Significant Others (29 page)
“No. He was performing in the play.”
“What was it about?”
“Uh … the Red Cross, actually.”
“I remind you of him?”
“Well … his spirit.”
“What was he like?”
He thought for a moment, discarding any adjectives that might be loaded. “Well … interested in nature. Adventurous.”
“Wild-ass,” she said.
“Yeah.” He smiled a little. “That too.”
“So you got drunk, huh? And you passed out in that canoe.”
He nodded in resignation.
“Then your poor ol’ white ass just drifted on down into Lezzieland.”
What was this woman’s story?
“You get drunk much?” she asked, plucking a pack of Trues from the dashboard.
“No,” he said.
“I do. I like it.” She poked a cigaret into her mouth, then flicked her Bic. Her red-veined face flared up in the darkness. “So,” she asked, holding in smoke, “how did you like them dykes?”
He looked out the window to compose an answer. “It wasn’t what I felt,” he said at last. “What I felt had nothing to do with anything.”
She nodded gravely. “I know what you mean.” Holding the cigaret with her thumb and forefinger, she offered it to him.
“No, thanks,” he said.
“Did you and your buddy live together?”
“No,” he replied. “He lived in Denver.”
“Huh?”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said. “I have a wife.”
She narrowed her eyes a little, then asked: “Where do you live?”
“Hillsborough,” he said.
“If he was your best friend”—smoke curled out of her and hovered overhead like a question mark—“when the hell did you see him?”
“Here,” he said impatiently. “At the camp.”
“How often?”
“Once a year.”
“For how long?”
He thought about it. “Four or five days, usually. For twenty-seven years.”
How many days did that make in all? As many as six months’ worth? No, not even that many.
Mabel seemed to be doing the same arithmetic. “Was it mutual?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Were you his best friend?”
He didn’t look at her. “No. Probably not.”
She nodded. “Never told him, huh?”
“No.”
Another nod. Another drag off her cigaret. “Doesn’t matter,” she said.
“No. I guess not.”
“It’s just words,” she said. “Doesn’t matter.” She stubbed out the cigaret in a beanbag ashtray. “What kinda candy bars you like?”
“What?”
“There’s a machine up in Duncans Mills.”
“Oh … nothing, thanks.”
“I’ll be back in half an hour.” She gave his knee a jovial shake. “Doesn’t matter,” she said.
She climbed out and made her way up to the highway, puffing noisily, cursing every villainous branch that got in her way.
S
TILL ON FOOT, MICHAEL AND THACK CROSSED THE
graceless iron bridge at Monte Rio and made their way to the greasy spoon. Ten minutes earlier, the midnight audience at the Rio Theater had been released from
Giant.
Now the movie-goers stood in circles, jabbering, like patrons at a cockfight.
When they entered the restaurant, Wren waggled her nails to get their attention. Brian was with her, looking a little sheepish.
“You’re back in one piece,” Brian said.
To confirm this, Michael held out his hands in a beatific pose. “How was your drive?” he asked.
“Great,” said Brian.
“Sit down,” said Wren.
Thack slipped into the booth next to Wren, leaving the spot next to Brian for Michael.
“What was the Grove like?” asked Brian.
“Beautiful,” said Michael, “but weird.”
“Too straight for you?”
“Too white,” said Thack, frowning at a menu. “You guys eaten yet?”
“I ate here earlier,” said Wren. “And I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“I’m starving, for some reason.” Thack gave Michael a devilish sideways glance.
It wasn’t lost on Wren, Michael noticed. “Go ahead,” she said. “Eat. You’ve earned it.”
“We ate at the Grove,” said Michael. “We noshed our way through the place.”
“You’re right,” said Thack, abandoning the menu.
“The coffee’s O.K.” said Wren.
“Actually,” said Michael, “we just wanna crash. If you could drive us back to the cabin …”
“Fine,” said Wren. “Your car is at my place, so we’ll just all go back there.”
“Oh … right,” said Michael.
There was room here for a cheap shot, but the look in Wren’s eyes told him not to take it.
In the car, she said: “I have a limo coming tomorrow, guys. I’d love company.”
Thack said: “I thought you were going to the airport.”
