Significant Others (6 page)
He shook his head. “Tonight is PTA.”
She slipped into her shoes and headed for the door, picking up her purse on the way. “Keep the bed warm. There’s some champagne and Almond Roca in the fridge if you get hungry.”
Down in the Cirque Room, she had no trouble spotting her mysterious caller. He sat ramrod straight in a corner banquette, so markedly military in his bearing that she half expected to find epaulets on his business suit. She guessed him to be about seventy.
He shot to his feet when he saw her approaching. This effort at gallantry—or at least
his
idea of gallantry—was far more endearing than she might have imagined. She smiled at him, then knelt by the glass he had knocked off the table, scooping up the scattered ice cubes.
“Please,” he said, growing flustered, “don’t do that.”
She looked up at him. “Why the hell not?”
A waitress approached. “We have a little accident here?”
“I’m such a klutz,” said Wren, glancing up at the waitress. “You’d think I could sit down without knocking the gentleman’s drink over.”
The waitress took the glass from her, then looked at the old man. “What was it, sir? I’ll get you another.”
“Scotch and water,” he told her. “And whatever the lady’s having.”
Something kick-ass was in order, she decided, slipping into the banquette. “I’ll take the same,” she said, then turned back to the man. “Your name makes no sense to me.”
He didn’t understand.
“Pacific Excelsior,” she explained. “I thought excelsior was packing straw.”
“Oh … no. In this instance it’s a Latin word meaning ‘ever upward.’ ”
She winked at him. “I knew that.” She extended her hand and waited until he shook it. “Wren Douglas,” she said. “And your name again is …?”
“Boo … Roger Manigault.”
“Boo-Roger. Interesting. Never heard that one before.”
He smiled for the first time. “Some of my friends call me Booter. That’s what I’m used to.”
“Booter, huh? Why?”
“I played football,” he replied. “Years ago. At Stanford.”
“I like it. Can I call you that?”
“If you like.”
She laid her hands on the table, palms down, and made a smoothing motion. “So … what’s this about ten thousand dollars?”
He faltered, then said: “I have … well, a very comfortable lodge up in the redwoods. I’d like you to be my guest there for a few days.”
She studied him for awhile, then gave him a rueful, worldly chuckle.
“I’m on the level,” he said, reddening noticeably.
She shook her head slowly. “You lied to me, Booter. You’ve been a bad boy.”
“I wanted you to meet me first. Before you said no.”
“Get real,” she said, just as the waitress returned with their drinks. She nursed hers for a while, saying nothing, regarding him out of the corner of her eye.
“I’ve never done anything like this,” he said.
“That’s a comfort,” she replied dryly.
“Do you think I would … do this, if …”
“Where did you see me?” she asked.
He looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“What set this off?” She laughed. “I mean, ten thousand dollars, Booter. That ain’t whoremongering, that’s … Christ, I don’t know what it is.”
“You’re not a whore,” he said glumly.
“Answer the question.”
He looked down at his drink. “I saw your picture in
Newsweek.
I think you’re an extraordinarily lovely woman.”
She nodded slowly. “So you read my book and decided: What the hell—maybe I’ll have a shot at it.”
“No,” he said.
“What?”
“I haven’t read your book.”
She drew back, affronted for the first time all evening.
“I stay busy,” he explained apologetically. “There’s time for a little Louis L’Amour but not much else.”
“Are you married?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you really … you know … chairman of the board and all that?”
“You can check me out,” he said. “I’m not a lunatic.” He looked at her earnestly. “I’m sorry if I insulted you. I’m a rich man, but not a young one. I wanted to make it worth your while.”
“Oh, please,” she murmured, rolling her eyes.
He stood up to leave. “Let’s forget I ever—”
“Sit down,” she ordered, seizing his hand. It was large and fleshy, surprisingly strong.
He obeyed her.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Seventy-one,” he replied.
“I’ve had lovers that old,” she said. “You’d know that if you’d read my book.”
B
RIAN’S NEPHEW TURNED OUT TO BE A LANKY REDHEAD,
as soberly and self-consciously devoted to the Wet Look as Brian had once been to the Dry. Jed was an average-looking kid, barely rescued from dorkiness by a rudimentary grasp of current teen fashion. (He affected hightop Reeboks of varying hues and let his shirttails hang out beneath his crew-neck sweaters.)
