How It Ended: New and Collected Stories (21 page)

“Gotta make a quick call,” he told the company. “Keep the veal patties cold for me, guys. I'll be right back.”

Jared was directed to a phone booth, where he used his credit card to call Lonnie's New York number. He listened through ten rings, then another ten. Strange, he thought, that Lonnie didn't have his machine turned on, but he probably was still asleep and had the phone unplugged.

“What was the phone call,” Laura asked as they were walking back to her house, Dorene trailing behind.

This, he remembered, was one of the things he hated—the suspicion.

“My agent,” he said, “and I can never get right through to him.”

“Just try to give me these few hours, Jared, will you? You'll be back in the world soon enough.”

“You're right. Okay, I'm sorry.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “I'm sorry Rob wasn't at lunch,” she said. “I really wanted you guys to meet.”

“Who?”

“Rob. The ex-drug dealer.”

“Next time, then.”

“Can you come back soon?”

“Real soon. I gotta be in L.A. for a week or so, but I can get back right after that. It's for a part,” he added, seeing her disappointment.

They sat on lawn chairs in front of the house, and Jared feared a serious talk was coming on. But Dorene's presence made that unlikely. Laura reached out to take his hand again, and looked into his eyes as tears welled up in her own.

“Oh, Jared, I feel like I'm just this insignificant speck on this rock that's spinning through cold space. If nobody cares about any of us, why should I keep on living?”

“I care.”

“Not enough. Not more than anything. Not enough to come back.”

“Your hand's trembling,” Jared said.

“It's the lithium.” She withdrew her hand and looked at his arm dangling over the side of the lawn chair. “So's yours,” she said. “I noticed earlier.”

He looked at it skeptically. “Jet lag.”

“Oh, come on, Jared.”

“I'm working too hard to be abusing myself,” he said.

“You always tap your foot when you tell a lie.”

“I'm trying to help with
your
problems,” he said. “I'm functioning quite well out there, thanks.”

After a sullen silence, they began to talk again, about her doctors and her therapy, and eventually, as the sun dropped in the sky and Jared became used to Dorene's presence and the suburban lawn came to resemble other suburban lawns, they talked about their families and the old friends, the people who'd been at the wedding five years before in her parents' backyard.

For a moment, Jared imagines that he and Laura might make a nice life of it, buying one of these big old white houses with fireplaces everywhere, starting a garden, cruising into the city for the theater and dinner. In a way, to surrender to the gentle yoke of domestic life would be such a relief. He knows Laura wants children—and he does, too, before very long. And she's told him about some decent fly-fishing water somewhere in the vicinity. But even now, another world is calling out to Jared from beyond the stone walls and shaded lanes. From down the railroad tracks, south across a river, he can almost hear the buzz that begins anew every night—the brassy clatter of silverware and female voices busy with praise.…

Laura's asking him a question—repeating a question, in fact—about when he will be back. But just then he sees someone coming across the lawn. And when Laura turns to look at the man, her face lights up. He is tall, and young, although his posture seems weary, his gait heavy. The face is familiar, yet in this unfamiliar context it takes Jared a moment to identify it.

He stands up. “Lonnie?”

“Hello, Jared,” the man says.

“Lonnie? No, this is Rob,” Laura says. “The guy I wanted you to meet.”

“We've met,” Rob says. And it's true. Jared's impulse is to flee across the lawn, but he doesn't feel he can move.

And the man he knows as Lonnie and has met many times, this man says, “Welcome.”

1989

Summary Judgment

Everyone imagines it's all about blow jobs, or esoteric skills practiced in the more exclusive brothels of Europe and Asia. But other arts can be just as important to an ambitious woman who is determined to be the wife of a wealthy and powerful man. No one seems to consider how difficult it is to hold the interest of these demanding, distractable males, particularly after one has passed the first blush of youth.

Alysha de Sante was smitten with Billy Laube long before they met; she had already researched his family and his fortune in the days before Mary Trotter's dinner party, and after sitting beside him all evening she was fairly certain that she'd ignited a flame within his barrel chest. Knowing of his fondness for blood sport, she told him how much she loved shooting, and while she hated to brag, she was considered a very good shot indeed. Everyone said so. She had dropped the names of mutual acquaintances and other grandees and had also managed to convince him that it was his idea to invite her to his midtown corporate headquarters to see the art collection, which she had already researched quite thoroughly. She just adored Remington, she told him, so vigorous and masculine, naming qualities that, she hinted, she also appreciated in a tycoon. Remington was just so
American
—something that, as a European, she found terribly romantic. She had spoken knowledgeably as well about his business, while implying that she herself was burdened with the responsibility of tending to a significant family fortune.