“Yeah, but we have to go through the city, anyway.” The prospect seduced Michael for a second or two, until he remembered. “What are we gonna do with the VW?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Wren. “That’s right.”
“I could drive it,” said Brian. Wren gave him a funny look.
“No way,” said Michael. “That’s really nice, but …”
“Really,” said Brian. “I like driving alone. I’d be glad to.” He shrugged. “I’ve been in a limo. You seen one, you seen ‘em all.”
Thack chuckled. “Isn’t that what Reagan said about redwoods?”
“It’s no problem,” said Brian.
Wren reached over and patted his cheek. “This man is such a doll.”
“I could do it,” said Thack.
Shut up, thought Michael. Leave well enough alone.
“I’m a troublemaker,” said Wren. “I forgot all about the other car.”
“I really don’t mind,” said Brian. “I prefer it.”
“To our company?” asked Wren, pretending to be hurt. She turned to Michael and said: “Does he mean this or is he just being nice?”
“I think he means it,” said Michael.
They made the bumpy ascent to the lodge in virtual silence. When they were all out of the car, Wren planted kisses on Michael and Thack. “You were so sweet to do this,” she said.
“Hey,” said Michael.
“Would you like … a nightcap or something?”
“No, thanks,” said Thack. “It’s late.”
Good answer, thought Michael.
Wren turned to Brian and said: “Give the man his keys.”
“Oh.” Brian fumbled in his pocket and handed the keys to Michael. Even in the dark he looked embarrassed.
“The driver’s coming at ten,” Wren told Michael. “We’ll swing by sometime after that.”
“Fine,” said Michael. He gave Brian an awkward little salute and climbed into the VW with Thack.
“Well, well,” said Thack as they drove off down the hill.
A
PECULIAR THING HAPPENED TO BOOTER AS HE LANGUISHED
there in the darkness, a virtual prisoner of Mabel’s Winnebago: He found that he liked it. It was soothing, somehow, to be stranded this way, so thoroughly a victim of chance and circumstance that all decisions were moot, all responsibilities void.
Only twice during his forty-minute wait did a car whiz past on the narrow road, and the woods were seductively silent, except for owls and an occasional murmur from the leaves.
Briefly, but with startling drama, a raccoon had mounted a branch outside the window and studied him dispassionately through the glass. Booter had remained still, confronting the little bandit creature-to-creature, holding his breath like a child playing hide-and-seek.
When the raccoon padded away, curiosity sated, Booter made an appreciative sound in the back of his throat. An outsider might have mistaken it for a giggle.
One with Nature, he thought, tilting the bottle again. That was the expression, wasn’t it?
Presently Mabel came loping through the broken branches. He couldn’t help thinking of one of those amiable, rumpled bears out of Uncle Remus.
“Half an hour,” she said, climbing into the RV. “The tow truck’s comin’ from Guerneville.” Wheezing a little, she caught her breath, then reached into her shirt pocket. “They only had Butterfingers,” she said, handing him a candy bar.
He thought of the chocolate Edgar had given him, remembered the curious expectant light in his eyes. What did the boy want from him?
“I said no, thanks,” he told Mabel.
“Well, I don’t listen to what men say.” She prodded him with the Butterfinger, like a new father proffering a cigar. “Take it, Roger.”
He accepted.
“What are you grinnin’ about?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Well, eat your damn candy, then.”
He peeled back the yolk-yellow wrapper. “We had these when I was a boy.”
“Yeah,” she said, working on her own wrapper. “Same here.”
“They were bigger.” He looked at the dark bar, then bit off a chunk.
She did the same. “How old are you?” she asked, crunching away.
“Seventy-one,” he replied.
As if to match his fearlessness, she said: “I’m sixty-seven.”
He nodded and hoisted his Butterfinger in a sort of salute.
“I don’t look sixty-seven,” she added.
“No,” he agreed, “you don’t.”
In another gulp, she finished off the candy, wadding the wrapper. “So tell me about this camp of yours.”
“Like what?”
She shrugged. “What do you do?”
He thought for a moment. “I made a speech a few days ago.”
“Yeah? What on?”
“Well … the Strategic Defense Initiative.”
She nodded with judicial dignity. “Good thing.”
