Outerbridge Reach (16 page)

“Who, me?” she asked. “I'm an armchair sailor.”

“So you approve of his going?”

Her confident smile tightened. “Oh yes,” she said.

“Who's he doing it for?” Strickland asked. “You or the rest of the world?”

She looked straight ahead at the road and shook her head slightly, as though she had not understood his question.

They drove up to the Quonset hut that served Steadman's as an airline terminal and Strickland got out of the car. Before Anne could pull out he leaned in the open window.

“I like to try out a couple of basic questions at the beginning of a project,” he told her. “I need to find out the questions that work, understand? I need to know which questions I'll be asking. I hope you don't take it wrong.”

Anne favored him with a quick impatient smile and put the car in gear. He stood and watched her drive away.

The next day, while he worked on the Central American footage, he had Hersey develop the pictures he had taken on Steadman's Island. He was in search of a title for the film and in that effort had invested in two volumes of Pablo Neruda with facing English and Spanish texts. The film taking shape would have the left-liberal coloration required to justify a reference to that poet. It would also contain a few home truths for the private delectation of that tiny band of perceptual athletes whom Strickland regarded as his core audience.

Hersey put the shiny new Steadman's Island prints on Strickland's desk. Strickland turned off the Steenbeck and rolled his chair over to inspect them.

“Hey, Ron,” Hersey said. “These look like nice people.”

Strickland picked up a picture of Anne Browne on her porch and inspected it.

“What do you mean, Hersey? What are you talking about?”

“Well, I mean they don't resemble our usual run of scumbag.” Thumbing briefly through the rest, Strickland felt the quickening of an old familiar appetite.

“Trust me,” he told Hersey.

About ten o'clock that night Pamela arrived. She had forgiven Strickland for not taking her to Finland. When she came in he was lying on the sofa in his office smoking a joint. He had pinned his Steadman's Island pictures of the Brownes on the bulletin board, along with that of Mari in Africa and those of the war in Central America. Pamela went to them at once, aglow with enthusiasm.

“Oh wow,” she exclaimed. “This is like the nuclear family, right? Mommy and Daddy and Sis. Shit, I wish my family looked like that.”

“I thought they did,” Strickland said.

She took a print from the board and settled beside him. “Oh my God! She has the khaki skirt. And the little plaid belt. And the little black sleeveless blouse. I can't stand it.”

“You know what they said about you, Pamela?” He cleared his throat, preparing to do Browne's voice. “They said, ‘I n-never knew people like that could be so sympathetic.'”

“Oh no!” Pamela cried. Giggling, she folded her arms and shuddered, as with a dread delicious thrill.

“They subscribe to
The American Spectator
Strickland added. But this further
frisson
was not available to Pamela, who went to the desk for more pictures and began leafing through them.

“Lookit this! Her hair is getting a tad gray. Prematurely, right? And she's not doing anything to it.” Pamela breathed an admiring sigh. “How tall is she?”

“Taller than me. Almost as tall as him and he's over six feet.” He took the picture from her hand. “The two of them look alike, can you see it? She has a sort of square jaw.”

“Like her?” Pamela asked. She looked him in the eye and ran the tip of her tongue along her upper lip.

Strickland shrugged. “I don't know. I look at her and I think of a hundred and twenty-five pounds of pound cake. Of course, I kind of like pound cake.”

“Get real,” Pamela said impatiently. “She's the handsome prince I've always dreamed of. And the guy is a hunk.”

“He's a hero, too. A pilgrim.”

“Oh, Ronnie, you'll have such fun.”

“I believe I will have fun,” Strickland said. “Please don't call me Ronnie.”

“Can't I meet them, Ron?”

“Nah,” Strickland said.

“Come on!”

“Sure, why not? Sometime maybe.”

He took the pictures from Pamela and looked at them. Pamela, who was watching him, shivered again.

“What's the matter with you?”

“I don't know,” she said.

“Look at her big Republican butt,” Strickland said fondly.

“She has a
derrière poire,”
Pamela declared.

“Yes? And what's that?”

“It means her bum is pear-shaped.”