For some reason, Brian felt a little sorry for him.
“So,” he said one night after dinner, “you’re a sophomore next year, huh?”
Jed nodded, finishing off the last piece of pizza. They were seated at a card table Mrs. Madrigal had hauled up from the basement. Except for a bookshelf and a battered sofa, this was the only furniture in the candlelit room. Here and there, the landlady had compensated for the austerity by cramming jelly jars with yellow roses from her garden.
“I remember my sophomore year,” Brian offered, trying to draw the kid out. “I screwed around the whole time. The ol’ freshman terror had gone, and the girls started lookin’ good.”
No response. Zilch.
He tried again: “Guess things haven’t changed all that much, huh?”
“I party some,” answered Jed, measuring out his words, “but I have to keep my grades up if I want to be competitive in the job market.”
Oh, right, thought Brian. Spoken like a true automaton of the state.
“Cissie and I have worked out a plan.”
“Cissie’s your girl?”
The kid nodded. “We wanna get married my first year in law school and start a family and all. But that takes money, so I figure I’d better graduate with at least a three point six or I won’t get into Harvard Law School. The more prestigious firms never hire out of the … you know, minor law schools.”
Brian repressed an urge to stick his finger down his throat.
“You gotta plan,” added Jed. “Families cost money.”
“Right.”
“Of course, I don’t need to tell you that. Look how long you and Mary Ann had to wait.”
This observation was not so much malicious as naive, Brian decided. “We didn’t have to wait,” he said quietly. “It’s what we both wanted. We were both in our thirties when we married.”
“Wow,” said Jed, as if he were digesting an entry from the
Guinness Book of World Records.
Brian took the offensive, intent upon liberating the kid. “I enjoyed my time as a bachelor. It taught me a helluva lot about myself and the world. I think I’m a better husband because of it.”
“Yeah,” said Jed, “but wasn’t life kind of … empty?”
“No. Hell, no.” This wasn’t entirely true, but he hated the kid’s priggish tone. “I was an independent man. Sex helped make me that way.”
Confronted with this hopelessly old-fashioned concept, Jed smiled indulgently.
“It’s the truth,” said Brian. “Didn’t you feel more … in charge of yourself the first time you got it on with a girl?”
The kid tugged at the cuff of his sweater. “There weren’t any girls before Cissie.”
“O.K., then … the first time you got it on with Cissie.”
Silence.
Brian studied his nephew’s face, where the awful truth was blooming like acne. “Hell, I’m sorry … I didn’t … I mean, lots of guys …”
Jed greeted his stammering with another faint smile, more smug than the last. “It’s a matter of choice, Brian.”
“Oh … well …”
“We don’t believe in premarital sex. Neither one of us.”
Premarital sex?
He couldn’t recall having heard that term since the early sixties, when it ceased to be a racy topic for high school debate teams. Who was this Cissie bitch, anyway? What gave her the right to pussywhip this innocent kid into a life of marital servitude?
“Jed … listen, man … maybe it’s none of my business, but I think you’re making a serious mistake. A little experimentation never hurt anybody. You owe that to yourself, kiddo. How can you be sure about Cissie if …”
“I’m sure, Brian. All right?”
Brian shook his head. “There’s no way. You’re too young. You haven’t lived enough.”
“I’m not interested in one-night stands,” said Jed.
“You’re scared,” Brian countered, “and that’s cool. Everybody’s first time is …”
“Things are different now, Brian. It’s not the way it was with your generation.”
Or with your mother’s, thought Brian. Sunny had had four lovers and an abortion before she got around to having Jed. How could life have changed so radically in twenty years? “Some things still apply,” he told his nephew, hoping to God it was true.
Jed rose and dumped the pizza box into a Hefty bag in the corner. “I’ve had a long day, Brian.” It was clearly a signal for the meddling uncle to leave.
“Yeah,” said Brian. “Right.” He stood up and went to the door. “I’m up at The Summit if you need a tour guide or anything. Mrs. Madrigal says she’ll be glad to answer any questions about the neighborhood.”
“Forget that,” said Jed. “She’s too weird.”
Brian didn’t bother to reprimand him. Why waste his breath on this tight-assed little bastard?
