Menage (15 page)

Feeling the strain, Zoltan did his best to soothe his hosts. He quoted Molière and Nietzsche, Plato and Proudhon, made frequent enigmatic pronouncements, and the next time he dined with them at home he presented them with an excellent bottle of Pomerol.

“Hey, Heather! Look what Z brought us,” beamed Mack. He clasped Zoltan's arms and said, “Good job, Z. How did you know this is one of my favorite wines?”

Zoltan knew because the bottle came from Mack's own cellar. Though he could not disclose this, that very morning, while Heather was delivering the children to school, he had extracted it from one of three cases of the same vintage stored in the pantry, confident that one bottle among so
many would not be missed. He had been regularly slipping out more modest wines to present to his other hostesses, and no one had noticed. Even if his prank should eventually be discovered, it would be Mack's responsibility, not his. Mack wished him to indulge Heather? Then he would indulge her and assume Mack would appreciate his efforts.

As it happened, the Pomerol was exactly right for the duck breast Heather served, garnished with apples, on the Spode plates, as the centerpiece of that particular dinner, and they polished off the bottle just before dessert. Dessert was another triumph (prepared by Carmela, but still): a crisp made with newly ripened apples from the McKays' own trees. Earlier, from his window, Zoltan had seen Heather and the children tramping off to the woods with a pole and buckets to collect them. Remembering his own boyhood pleasure in gathering windfall apples on his way home from school or choir practice as an offering to his mother, he'd briefly considered abandoning his (anyway futile) work for an hour or so to join the pretty family group, only to quash the impulse on second thought. Although in principle he appreciated children as much as the next man, in practice he felt awkward around them, a limitation he presumed would disappear should
he someday produce his own. He supposed the McKay children were charming enough, but he was always glad when Heather or Carmela gave them their dinner in the kitchen in advance of the adults, making it easier for him to entertain his expectant hosts.

When the meal was finished and the men were seated in their usual places in the living room, Mack took two cigars from his pocket, handed one to Zoltan, and said expansively, “You know, Z, you don't always have to go to the city to see your friends. You're welcome to invite them up here if you like. Put on some music, open some wine, make a fire.”

Zoltan had come to this sanctuary to write, not to socialize. But he could not escape the conflict that dogged him wherever he went. In L.A. it was the movie crowd that seduced him from work; in New York there were the literary distractions. Naturally, it soothed his vanity to be publicly esteemed, if only for his early work, the new edition of which sported an appreciative preface by his MacDowell lover, Rebecca Shaffer; still, the backbiting rivalry that ruled New York was bad for his stomach and his sleep. Not only strawberries but other writers gave him headaches. No, he would never foul his
Eden by bringing his rivals here; better to pacify the McKays by taking them there.

Mack continued. “We'd be glad to pick them up at the station, or if you prefer, you could use one of the cars yourself. We wouldn't intrude.”

Across the room Heather, who had been just about to pour brandy, froze. Intrude—in her own house? Had she heard Mack correctly? What was the matter with him! She waited for Zoltan to demur, to say that of course they should join them, but instead he leaned into Mack's proffered match and puffed.

“Very kind of you, my man,” he said when he was lit, “but I must decline …”

“Think it over,” said Mack magnanimously, after lighting his own cigar. “Might as well take advantage of all this space.”

Heather was flabbergasted. The two of them! She tried to catch Mack's eye, but he was too busy bonding to glance her way. Would either of these men, their heads clouded in smoke, egging each other on, give a thought to her? She had gladly rearranged her life to accommodate Mack's whim. And after Zoltan had moved in, she had devoted herself to him. For him she had sent Françoise back to Belgium, tabled her work, compromised
her security, deceived her husband, even lied to her children. And when he had refused her his body, declaring himself a monk, she had accepted his terms, maternalizing herself to serve him: she dispensed advice, kept the children quiet, tailored her menus to his taste, became his laptop consultant and his chauffeur. But absent herself in her own house while he entertained? Somewhere she had to draw a line.

