, isn’t it?” Aunt Dorrie murmured a few minutes later, sinking onto a bench with a paper cup of iced tea. The sun filtered through her green hat, giving her pretty, worn features a plantlike hue.

“Uh-huh,” Barbie managed. She took a gulp of Coke.

“Glorious,” Dorrie repeated. She gazed slowly round at the exotic foliage and the equally exotic clothes of several other visitors. “You know, dear, I’ve been so unhappy about Perry. But now I know he’s going to be all right, whatever happens. I’ve been praying about it so hard, and finally last night I just put everything in the hands of Jesus and I told him, now it’s up to you. And when I saw that beautiful big golden orchid back there, it was like a promise. It could even be that the doctors are going to find a cure in time for Perry.”