Magnificence (9 page)

She washed the smell of latex off her hands afterward and ran a shower for Ramon in the adjacent bathroom, whose tilework must have dated from the twenties: they were minute one-inch ivory tiles trimmed in black and a powdery pink. A large, rusting showerhead over a clawfoot tub.

She said to herself, almost aloud: Never again. Next time she slept with a stranger it would be in her own room, where all that watched them was the long, flat grass.

Ramon clearly felt pressed to get back to work, though the whole episode hadn’t lasted more than twenty minutes and fit into his morning break. He stepped out of the shower and stood beside her, watching from the bathroom window as his supervisor arrived, pulling into the driveway beneath them in his white van with a logo of black leaves.

“You can say I made you do something for me,” she said, handing him a towel. “I mean, if you want to. You can say I made you carry something heavy.”

•

It let her feel regal to stroll through the house out into the back gardens. Laughable—an emperor with no clothes—but still real. The rooms were cleaner now, the gardens tidied and replanted where they had died, trees and bushes pruned, ponds repaired and refilled, irrigation systems patched and put on an expensive timer. She picked out fish from a catalog. She spent her days clearing the house of what she knew she didn’t need—at first only the small debris of the old man’s life, gathered combing through drawers. There were scores of well-used packs of playing cards, held together with rubber bands and bearing an unmistakable old-card smell, the ancient dirt of fingers. There were board games, as though families had come through here frequently despite his having been a bachelor, despite his having died without issue.

She found Parcheesi, a game she remembered from summer nights in her grandmother’s house. She found ashtrays by the score, glass with seams of bubbles along the edges or in the shape of French poodles, plastic printed with fading beer or tobacco logos, thick clay slabs with crude scallops and the denting prints of children’s thumbs. She found a shelf full of faded badminton birdies and wooden tennis racquets, a worn football, croquet mallets. Somehow these conjured parties for her: elegant guests in evening dress with cigarettes in long holders, spilling out onto the patios and gardens in a gleaming night.

The furniture was dingy, and there was too much of it: every space was a hodgepodge of styles and colors. She had the ruined and homely pieces removed and watched with satisfaction as the rooms they left behind became airier. She loaded knickknacks into boxes and drove them to Goodwill; she scrounged through cabinets until they contained only items for which she could imagine some future use.

But when it came to the animals she was undecided. At first she had been determined to rid herself of their carcasses with all possible speed, but curiously the impulse was fading: the longer she lived with them the greater their hold. Some needed repair, were bald in patches with broken horns or ragged tails. At first, as she walked through the great room with its foxes and otters, this had made them ugly or pathetic; but more and more it made her feel protective.

Their arrangement added to her confusion. She understood the rooms on the second floor—their classification by geography, rough and general though it was. But the ground floor was a jumble. She did not know why the common raccoons of the great room kept company with the foxes, the possums, which were apparently marsupials, or the beavers, classified as semi-aquatic rodents. (She had to look this up.) The old man, she guessed, had not planned at all when he began to collect. At first the assemblages had been thrown together without forethought. A room of
BEARS OF THE WORLD
, he must have thought, hell yeah. A room of heads with racks. A room of brown mammals, why not.

As the collection grew he’d moved toward a better scheme—still rudimentary but at least organized—placing each mount in a more logical grouping. He’d been unable to help himself, and the more he acquired, the more he had to impose an order. She could see him, in her mind’s eye, being forced toward it. Because without order there could be no true collecting. Without order there was only acquisition.

W
hen she’d been living in the house for six weeks Casey finally paid her a visit.

By then Ramon had moved on to another job—he turned out to be neither an illegal nor a student but the youngest son of a claims adjuster, with ambitions in auto detailing—and she’d started sleeping with Jim the lawyer. Jim was an intelligent and slightly petty man on the surface, but beneath it he was tender. She thought he might be the kind of person who, in the right circumstances, could kill someone. She wondered if this would be a bond between them.

