Cameo Lake (14 page)

“Sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll?”

“Something like that.” Ben shrugged. “More that I really disliked the constant travel. I'm too much of a homebody to get off on the relentless night after night, city after city. And, honestly, I hated the whole fame thing. I couldn't visit my parents or my brothers without some asshole photographer following me. Anything normal I did became distorted by the press. And I was out of the studio too much. I like writing music. That's what's fun. Not prancing in front of an audience.”

To forestall my asking, he picked up the third framed photo. “This is Talia.”

The candid picture was taken close up, her face in one-quarter profile, her eyes, even in the shading of the photo were clear light blue, artfully lined above and below so that they stood out as the feature one's own eyes were drawn to, and away from a small, thinlipped mouth which was not smiling. Her fair hair was pulled back, and I thought she looked like someone who was a product of private schools and privilege.

“She was very lovely, Ben.”

“Yes. She was beautiful.” He cleared his throat a little, as if uncomfortable with the conversation, then, “That picture's from her debut album. I cut it down to fit the frame.” Ben set the picture back down on the side table. I noticed that it hadn't needed any dusting.

When he leaned past me to replace the photo, there was a fraction of pause in his movement, an infinitesimal hesitation in him. A slight smile on his lips, as if of recognition, as he caught the scent of the shampoo in my still damp hair. Then he straightened up and gestured toward the French doors. “Let's eat outside, the porch is cool.” Maybe I imagined the pause.

I needed the bathroom just then and Ben pointed to the hallway off the living room. “First door on your left.” More photos adorned the short hallway of the addition, mostly of Ben and Talia, and groups of teens I could only assume were the nieces and nephews. I could see
into a small bedroom, unmade bed and folded laundry piled on a chest of drawers. Next to it, the closed door of what must be the second, added-on, room. Hunting for a fresh roll of toilet paper, I discovered a half-used box of tampons under the sink and I thought, How sad. How long did one keep little reminders of daily life on the shelf after a death? Would I throw out Sean's toiletries or keep them in their accustomed place forever?

It would have been so easy to abandon further work to the hot, sultry afternoon, stay where I was on Ben's cool porch. We talked of movies and books, politics and places. Then, already emboldened by having asked him about being in the band, I asked him to tell me more about his life as a rock star.

He was a little reluctant, and I might have felt bad asking him about it, but finally he nodded. “All right. What do you want to know?”

“Why the name Interior Angles?

“Rolling Stones was taken.”

“No, you know what I mean.”

“Finger in a dictionary.” He took a bite of sandwich and passed me the potato chips. “What else do you want to know, Ms. Writer?”

“The whole experience, how did it start and why did it end?” Having asked the question, I suddenly had a vague memory of the Interior Angles' breakup. Some tickling in my memory about a bad end. I almost withdrew my question, but Ben started talking.

“Okay. Here's the short version. Interior Angles enjoyed a meteoric-rise to fame after ten years of hard work. We'd managed to become a sought-after opening act for the really big groups, even once the Grateful Dead. I'm sure you can relate to instant fame.”

“Yeah, after a dozen years of struggle, it always looks instant.”

“Exactly. Well, Artie Sheldon came into our lives and we felt like Jason and the Golden Fleece. What we didn't see was that we were the fleece. Anyway, we hit the right promoter, the right label, and the right song. You might remember it, ‘Frozen Heart’?”

The melancholy tune immediately came to mind. I nodded, but didn't interrupt.

“Anyway ‘Frozen Heart’ made us a household name. We got tons of airplay, good venues, lots of money. The album sold well and we hit it big. Instant acclaim, a Grammy, public recognition, paparazzi, the whole nine yards. All based on one song on an otherwise mediocre album.