Ten minutes later, back at The Summit, Mary Ann asked him how dinner had been.
“The pits,” he replied.
“Well, I hope you were nice to him.”
He gave her a peevish glance. “I was nice to him. He was the one who wasn’t nice to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I dunno,” he said. “Just rude and uptight.” He saw no point in mentioning the virginity part. Mary Ann, no doubt, would find it “sweet.”
“He’s young,” she said, stacking her dishes in the dishwasher.
Her phony generosity annoyed him. “You want me to invite him over?”
“No,” she replied demurely. “Not if you think he’s … difficult.”
“Save your platitudes, then. The kid is an asshole.”
She closed the dishwasher and looked at him. “What is your problem, Brian?”
A damn good question. He felt headachy still, and his gut had begun to seize up in a peculiar way. Was this weird fatigue a function of the flu? Or merely a function of being forty-two? Was that what made him so resentful of Jed’s unspent youth?
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “My head hurts. I’m getting a bug, I think.”
She frowned, then felt his forehead. “There’s no fever.”
He shrugged and turned away.
“I’ll make us some hot chocolate,” she said. “Go put your feet up.”
“No, thanks.”
“C’mon,” she said. “Don’t be so grumpy. It’s sugar-free.”
A soundless TV was their blazing hearth while she rubbed his feet. “Oh,” she said after a long silence, “DeDe called this afternoon. She and D’or want us to come use the pool this Sunday.”
He grunted noncommittally. He distrusted his wife’s escalating chumminess with the Halcyon-Wilsons, not because they were dykes but because they were rich and social. Mary Ann was simply climbing in this instance, he felt almost certain.
“I thought it would be nice for Shawna,” she added, giving his little toe a placatory tug. “I know you aren’t crazy about them, but that pool is to die for.”
“Whatever,” he said.
“C’mon,” she cooed. “Don’t be like that.”
“Fine. We’ll go. I might be sick as a dog …”
“Oh, poor you.” She pressed her thumbs into the arch of his foot. “You’ll feel better by then, and—”
A ringing phone silenced her.
Brian reached for it. “Yeah?”
“It’s Jed, Brian.”
“Oh … yeah.”
“I just wanted to thank you for bringing the pizza by. And the place and all. You’re a real lifesaver.”
“Well … sure. No sweat.”
“You’re a terrific uncle. I see why Mom likes you so much.”
“Hey … no problem. We’ll do it again, huh?”
“Sure,” said the kid.
“Great. Then we’ll—what?—check in with each other tomorrow?”
“You bet.”
Brian hung up.
“Jed?” asked Mary Ann.
He nodded.
“He has manners,” she said. “You have to admit.”
“Yeah,” he said absently, retrieving the towel he had thrown in so hastily. The kid, after all, was his own flesh and blood. He deserved a second chance.
Maybe all he really needed was a good piece of ass.
T
HE HALCYON-WILSONS DINED THAT NIGHT AT LE TROU,
a tiny French restaurant on Guerrero Street.
“It means The Hole,” said D’orothea.
DeDe, who was reapplying lipstick, looked up with exaggerated horror. “Ick. What does?”
“The name of the restaurant,” said D’orothea. “Stop being misogynistic.”
“Misogynous,” said DeDe.
“What?”
“The word is ‘misogynous,’ while you’re accusing me. But I fail to see how …”
“You were making a hole joke,” said D’orothea. “You don’t think that’s demeaning?”
“Look,
you
brought it up. Besides, you make pussy jokes all the time.”
D’orothea stabbed sullenly at her
bijane aux fraises.
“Pussy is friendly. Hole is not.”
A woman at the next table looked at them and frowned.
“Tell the world,” muttered DeDe. “Better yet, put it on a sampler. ‘Pussy is friendly. Hole is not.’ ”
“All
right,
” said D’or.
“You’re just mad at me because I don’t wanna go to Wimminwood.”
“Well … I think that’s indicative of your larger problem.”
“My larger problem?”
“Your total resistance to anything you don’t—”
“I told you,” said DeDe. “I’ve already invited Mary Ann and Brian to brunch.”
D’or scowled. “That’s just an excuse. The fact is … you’re threatened.”
“Oh, right,” said DeDe. “By what?”
“By women-only space.”
