The Castaways (6 page)

They stopped for a late lunch at a roadhouse on the way back to Vegas, and Delilah and Greg polished off three Coronas apiece and started telling stories about the sexual mishaps of their younger years. They laughed like fools, spurting beer all over the table, while the Chief looked on with mild indulgence (sex wasn’t against the law, after all) and Jeffrey glowered.

“Why don’t you guys tell stories?” Delilah asked.

They were embarrassed by the question, and Delilah knew why. It was Andrea, the woman they’d shared. The Chief would not tell any stories about other women for fear of disrespecting Andrea in front of Jeffrey. Jeffrey, Delilah knew, had only slept with two women, herself and Andrea, and that sewed that up pretty tight. It was not funny to tell stories about his own wife, nor about the wife of someone else at the table.

Jeffrey motioned for the check; Delilah excused herself for the bathroom.

Twenty minutes beyond the roadhouse, Delilah had to pee again.

“You just went,” Jeffrey snapped.

Delilah had read somewhere that the human bladder could expand to the size of a grapefruit; hers was a basketball, a wobbly and distended water balloon. She had to go
now,
she was seconds away from letting the stream go, hot and grateful, all over the backseat of the rental car. She intoned as much.

The Chief pulled over and Delilah climbed out of the Mustang without using the door. She crouched behind the exhaust pipe and lifted her prairie skirt. Her flow ran in rivulets over the hard red dirt. Jeffrey held his forehead in his hand; he couldn’t believe she was doing this, even though it was the kind of thing she was always doing. She climbed back into the car, grinning.

“Okay,” she said. “Ready to go.”

Delilah leaned her head back against the seat, catching the last angled rays of sun on her face. She was happy. The afternoon she went to see the Hoover Dam remained one of the singular afternoons of her life.

Greg and the Chief and Andrea got up early and walked to New York New York for Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Addison and Tess and Delilah went to the Bellagio to see the impressionist collection. Andrea and Addison and Delilah and Greg were addicted to the slot machines; they each walked around carrying a plastic cup of quarters and would stop to play when someone else in the group went to the bathroom. In the
MGM
Grand, Addison hit it big. The coins splashed down. He won seventeen hundred dollars. Everyone else groaned. Of all of them, Addison needed the money the least! He seemed abashed by the win; he pinkened all the way over his bald pate—or maybe he’d gotten too much sun by the pool with Phoebe.

I’ll buy dinner!
he said.
Wherever you want to go!

They all agreed this was a wonderful idea, despite the rule of no gifts.

They went to Le Cirque, because they had all heard of it—even the Chief, who claimed to know nothing about the finer things in life. Addison had actually been to the original Le Cirque in New York with his first wife. (She had gone to boarding school with one of Sirio Maccioni’s sons.) Phoebe complained that it was no fun to be the second wife and lead the second life with a person who had done it all—and done it well—the first time around. She complained privately to Delilah as they moved en masse down the strip through the throngs of people, sidestepping the short immigrant men who handed out cheap business cards about massage and dancing girls. Delilah was only half listening. She had had a fight with Jeffrey and could not stop fretting about it.

The fight had taken place as they were getting ready for dinner. Delilah ordered a bottle of Sancerre from room service. It arrived, elegant and cold, and Delilah, wrapped in her white waffled robe, waited as the bellman poured two glasses. She tipped him ten dollars.

Jeffrey was soaking, dutifully, in the two-person tub. The tub was merely atmosphere, it was foreplay. Delilah had it all planned out: wine together in the tub, wild sex either on the impressive acreage of their California king bed or on the plush bathroom rug, followed by a long shower for Delilah. She wanted to get the cigarette smoke and the twenty-four-hour miasma of the casino out of her hair and off her skin. But when she submerged in the tub and handed Jeffrey his wine, he said, “You really disappoint me. You know that?”

It was his choice of the word
disappoint
that struck Delilah first. It was such a parental word. “Why?” Delilah said.

“Carrying on like you did with Greg at the Hoover Dam.”

“Carrying on?”

“You were like a couple of kids. The pot joke. The sex stories. And then you lifted your skirt in front of everyone. You pissed in front of everyone. I was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?”

“Mortified. You’re a grown woman. You’re my wife.”

