The Ladies' Man (16 page)

“Which would make it a stage name,” says Lois. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“And it isn't like you had a college diploma that needed altering,” Adele says.

Nash's voice suggests that the strain of diplomacy is beginning to show. “I think you forget that I studied at the New England Conservatory after I graduated from Boston Latin. On the honor roll.”

“I didn't forget.” Adele signals to Kathleen that something only she will appreciate is forthcoming. “But at the same time I don't remember any bachelor's degree.”

“And that, of course, is more important around this table than any of my subsequent accomplishments.”

“I don't think she was saying that,” Kathleen murmurs.

“Look at Bill Gates,” chirps Lois. “Dropped out of Harvard his freshman year. Richest man in America.”

Richard says, “How about you, Harv? Are you rich?”

Only Lois laughs.

“I'm serious,” says Richard. “What kind of money do you make writing jingles?”

Nash asks, “Are you asking how much money one makes in my field, or—”

“No,” says Richard. “How much does Harvey-Nash-Harvey make?” He reaches for a flour pancake, but doesn't break eye contact with his subject.

Nash says, “Enough.”

“Enough for what? A guy with no dependents and rent on a studio apartment, or a guy with a big house on the beach?”

“Enough for a small house on the beach and two hundred grand in studio gear.”

Only now, after she's heard his answer, does Lois emit a scolding, “Richard!”

“I don't mind,” says Nash. “It's what your father would be asking, God rest his soul.”

“Don't encourage him,” says Lois. “He thinks his badge gives him the right to cross-examine everyone who crosses his path.”

“You have a badge?” asks Nash.

“Show him,” says Lois.

“If you've seen one, you've seen 'em all,” says Richard. “Besides my wallet's in my jacket.”

“When would I have seen a badge close up?” Nash asks. “I've led an exemplary life with no sheriff ever knocking on my door.”

Adele looks up. She repeats the words “exemplary life” disdainfully.

Lois announces that she ordered the Buddha's Delight, this time with garlic sauce.

“So?” says Richard.

“I meant it's not as bland as usual.”

“Pass it this way,” says Nash.

“What beach do you live on?” Kathleen asks.

“I live on the bay in Newport Beach. It's on the water but it's not a beach.”

“We've covered this,” says Adele.

“And is most of your work in Hollywood?” asks Lois.

“Actually,” says Nash. “Have I not mentioned this to anyone? The middle years? After I tried to compose for the movies—some bites but eventually striking out—I ended up freelancing for jingle houses.”

“Jingle houses?” repeats Lois.

“A music company that does sound tracks for commercials,” says Nash. “A friend got me in.”

“Where?” asks Richard.

“Why should he say?” says Kathleen. “It might put his glamorous missing-person status at risk.”

“My parents knew where I was,” says Nash. “And certainly the I.R.S. knew where I was. And the A.F.M. I was hardly a missing person, Kathleen.”

“Is that your position? That you
weren't
hiding from this family?”

“Kathleen,” says Richard. “This is a guess, but I think you're working up to something, and I'd rather it didn't get physical again.”

Lois laughs another brittle laugh.

Kathleen says, “I happen to be going out after dinner. I want a few answers before I leave, on the theory that I may never see this character again.”

Richard coughs into his fist, telegraphing that this may be a matter of some delicacy.

“What?” asks Kathleen, annoyed.

“Maybe this isn't the best time.”

“Pretend I'm not here,” says Adele. “Just as you have been.”

Kathleen pushes her plate in from the edge of the table, and says smartly, “Harvey?”

He is brushing plum sauce onto his pancake with a feathered scallion. Instead of answering, he reaches for the platter of sliced duck.

“My question,” says Kathleen. “Our question, all of the Dobbins', including our late parents', question is, and has always been …” She stops, suddenly realizing that she knows all the answers in this inquiry, and sees that every explanation will only humiliate Adele.

Nash reads the look on her face, and decides to help. “I think you want to know why I left,” he begins. “And the reason is patently obvious: I was immature and brainless, not to mention scared. I was thinking only of myself. I was so selfish that I couldn't even imagine what was taking place back at the engagement party, let alone the hatred it would spark.”

Kathleen feels immensely grateful for his spin, and relieved. But she is not the commander of this campaign, not invested with the
power to wave a white flag. She asks her sister if this explanation and
mea culpa
is satisfactory.

“He's never said a sincere word in his life,” Adele replies.

“My
life
?” Nash repeats with a new impatience. “You haven't known me my whole life.”

Adele stares, as if Nash has finally said something interesting.

“I may have been raised by two socially inferior parents,” he continues, “but they always taught me that when someone is a guest in your home, you don't attack them or insult them or do anything other than act like a good host. Here, apparently, it's just the opposite: I get shoved out the door by the person whose life I saved, then brained by this one who doesn't like the way I said hello. I saved your life, Dell; I'm sorry I broke your rib, but I'd do it again if it meant dislodging the steak. I'm not such a terrible guy, and I think it's time you stopped glaring at me.”

“How dare you,” breathes Adele.

“She almost died today!” cries Kathleen.

“And she's not the one who knocked you out,” says Richard.

“I'd like you to leave,” says Adele.

“He came all this way to set things right, and now he's going to walk out the door and you'll never see him again!” wails Lois.

“I'm in no condition to leave,” says Nash. “My vision is blurred, my head is throbbing, and I think I may be running a temp.” He turns to Richard, old hand at vain claims. “I was injured under this roof, and I think it's only fair that I recover here.” He returns to his food, rolling up his bulging pancake expertly.

Adele says, “Absolutely not.”

