Preston Falls : a novel (38 page)

The telephone wakes her, and she gropes for it on the nightstand.

"Hi, it's Anita. Jerry thought I'd better call. You okay? We're all down here."

"Oh, I fell asleep'' Jean says. "God, what time is it? Am I keeping everybody waiting?" And she's got to take a shower, change clothes, do something about her hair . . . Crap.

"It's only six-thirty," says Anita. "Take your time. You must be exhausted—^you slept the whole way down. Are you sure you're all right?"

Jean can hear music and chattering voices on the other end. "I'm fine. It's just a combination of not enough sleep and also getting my period." A totally weird thing to come out with, since she's not getting her period.

"Oh, I hate that," says Anita. "And if I take anything, then I'm like—uhh."

"Well, that's actually what happened. I took a couple of Advils, and the next thing I knew ..." This is so odd: the last thing she is, ordinarily, is a liar. She must be more desperate than she knows to estabUsh some bogus woman-to-woman thing.

"Listen," says Anita, "I'll just teU them—God, what should I say? You want me to say you were working on something? And the time just got away from you?"

"No, just tell them I fell asleep and I'll be down in a minute, okay? So what are we doing tonight—do we know yet?"

"Anybody's guess. But I think it could be a long one. Listen, could I ask you? Do you have any idea what we're doing down here? I just think this is bizarre."

"Well, it hasn't exactly been action-packed. But it does make a difference to actually see the space. And the thing tomorrow morning, it probably makes sense for Jerry and Howard to get on a personal footing with someone from the bank."

Dead air.

"Okay," says Anita. "So we'll see you in a few."

Jean says, "Okay," but Anita's already hung up. Brilliant: you mope

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around wishing you had a woman ally, and now you keep her at arms' length because of some stupid paranoia. What, she's going to betray you if you agree this is bizarre? So no wonder your marriage fell apart.

She decides to skip the shower and use the time to call home. On the fourth ring, she gets the machine: "This is five five five, one five three six," says Willis's voice. "You know what to do."

"Hi, dear hearts," she says. "I guess you guys must've gone out. I'm just calling to say hi and that I miss you"—now don't you start weeping—"and I'm doing fine. It's warmer down here, but not real warm, so if you're picturing me lying out by the pool or something, forget about it. Anyway, I'm just about to go out to dinner, and I'll try you again later. I know you already have the number here, but just in case." She actually gives them the stupid number again.

It would be self-dramatizing to sit here on the edge of the bed staring forlornly, so she goes into the bathroom and paws around in her travel kit for a toothbrush—which she evidently forgot to pack. There's a little thing of blue mouthwash in a basket on the countertop, along with little bottles of shampoo and conditioner, so she sloshes some of that around in her mouth, running her tongue over her teeth, then tips back her head and gargles. This will have to do. She makes some quick repairs on her hair and makeup so she looks a little less like shit —it hurt when Jerry said that, even if it was meant to be some double-reverse irony.

Down in the lounge, Jerry and Howard and Anita are perched on tall stools around a tiny table on a chrome stalk.

"All right" Jerry pats the seat of an empty stool. "Sit down and what's your pleasure? Miss Bruno— Mizz Bruno—is drinking white wine, like the lady she is. I'm drinking Wild Turkey so nobody'U know I'm a New York Jew, and our friend Howard here is drinking—what are you drinking again, Howard?"

"J & B," Howard says.

"Howard is drinking J & B," says Jerry. "Which I have to say is extremely judicious. Nobody's going to figure out what the heU he is."

Jean can see why Anita predicted a long night. "Maybe some white wine too," she says. Now that she's kicked away the chance of forming any other bond.

Jerry's hand shoots into the air and begins waving. "Yo. Garson. Garsonette." A waitress comes their way, tottering in the high heels and short, tight leather skirt they make her wear; you can practically

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hear her net stockings scraping together at the knees. "Uno more-o vino white-o," says Jerry, touching the rim of Anita's glass.

The waitress nods, then gives Jean just the quickest look: Better you than me, honey. She must be about Jean's age, sort of country hard-faced.

