Seating Arrangements (18 page)

Winn stood. “Drink orders?”

There was a chorus of requests, and when they died down, Oatsie said, “What about you, Livia? Do you have any beaux?”

Livia was aware that only the wobbly partition of Celeste separated her from Sterling. She struggled for a few seconds with how to answer, not wanting to seem either unavailable or too available and also wondering what information had already reached him through the pneumatic tubes of gossip, but before she could formulate anything, Celeste piped up with, “Livia’s pining over the one who got away.”

Livia rounded on her and gave an incredulous flick of her head.
Celeste seemed to think that because she’d been through so much romantic tumult herself, seen so much, she had the right to impose a policy of total openness on everyone around her, certain they understood their troubles didn’t amount to much in the grand scheme of things.

“Oh?” said Oatsie. “How did he get away?”

Celeste tapped the side of her nose with one finger. “In the worst way. Without permission.”

“We don’t need to talk about it,” Livia said.

Oatsie’s glasses caught the lantern light. “Don’t worry, dear. There are other fish in the sea.”

“Are there?” Livia said, heating up. “I thought there was just the one.”

“It ain’t over till the fat lady sings,” Celeste said. “Maybe it’ll be a second marriage for both of you.”

“Second marriage for who?” Piper said, appearing with a glass for herself and one for Dominique.

“No one,” Livia said.

Sterling spoke. “Daphne and Greyson,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Celeste has uncovered the dirt. They were both married before. Go on, Celeste. You were about to tell us about Daphne being a showgirl.”

“At the Golden Nugget,” Celeste said without hesitation. “She married a craps dealer. It only lasted a month.”

“My parents were both married before,” Piper said brightly, pleased to be sharing good news. “My mom’s first husband died, and my dad’s first wife ran off with her ophthalmologist. Things always turn out well in the end.”

“That’s true,” Livia said. “They always do. One hundred percent of the time. How many times have you been married, Celeste?”

“Oh, about a million,” Celeste said around the cigarette Sterling was lighting for her.

“My husband and I were philanthropists,” Oatsie said. “But since he’s passed, I’ve lost the knack.”

She regarded her grandson with such fixed interest that Sterling said, “What?”

“I don’t know whether you should ever marry, Sterling, dear. I think maybe not. You are not the type.”

“Why is that?”

They stared at each other with their indolent, unblinking gazes, each perfectly comfortable under the scrutiny of the other. “You’re a clever boy,” Oatsie said. “But you’re not very nice.”

Sterling absorbed his grandmother’s pronouncement with equanimity, and in the quiet, an odd sound could be heard from somewhere nearby. “What is that?” asked Francis.

“What?” said Piper.

“Shh,” said Dominique. “I hear it, too.”

The sound, a regular sort of huffing like the respiration of a train, grew louder until suddenly a dog, an immense black Labrador, burst like a cannonball from the darkness of the lawn, bounded onto the deck, and began rushing from chair to chair, panting and wagging solicitously as though in apology for his late arrival. His nails tapped a flamenco beat on the wood. Livia pushed his snout from her crotch, and he went directly to Sterling, who watched the intimate explorations of the inquiring nose without interest. The lanterns burnished the dog’s coat and caught the whites of his eyes. He was the size and shape of an oil drum. “Hey, get away from there,” Francis said when the dog went for the plate beside his feet.

“Come here,” called Agatha. “Here, boy! Here!”

“What is he looking for?” said Dominique as the dog bustled past, his black nose searching the air and then following an invisible trail along the deck and then revisiting the air.

“He’s looking for the treasure of the Sierra Madre,” Oatsie announced in her loud, round, plummy voice.

“He’s probably from the IRS,” said Sterling.

Agatha patted her thighs. “Here! Here, doggie. Why doesn’t he like me? Come here!”

Winn, who had been sitting back by the house with the other parents,
lurched to his feet. “Whose dog is this?” he demanded. “Who brought this dog?”

“No one did,” Livia yelled at him over the hubbub. “He just appeared.”

“I thought we were getting a stripper,” Charlie said.

“Here!” cried Agatha.

“Keep him away from those lobster shells,” said Dicky Sr., not stirring from his chair.

Greyson reemerged from the house, took in the scene, and with one lunge caught the dog by his collar. The animal sat down, jovial and inky black, pink tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth and tail tick-tocking from side to side. “Everyone,” he said, “I’d like you to meet”—he looked at the collar—“Morty.”