“Yeah? Is that good?”

“I think they like it in France. I got it from a Frenchman.”

“And who did he say it about? You?”

“Actually,” she told Strickland, “he said it about Kim Basinger. The actress.”

But Strickland was less interested in the answer to his question than in the photograph before him. It was a shot of Owen, Anne and their daughter, Maggie, together, taken by some houseguest the year before, a shot so theatrical and portentous it was hard to believe it had not been contrived. All the same, Strickland understood that it could not have been. It showed the Brownes against a stormy horizon, facing the dark gray ocean. Their gray slacks and sweaters matched the tones of sea and sky and gave the picture a monochromatic feeling. Stoutly, the three of them faced the gathering storm. Anne Browne and her daughter shared the same vocabulary of features and, in this picture, the same exalted, fateful smile. Browne seemed to have thrust himself between his women and the elements.

“Jesus,” Strickland said.

“I love the kid,” Pamela said. “I'd like to lick her.”

“God,” Strickland said, “I've got hold of something here. Let me not blow it. Because if I pull this off it will be something.”

Pamela waved an imaginary flag.

“Yay, Ron! Go for it!”

O
NE MILD
spring afternoon, Strickland took lunch with Captain Riggs-Bowen on the premises of a Manhattan club of which the captain was a member. Amid the mellow clutter of books, faded oil paintings and antique statuary they raised their drinks to each other. A pleasant breeze stirred the long lace curtains. Evian water was Riggs-Bowen's chosen
aperitivo.

“I thought that was good about Browne,” the captain told Strickland. “Your ‘eyes of a poet' line. I had to laugh at that.”

“Thanks,” said Strickland modestly. “And what do they think of him at the Southchester? Browne, I mean.”

Riggs-Bowen was dismissively puffy. “Don't know that they think anything, really. The commercial interests are part of today's world, aren't they?”

“Sure,” Strickland said. “That's Browne? The commercial interests?”

“Well, he's a salesman.”

According to Strickland's information, Captain Riggs-Bowen had found a snug harbor as the husband of two rich American women in succession. He carried two handkerchiefs, one in his breast pocket and another up his sleeve.

“But I've seen the Southchester's m-membership. There are a number of people whom you could call salesmen.”

The captain grew impatient. “Don't misunderstand, please. We're in the New World here. It doesn't matter what people do for a living or whether they do anything at all, if you see what I mean. Commercial is a state of mind.”

Strickland nodded thoughtfully. “An attitude?”

“Yes, exactly. I mean Matthew Hylan, really. And Mr. Harry Thorne.” He gave Strickland a guileless stare across the starched tablecloth. “Come on,” he said, gently suggesting the parody of a New York accent.

Smiling, Strickland watched him.

“Harry Thorne is all over us these days,” the captain went on. “Is he?”

“Yes, altogether. He's discovered us. Discovered the world of yachting.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. And we're getting the benefit of his energy.”

“He's probably a guy who likes to win,” Strickland said.

Captain Riggs-Bowen seemed at the point of a remark which he visibly reconsidered. A young Irish waiter took their glasses away. For lunch, Strickland ordered the Salisbury steak. The captain chose horsemeat filet.

“Speciality of the house since the war,” he explained to Strickland. “Reminds me of a vanished France.”

“Do you think there's much support for Browne?”

“No idea,” Riggs-Bowen said.

“Doesn't it appeal to you that his parents were English?”

Then it was the captain's turn to stammer. He appeared slightly embarrassed.

“Oh yes, I forgot. They were in service. Out on the island. Of course.”

“What does that mean?” Strickland asked. “What service? What island?”

“Long Island. They were staff. At a house out there. Actually,” he told Strickland, “I'm a U.S. citizen. Have been for twenty years.”

“Who,” Strickland wanted to know, “would you like to see win?”

Riggs-Bowen chortled. “Who, me? Neutral! Completely. A jolly good race is what we want.”

“How is Browne's attitude commercial?”

The captain appeared to have trouble understanding Strickland's question.

“Well,” he said after a moment or two, “look at the kind of stuff they're putting out. Do you read the Hylan press releases?”