"So in your absence," says Jerry, "we've arrived at a decision." He takes a pull at his whiskey. "First we chow down at whatever the hell the name is, some place our friend and colleague Howard here says is acceptable, which we'll see." The waitress sets a glass of wine in front of Jean. "What time again, Howard?"

"Quarter to eight," says Howard.

"Quarter to eight. Sounds plausible," says Jerry. "And then it's on to what we're told is the premier country-music nightspot, which is called the . . . Howard?"

"Crystal Chandelier," says Howard.

"The Crystal Chandelier. Thank yuh thank yuh. Where we get to see some poofter in a cowboy hat. Gary Larry or Larry Gary or some such shit."

"You know, it's almost seven, Jer," Howard says. "I should call the car place."

"Well, hell, go to it, son. Got us a phone rot over thur by the pissy-warr."

"Yeah, I know, Jer," says Howard. "I just used it."

Anita glances at Jean and raises her eyes ceilingward. Jean has both hands around her wineglass; she opens, then closes, her fingers; she hopes this will seem like the equivalent of a sympathetic shrug.

"Hell of a town," says Jerry, "Jes' so proud to be here."

"I'll be right back," says Howard.

"Take your tom, son," Jerry says, as Howard heads for the telephone. He takes another gulp of whiskey. "Poor bastard."

Jean says nothing. Shamefully leaving it to Anita, who asks, "Why do you say that?"

Jerry winces. "Bruno," he says. "Please tell me you're just playing dumb. Look, this is a sweet man, you know what I'm saying? Basically a lovely man. They threw him down and raped him in New York. You think even in this godforsaken shithole they can't smell it on him? I mean, with all due respect to Howard." He shrugs. "I give it a year."

"But doesn't anybody know this?" says Anita.

"/ know it; am / anybody?" Jerry says. "I guess not!'

This shuts Anita up.

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"But he's moving his family down," Jean says.

"So let's hope they like the area," says Jerry.

"How can you do this to him?" Jean says.

Jerry shrugs. "He fuckin' begged for it. What am / supposed to do? Out of New York, more relaxed way of life, nice public schools —plus his own little fiefdom away from all the big mean guys. Hey, and Art was only too happy to make it all come true. Because he sees a tax loss at the end of the tunnel and Howard out the door." Howard's heading back to the table; Jean smiles and nods at him to alert Jerry. "You think I'm scary, you should watch old Artie in action—if you can even see what he's doing. Fucker's the master of misdirection."

"Who we talking about?" Howard says, climbing back onto his stool.

''You, babe," says Jerry, who must have seen him coming after all. "So what's the frequency, Kenneth?"

"I asked them to send a car around in about twenty minutes."

"That's the stuff," says Jerry. "Shit, you're going to be right in your element down here."

"Well, I think it's the right move for me. And we'll make that location work, Jerry. I respect what you're saying, but over the long haul?"

"There, see that?" Jerry says to Jean and Anita. "This is the man with the master plan." He raises his glass. "Howie, you fuckin' ace of trumps." He drains the last of his drink. "Now, here's the agenda. If you would escort Ms. Bruno out to the lobby and wait for us, Ms. Karnes and I have about five minutes' worth of highly confidential shit to talk over."

Anita looks at Jean, who turns up a palm.

"Sure," says Howard. "We can do that. If the car shows up, I'll just have him wait."

"Excellent," Jerry says. "Have him wait. That's it. You're in the zone, babe."

Howard touches fingertips to Anita's elbow, and Jerry watches them out of the room. Then he shoots his fingers behind the lenses of his glasses, pushing them up above his forehead, and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, twisting his head from side to side. He claws the glasses back down into place and says, "Help me, somebody, /^sus." He looks up. "How's your drink holding out?"

"I'm fine," says Jean.

"Sure you are. So what's this secret sorrow, Karnes? Let me guess.

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Prince Hamlet won't take care of his homework. Have I ever told you you're worth ten of this putz? In my opinion?"

"Yes. Repeatedly."

"If you don't mind my calling your husband a putz. How is the King ofRock and Roll?"

"I don't know. I don't even know where he is. He was supposed to be back at work this week, and apparently he just, you know, took off. That or something's happened to him. I have no idea what to do."

"Well," Jerry says, "in my religion we have some very moving prayers of thanksgiving."

"Fuck you, Jerry. I don't need jokes."