“And, of course, the record execs wanted a clone. So I acted the whore and for almost as long as it took for Interior Angles to strike it big, we stayed there as I pumped out mediocre hooks on hummable tunes. Stan Allen, you probably remember him by his stage name, Stash, kept telling me to shut up and enjoy the perks. For him it was women, for Todd, the bassist, it was drugs. Kevin, my writing partner and our drummer, well, he kept his passions pretty close to the chest. He didn't want the world to know he was gay. Thought that it was counter to the image Interior Angles projected of womanizing rock stars.” Ben chewed his bottom lip a little, “Truth is, he was fundamentally and musically more suited for Andrew Lloyd Webber than the Angles. But it was his decision to protect himself.” Ben offered me another glass of iced tea. I shook my head to decline.

“Anyway, we played the part well. Kevin and I churned out the songs, only occasionally introducing real music. We traveled so much that none of us had homes. We were rootless troubadours, the recording studio seemed the only constant in our lives.

“It came to an end rather abruptly.” Ben leaned over to pour himself-more tea. The way he held the glass I imagined he wished it was something stronger. He no longer engaged my glance in his narrative, but stared out toward the raft, scenes playing in his memory which he then selected to share with me.

“We were in Buffalo. It was the millionth night of a two-million-city tour. Or at least it felt that way. We'd been on the tour for almost a year. As we almost always did, we hung out in Kevin's suite. Artie used to complain that we all requested separate rooms but then stayed in one. We were due at the venue at nine-thirty, so we had a couple of hours to kill. Todd and Stash were doing lines of coke. We had
reached that point in our careers where coke was like, well, Coke. Inevitable and available. Kevin was in the bathroom taking a shower. I remember thinking that he was taking an awfully long time, even for Kevin, who was notoriously vain. I was watching the national news in a desperate attempt to catch up with world events. This was about at the time of the Iran-Contra scandal.

“Suddenly there was an unholy crash from the bathroom. Assuming that Kevin had slipped, I went to the bathroom door and knocked, ‘Hey, Kev, you okay?’ Nothing except the sound of the shower. I looked back at Todd and Stash, but they were mid-snort. I banged on the door once more and when Kevin didn't answer, I pushed the unlocked door open. I was hit in the face with built up steam. Something was blocking the door and I assumed it was towels. I pushed hard, and squeezed through. Only it wasn't towels blocking the door, it was Kevin. He had hanged himself on the shower rod and it had collapsed under his weight. The crashing I'd heard was him falling.

“Most of what happened next is still a blur. I know I screamed for the others to call nine-one-one. I remember trying to get the rope, his bathrobe belt, from around his neck. I remember telling him over and over he couldn't do this to me, he couldn't die. But what stays with me most are two things: Stash and Todd scrambling to hide the drugs before they called for help, and Artie's reaction.”

Ben set his glass back down on the picnic table and ran his hands through his recently trimmed dark hair. His movement made me notice a tracery of gray along his temple. “Artie never once expressed grief or surprise or outrage. He paced and lamented the idea of canceling the concert. He talked us into going on anyway.” Ben affected a stentorian voice. “‘The show must go on, it's what Kevin would want.’ We were so stunned, it made sense. We watched the paramedics take Kevin out of the suite in a body bag. We gave our statements to the police, and then we went to our limo and made it to the concert only an hour late. We could hear the fans screaming over the opening band: Angles! Angles! We were deafened by the cheering as we paraded onto the stage. One, two, three of us. I pulled aside the drummer from the opening act and asked him to sit in.

“I was okay for about five minutes. Halfway through the first song I stopped playing. The crowd was so noisy, I don't think they noticed, but Stash did. He shot me a look of confusion, like he didn't get why I might be upset. I started playing again. About twenty minutes into the set I did the unforgivable. I walked off the stage.

“Do you know what was most bizarre? None of us had asked the question: Why had Kevin committed suicide?” Ben squinted toward the raft and then looked at me. “I walked off the stage and out of my career. Artie and the record company sued and got most of my money as well as all my Interior Angles music, and I was back to working as a sessions musician.”

“And that's when you came here?”

“Yes. I needed time to regroup. To face one of those demons I told you about the other evening. In the sixties we would have said I needed to find myself, but the fact is, I was depressed and I needed time to decide how I wanted to go on. I tried a little alcoholism, but I never took to it. So I came here and got to work winterizing the house. Nearly lost my thumb and that made me realize that I wanted to stay in music, but not as a performer. At least, not that kind of performer.” Ben picked up an Oreo and twisted it apart, then looked at me watching him and put it back together with a sheepish smile.

