Crying Wolf (8 page)

Nat had heard a lot about diversity, had answered test questions about it and written his SAT writing sample on the subject, but he hadn't understood how different human beings could be, one from the other, until that moment. He thought of Christmas Eve at home: Mom always made an oyster stew, a few friends came over, Patti and her dad the last two years, everyone opened one present, they drank eggnog from little clear-glass cups that appeared only at Christmas, Mom sat at the piano and they sang a few carols. With the time difference, it might still be going on. He turned his wrist to check the time and found his watch was gone.

“I am having a bad feeling you miss the import of the question,” said Paolo, shaking off. “Identical genes, therefore the hair must be identical, therefore one is an artificer. Do I say that right?”

“They're two different people,” Nat said. “There are other ways to tell them apart.”

“Don't be silly. Is there no biology studies in America? Even their father cannot tell—which is the reason why the hair color in the first place.” He zipped up. “So we have a big question, and everyone is asking the person in a position to know. To know beyond a shadow of the doubt. Useless to ask, of course, so don't you bother, Nat-te. I am what used to be called a gentleman.”

“What's it called now?” said Nat.

But too late: Paolo was gone. Nat went to the sink. It turned out that counts didn't wash their hands. Maybe he said it aloud. “Counts don't wash their hands.” He washed his, laughing to himself. Then he thought he heard someone crying, went still, heard nothing but the running water. In the mirror, he saw that now he did look different, a lot.

Nat was still staring at his image, kind of stunned, when one of the stalls behind him opened and Izzie stepped out. She didn't look at him, either in the mirror or in life, but went out, not speaking.

“Izzie?” Nat hurried after her, but had trouble with the door, somehow locking it for a few seconds, or maybe a minute or two, and when he emerged into a hall swarming with people, she was gone.

“Ever smoked one of these before?” said someone.

“What is it?” said Nat.

“ ‘What is it?' Who are you, Inspector Gadget?”

Nat didn't remember anything after that.

 

H
e awoke in the night with someone breathing against his ear.

“You're pretty cute.”

“Izzie?”

“Bzzzz.”

“Grace?”

“Boinggg.” She slipped her hand inside his shirt; no, he wasn't wearing a shirt.

He sat up; no, tried to. “Where are we?”

“Home is the hunter.”

Her hand moved lower. He might not have been wearing pants either. Her hand, so different from Patti's hand; knew exactly what it was doing, for one thing. Nat thought that moment of the conga drummer's hands, a mixed-up thought that went away. He put his hand on hers to stop her.

“How did we get here?”

“Public transportation, like good little citizens. You gave up your seat to a transvestite. Très galant.”

Surely she was making that up. “What time is it?”

“Night.”

“I think I lost my watch.”

“You talk too much.” She put her mouth on his, got her hand free, down between his legs.

Nat turned his head away. “I really can't, Grace.”

“Different opinion down here.”

Nat tried to see her in the dark, couldn't. “It's not that,” he said. “We don't know each other.”

“I know you.”

“I meant we don't know each other well enough.”

“If everyone waited for well enough, we'd be extinct.”

Nat laughed. “I know, but—”

“But what?”

“I have this—I have a girlfriend.”

Grace stopped what she was doing. “At school?”

“Inverness, you mean?”

“What other school do you go to?”

“No,” Nat said, “she's not at Inverness.”

Grace started up again. “Still on the prairie, then. What's her name?”

“Patti. And there's no prairie.”

“Let me guess—she spells it with an
i
. When do we meet her?”

Nat pulled her hand away, sat up, succeeded in sitting up this time, felt dizzy and a little sick. “Yes,” he said, “she does spell it with an
i
.”

His voice sounded strange to him: harsh and maybe even powerful. Powerful. Was this the immensely strong effect he'd experienced at the dance club, still with him from the champagne? He felt Grace moving away, heard her stand up.

“What convenient morals you have, Grandma,” she said.

“Convenient?”

She snorted. “Playing dumb's not you.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

But was he really surprised when she said: “No? What would you be doing right now if it was Izzie in your bed?” He was not.

He said nothing.

Grace said: “Piss on that,” and left the room.

Nat lay back down. Was it just that he saw Izzie as the underdog and had always been one of those rooters for underdogs? How could someone like Izzie possibly be called an underdog? Was it instead some crazy competitive thing, that Izzie wasn't available and Grace was? Or simply that he was a little afraid of Grace?