Mary Trotter owed Alysha, who had gotten the Trotters invited to Blenheim the previous summer, and had been happy to seat her next to the recently divorced timber heir. After insisting that Mary recite the guest list, Alysha had decided against asking her to remember to use the title “Contessa” on her place card, after discovering that two European couples, including Lord and Lady Beecroft, had been invited. She had learned to be cautious in this regard; although she had two separate claims to the title, neither was quite beyond reproach. Alysha's mother had once been married to an Italian count and, furthermore, her second-to-last husband, Frederick de Sante, had also been a count, although, in fact, the elderly de Sante, it turned out, was still married to his second wife when Alysha called a priest to his sickbed to perform the wedding service. The prior wench had ended up with most of the count's estate, after an ugly legal battle; having lost three houses and two apartments, Alysha was damned if she'd give up the name, as well. She had continued to use it during her next marriage, to Sam Grossman, heir to an Atlanta-based retail empire. Sam himself had been perfectly comfortable with her decision to keep the name, even if certain third parties had chosen to be malicious. Everyone knew her as Alysha de Sante, and it would have been confusing were she to have changed her name. The fact that Sam was Jewish had nothing to do with it. Billy Laube, who'd recently moved east from Denver, knew none of this, and Alysha was eager to protect him from unpleasant gossip and give him an opportunity to form his own impressions.

Laube's grandfather was one of those giants who had won the West, a self-made financier with an uncanny knack for buying up vast tracts of wilderness that just happened to lie directly in the path of the advancing railroad. The Laube Corporation, of which Billy was president, was now a sprawling conglomerate with interests in timber, paper and chemicals. And unlike most of the local tycoons, he stood well over six feet, with a broad-shouldered athletic build, a thick mane of steel gray hair and—or so it seemed to Alysha—a kind of straight shooting, curmudgeonly frontier manner. His rough edges were charming—much as stubble can be attractive on the face of a younger man.

Like many rich men, he seemed to have a minor obsession with household economy. “My daughter spent four thousand dollars on a dress last month,” he complained after she had asked him if he thought her own dress wasn't perhaps just a bit too low-cut. “Something she can apparently wear only once. I never in my life spent more than a thousand dollars on a suit, and I keep them for years.” He held up the sleeve of his navy suit as if to demonstrate, and indeed the edge of the sleeve was frayed, the buttonholes fake. While the European men of her acquaintance tended to have their clothes custom-made, and often, she had learned to appreciate the shabby, frugal aesthetic that characterized a certain venerable subset of the American plutocracy. A mountain man by way of Deerfield and Yale, Laube had clearly taken his sartorial cues from the preppy New Englanders. It was all very charming; and later, she believed, she would have plenty of time to take him to Huntsman or Anderson & Sheppard.

“I don't believe there's any reason for young women to spend that kind of money on clothing,” she told him, truly believing that the advantages of youth should be handicapped; it wasn't fair that an unlined face and buoyant bust should be further enhanced by a couture gown.

“It's ridiculous is what it is,” he said. “Not so long ago, you could get a new Buick for less than that.”

“I think it's important to set limits for young people,” Alysha said with feeling, indignant at the thought of this girl squandering the family fortune.

“Maybe you're right,” he said. “I'll have a talk with her, goddamn it. Four thousand dollars for a piece of cloth.”

“Well, I'm sure it was lovely,” she said.

In response, he made a noise somewhere between a growl and a grunt, a sound she would come to know well.

When he failed to call, she wasn't discouraged. Billy Laube was one of those busy, absentminded men who often got caught up in their own affairs. Alysha felt certain that she could succeed if given a second chance. She was on the board of the ballet, and it occurred to her that Billy would be the perfect honoree for their fall gala. Although the ballet was not among the many organizations to which his company doled out donations, he had yet to be adopted by any of the other high-profile charities since arriving in New York. The other girls thought it was genius, except for Laurie Greenspan, who was new to the board.

“But what has Billy Laube ever done for the ballet?”

“The point is,” Trish Baldwin told her, “what can he do for us now? As the honoree, he'll buy at least two tables for fifty each and
tout le monde
is curious to meet him.”

Now she just had to convince Billy. She went through the proper channels, having the ballet secretary call the vice president in charge of corporate giving at Laube, and eventually she followed up with Billy himself, calling from the ballet office to make it all the more official. She reminded him, briefly, of their recent encounter and then proceeded to the business at hand, her tone suggesting they were both very busy people and she wouldn't be bothering him except on a matter of great interest.

“The
ballet?”

“Last year we honored Felix Rohatyn, and the previous year it was Bob Pittman,” she explained. “It's one of the most important events on the social calendar.”

“Well, I'm flattered, Miss de Sante, but I can't for the life of me understand why you would want to honor me. I'm hardly an aficionado of the ballet.”

“Really? I never would've guessed. Over the years your company has been very generous to our organization.”

“We have?”

“I don't suppose a man with so many corporate and charitable interests could possibly keep track of every single one of them,” she said. Indeed, she was counting on that fact. “But we appreciate your support.”