It was getting on and we both had work to return to. But there was one more question my probing curiosity wouldn't let lie. “Ben?”

“What?”

“Did you ever find out why Kevin did it? Was it AIDS?”

Ben shrugged and sighed. “No. Actually, it wasn't. The truth is, I really don't know exactly why he did it. I've tested a lot of theories, but they all seem to reflect how
I
was feeling then. How
I
was feeling, not Kevin.”

“How was that?”

“Trapped, enslaved by the very thing we'd wanted.”

Eventually I got up to go. I had taken up too much of his time as it was, and I apologized for it.

“Let's call it even, I've kept you from your work. Shirkers unite.”

“Sounds like a name for your next rock group.”

“Not in this lifetime.”

In life, one almost never makes true eye contact. Too much is required. There were whole days I know my husband never looked directly at me. He didn't have to. He knew me so well. Ben looked into my eyes as I handed him the pink bathsheet. I looked back and we smiled, some connection suddenly made. When I write such scenes in my novels, there is always a deep significance to the looks. In real life, I was unclear exactly what our eyes had said to each other. All I knew, as I stepped into the cold lake water, was that I had no intention of ever sitting on the beach with those women again. My allegiance was with Ben Turner.

I was back at work quickly, a glance at the clock had told me there was no time to lose. I had less than two hours before I had to go get the kids. My days seemed so brief, especially if I let myself lollygag over lunch. And now I was dallying, thinking about what had just happened, pleased to have pierced something of Benson Turner's armor.

The image kept coming back to me, an impression rather than an observation, of Ben leaning over me, pausing as he catches the scent of his wife in my hair. There had been no reaction, nothing recordable, but the movement, or cessation of movement, as one would do if startled. I rolled the imagery around and thought about using it in my work-in-progress, but there wasn't yet a way to fit it in. There would be, though. Maybe not in this book, but in some as yet unimagined work. My observer self had taken notes while my physical self had very much liked the nearness of Ben's reach as he replaced the photo.

Eighteen

“Y
ou're an asshole!”

“You
are!”

Boys' voices shattered my focus. I looked up to see two canoes, side by side, each bearing two boys, paddles raised in some contest. As I watched, it was clear they were each trying to capsize the boat of the other. None of the boys was wearing a life jacket. I pulled Grace's binoculars off the hook and took a better look. I guessed them to be in early adolescence, maybe thirteen or so. I thought I could pick out two of them as the sons of my erstwhile beach companions. I mentally shuddered to think of my own son behaving like that. Foul language, playful as it was, echoed against the buffer of hillside and came right at me. I scanned the beachfront to see if I could pick out any one who might be their parents, but the beach, at noon, was clear.

I watched as the canoes rocked violently, one boy in each standing, legs spread to keep the boat steady, paddles athwart like Robin Hood and Little John on the bridge. I couldn't tell from their language whether it was really play or if there was some antagonistic action happening in the middle of the lake.

“Stupid idiots.” I said aloud, lowering the binoculars and averting my eyes from what was easily a tragedy in the making.

“Knock it off, you kids!”

Ben's voice, angry and authoritative at the same time, startled me into looking up again. I picked up the binoculars and watched the drama as Ben, in his Old Town, speed-stroked to where the boys were.

“Are you complete idiots? Where are your life jackets? And where the hell are your parents?” Through the powerful lens, I could see Ben's shoulders working furiously as he approached the two canoes. The voices were oddly delayed, I could see their lips move, then the yelling reached my ears.

“Back off, mister.” One of the more aggressive boys raised his paddle. “You can't tell us what to do.”

“You want to drown, do it on the other side of the lake. Get away from here.” Ben had backstroked to a halt, close to but out of reach of the pair.

“Fuck off, wife-killer.” With that last volley, the standing boys sat down and, with eloquent disdain, paddled away.