“Funny you suggest this now, when I also have invitation for you,” said Zoltan, and he proceeded to invite the McKays to a holiday book party for Orville Lask at the Manhattan home of the literary critic and hostess Rebecca Shaffer. “That is, if you are free to come one week from Saturday.”

“We're not free,” said Mack, “and neither are you. We're all going to
Der Rosenkavalier
that night, don't you remember?”

“Ah … yes. But afterward?”

Heather considered it a fault of her essential Midwestern optimism that she was never able to hold on to anger in the face of any reasonable excuse to drop it. Now in the warmth of Zoltan's invitation her resentment began to melt until, relieved of its burden, she forgave him, forgave them both. “Thank you, Zoltan,” she said, genuinely
moved, despite a small residue of skepticism. And presenting him the opportunity to prove himself, she added sweetly, “But you really don't have to invite us. We could just drop you off at the party after the opera.”

Loyal Tina leaped into her lap and began to purr. She stroked the sleek gray fur as she waited to see what Zoltan would say.

“No, it will be my honor. Rebecca particularly asked me to invite you.” (“Zoltan,” Rebecca had admonished, “you must bring along this mythical couple you say have adopted you so I will know what powers can trump mine.” “But my darling, you are married.” “And they are not?”) “There will be many people you might enjoy. If not, we leave.”

After their big Kansas wedding, the McKays had returned to Manhattan, where Heather worked in a midtown office a few blocks from Mack's, two subway stops from their new apartment. Full of plans, they had set out to create for themselves a certain kind of ideal urban marriage modeled on images of New York life they'd read about or viewed, they couldn't have said exactly where. Each week they scanned the reviews in the
Times
and the cultural listings in the
New Yorker
and
New York Magazine
before buying tickets to enticing events; sometimes
they invited along another couple—the Rabins, or people they had known at school or met through work, people who had similar tastes or whom they told each other they wanted to know better—going out afterward to a restaurant for a late supper or down to a club in the East Village. They had taken buses and taxis, learning the differences between Szechuan, Shanghai, and Hong Kong cuisine, Northern and provincial Italian cooking, going with the crowds to the special exhibitions at the big museums and with the strays to cult movies, and to Central Park on weekends, until Mack began his rise and Heather became pregnant with Chloe. Then they had moved.

Although several times a year they were still invited to a party of some old friend from their city days or for drinks with one or another of Mack's business acquaintances who lived in Manhattan, or, now that Mack's name was getting known, to various testimonial dinners, literary parties like Rebecca Shaffer's were out of their reach. “You see?” said Mack, squeezing Heather's arm as they headed downstairs to bed. “He's opening up to us. I knew he would. It's just taken him a while to get going.”

“Maybe you're right,” said Heather. “We'll soon see.”

She couldn't tell anymore whose side Mack was on. He claimed to be her ally and champion, but when it came to Zoltan, there was some inscrutable connection between them that made ally sometimes feel more like adversary. Had it been forged over Maja's body or was it a fallback to primitive male bonding? Whatever it was, she sometimes felt trapped in a buddy movie.

While she changed for bed in her dressing room, Mack, who was leaving for Chicago in the morning, began to pack.

“Have you seen my good cufflinks? I can't find them,” he called from the closet.

“Did you look in your top drawer?”

“They're not there.”

Heather slipped into her nightgown and went to the closet to search. “Maybe you left them in one of your shirts,” she suggested.

“Diamond cufflinks? I don't think so.”

She began systematically employing the technique she'd developed for helping the children find lost things. “Okay, then, when did you last see them?”

“You don't suppose Carmela—”

“How can you even think that!” Heather broke in. She couldn't bear to mistrust Carmela, whose
affection and skill with the children were indispensable, now that Françoise was gone. She didn't want to suspect Zoltan either, or it would all be over. “Françoise is a likelier candidate, she had nothing to lose when she left the country.”

“No, I wore them to a benefit two weeks ago, long after Françoise left.”

“What shirt were you wearing? Maybe they're still in your cuffs.”

“How can I possibly remember that?” he snapped. He picked out a pair of opal links to take instead, and after locking the jewelry drawer, added the key to his key ring rather than hanging it back on the door. He then locked Heather's drawer and handed her the key to hide.