The combination of circumstances required for Jim the lawyer to kill, she suspected, was so specific that it would likely never occur. That made him a would-be murderer at best, unlike her, and a fairly safe bet. Not that he was vicious or cruel—on the contrary, he was mild and gentle. Still she thought he might have a blind spot of rage, some hair trigger that would unleash a buried anger. Many men did; it was hardly unique.

Jim impressed her because most of the adulterers she’d known liked to lie naked and panting beside her and offer up a disquisition on their marriage. It was a common impulse. She herself had learned early on not to talk about Hal, that discussing her husband with others was off limits, but some men treated illicit sex as an entry to marital therapy. And surprisingly by her third time with Jim he had still not brought up his wife, other than to acknowledge he had one. She liked this disinclination to confess.

She was standing over the bathroom sink lazily after he left, gazing at the lines on her face in the mirror, when she heard gravel scrape on the circular drive. Cinching the belt on her bathrobe, she felt around on the floor for her shoes with an outstretched toe, then craned her neck to see out the window. Beyond the branches of an oak—Ramon had told her what each of the trees was in the garden, both the front and the back, and she had faithfully written them down on the landscape map to commit them to memory—she could make out the hood of Casey’s car.

When she invited Casey to come by anytime she’d been sure she’d have ample warning; her daughter didn’t do drop-bys often. She’d assumed the drive to Pasadena was unfamiliar enough that Casey would have to call for directions. Still, now that Casey was here Susan was excited to show her the place, and as she reached for her jeans she wondered if her daughter had seen the lawyer’s car leaving. It was a light-green BMW—unmistakable since Casey knew it from the office.

Also the two of them hadn’t talked about Casey’s livelihood since the airport but Susan knew they would have to discuss it sometime—it ached like a bad tooth at the back of her mouth. She would hate to lose her moral high ground, or the carefully guarded illusion of it. On the other hand, with T. around so often it was doubtful that Casey could be spending much of her time on the phone.

“You’re kidding me,” said Casey, when Susan opened the front door.

She was sitting out on the edge of the cobbled drive, a few feet from her car, with boughs of oak and laurel dipping over her head like a bower.

“What?” asked Susan.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” she said. “All this?”

“I told you,” said Susan.

“You said a big house,” said Casey. “You didn’t say the Taj Mahal. This is ridiculous!”

“It’s eccentric,” said Susan.

Despite herself she felt puffed up by Casey’s admiration, as though the house was her personal creation.

“Come on, honey. Come see the back. The grounds are almost twenty acres.”

“No way,” said Casey, and followed her onto the tiles of the patio and past the tennis court.

Lonely, sometimes, that there were two of them—moments like this, when they were single-file.

It also struck her that Casey should have a new car, that her car was cramped and dinged and there was plenty of money now.

“Do you want a car?” she asked impulsively, turning. “We can get you one. With some of the money from the old house. The sale. I mean look, there’s some cash for once. There are taxes on this place, there are repairs I’m paying for, but other than that, with the proceeds from the house sale, maybe your father’s life insurance, eventually, we’re practically rich.”

Casey stared at her, surprised, and then over her shoulder.

“Are those—parrots?”

Susan turned and looked and saw light-green wings flapping and blurring near the tops of the alders.

“They look like parrots,” she said uncertainly.

“They are parrots,” said Casey. “It’s a whole flock of them. Look!”

A flash of red on their heads, yellow beaks, beady eyes. Susan wished one would alight nearby so she could see it closer up. Get a good look. But they blurred. Why did they have to fly the whole time?

“Parrots,” she repeated.

They watched the parrots, which made a racket with their squawking. People spoke of the beauty of birdsong, but not when it came to parrots. They were the exception that proved the rule.

“They give me the weirdest feeling,” said Casey dreamily. “It’s like they remind me of something I never saw.”

“My whole life I never knew we had wild parrots in L.A. County,” said Susan.

“Did they escape from somewhere?”

“So many?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to be here,” said Casey. “When I see nature shows, typically, they don’t feature parrots in Southern California.”

