Bed & Breakfast Page 8

  “Then it’s settled.”

  “Right. It’s settled.” He stretched his legs and touched her hand lightly. “Well, life is full of surprises and this has been a helluva day. Mind if I turn on that tango again?”

  Listening to the music, they slid into conversation that slowed, then trailed off into silence, like pillow talk. She didn’t feel ignored or rejected when she realized that he’d fallen asleep. She eased up on the accelerator and rolled down the window to help her stay awake, amazed at how comfortable she felt with him snoozing beside her. When they got to her neighborhood, she circled her block looking for a parking place. Just as well there aren’t any, she told herself as she double-parked in front of her apartment—because he looked so damned wonderful stretched out next to her, the line of his neck and jaw strong and sinuous in the moonlight, his big hands curled on his thighs—that, against her better judgment, she wanted to invite him up.

  She shook him gently. He insisted on walking her to her door, but they were spared the decision of handshake versus kiss because a van came up behind his car and revved its motor. “The city never sleeps,” she said, turning her key in the lock.

  “And when I get home I’ll bet I won’t either. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “But you don’t know my number.”

  “Sure I do. Got it from Betsy when I first saw you back at the party.” He pulled to attention and gave her a wink before turning away. “No flies on this country boy.”

  They talked several times during the next ten days, ostensibly to arrange details for the party, but staying on the phone, chatting and making jokes long after the arrangements had been made.

  On New Year’s Eve, yo-yoing between sexual anticipation and denial of same, she bathed, shaved her legs, shampooed and dried her hair, spraying it with lots of Volumize. She slipped into her winter-white slacks and satin blouse, turned and looked at herself in the full-length mirror, saw the expanse of her backside in white and decided it was enough to make anyone snow-blind, so tore through her closet looking for something that was festive but loose enough to camouflage her love handles. In dark green slacks and matching sweater—after all, she was going to cook, not do a nightclub act—she returned to the bathroom.

  Putting on her makeup, she wondered if she was demonstrating a sexist inability to accept herself as she really was. But F. Scott Fitzgerald had said that the test of a first-rate intelligence was the ability to hold two opposing ideas at the same time. “Damned straight,” she told the mirror. “I accept myself as I am; but I also accept the fact that Estee Lauder can give me a little help.”

  Returning to the kitchenette, she saw a confusion of groceries, pots, pans, silver polish, flowers still in their wrapper. Why did she always leave everything until the last minute? She washed and picked the greens, scrounged in the back of the refrigerator to find the ham hocks, put them in the pot to boil, found the napkins in the back of the linen closet—cloth napkins because she agreed with her mother that a lady always had cloth napkins—and the silverware, lit the candles, arranged the flowers, and whipped up the cornbread. When things seemed under control, she went back to the bathroom.

  She’d licked off her lipstick and spilled oil on her sweater. Steam from the cooking had made her hair mangy as the MGM lion’s. Why had she been so dumb as to dress before she’d finished cooking? No doubt about it, this party was going to be a disaster. It would be like her sixth birthday party, right after they’d moved to Okinawa. She hadn’t been there long enough to have any real friends, so Josie had invited the entire first-grade class and Josie had made a carousel birthday cake with tiny plastic horses around the edge, their ribbons twirling into a central flagpole that had a little banner saying, CAMILLA. Oh, the work her mother must’ve put into that stupid cake! And only half the invited guests had come. It would probably be like that tonight. Maybe even Sam wouldn’t turn up.

  By the time the intercom rang at ten o’clock she’d had two drinks, her hair was pinned up with plastic barrettes, she was wearing fur-lined slippers and a T-shirt saying, in Russian, VODKA is THE ENEMY OF PRODUCTION, which Reba had given her, along with a bottle of Stoli, for her last birthday. After she’d buzzed Sam in, she opened the door and stood there, watching him come up the stairs. He was hatless, wearing a winter suit with a sweater, but no overcoat. She didn’t say “Welcome” or “Happy New Year” or anything she’d expected to say. She said, “Hey, you need a coat.”

  “Yeah, well,” he said as he reached the landing, “I don’t normally need winter clothes and I gotta tell you, I hate to shop. I never learned how to shop. Didn’t I tell you my mama died when I was ten and my daddy ordered everything out of catalogues? So don’t expect me to make the centerfold of GQ.”