He closed his eyes, thought about returning to Inverness in the morning, even—but just for a moment—of going home. The steps outlined themselves in his mind: packing, paying Albert what he owed for the gift wine, finding the bus station. He slid down into sleep, and was almost there when it hit him that he'd forgotten all about his hundred foul shots, the first day he'd missed since he'd begun in fifth grade. His eyes opened wide. He remembered the basketball hoop on the deck down below, thought about getting up. Thought about it, but stayed where he was, eyes open.

“The degree and kind of a man's sexuality reaches up into the topmost summit of his spirit.” In a single paragraph, discuss whether Nietzsche would have said the same for women; if so, why; if not, why not?

—Midterm exam question, Philosophy 322

C
hristmas morning.

Early morning: Nat was the only one up in the Zorns' apartment; at least, he saw or heard no one else. Showered, shaved, dressed, packed, left $30 on his bedside table for Albert, with a note giving his college address in case the wine had cost more—$2,500!—he waited for the elevator. And while he waited, faced the Renoir.

A pink nude—not really pink, since he could see silver, yellow, violet, red, even blue on her skin, but the effect was pink—a pink nude, one foot resting on the edge of a bathtub, bending to towel herself dry. She was fat, but didn't behave—if the word could be used for a painted figure frozen on canvas—the way fat women did now.
Au contraire,
as Grace or Izzie would probably say, she seemed confident, even liked her body, if that wasn't reading too much into it. The problem, and the reason he didn't like the painting—not liking a Renoir, who did he think he was?—was that he couldn't see anything else inside her but that self-satisfaction. Women he knew, his mom, Patti, Grace, Izzie, might not feel that self-satisfaction—he was almost sure that none of them did feel it, despite the fact that they all had better bodies than Renoir's woman—but there was something important in all of them that she seemed to lack. Was there a word for that something? What was it? An angle? A viewpoint? Or—here came an image—the habit of mind of a chess player forced always to play the black pieces, to go second? Nat didn't know, but he sensed this something in women, wanted to know more about it, didn't see it here. Did that mean that Renoir hadn't known much about women? Nat, shying away from that conclusion, was about to move a little closer to the painting in order to examine the pink lady's eyes and see where he had gone wrong when the elevator opened behind him. He turned.

Mrs. Zorn stepped out. She wore running shoes, black tights, and, despite the cold, a black midriff-baring top. And, despite the cold, she was sweating. A long and serious run: Nat could tell from the line of caked salt running like a blurred thread around her black top. There was a blurriness in her eyes too, but they cleared as soon as she saw him.

“You're up early,” she said. “Nat.”

“Not as early as you, Mrs. Zorn,” he said, his voice sounding a little hoarse in his ears. “Merry Christmas.”

She nodded; her gaze rested on his backpack. “Going somewhere?”

“Inverness.”

Mrs. Zorn blinked, a long slow blink, much like his mom's. This surprised him. With her flawless skin, high cheekbones, taut muscles—even to the extent of abdominal definition, if not quite a six-pack—and with the grape-sized diamond and the oxymoronic wine cellar and the rest of the life she must lead, Mrs. Zorn didn't seem to have much in common with his mom.

“Weren't you staying for the holidays?”

“That's very nice of you, Mrs. Zorn. But I've got to be getting back.”

She looked almost alarmed. “I don't understand.”

“No emergency or anything like that,” Nat said. “I've got a lot of work to do, that's all.”

“Work?”

“Studying and stuff.” He thought of the list waiting on his wall:
clean room, laundry, write home, work out, get to know town and surroundings,
‘
on next semester.
Over Mrs. Zorn's shoulder, he could see the Persian cat watching him from the couch in the elevator.

“Schoolwork?” said Mrs. Zorn.

“Yes.”

“But it's vacation, and the twins say you're a brilliant student.”

“I don't know how they can. First-semester results aren't even in yet.”

“The girls are always right about this kind of thing. And you'll miss out on—” She glanced around, like someone seeking help. “How about some breakfast?”

“Thanks, but it's really not necessary.”

“I'm fixing myself a little something anyway,” said Mrs. Zorn. “It'll be my pleasure.”

 

M
rs. Zorn made an omelet, a beautiful glistening omelet with goat cheese—Nat knew that only from a quick glance at the label—onions, and peppers; the best-looking omelet he'd ever seen. She squeezed a glass of orange juice for him, made her frothy blue drink from a big cube of blue ice she took from the freezer and put in the blender, sat down opposite him in a little alcove jutting into the sky; a sky the color of her drink, the cloud level for the moment a few stories below.

“That's not very fair,” said Nat as Mrs. Zorn divided the omelet into two highly unequal portions, taking one tiny end and giving the rest to Nat.