“This is the first time I’ve seen them,” said Susan.

“Huh. I should ask T. He has this animal hobby,” said Casey.

“I meant to ask you about that,” said Susan. “The turnaround, the whole charity thing. So you don’t think he’s—unstable?”

“I don’t know about stable. But he’s less of an asshole now.”

“High praise,” said Susan.

The parrots flapped and squawked, raucous screeches fading. Presently there was silence and the high branches stopped trembling and were still.

“So now,” said Casey. “About that car.”

4

T
he koi was hanging beneath lily pads, long and bulbous and graceful—like a zeppelin, she thought. Orange and black fins flicked back and forth, barely moving. She knelt beside the pond and gazed.

A man’s voice interrupted.

“I hear people pay two thousand bucks for those things.”

She jumped to her feet, squinting and brushing dirt from her bare knees. It was her cousin Steven, the computer guy, dressed for leisure in khaki Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt; he wore highly reflective sunglasses in a giant wraparound visor, so the whole upper half of his face was missing in action. He was futuristic, a man who came with his own windshield.

She had to get the gate fixed, she realized. Then she could keep it locked.

“Yeah, there’s breeders and shit, all these fancy Japanese, like, fish farms,” said Steven, nodding sagely. “Big one outside Fresno, they sell the things to Chinese restaurants or whatever. For atmosphere. Not, like, for food. I know. I set up their network.”

“Mine was twenty dollars at the pet store,” said Susan.

“The things are what, obese goldfish?”

“Obese seems, I don’t know, judgmental.”

“OK then. Fucking fat.”

“They’re distant goldfish relatives, I think. A kind of carp.”

“So they’re like, goldfish on roids. Do they get roid rage?”

She found herself gazing at him.

“Hey!” he went on. “You should do mandatory drug testing.”

“Ha,” said Susan wanly. She looked down to the pool at her feet, the gold patches gleaming beneath the surface.

“Well, here we are, huh? Uncle Al left the whole dog-and-pony show to dear little Susan,” said Steven, with a quick sting of anger that took her by surprise.

He looked around, head bobbing in what seemed to be an ongoing skeptical nod. At least, she assumed he was looking around: his head swiveled slowly as it bobbed and sunlight flashed on his metallic lenses.

“Not so little,” she said, still taken aback and stalling. It had never occurred to her that he might feel entitled. Not once. She never had, herself.

She blundered on. “Middle-aged Susan, more like.”

“Nah, really. You don’t look a day over thirty.”

“Aw. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Gimme the private tour.”

“Come on in.”

Inside the music room, which opened to the pool and backyard and was full of sheep and goat mounts, he looked around and whistled. Except for a faded, wine-colored velour couch the room was almost empty, only a stand with some colorful guitars in a corner and a dusty double bass with no strings.

“Old guy was crazier than I thought,” he said.

“I didn’t know him well,” said Susan.

“So why’d he pick you?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. Were you two still in touch?”

“We did a couple Turkey Day meals. That kind of shit. Mostly at our place, though, when we lived over in Reseda. He would come in from out of town with a pile of gifts for the kids. So they kinda liked him. Deb didn’t. She thought he was an old lech.”

“Oh yeah?”

“As far as invitations, he didn’t return the favor. Last time I was in this place I was a kid myself.”

“He had a player piano, remember? I haven’t found it yet, though. Maybe he got rid of it. The kitchen’s over here,” she said.

“Building’s massive. Jesus.”

“It’s large.”

“Guy musta had a full-time taxidermist on the payroll.”

“Was he a hunter? Do you know?”

“Well it’s sure as shit not roadkill.”

“Do you remember what he did? For a living?”

“It was like, commodities trading maybe? He was abroad a lot. He was traveling all the time.”

“What can I get you? I have coffee, tea, sparkling water—”

“No beer?”

“Oh. At ten-thirty . . . ?”

“Gimme a Bud, if you got one.”