  He was carrying shopping bags and an oversized book was tucked under his arm. “Seeing as you’re an editor, I guess a book is the last thing you need,” he said as he followed her into the apartment, “but I thought you might like this one.” It was Jericho : The South Beheld, painted by Hubert Shuptrine and text by James Dickey, a hard-to-find book, published in the seventies, that she’d seen once and coveted.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so delighted by a gift. “Oh, you have ESP,” she said, embarrassed that she hadn’t thought to buy him a little something. “I’ve always wanted this book. You must’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find this.”

  “I hunted for it at the Strand. I’ve found two things I like in New York: the Strand and ...” He smiled at her and took a deep breath. “Sure smells good in here. Cornbread already done?”

  “Uh-huh. I think this oven predates Boss Tweed, so I don’t bake often, but I don’t think you can ruin cornbread. Drink?”

  He lifted the lid on the greens, sniffed, and gestured for a spoon. “Pot liquor before real liquor, if you don’t mind.” She handed him a spoon and watched as he ladled some out, blew on it, sipped, and pronounced it “Perfect!” She was tempted to say, “So’s the shape of your mouth,” but she said, “My mother taught me and my sisters to cook, sew, crochet—all that suffocating domestic crap. I used to avoid it like the plague.”

  “But you still cook?”

  “Not often, God forbid. And only because a couple of years ago I discovered that I actually enjoy it.”

  “Maybe we have to wait until we’re a certain age before we have the wit to know what we really like, instead of either conforming, which has been my problem, or rebelling, which was more likely the case with you.”

  “Uh-huh. Finding out what you’re really like. I think that’s called a midlife crisis. Would you like that drink now?”

  “Sure. Bourbon and water, please. Can I help you do anything here?”

  “The kitchen, so to speak, is too small for two people. Just make yourself comfortable,” she said, pouring his drink and nodding toward the living room. “Go through my music and see what you’d like to hear.”

  He moved to the other room and looked at her bookcases, nodding his approval, taking off his jacket and squatting with the grace of a peasant to examine her records and tapes. He selected an early recording of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, and stretched out on the couch. She stirred the pots, put out the butter and hot sauce, and arranged the napkins.

  When it was close to eleven he turned on the TV to the yahoo mayhem of Times Square. “Sure glad we’re not there,” he said, patting the space next to him. She sat down. He smiled, said, “Thank you for inviting me,” and brushed her hair back from her forehead. Her voice came out husky. “Most of my friends said they’d be dropping by on their way home from other parties, but I wonder what we’ll do with all this food if nobody comes.”

  “Oh, they’ll come. They’ll all come. And when they do, I’ll bet we’ll wish they hadn’t.” And then he kissed her. And she agreed with him.

  “So, Cam”—Betsy’s voice jolted her back to the present—“the real reason I called—well, I hardly know how to put it, so I guess I’ll just come out with it: Josh
and I were wondering why we hadn’t been invited to the annual Cam and Sam Hoppin’ John party. Anything wrong? Or are you just too busy to throw a party this year? We thought . . . Terrence! Oh, shit, he’s into the fireplace again. Give me a call when you can, okay? And Merry Christmas.” The machine beeped and rewound.

  Cam leaned back on the sofa. She wasn’t making a sound but tears were running down her cheeks. Nothing like recalling a happy time in the midst of present misery. What was she going to do? When the phone rang she didn’t move until the answering machine clicked on and she heard, “Cam? It’s your mother. If you’re there, please pick up.”

  Four

  LILA STARTED UP, ears pricked, sure she’d heard the sound she’d been waiting for. But no. It wasn’t a car pulling into the drive. Just a strong wind tossing the trees so their branches moved against the house.