“Well, I certainly did my best to—”
“Damn good thing. If the Russians don’t beat us to it.”
“Well,” he said, “there’s certainly a danger of that.”
“You can’t trust them bastards.”
“No, you can’t. You’re right.”
They both fell silent. Mabel drummed her stubby red fingers on the dashboard. The night sounds grew louder, making talk seem alien.
“You wanna get out and stretch?” she asked eventually.
“No. Thank you.”
“I’m sorry about your friend,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“You miss him?” He nodded.
She heaved a noisy sigh and looked out the window for a moment. Then she said: “I got another bottle in back.”
He turned and smiled at her. “Get it.”
B
ACK AT THE CABIN, MICHAEL LAY ON THE SOFA BED,
his head against Thack’s chest. “What a night,” he said.
“A-men, brother.” Thack toyed idly with Michael’s earlobe, like someone working dough. “Don’t you feel a little guilty?”
“For what?” asked Michael with mild amazement. “Crashing the Grove?”
“No. Being an accomplice to adultery.”
Michael hesitated. “I don’t think that’s adultery.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“What would you call it, then?”
“I think it’s more like … company.”
“C’mon.”
“I’m pretty sure of it,” said Michael.
“You don’t think they’re up there banging each other’s eyes out?”
“No.”
“You’re a rotten judge of lust.”
“Maybe.”
Michael lay there for a while, listening to the thump of Thack’s heart. Outside, there were froggy choruses in the high grass along the creek. Someone in the pink trailer was playing Buddy Holly’s “True Love Ways.”
“I love that song,” said Michael.
“Yeah.”
They listened for a while, Thack humming along shamelessly.
“You’re a corny guy,” said Michael. He almost said “romantic,” but the word struck him as dangerous.
“Well,” said Thack. “We seem to get music every time we do this.”
Michael chuckled. “That’s true.”
Thack traced Michael’s shoulder with his finger, then laid his warm palm to rest on Michael’s back.
“I’m corny too,” said Michael. “It’s not a bad thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I mean … not if it’s balanced. If both people are corny … then it’s O.K.”
Silence.
“You wanna know something funny?” asked Michael.
“What?”
“When I first met you, I tried to picture how you’d look in a jockstrap.”
Thack smiled.
“Now,” said Michael, “I wanna see you in pajamas.”
“Pajamas?”
“Yeah. Flannel ones. Baby blue.”
“Not the kind with feet in them?”
Michael laughed. “No. Just … the regular.”
Thack stroked Michael’s hair. “Maybe next time, huh?”
“Yeah, maybe so.” He ran his hand across Thack’s flat stomach. “When do you think that might be?”
“I dunno,” said Thack. “Hard to say. Do you get back East much?”
“No, not really.”
“I’d like to come back,” said Thack.
“Would you?”
“Sure.”
“We could work on this a little more.”
“This?” asked Thack.
“Us,” said Michael.
Thack said nothing, stroking Michael’s hair.
Michael was pretty sure he had gone too far.
U
P AT THE LODGE, WREN ATTENDED TO BRIAN, WHO
lay with his head against her chest.
“Will you call me?” she asked.
“When?”
“Oh … when the moon comes over the mountain. When the swallows come back to Capistrano.” She gave his cheek a gentle whack. “When do you think, dummy?”
“O.K.” he said.
“Promise?”
“Yeah.”
“Just yes or no will do.”
“O.K.”
“If you don’t,” she said, “I’ll call your house and embarrass the shit out of you.”
He smiled.
Her fingers explored his springy chestnut curls. “You were sweet to let the boys take the limo.”
“It’s no big deal,” he said. “What’s gonna happen to your car?”
She began to fret again. “Well, Booter said to leave it here.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve done what I can do,” she said. “I’m not his wife.”
“Right.”
Why the hell was she still issuing disclaimers? “I’ll call his house when I get to Chicago. Somebody’ll know something by then.” She heaved a mother’s sigh before adding glumly: “I hate being a whore. There are too many responsibilities.”
“Don’t talk like that,” he said.
She smiled and slid her fingers through the swirly hair of his chest. “Thanks for the indignation, but I’m not ashamed of it. I wanted the experience, and I wanted the money. And Booter got his money’s worth.”