“So?”

“You have no idea how to behave. No sense of decorum.”

“Decorum?”

“It was disgusting. Three beers at lunch and a shot of tequila?”

She didn’t realize he’d seen the shot of tequila, but yes, Greg had shanghaied her on the way back from the ladies’ room and they’d each thrown back a shot of Patron silver, quick and neat.

“I can’t stand this,” she said.

“What?”

“Being
monitored
like this. Being lectured on
decorum
. We’re on vacation, Jeffrey. We’re in
Las Vegas
.”

“That’s no excuse.”

She stood up, unsteadily, and climbed out of the tub.

“Fuck you,” she said, though she meant the opposite. There would be no wild sex. She stepped into the shower. When she emerged, Jeffrey was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in his navy suit, looking somber and morose, like a funeral director.

“I want an apology,” he said.

“Apology?” Delilah said. “Ha! I’m the one who deserves an apology.”

“And why is that?” He turned his head stiffly, like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Because you’re acting like my father,” she said. She pulled a dress on over her head. Phoebe would have something new for tonight, a thought that was both demoralizing and infuriating. Phoebe had worn a new dress every night of the trip so far. “And don’t forget, I ran away from my father.”

“Meaning what?” Jeffrey said.

“Meaning what do you think?” Delilah said. She foraged through her suitcase for her other black slingback. There was a knock at the door.

It was Tess, fresh-faced and grinning like a Girl Scout.

“Ready?” she said.

Still, they were happy at dinner. Le Cirque was as glamorous a place as Delilah had ever eaten in, and she was relaxed knowing that Addison would take the bill. He ordered two bottles of Cristal. Delilah’s spirits rose. Greg was to her left, Jeffrey to her right, and Andrea on Jeffrey’s other side. Tess was next to Greg, Addison between Tess and Phoebe, the Chief between Phoebe and Andrea. The vacation had them breaking up into small groups, it had them rearranging and forging unusual allies, but when they sat down for a meal together, they always sat like this.

It was curious.

The champagne came and Phoebe, assuming the role of first lady (because Addison was paying for dinner or because she had organized the trip, Delilah wasn’t sure), wanted to make a toast.

“To us,” she said. “The Castaways.”

“The Castaways!” everyone said. Glasses clinked, none crossing! (Phoebe swore it was bad luck.) Delilah sipped her Cristal. She was normally counted on to get the conversation rolling, but tonight she wouldn’t do it. She wasn’t in the mood. No one understood how difficult it was to come up with new, interesting things to talk about with people who had exhausted every topic under the sun. No one gave her any credit for her conversational gymnastics, and she was pretty sure Jeffrey resented it. How many times had she heard it?
You talked a lot at dinner.
Tonight she would observe all the rules of proper decorum. She would not get bawdy. She would not be the first one to bring up sex, or drinking, or other lewd topics. She pressed her lips shut.

There was a lull at the table. They were waiting for her.
What is the greatest song the Rolling Stones ever recorded? I say “Loving Cup.” Andrea, how about you?
No, she wouldn’t. Was anyone looking at her? She didn’t care. She didn’t care if they ate their whole meal in awkward silence. She studied her menu.

Out of the blue, the Chief started talking. This was truly amazing, as the Chief normally said very little, in the way that serious men who had important, quasi-confidential jobs said very little. The Chief had apparently bumped into an officer with the
LVPD
at the roulette wheel. The Chief showed his badge. The other officer was on the vice squad, he said. The Chief and this officer chatted it up for quite a while.

“You would not believe the things he told me,” the Chief said.

“Like what?” Delilah said, forgetting to keep her mouth shut.

The Chief drank from his beer bottle (the waiter had wanted to pour the beer in a glass, but the Chief held his palm up and said,
It comes in a glass,
in a way that was very Chief-like). He shook his head at Delilah. He wasn’t going to tell them anything else. He was famous for bringing up teasers like that and letting them drop.

Okay, fine, forget it, Delilah wouldn’t push it, though the life of a Las Vegas vice squad officer sounded fascinating if you loved the raw and the raunchy, which Delilah did—and it would be relevant besides. But she’d taken a vow of silence and she meant to stick to it.