“You know, Harv,” says Richard, “I'm sympathetic up to a point, and I am grateful for that business in the restaurant, but I see problems with your spending the night here.”

“Would you want to be seen looking like this? Have I ever looked less presentable or more unappetizing?”

“C'mon, Harv,” says Richard. “You know we don't have room. You've made your point. The girls can't have you underfoot.”

“They should have thought of that before they assaulted me—”

“They?”
repeats Lois. “I came home at five forty-five.”

“Assaulted me and showed no remorse.”

“Where will
I
sleep?” asks Richard.

Each sister silently assigns beds, but only Lois articulates the plan: Nash can have her room. She'll sleep with Adele, freeing the daybed for Richard.

“I have a broken rib,” says Adele. “I'm sleeping alone in my own bed.”

“Then let this one get a roommate,” says Nash, jerking his thumb at Kathleen. “It seems to me that if anyone should be inconvenienced, it's Red here.”

Kathleen looks at her watch and frowns. “I don't consider this settled. I should be back from my date by ten, ten-thirty.”

Adele smiles—Kathleen sees she is pretending Nash is invisible and hasn't asserted a preposterous claim—and says, “May we ask who this date is with?”

“Someone at work.”

Richard laughs, which everyone understands to mean, There's no one at work except ladies trying on underwear.

“His name is Lorenz,” says Kathleen. “He's with the building's management.”

“Lorenz?” repeats Nash. “Like Lorenz Hart?” He leans back in his chair, fixes Kathleen with an impudent expression, and sings the first line of “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.”

“Must you?” says Adele.

“His words, not mine. Music by Richard Rodgers.”

“From
Pal Joey
,” offers Lois.

“He also wrote ‘Blue Moon'—talking about American classics.”

“Are we going to meet this guy?” Richard asks Kathleen. “I mean, isn't that my role as man of the house?”

“He's not coming up,” says Kathleen. “I told him I'd wait downstairs.”

“Lorenz
who
?” asks Lois.

“You'll set the bottles when you get in?” asks Adele.

“We're just going for coffee,” says Kathleen.

“A coffee date,” says Richard. “I do that, too. It's a good icebreaker. No big commitment.”

“Which is exactly your problem,” says Adele. “No big commitment, ever.”

“Let's not argue,” says Lois. “We have a guest. Let's just have some coffee now, and stop bickering, and let everyone get on with their evening plans. Who wants decaf?”

“Not me,” says Kathleen. She stands up, and clears her plate and Adele's.

“Leave it,” says Adele. “You don't want to keep the gentleman waiting.”

Lorenz
, muses Nash. Young? Old? European? Puerto Rican? He knows he can't say anything that will reveal he is unsettled by the fact that Kathleen, the youngest and dewiest, has the beginnings of a boyfriend. “Don't stay out too late,” he says. “I don't think I'll be able to fall asleep until everyone's home safe.”

“Are we supposed to let you fall asleep?” Lois asks.

Reluctantly, Nash turns to this less appealing voice and presence.

“Remember? We were going to check you every few hours so we know you're not comatose? Like your mother used to do?”

“In shifts, I hope,” says Nash. “I wouldn't want that burden to fall on just one person.”

“Adele can't help, and Kathleen's going out—”

“And I'm not sticking around,” says Richard.

“I think at this point,” says Nash, “that sleep would be the best medicine.”

“
Go
,” Adele tells Kathleen.

Nash kisses his fingertips and wiggles them like a doting uncle. “Lucky Lorenz,” he calls after her coyly. Kathleen flinches but doesn't stop.

It is twenty-four hours since Cynthia has had sexual intercourse with Nash, and she thinks she should have heard from him by now. She is positive that she knows where he is, and has the computer printout from her
Street Atlas USA
CD-ROM to prove it. The phone book lists only a “Dobbin, Lois,” but the address is right. Her plan is this: Give Nash Harvey until nine
P.M.
, possibly five past, at which time she will feel free to embarrass the man who will have proved himself insincere beyond all her powers of detection and defense.

At six forty-five, she orders an artichoke pizza with extra cheese, which is announced at seven-twenty by the doorman. “Could you send him up?” Cynthia tries. “I'm waiting for an important call.”

“Can't, Miss John,” says Lorenz.

“Could you bring it up?”

He says kindly, “And who would watch the front door?”

Cynthia doesn't want to leave the apartment because she thinks her social luck is tainted by a force that makes the phone ring during the one minute she is getting her mail or picking up her takeout or rinsing her hair in the shower.

“Tell him I'll be right down,” she says.

She finds Lorenz in street clothes—wool trousers, gray pullover, and loafers—the first time she's ever seen him out of uniform. “Don't you look smart,” she says.

He tells her he is off duty in seven minutes.

“And I think you have a date.”

Lorenz's olive skin doesn't blush, but changes tone. “Just dessert,” he says after a pause.

“A lady friend?”

Lorenz smiles. “I wouldn't want your pizza to get cold.”

“That must be a
yes.”
She takes a step toward the elevator, then says, “I know, it's none of my business. But you, Felix, and the others know every detail of our lives—who comes and goes, at what hour. So it doesn't seem particularly nosy to inquire about a Friday evening.”

“We
have
to notice who comes and goes,” says Lorenz. “It's the most important part of our job. Every person who comes in has to be accounted for. Even pizza deliverymen.”

“Which is overkill,” says Cynthia.

“Is it?” asks Lorenz. He takes keys out of his pocket, not his work-related master set. Cynthia thinks, Lorenz has a car! A home that he drives to; a life beyond this lobby. “All it takes,” he continues, “is one impostor holding an empty pizza box or a brown bag with a Chinese menu stapled to it.”