“I'm sure they'll turn up,” Heather consoled him, concealing her key among her bras. “And if not, we're insured.”

It was after one when they got into bed. Seeing Mack's long-lashed eyes unfocused without their contacts and his solid neck naked on the pillow, Heather thought how vulnerable he was under his powerful facade. Touching, sometimes surprisingly tender, and vulnerable. With the edge of the top sheet she carefully wiped a trace of toothpaste from his lips before kissing him good night
and extinguishing the light. “Love you, babe,” he mumbled, snuggling against her. Large wet flakes of snow, like rolled oats, floated past the window in a slow-motion free fall. She was glad to be warmed by Mack's thick, comforting body, so unconcerned about what was coming that it was already heavy with sleep. She herself was madly curious. She wanted to peer ahead, as she often did in a book, to see what was going to happen. But it was the wrong metaphor for her life. In real life, there was no way to preview what was in store. Supposing you could somehow steal a peek, it still wouldn't help you, because event followed event with such galloping speed and necessity that until it was over, you could barely reflect upon it, much less alter it. No accidents.

19
       
THE ELEVATOR OPENED DIRECTLY
into the small entrance area of a huge, high-ceilinged loft. A plump woman held out both dimpled hands to the McKays and both rouged cheeks to Zoltan, then pulled them all into the main room. She smelled of jasmine, and throughout Zoltan's introductions of the McKays to their hostess she flashed perfect white teeth.

“So you're the lucky people Zoltan has settled in with,” said Rebecca Shaffer, flushed with the reflected glow of purple silk and polished hardwood floors. “I'm so glad to meet you, finally. Put your coats back there in the bedroom. Zoltan can introduce you around.”

Her age was indecipherable, but Heather guessed she was probably in her mid-forties. She had the
unlined luminous skin that often served as consolation to the fat; her delicate mouth and nose were diminutive and shapely amid the rounded cheeks and chins. Nevertheless, Heather was astonished that a woman of such girth, despite the power that came from writing reviews for the
Times
and
New Republic
, had attracted literary lovers of the stature Zoltan had intimated.

“Intimated? Are you kidding?” said Mack. “She probably broadcasts it.”

“Do you think that Zoltan—?”

“How would I know. Maybe.” Then the lovely Maja crossed his mind, and he revised his judgment. “No, I wouldn't think so. Highly unlikely.”

Fluted cast-iron columns painted mauve held up a stamped tin ceiling crossed with sprinklers and pipes; not even the crush of cruising bodies obscured the spectacular wall of windows facing south toward all the lit-up towers of Lower Manhattan and the harbor. To Heather, this loft defined a life, one she had let slip away with hardly a fight, like so many others: the small studio with fireplace and Murphy bed and dainty furniture somewhere in the West Village where she would live alone; the rollicking punk pad (her hair spiked and wild); a summer cottage by a lake, half of it
a kitchen, with fishing for the children; this loft. On their way to the bar she whispered to Mack, “Wouldn't you love to live here?”

He stopped short. “Are you kidding? Trade what we've got for bare pipes and sprinklers? With exposures like these, this place is a furnace in the summer, unless you seal all the windows and air-condition every last cubic inch. Count 'em. Then imagine the bill, with these high ceilings. Plus, nowhere for the kids to play, no windows in the bedroom, city noise and fumes—you'd hate it here, believe me. You've got such romantic ideas, Heather.”

Other people, she brooded, did it and loved it and went on excursions to the mountains or the beach in the hot summer. But she supposed he was right; this was what he knew best. Still, if Mack died, she would sell the house and live off the proceeds—buy herself a loft, eat brunches at Balthazar, shop at the Farmers' Market, cruise the Chelsea galleries.

“Besides,” continued Mack, stomping her dream, “this would cost us twice as much for a fraction of the space we've got now. Real estate markets all over the country are tanking, but Manhattan prices stay astronomical. And what have you got when you're through? Essentially one big room. For singles, maybe; for a family, forget it.”