"Now, that's the little pepper-pot we know and love. Okay, so what have you tried so far? You called everybody, nobody knows shit, so you did what? Go to the police?"

"Yes, finally. And now—this morning?—they called and said they found his truck on Houston Street."

"Yeah? And?"

"That's it."

"Well, so what the hell are you doing dicking around in Atlanta, Georgia?" says Jerry. "Why didn't you tell me? Dragging you off on this buUshit."

"I don't know. I guess if anything, it was a relief to have something I had to do," she says. "I think I'm sort of sleepwalking."

"Yeah, I would say. Help me, somebody." He raises his hand and windmills for the waitress. "So what did you do with the kids meanwhile? Put out food and water for them?"

"My sister's there—"

"Right, right, I remember you said—"

"—but she has to go back to Seattle. I mean, she should have gone already."

Jerry shuts his eyes, his whole face scrunching up. "If this wasn't the ass end of the universe, Karnes, I'd stick you on a plane right now. Shit, there's got to be something flying back to civilization tonight." The waitress is coming their way; he mimics writing on his palm, and she swivels and makes for the cash register. "Okay, this is the plan. Wherever we can get you to. La Guardia, Newark, fuckin' PhilaJe/phia, we'll have a car waiting—"

"Jerry, no. I can't. I need some sleep. My sister's taking care of the

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kids, they'll be fine, and just this one night, you know, there's that huge bed and it's like it isn't anywhere. It isn't even in the world.''

"Will you be able to sleep?" he says. The waitress puts the check on the table; Jerry lays his credit card on it. "You want a Halcion?"

"God no," says Jean. "What's it like, though? I've never taken it."

"It's like you were never born," he says. "Temporarily."

"Could I really have one?"

"First one's free, kid. So listen. I see absolutely no need for you to come along on the voyage of the Pequod tonight. Howard was probably counting on you to keep me busy, while he tortures himself with the beautified Miss Bruno. But with just the three of us, it'U be all the more piquant."

"Oh, come on," says Jean.

"Don't you start playing dumb." Jerry taps his temple with a forefinger. "It's my little private theater troupe, okay? Starring the beautified Miss Bruno. Another one of life's winners. One-bedroom co-op in the Village that she can't unload, and some putz hanging around who's in film, for Christ's sake. See, Bruno jells me everything. Which is more than I can say for you, Karnes. I think she read some fucking article about mentors."

"At least it sounds like she has hope," says Jean.

"Yeah, well, like I say. Piquant. So anyway, you go on up, you order room service, you get under the covers, you have two desserts, put on a dirty movie, pop a Halcion and goodbye cruel world."

"This is really kind," says Jean. "But I should at least come to dinner. I don't want to spoil everybody's evening."

"Please-please-p/^'^je, can we not talk stupidly? An evening? This is a fucking lunar expedition."

"Well, so why are you doing it?"

"That's the question, all right," he says. "You've nailed it."

The waitress is back with the slip and credit card. Jerry looks at the slip, closes his eyes, then opens them and writes in the tip and total.

"Let me tell you one more thing," he says, guiding her toward the lobby with a hand on her shoulder blade. "Since we're talking turkey. Or the Wild Turkey's talking turkey. This might appeal to your sick sense of humor. I am technically a faithful husband. And that is not a proposition, by the way."

"I'm technically a faithful wife," Jean says. It feels daring to leave out the rest. God, that one glass of wine.

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She calls room service and orders a steak, which she never has, a baked potato and, for dessert, Chocolate Mud Pie. And a caffeine-free Diet Coke: she's afraid to have another glass of wine because of the pill Jerry gave her, which she's afraid to take anyway. She gets her shoes off, pulls the stiff synthetic bedspread over her and reads the part where Emma's trying to figure out how she could have thought Mr. Elton was in love with Harriet. The food arrives, wheeled in by a fat, beaming black woman who's either doing a good job of pretending she doesn't hate waiting on rich white women, or who genuinely doesn't because she's a Christian.

But Jean can't eat until she knows what's going on in Chesterton. She keeps the round metal covers on the food, hangs the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob, then gets into her nightgown and under the covers to make the call.

Mel answers the phone. "Oh. I thought you were Erin."