“Morty?” shrieked Piper. “That is
not
his name.”

“Where did he come from?” Winn kept asking. “Why is he here?”

Grinning, the dog looked rapidly from side to side, craning around at all the faces. A thick string of drool unfurled from the edge of his lip and draped itself over Greyson’s hand.

“Shit!” said Greyson, releasing the collar. “He slimed me!”

The dog, free again, was in more of a hurry than ever and ran slip-sliding around in a circle, dodging everyone who reached for him. The party was on its feet, darting around calling the dog, wanting to pet the dog, trying to grab the dog. Finally Morty saw his chance and leapt from the deck, vanishing down the dark slope of lawn, and Agatha, focused entirely on her pursuit and not on her feet, went headlong after him, belly flopping into the night. A stunned silence hung over the party for as long as it took to draw breath, and then they were all in hysterics, rocking and tipping in their chairs, wheezing and gasping. Livia, doubled over in spasmodic laughter, looked out through her tears and noticed the peak of the party as it passed.

Her father was kneeling on the edge of the deck. “Agatha?” he said. “Are you all right?” Her face with its tousled yellow mane appeared and then a hand as she dragged herself up, keening with laughter. He reached out for her and hoisted, struggling to get her on her feet.
She teetered from side to side, disheveled, a barefoot urchin, trying to wipe her eyes and brush the grass and dirt from the front of her dress. For a moment she clutched the front of his shirt.

“Ooh,” she said, catching sight of a ribbon of raw skin running down her forearm. “Oopsidoodle.”

“Are you all right?” he asked. He took hold of her wrist and held her arm up to the light.

“Why wouldn’t he come to me?” she asked. “He went to everyone else.”

Livia did not like the way her father was patting Agatha on the shoulder—clumsily, sort of like she was a horse, but with a fixed, embarrassing attention. She looked at her mother, who was sitting with the Duffs and studying her own hands in her lap with raised eyebrows. Maude said something to her, and she turned, smiling, her brightness switched on again.

Celeste was still undone by giggles. “Because,” she said to Agatha, barely getting the words out, “he’s neutered. He’s not interested.”

“He’s a dog,” Agatha said testily.

Celeste waved a hand in apology but couldn’t stop laughing.

From her chair, Dominique said, “Morty didn’t like you. That’s all.”

“It’s true,” Agatha said, looking hurt and slurring faintly. “He didn’t like me. Oh, God, why didn’t Morty like me?”

“He liked you,” Winn said, leading her to a chair. “Of course he did.”

“Dogs don’t have to like
everyone
,” Oatsie said.

Livia stepped off the deck and lay flat on her back in the grass. An airplane crossed the sky, and she imagined its interior—people packed in rows like eggs in a carton, the chemical smell of the toilets, pretzels in foil pouches, cans hiss-popping open, black ovals of night sky embedded in the rattling walls. How strange that something so drab, so confined, so stifling with sour exhalations and the fumes of indifferent machinery might be mistaken for a star.

•    •    •

“DO YOU THINK
your mother is happy in there?” Winn said, returning to the corner of the deck where Biddy and the Duffs were sitting. He had gone inside to get a beer and the first aid kit, but somehow the kit had passed from his hands into Sterling’s, who was now sitting beside Agatha, daubing her scrape with a cotton ball while she bared her teeth at the sting.

“Oh, did she go inside?” Maude said.

“She’s there.” Winn tilted his head at the window through which Mopsy could be seen sitting in the dark living room, a narrow shadow dwarfed by a wing chair. She reminded him of how, at his wedding, he had searched the windows of the Hazzards’ house for his mother’s face. “I asked her if she wanted some light, but she said no.”

“Thank you so much for checking on her, Winn, but I’m sure she’s fine. She might be a little tired. She gets tired. She’s probably resting. This is a
wonderful
party. You are so sweet to go to the trouble.”

“It’s nothing,” said Biddy. “Really.”

“Well now, Dicky,” Winn said. “Have you gotten out on the golf course much lately?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Dicky Sr. said, mournfully shaking his head. “Things have been awfully busy.”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Maude. “He was out on Wednesday with Marshall Hattishaw.”

“Thank you, dear. Next time I’ll let you answer the question.”

“Marshall Hattishaw?” Winn said, fumbling with a bottle opener. “Do I know him? Where did he prep?”