Ben remained where he was, paddle across his knees. I lowered the binoculars, not wanting to see his face.

Ben didn't meet me on the raft that afternoon. I stayed only a little while, not wanting to look like I was waiting for him. The kids were at their overnight camp-out and I had what seemed like acres of unrestricted time to work. I planned to use the half an hour I lay on the raft to imagine the next scene, to run bits of dialogue through my head as the late-July sun dried my old black suit.

Half-expecting Ben, I had a hard time bringing my concentration to the level I needed, but it was the other thing diverting my thoughts which I had the hardest time shoving aside, Sean's sudden elusiveness.

I'd called the office yesterday afternoon after picking up the kids and the receptionist had said Sean was gone for the day. I'd called home, no answer. I called Alice and she professed no insider knowledge of Sean's plans. I hadn't thought much more about it, except that he wasn't home by seven-thirty, and I might have shrugged the call off except the answering machine wasn't on. I went back to the car and drove to the top of the road at ten-thirty and he still wasn't home.
I almost called Alice again, but it was too late. None of this would have been more than annoying except that he wasn't home when I called at six-thirty in the morning. Abandoning any thoughts of the novel, I examined the various red flags to see if I was in any way justified in my fears.

Ben's sudden shout shook me out of my reverie, “Hey, Cleo!” Ben was fully dressed and standing on the shore.

“Hey yourself.” I lay on my stomach, head to the north.

“Is this the kids' camp-out day?”

“Yes.”

“I won't keep you, then, but can I take you to dinner tonight?”

I didn't answer right away, using the action of sitting up and turning toward him to give me time to prepare my reaction. In that second I chose to accept. “Sure, I'd love to, Ben. What time?” With the band-shell acoustics of the lake, I was certain my voice was as audible as the boys' voices had been. Take that, East Side biddies.

Shouting over the distance, we agreed on seven o'clock. As I dived off the raft, I couldn't help but notice Glenda and Carol on the sandy beach, sun hats distinctly turned my way.

I wasn't quite sure what to make of this invitation, only that I was pleased to have it. More and more, Ben struck me as a lonely widower, one who enjoyed the company of a fellow “artist,” one who needed companionship of a neutral, unjudgmental, kind. And, of course, I wouldn't let him pay for me, that would make it a date, and I was a married woman. I allowed myself to believe that I was looking forward to this dinner exactly as if it was with Grace or any chum. That's what I told myself. Nothing to it. Everything aboveboard. I discounted my earlier reluctance to invite him over for dinner on this evening of being alone for fear of the suggestion of impropriety. This was different. Public. I could rationalize it very well. Besides, Sean knew Ben. Not that I would ever be able to share this moment with Sean. He wouldn't understand, he'd see it as all very innocent at the outset. Out of control in the next instant.

“Cleo, you're making more of this than there is.” I spoke to the face in the mirror. I could have meant Ben's invitation or Sean's absence.

With Ben's car in the shop, for what he claimed was the eighty-second time that year, I would drive. I sat on the grassy slope just above the muddy rim of shore as Ben glided towards me across the lake, standing up as he jumped to shore and pulled his Old Town up on the grass beside me.

“You look fabulous.”

“Thanks. It's just an old sundress.” I don't know why I said that, I'd bought it that night we went to the mall.

“Red is nice on you. It suits your coloring.”

I felt a little blush of pleasure. “You have a way of making a girl feel like a girl.”

Ben politely chuckled at my stupid remark and pulled on his seatbelt. “That sounds like that silly line from
Notting Hill.
You know, where the Julia Roberts character says something like,”—and here his voice mimicked a high-pitched girlie sound—“I'm just a girl who is asking a boy to love her.”

“Hey, I
like
romantic drivel. I write it.” I gave him a playful punch.

“Yeah, and I went to see that movie alone, that's how bad I am.”

We decided to go back to the same place where I'd introduced him to Sean as it was the nearest to a fine dining restaurant around. We chatted comfortably about this and that, Ben bringing me up to date on the news of the world, encouraging me to give him amusing anecdotes about the kids' first week at Camp Winetonka.