“They're high-minded,” Strickland said.

“They're bullshit,” the captain said. “Hype.”

“Why's that?”

“Look,” Riggs-Bowen said, “it's all Thorne's way of turning ruin into prosperity. Or trying to. The club's being used.”

“Wasn't Hylan a member?”

“Yes,” Riggs-Bowen said. “Alas.”

“I wonder,” Strickland asked the captain, “if you'd consider being interviewed on camera. Sort of put your two cents in.”

“Glad to,” the captain said.

Strickland, who was altogether surprised at his readiness, tried to be cool.

“What I'd like you to do, see, is to tell us what you're telling me now.”

“Really? What am I telling you?”

“Well, interesting things,” Strickland said with all the mildeyed sincerity at his command. “What you have to say about Thorne and the Hylan company is very insightful.”

“Oh good,” said Riggs-Bowen. “I'm jolly pleased you think so. Is that what I should talk about to your cameras?”

“Absolutely,” Strickland said reverently. “It puts everything in perspective.”

“Oh good,” Riggs-Bowen repeated, and laughed in Strickland's face. “But I think not.” He chuckled warmly as though thoroughly satisfied by the wine and his club and the view of Central Park.

“Really,” Strickland said, “you'd provide a unique perspective.”

The captain continued to bask in his own glow.

“Club history
is
fascinating. We're one of the oldest in existence on either side of the ocean. Oh yes, Mr. Strickland. We have tales to tell. Ha-ha, yes. But comments on the race? On present members? Better not, you know.”

Inwardly, Strickland grew very angry. He resolved that if he could not use Riggs-Bowen's droll remarks as commentary on Browne's race, he would nevertheless make the captain regret his own willingness to appear.

“Whatever you want to talk about,” Strickland said, “would be fine with us.”

“We always oblige media when possible,” Riggs-Bowen said. “We like to shine. But discreetly.”

“Well today, understand, we're talking strictly for b . . b . . .”

“For background,” the captain pronounced, as though happy to be of assistance. “I do understand.” He poured the last of the wine. “Well, the background is this: Hylan wasn't a bad sailor. He was an unreliable little Irish bastard. From Peabody or Saugus or somewhere. Still—not a bad sailor. Had the Finns make him a great boat. Which he never paid for.”

“I think I know all that,” Strickland said.

“You know all that. Now Thorne—who knows fuck-all about boats—has a bug up his arse for victory. So he's presented us with this Browne person whom no one ever heard of, never competed, never belonged to a club—one of his salesmen. And the theory is they take the Hylan so-called their new stock boat, Altan Forty or something, and win the Eglantine Solo with it.”

“And you think that's unlikely.”

“If I were you, Strickland,” the captain said, “I'd look into that boat.”

“What about Browne?”

Riggs-Bowen laughed good-naturedly. “But Strickland, you know about Browne. You said it yourself. He has the eyes of a poet.”

“He has a certain quality,” Strickland said. “It's hard to tell about him.” He was hoping the captain might volunteer an impression of his own. “If you think he's not qualified, why are you letting him race?”

“Look, if they're duly sponsored, they're in. Anyway,” he demanded of Strickland, “what's unqualified? Chay Blyth didn't know a sail from a bedsheet when he got into his first Golden Globe. Beginners circumnavigate all the time now. And the press love it. So if he wins, I'll be the first to shake his hand. I'll even do it for your cameras.”

“You don't believe he can win?”

“The sea selects,” Riggs-Bowen said, “God bless her. Hype doesn't float. And of course he may decide not to go.”

“Ought he not to go?” Strickland asked with a smile.

“I wouldn't,” Riggs-Bowen said. Then his eyes wandered away from the table and an expression of singular tenderness came over his even, rosy features. He mouthed a greeting and called for the bill. Strickland followed his gaze to the exhibition room. A handsome lady of a certain age stood hesitantly among the etchings, one hand half raised in a timid greeting.

“Not me,” the captain told Strickland, handing the waiter the signed bill. “Not in a Hylan stock boat.” He stood up to indicate that lunch was over.