“There must be other fellows more—”

“I'd consider it a great personal favor if you'd consider it,” she said, adopting an entirely different tone, which was meant to suggest need, vulnerability and promise. And by the time they hung up, she had his commitment.

After waiting a week, Alysha called to suggest a meeting to discuss the event. When it came time to pick the venue, he deferred to her. “Well, there's always Le Cirque,” she said. When he didn't immediately make some noise of recognition, she reconsidered. Le Cirque might be a little flashy, a little Euro, a little feminine for a macho guy like himself—the realm of lunching ladies. Its masculine counterpart was ‘21,’ the former speakeasy, exactly the kind of place where a lumber baron with a prep school tie would feel right at home.

“Let's go to ‘21,’” she said. “Bruce always gives me a good table.” Billy said he wasn't particular about where he sat and was delighted to let her make the reservation, which she did immediately. In fact, since the death of her last husband, she had been relegated to the middle or even the back room of ‘21,’ but she certainly wasn't going to let that happen again. Normally, she would have her secretary make the call, but in this case she called herself and insisted on speaking directly to Bruce, the maître d'. It was all she could do to keep her voice pleasant after spending ten minutes on hold.

“Bruce, this is the Contessa de Sante. How nice to hear your voice. It seems ages since I've been in. I would like a table for two at one p.m. this coming Thursday. I will be dining with Billy Laube, who is very particular about where he sits. He would prefer one of the first banquettes, preferably the corner by the door.”

“Of course we will do our very best to accommodate Mr. Laube.”

At the restaurant, Alysha introduced the mogul to the maître d’. “This is my dear friend Bruce, who's one of the most important men in New York. I want you to promise me you'll take care of Billy now that he's a New Yorker.”

Bruce took Billy's hand and said, “Good to see you again, Mr. Laube.”

“Always a pleasure,” said Billy.

After they were seated, Alysha pointed out to him that their table at the front of the room was the best in the house. She surveyed her surroundings from her privileged perch in the red leather banquette and waved to a handsome silver-haired man in a formfitting pinstriped suit at the center table.

“That's Curt Vetters, a very good friend of mine. He used to be terribly in love with me. When I was married to my late husband, he would always tell me he wanted to run away with me. He was a very naughty man, all hands. He just bought a football team—I forget which one. I'm afraid I don't know very much about American sports.”

“Well, I don't know much about ballet,” Billy said, “so that makes us even. I can't quite believe I let you talk me into this thing.”

“Don't worry. I will teach you everything you need to know. You must be careful, when you come to New York, not to fall in with the wrong people. It's important to have the right advice,” she said, reaching over and squeezing his hand.

“I believe I'm in good shape there,” he said, smiling and looking her directly in the eye before turning away to take the menu.

The following week he invited her to La Grenouille for dinner. Moments after she put the phone down, it rang again, and she picked it up, her personal assistant having disappeared for the moment.

“Alysha, I've left you half a dozen messages,” her accountant said, sounding exasperated. “It's absolutely crucial that we resolve the situation with the Southampton house.”

“I'm sorry, Saul, I've only just returned from Paris.”

“The bank's moving to foreclose. Unless we come back to them with some kind of plan, they'll file for summary judgment next month. We're four months overdue on the mortgage payments, and now they tell me the Realtor claims you've turned down three offers in that same period.”

“They weren't offers, darling; they were insults.”

“Alysha, we don't have the luxury of sneering, not when you owe the bank thirty million dollars. The Realtor says the last offer was for twenty-seven, and that you refused to counter.”

“The house is worth at least thirty-five and you know it. It was designed by Stanford White, for heaven's sake. You know perfectly well we paid twenty-five for it three years ago, and look at what the market's done since then.”

“You overpaid, Alysha. Sam got in a pissing match with Chip Rhodes.”

“How dare you speak about my husband that way?”

“I apologize, but honestly, Alysha, we're running out of options here. We've got to liquidate something. What about the art?”

It was true: She had some valuable artwork, but she had already borrowed against the best pieces, and she continued to think of the rest as the cash in her sock drawer, the last line of defense between herself and destitution, and she wasn't ready to admit that things had reached that stage of crisis. The artwork had been bought at auctions in New York and in Europe, and what hadn't gone to the residences had been shipped to a warehouse in Switzerland, her hedge against the uncertainties of widowhood. Though her late husband had kept her on a rather tight leash when it came to personal expenses, he had relinquished to her the traditional female realm of household management and decor. She had formed a company, which she'd then hired to redo all of their houses. Sam had sometimes grumbled about the cost, but he'd left the details to Alysha. Some of the furniture and paintings that she and her decorators had acquired in Europe went directly into storage, a little nest egg she considered herself more than entitled to. After all, Sam's nasty children would be wildly wealthy in their own right, the income from the Grossman trust passing directly to the children upon his death. As things turned out, she only wished she'd put away more.