We were about halfway there when the phone chirruped. I felt a little mis-beat in my heart. I knew it had to be Sean. “Excuse me.” I lifted the handset, “Sean?”

Ben kept looking out the passenger window in a noble attempt to give me privacy. “Why don't you pull over and I'll get out?” he mouthed.

I did and he got out of the car.

“Sean, where have you been?”

“What do you mean?”

I rehearsed for him my several useless phone calls.

“I know, I screwed up the answering-machine tape, but I was home after eleven. I had a client dinner.”

“So where were you this morning?”

There was static on the line and I could barely hear him. For the first time it occurred to me that he was also on a car phone. “When?”

“Six-thirty this morning.”

“Oh, golf. I had an early tee time with the client.” It made perfect sense and I felt the doubts recede. Then I wondered why he'd called me half an hour earlier than our set time. “How come you're calling me now?”

“Taking a chance I'd get you. I've got yet another client dinner and I didn't want to miss you again.”

“Boy, Sean, I sure hope all of these dinners turn into paying customers.”

“Me, too.” The connection suddenly improved. “Clee, would you hate me very much if I came up on Saturday morning?”

I felt the ice water in my veins. “Yes.”

“It's really important or I wouldn't . . .”

“Sean, you do what you have to do. I, too, have a dinner date and I'm going to have to sign off.” I jabbed at the end button, missing it the first two times I aimed. I wish I could say that I was surprised that Sean wanted to delay his arrival. I wish I could say that it was legitimate. I wish I could say that his behavior didn't send the alarms sounding, but it did.

As I sipped my first glass of wine of the evening, I thought of the last time I had been here, and naturally it was the dance that Ben had given me that came soonest to mind. Thinking of Sean's unexpectedly bland reaction to my having done so, it suddenly hit me why he might have been so indifferent, and I gasped, inhaling a little of the wine. I choked and tears spontaneously welled in my eyes. I was uncertain if they were from coughing or from a new interpretation of Sean's uncharacteristic unconcern. Of course he was unconcerned, he could hardly make a big deal of my dancing with a man when
he was . . . What? What proof did I have, except an eight-year-old memory, that my husband was repeating history? Why couldn't I believe that he was really having a run of new clients, all needing special attention? A monster thought climbed out of the cave of my head and licked its claws: I was never going to trust Sean. I didn't trust him.

Ben was on his feet and pounding my back until I raised my hands to signify uncle. “I'm okay,” I managed to splutter out. Ben's thumping became gentle rubbing across my shoulders. I was aware of its warmth on the cool bare skin of my shoulders. “Thanks, Ben.”

He leaned over me and whispered in my ear, “Remember, always chew your food.”

I laughed and tried again. The wine soothed the muscles of my throat but not the burning behind my eyes.

“Cleo, is something the matter?”

I shook my head, forced a smile and determined to enjoy this serendipitous companionship.

We considered the menu for a few minutes, then I ordered baked haddock and Ben ordered steak. We were seated at a table for two, off to the side of the dining room. It looked more intimate, more romantic, than two recent friends of opposite genders should be seen to be. For a few minutes we sat quietly, not having to talk, sure enough in our acquaintance that the quiet moment was nice.

When I first met Ben, I thought he had a nice face. Over the past few weeks, becoming familiar with his expressions and charm, I'd come to think him quite good-looking, maybe even handsome in a gentle sort of way. I liked the way he ran a hand through his hair when he told a story, and the way his fingers worked an invisible keyboard even as he lay on the raft. Once one of Sean's sisters remarked about some stranger, admiring his build. I was still a newlywed and so was she and I made some comment about a wandering eye so soon. Siobhan laughed and said, “I may be married but I ain't dead.” I sat there quietly with Ben and knew that I had come to see him as a man, and I was a little frightened by how powerfully that attraction lay hold of me. I was afraid of it. Unconsciously, I fingered my wedding
band, twisting the wide ring around my finger as if it were suddenly too tight. I looked up to see Ben looking at me.