She opened the refrigerator as he paced the room peering at the stuffed fish.

“Dos Equis OK?”

“Mexican pisswater? Enh, sure. I’m not picky.”

She almost decided not to hand it over, then reached for the bottle opener.

“What is that, a marlin?”

“I’m still learning. Whatever the label says.”

To occupy herself she reached into the freezer for the bag of coffee.

“So. What brings you by? Wanting to check out the place?”

“Yeah, you know. Though we probably won’t make a claim.”

“What claim?”

“Against the estate. You know.”

She gaped at him. The sunglasses were propped up on his head now, but his eyes didn’t tell her much either. He raised his beer bottle and drank.

A wave of illness moved through her.

“No—what?”

“Like I say, we probably won’t. Tommy’s giving me some pressure. He says it’s the principle of the thing. But listen. I’m like, she’s had a bad year already. That woman has nothing. Zip. Nada. She needed something like this. I go, She needs it more than we do, Tomboy.”

She was unsteady.

“Well. Thanks for that, Steve.”

“Yeah. Well. You know.”

“It was pretty clear in the will, wasn’t it? I mean what do I know.”

“See, though,” and he shook his head, taking a swig from the bottle, “the non compos thing. Not of sound mind.”

“Was he under care or something? In an institution?”

“He lived here by himself.”

“So what makes you think he was—?”

“Shit, woman. I mean the guy was a hermit. There’s no one to say if he was crazy or not.”

She might be having a panic attack. Her breath felt constricted. Spite, she thought. Spite and malice. She wouldn’t be surprised if the old man had left her the house expressly to make sure it wasn’t given to Steven. Possibly when he saw the guy, on holidays, the guy had irritated him. Possibly she was projecting, but possibly Steve’s poor character had been the source of her own good luck.

She fumbled with the coffee grinder as her breathing evened out. It was an excuse to turn away; she’d already drunk her coffee quota. As she pressed down on the lid and the grinder spun and shrieked she raised her eyes to the wall above her, which featured a mako shark. She felt reassured by it. She was a murderer, after all. For once it was a comfort to think so. Being a murderer made her equal to Steven.

She lifted her hands from the grinder and waited till it wound down, then pulled off the top and tipped the grounds into a filter.

“Well, I’m glad you convinced Tommy I wasn’t worth suing,” she said humbly.

A murderer, like a shark, must have rows of hidden sharp teeth behind the ones at the front.

What he said was true, of course, though his whole bearing filled her with resentment. Resentment and unease. Of course she didn’t deserve the house. No one deserved a house like this. She didn’t deserve anything, she knew that. But he deserved even less, she suspected. All she could think of to do was flatter him. She would show him some gratitude, presume a kindness in him and will it into existence. Maybe he would follow a rare generous impulse and leave her alone.

“You liquidated this property, we’re talking megamillions,” he said.

A month ago, T. might have bought it himself. Made her his partner, bulldozed the big house and converted the lot to rows of houses like cupcakes on a tray.

“I would hate to sell it,” she said softly. “They’d tear it down and build a subdivision.”

“Ee-yup.”

“But it’s beautiful,” she said, in a subdued tone. Needing somewhere else to look, she opened the refrigerator with a preoccupied air.

“Spacious accommodations for a single lady,” he badgered.

“I rattle around in here,” she said, though this was not at all the way she felt. In truth she glided through chains of rooms streamlined, perfectly graceful in the long halls. Perfect not in and of herself, but in and of the house.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“I’m not sure what to do with the house yet. I admit. But I will do something.”

“Do something?” said Steven, and drained his beer. “Like what?”

“You know there are parrots that live wild in the neighborhood?” she asked brightly. “Whole flocks of wild parrots!”

•

When she was ushering him toward the front door, two beers later, he stopped to pick through a box of odds and ends on a tabletop—she had it ready to go out to Goodwill—and lifted an old keychain. A dusty bronze ornament dangled.

“Oh yeah,” he mused. “Shit yeah. You know about this?”