  She sank back onto the king-sized bed, feet together, hands crossed over her breast. Orrie, who always slept as though he’d been poleaxed, lay beside her in much the same position, close enough to touch if she extended her arm to its full length. “Here we lie, still as stone,” she thought, and the thought brought a vision, ghostly as the shadows playing on the ceiling, of two prone, life-size statues, a knight and his lady, lying side by side. Where had she seen them? What country? Which trip? New York. That was it. That medieval museum Cam had recommended, the Cloisters. She and Orrie had gone there soon after they’d been married, Orrie under protest, making jokes about rusty armor and chastity belts. The statues, adorning the tops of matching stone coffins, had been the only objects in a small, dark room with parallel stained-glass windows. Orrie had said they must’ve been the hotshot couple of their time, and after he’d walked away she’d lingered, touching the stone lady’s cheek, wondering if she and the knight had loved one another, how many children they’d had, who’d died first, and if their bones were there inside the coffins. She could see them quite clearly, lying straight, feet together, hands crossed over their chests, in much the same posture she and Orrie were in now. The image frightened her so much that her breath stopped and she felt paralyzed.

  She wanted to wake Orrie and tell him how scared she was. She’d say she’d had a nightmare she couldn’t remember, otherwise he’d think she was crazy. But it wouldn’t be fair to wake him. He’d been so tired when they’d gone to bed. Besides, she was all right now. She rolled toward the night table and looked at the luminous dial on the digital clock. 11:10. No use listening for their son Ricky’s car this early. Ricky, who was home from Clemson for the holidays, was supposed to be grounded because he’d gone over the limit on his credit card, but Orrie had relented (as usual), saying it would be mean to keep him from seeing his friends. She’d set Ricky’s curfew at eleven; Orrie had stretched it to midnight, so that meant Ricky would drag in around . . . well, there was no telling. It was stupid to wait up. You didn’t wait up for an eighteen-year-old male, even if he had wrecked two cars in the last two years. On the other hand, if you were his mother, you didn’t go to sleep.

  She could hear Josie saying, “When you’re a mother you’ll understand.” Josie had said that about a lot of things, but Lila had known all about waiting up long before she’d become a mother. When she’d had breasts no bigger than chestnuts and pimples that burned like pepper, she’d wake up in the night and even before she’d open her eyes to see that the twin bed next to hers was empty, she’d know that Josie was waiting up for Cam to come home from one of her dates. When Bear was home, Cam respected her curfew, but when he was gone . . . She could sense Josie in the kitchen, sitting at the table in her blue candlewick robe, leafing through magazines and cookbooks because she didn’t have the concentration to read a real book. Sometimes Josie would play the radio while she kept vigil, or sometimes she’d try out a new recipe and it would be the sweet smells of cakes or cookies that would bring Lila downstairs. She’d sneak past Evie’s room (nothing but a fire alarm could wake Evie) and go to the kitchen. Mostly Josie would tell her to go back to bed, but on rare occasions she’d let her stay up. She’d fix cocoa or tea for both of them, and the warmth and light of the kitchen and, Lila liked to believe, her company, would almost overcome her mother’s anxiety.

  When Josie finally heard a car she’d turn off the light and station herself behind the front door. Sometimes she had to wait a long time between the motor being turned off and the little click of the front-door lock. By that time, Lila was usually back in bed, but she could see and hear what was happening as though she were standing right there at the door: Josie clutching the front of her robe, demanding in a furious whisper if Cam knew what time it was, Cam offering wild excuses or sometimes just being sassy, sailing past, saying if it was so late then why didn’t Josie go to sleep? Some nights there were real brouhahas—Josie’s voice rising, Cam screaming, lights going on, pots crashing—but more often it was a ritual confrontation of whispered accusations and hissed denials, followed by silence, a soft padding up the stairs, a doused hall light, and then Cam would come into their bedroom and close the door.

  It almost seemed as though Cam glowed in the dark. Sometimes she’d undress quickly and slip into her bed without a word, but sometimes she’d say, “You awake?” and get into Lila’s bed, her face and body hot, but smelling like she’d just come out of the ocean. She’d hug Lila and whisper to her about the dance, the party, the boy she’d been with. Lila would feel excited by the attention but confused. It hurt her when girls at school said Cam had “a reputation.” Maybe Cam was boy-crazy, but the boys were crazy about Cam, too. She’d wonder how long it would be (if they ever did) before boys looked at her like that, and how she’d be when she grew up. But even then she’d known she’d never do the things Cam did, because she couldn’t bear to see her mother’s face contorted with such anger and grief. It wasn’t fair to make your mother suffer like that, not when she had to go through so much with your father. Even then, Lila’d known she would always be a good girl.