“Andover. Do you know him?”

Winn nodded, summoning an indistinct image of a blond man holding a squash racquet. Finally he managed to pry the cap off the bottle, but the toothy disc slipped through his fingers and rolled away somewhere under the chairs.

“He’s a
doll
,” said Maude.

“I don’t know him,” Biddy said. “Where do you know him from, Winn?”

“Here and there. We move in the same circles.”

“What about you?” Dicky asked. “How’s the working life?”

“Ah,” Winn said. “Fine. I’m not golfing as much as I’d like, though. I played a few rounds last month. Actually, I’m hoping that soon I’ll be able to take you out on the Pequod course. We’ve been on the waitlist for a while. I can’t imagine it’ll be much longer.”

“No,” Dicky said. “I’m sure not.” But a glance had passed between him and Maude.

Winn peered at them. “Jack Fenn’s on the membership committee. Do you know him?”

“I do, very well,” said Dicky. “We go way back. He’s a solid guy, Jack. A class act.”

“Yes.” Winn nodded. “Yes. We were at college together. Unfortunately, there’s some bad blood between Livia and his son.”

Another communication passed between Dicky and Maude, but this one was not so much seen as felt, just a subtle shift in their postures. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Dicky said.

“The mistakes of youth,” Winn said, raising his bottle. “May they not be visited on the old.”

Biddy patted Winn’s thigh. She turned to Maude. “Tell me—Daphne was saying something about Francis spending time in a monastery?”

“Yes, my goodness, can you believe it? My little Buddha. Francis is very spiritual. I keep telling him he’ll have to give a little family lecture on, you know, serenity and, what is it he says, acceptance, and, let me see, the
middle
way. Francis says—”

“I only hope,” Winn said, “that Fenn can look beyond our differences when it comes to the Pequod.” His hand had escaped Biddy’s, and his index finger was pointing at Dicky. He let it drop into his lap.

“Winn,” said Biddy. “Leave it for now.”

“I can’t imagine Jack would hold something like that against you,” Dicky said. “That’s not Jack’s way. He’s a stand-up guy, Jack.”

“If there’s a problem, it couldn’t be Jack. No. No, no,” Maude said.

“What do you mean?” asked Winn, the finger creeping back up and swinging toward Maude like a dowser’s stick. Biddy grabbed his hand and held it, squeezing.

“Young love, it’s so dramatic, isn’t it?” Maude said. “That’s all I mean. Greyson and Daphne are so lucky to be settled.” She glanced between Winn and Dicky. “I’m sure you’ll be teeing off at the Pequod before you know it.” This last was spoken so kindly, like a nurse telling a doomed G.I. he’d be going home soon, that Winn was sure she knew something. Suddenly, he felt very drunk.

Biddy was talking about Teddy. “I was so shocked when Livia told me. She was shocked. His mother must have been shocked. Or maybe not. What do I know? The decision just seemed so sudden.”

“Chip off the old block,” said Winn.

“With four sons,” Maude said, “the draft is my biggest fear. If they ever came for
my
boys, I don’t know what I would do. I would be a
lioness
. I would bundle my babies off to Canada.”

“Dicky would be all right,” Dicky Sr. said. “And Greyson. Francis couldn’t hack it, though.”

“Maybe Sterling could be a medic,” Winn said bitterly. They all looked over at Sterling pressing a row of Band-Aids onto Agatha’s arm.

Maude shook her head. “I hate even to think about any of them going. It’s a terrible, terrible thought.”

Winn stopped listening. The light from the lanterns was ghoulish, and the scene swung slowly from side to side as though they were on a ship. There were Agatha’s bare knees, and there was Celeste’s glass catching the light and Mopsy’s dark shape in the window. The young men wore shirts the colors of saltwater taffy and drank from bottles of beer. Their ankles were bare beneath the cuffs of their pants. He couldn’t tell them apart. There was Maude gesturing, drawing a jagged heartbeat in the air.

“Must be hard for Livia, though,” Maude said. “After everything.”

“Livia,” Winn said, doggedly trying to restore order, “is laboring under the illusion that Teddy’s joining the army had something to do with her.”

There was a pause. “We don’t need to get into it,” said Biddy.

She was right, of course, but her rightness only prodded Winn into
elaborating. He said, “It’s time she faced the fact that men break up with women because they
don’t
want to plan their lives around them. Teddy isn’t thinking about her.”