Phoebe regaled the table with details of her hours by the pool—
Okay, does everyone in this town have fake boobs or what?
—and Delilah’s mind wandered. It became clear, now that she had stepped out of her role as the conversational master of ceremonies, how firmly established that role was. They all had their roles, each one of them; they had their personalities, proclivities, interests, likes and dislikes. They were adults, they were known quantities. Was this good or bad? They could not surprise each other. They were not likely to change or act out of character. Like the Chief insisting on drinking his beer from a bottle, even here at Le Cirque, because that was how he drank his beer. Utterly predictable.

But the roles gave them comfort, the lack of surprise lent security, a sense of understanding, friendship, family, acceptance. Right?

The Chief was their spiritual leader. He was their man in case of emergency; he was the best problem solver (though Jeffrey was a damn close second). He was the police chief, he knew everything and he knew it first, but he gave nothing away. The man was a vault. If they ever broke him open, what would they find? A treasure trove of secrets and confidences bound up by his honor. The Chief was principled and discreet. He was part of a fraternity across the country, across the world. Law enforcement. The earth’s finest.

Andrea was the den mother, Mother Earth, Mother Nature. Delilah had always thought it would be boring to be Andrea—she was matronly, sexless, she wore skirts to the knee and one-piece bathing suits, she wore comfortable shoes—but Andrea seemed content. She wasn’t looking for anything, she wasn’t searching for herself, trying on identities or attitudes the way Delilah sometimes did, the way Tess and Phoebe did, too. Andrea had a firm grip on who she was, and this left her plenty of time and energy to focus on others (the Chief, her kids, Tess). When Delilah was sixty or seventy, she wanted to be just like Andrea. She said this once to Jeffrey, and Jeffrey made a face indicating that he found this statement ridiculous or inappropriate. Jeffrey had been in love with Andrea years and years ago; they had dated, kissed, groped, copulated, fallen in love, moved in together. They had talked about marriage and kids. But back then, Jeffrey wasn’t ready. Andrea was the first woman he’d made love to (Jeffrey’s long-time girlfriend in high school and college, Felicity Hammer, was a devout Baptist, determined to remain chaste until her wedding day, and so for six years Jeffrey was dragged along on that virginal ride). But Jeffrey didn’t leave Andrea because he had wild oats to sow; he left her because he had real oats to sow, real corn, real vegetables. He’d inherited a hundred and sixty-two acres of fertile farmland, a legitimate business opportunity, and he wanted to succeed. He could not put the farm first and put Andrea first. They broke up. It was, in his words, very sad.

This could have moved Delilah right along to thinking about Jeffrey, but she couldn’t allow herself to deconstruct him. He was her husband, she knew him too well, and she was angry. She would skip him.
You really disappoint me.
God, it infuriated her, but it did not surprise her.

Addison was talking now, rescuing them from Phoebe’s discourse on life as seen from the chaise longue. He was describing Las Vegas real estate trends (Addison loved trends) and how the old casinos—the Sands, the Golden Nugget, the Desert Inn—were being medicine-balled and replaced by theme-park giants—the Luxor, the Venetian, Treasure Island.

The waiter reappeared, and they ordered. Delilah ordered the salade frisee avec lardons and the steak. Jeffrey wanted the beets, but would not order them because they were out of season. And so he went with the grapefruit and avocado salad and the pasta with lump crabmeat. (Even their ordering could not surprise her. Phoebe ordered a salad with roasted vegetables. Addison and the Chief got the steak, like Delilah.)

Addison was the businessman, the money man. His last name was Wheeler, and every single person on Nantucket called him “Wheeler Dealer.” Addison was tall and thin and bald; he wore horn-rimmed glasses. He was part nerd, part aristocrat. His father had owned a carpet and flooring business in New Brunswick; his mother had been a nurse in the infirmary at Rutgers. Until high school, Addison’s life had been very Exit 8. It had been McDonald’s after football games; it had been Bruce Springsteen and summers spent “down the shore.” But like cream, Addison rose to the top. If you believed him, he did so without trying. He was bright, polite, and charming. He had a silver tongue. He was a social genius, and because of this, he stood out. The junior high school principal suggested that Addison make a run at boarding school, where he could take advantage of some real opportunities.