  She glanced over at Orrie, then sat up. Maybe a cup of chamomile tea would help. Especially if she used it to wash down a Halcion. Swinging her legs to the floor, she moved her feet through the thick carpet, feeling for her slippers. The house was kept at a uniform 72 degrees the year round, but her feet and hands felt unaccountably cold. Her toes came up against the front of the silk slippers Orrie had brought back from his last trip to Japan. They were a tad too small and her big toe had already pierced the embroidered dragon on the left one. Maybe this was the largest size they made in Japan. Maybe he hadn’t remembered her size. Did he even know her size? To turn her mind away from visions of shattered windshields and emergency road crews milling around in the glare of Ricky’s overturned headlights, she mentally recited Orrie’s, then Ricky’s, then Susan’s, clothes and shoe sizes.

  She closed the bedroom door behind her and stood a moment. The length of the hallway and the recessed lights made her feel as though she were in a hotel, a sensation that remained when she finally reached the living room. It was a huge open area designed for entertaining, with a free-standing fireplace, a wet bar, and couches ranged around low marble tables. She didn’t need to turn on any lights because glass panes, tall enough to have trees planted next to them on the inside of the room, rose, in lieu of walls, on either side. The lights nestled in the shrubbery at the front of the house, and the glow from the pool at the rear gave a silvery illumination to everything. Even the artificial snow on the twelve-foot Christmas tree looked real.

  Moving into the north wing of the house, she saw the yellowed NO TRESPASSING. THIS MEANS YOU! sign on Ricky’s door. Years ago, when he’d first put it up, she’d thought it was cute. Now it struck her as another reminder of how alarmingly immature he was. She knew he wasn’t in his room but she opened the door just the same, wandering into his bathroom and flicking on the light. After the pristine order of the living room it was a shock: the countertop of the sink was choked with shampoo, hair gel, a dryer, aftershave, cologne, a tube oozing toothpaste, a pile of loose c
hange, some crumpled bills, CDs. Toilet paper trailed to a carpet littered with cast-off clothes, wet towels, barbells, a tennis racket that looked as though it had been purposely smashed, magazines. It was worse than the mess he’d left in his nursery when he was two years old. Dear God, she thought, if Mama saw this. How was it that she, who’d tried to bring up her children with the same standards of neatness that Josie had taught her, had failed so miserably? She knew there was no point in trying to discuss it with Ricky. When she’d mentioned it to him the other day, he’d said, with that aggressively bored expression that his friends of both sexes affected, “If I cleaned up after myself, the maid wouldn’t have a job, would she?” What bothered her more than either his sloppiness or his rudeness was that he’d referred to Sarah, who’d been their housekeeper for six years, as “the maid.”

  Turning, she stepped on a magazine, looked down, and saw a nude model in a pose she could only associate with the gynecologist’s office. She’d told Ricky, or rather, she’d asked Orrie to tell Ricky, that she didn’t want Hustler magazine in the house, but if she brought that up again, she’d have to admit that she’d been snooping in his room. She turned out the light and went back into the hallway.

  The door to her daughter Susan’s room was open a crack, and she pushed it ever so gently. Susan, in boxer shorts and T-shirt, was curled up, knees close to her chest, arms around a pillow, her hair pulled tight in a ponytail. She wanted to sit on the bed and loosen that lovely hair—no longer the cornsilk color of childhood, but, owing to sun and chlorine, still blond—but she was afraid she’d wake her. Susan’s all right, she told herself. Susan’s a good kid. I don’t have to worry about her. At fifteen Susan was still more interested in books than in boys, but mostly she was interested in sports. She’d inherited Orrie’s looks as well as his coordination and had gone from being a tomboy to being a fiercely competitive teenage athlete. Though Susan’s disposition was more purposeful than sunny (ever since she’d been a child she’d thrown temper tantrums when she didn’t win), she didn’t have any real problems. Of course she was too thin, obsessed with her diet, and she groused about the groceries Lila or Sarah bought, weighed herself every morning, even weighed her portions of food, but that wasn’t so unusual. All the mothers said their daughters were obsessed with diets, but then, so were the mothers. She herself ordered salads when she wanted potatoes, played golf though she didn’t really enjoy it, went to aerobics classes when she’d rather be reading.