“About what?”

“Some club. It’s the logo of that old club he was so into. You don’t remember? Only thing I remember from when I was over here as a kid. Those fuckers were already ancient. They used to hang around the place with walkers and oxygen tanks.”

She held it up to the light: gold and red, with a lion. There had once been words, but they were too worn to read.

“Drive safe,” she said, as he got into his car. “And I really appreciate you respecting the spirit of the will. Going easy on me. It means a lot, Steve.”

Maybe her self-effacing tone would ring in his ears when he thought about litigation. She crossed her fingers behind her back like a schoolgirl and hoped hard, into the bare air, that he would not return—that he and his son Tommy, of high principle, would leave well enough alone.

He backed up in a spurt of pebbles and rolled out the gate; she watched through the holes in the hedge as his car flashed away. She clutched the medallion.

•

Later she stood out on the poolside terrace drinking wine with Jim the lawyer and listening to the fountain at the end of the pool, where water flowed over jumping marble porpoises. He came over once or twice a week in the early evening, when his wife worked late or had made other plans. There were no children.

“Look at me. Already I’m jealously guarding my property,” she said. “As though I earned it or something.”

“You don’t want your asshole cousin coming in and trashing the place,” said Jim. “It’s hardly irrational.”

“Because it’s
mine
,” she said, shaking her head. “My personal Club Med.”

“Club Med is pathetic,” said Jim.

“You know what I mean.”

“What I think is, you’ve had the rug pulled out from under you twice in your life. This house is the first good thing that’s happened to you in a long time. Naturally you want to keep it. You’re human.”

“But you’re not,” she said, turning to press herself on him, holding her wineglass out to the side. “You’re a lawyer.”

“Your best bet is just to play defense. Wait and see. See if he bothers to make a claim.”

She looked up at his face, its gray, heavy-lidded eyes. He never seemed to open them as far as he could. His lassitude was calming.

R
eading in bed, she put down her book and reached for the old letter from Hanoi. She held the yellow paper carefully and reread the looping, faded script:
The Emperor is a very sophisticated gent, about 40 or 43, and looks much like what you’d expect of a modern Rajah.
It bore an embossment at the top, Charles Adams Sumter III. She flipped the papers over: his signature said
Chip
.

Chip had known the old man, she thought. The old man had known him. Long dead, no doubt.

A plane crossed the sky, blinking, and she lay back on the pillow. But then she woke up and it was early morning. She remembered the plane as though it should still be there; she had the sense that only a second had passed. It was so early the outside was still almost silent, and through her wide window she saw the yellow streaks of dawn. She reached out for her telephone. 411.

She said his name and the operator asked for an address.

“I don’t have one,” she said.

“Three listings in the metro area,” said the operator briskly, and rattled them off as Susan reached for a pen.

At the first number a woman answered, groggy, and mumbled something in Spanish. She sounded young. Susan apologized for waking her but didn’t regret it. The second number was out of service, and the third was an answering machine that seemed to belong to a young family.

She went downstairs to forage for breakfast but a stubbornness nudged at her so that midway through her bowl of cereal she got up and left the cornflakes soaking to call Information again. This time she asked for more listings, listings for the whole state. She had no evidence he was here, if he was even living, but it was her only lead. There were eight numbers in all, not too many, and she sat with her coffee at the kitchen table, the list in front of her, and dialed methodically. One man had an English accent, which gave her hope at first—maybe because it imbued him fleetingly with age or stature. But he hung up when she asked more. The next number gave her a voicemail with a generic message, so she left her own. The third rang for some time until she heard a distant voice at the other end: the name of a business, and she was disappointed. Then the words came again.
Sunset Villas
.

“Are you—I’m sorry. What are you?”

“We’re a residential community. For seniors.”

She stretched out the coils of the phone cord on a finger, then released.

“I’m looking for a Mr. Sumter. A Mr. Charles Sumter.”

There was the buzz of static, then nothing. She’d been cut off. But no—a click and someone else picked up.