“This is plenty for me,” said Mrs. Zorn. “Too much.” The alarmed look crossed her face again. “You don't want coffee, do you?”

He did, but thought it best to shake his head.

“One of the deadliest poisons there is,” she said.

Nat didn't look up. He cut off a piece of his omelet, tasted it. “My God,” he said.

“You like it?” She didn't sound surprised.

“It's great.”

“My father taught me how to cook,” said Mrs. Zorn. “I hardly ever get a chance, but the staff's off today, of course.”

A maid in uniform entered, laid a vase of flowers and some folded newspapers on the table, left. A young maid, Hispanic: she resembled one of the cheerleaders at Clear Creek High.

“The cook's off, anyway,” said Mrs. Zorn, who still hadn't touched her food. She sipped her blue drink. “Where are you from, Nat?”

He told her.

“I'm from Denver, myself,” she said.

“You are?”

“Do you know the city?”

“Not really.”

“My father had a diner in Arvada. He cooked and my mother served.”

Nat was amazed. Arvada was where his own mother had spent the first few years of her life, for one thing. “How long have you lived here?” he said.

“New York, you mean, or this place?”

“New York.”

“Since I was sixteen.”

“Did your parents open another diner?”

“I'm sorry?”

“When you moved here.”

“I came by myself. I'd always wanted to be a model, for some reason, and this is where you have to go, here or Paris, and I wasn't ready for Paris back then. Or ever.”

“And did it . . . uh, work out?”

“Did what work out?”

“The modeling.”

“Yes indeed,” said Mrs. Zorn. She stared out the window, where the cloud level had risen and there was nothing to see but swirling fog. “I'm the third Mrs. Z.”

Nat ate more of his omelet, biting down on an onion-filled mouthful that tasted especially delicious.

“You didn't think I was the twins' mother, did you?”

“Oh, no,” said Nat. “If anything, I thought you were an older sister.” His true thought, but it sounded a little oily out there in the open.

“Aren't you a charmer,” said Mrs. Zorn. “I'll let you in on a secret. I work my ass off to stay like this, and it's all fading fast, no matter what I do.”

Nat didn't know what to say to that.

“Maybe not such a charmer,” said Mrs. Zorn. “You're supposed to say something reassuring, like ‘not at all.' ”.

“You're . . . beautiful,” Nat said, and felt his ears reddening again. He'd never said that to a woman, or girl, before; so strange that the first one would be her, so stupid that his voice would crack on the phrase, like he was thirteen or something. “You must know that,” he added, making what he hoped was a mature recovery.

Mrs. Zorn smiled. “I know it
officially.
But it's always nice to hear. How's the omelet?”

“Fantastic.”

“Enjoy, as the locals like to say,” she said. She took another sip of her blue drink; he noticed it was turning her lips and teeth blue. “What do you know about the second Mrs. Z?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“No? She's their mother. The girls, I'm talking about. Lives in Paris. A lifestyle you would not believe. What's so funny?”

“Nothing. Sorry.”

“She was a model too,” Mrs. Zorn continued. “Wanted to be an actress. That became a problem, a marriage buster eventually, because she has a voice like Daffy Duck. With a head cold, but don't tell the girls I said that.”

“Was she ever in any movies?”

“He financed one for her in the end.” Mrs. Zorn named it, a slasher sequel he'd seen one Friday night at the little two-screen cinema in his town.

“Was she the aerobics instructor?”

“Something like that.”

Nat remembered nothing remarkable about her voice.

“But that was it,” Mrs. Zorn said. “She overplayed her hand. He didn't like being pressured, not by her, not by those Hollywood people.” Outside the sky darkened and lights went on in the kitchen automatically. “He doesn't like being pressured by anybody.”

“What does Mr. Zorn do, if you don't mind me asking?”

“It's complicated,” said Mrs. Zorn. “Let's just say he takes his cut.”

“Of what?”

“You name it.” She glanced at Nat's plate, saw it was bare. “What else can I get you?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said. “It was great.”

“I've enjoyed our little breakfast, too,” said Mrs. Zorn, although she still hadn't touched her food. She looked directly at him; she really was beautiful, if a little strange with the blue lips and teeth. “You could do me a favor, Nat.”

“I could?”

She reached across the table, touched his hand. If there was a scale of knowingness for a woman's touch, with Grace much higher than Patti, then Mrs. Zorn was at least that much higher than Grace. “By not leaving,” she said.

“Not leaving?” Nat drew his hand away. She left hers where it was, a beautifully shaped hand, though it surprised him to see one or two liver spots on the back. “I'm sorry, I—”

“The girls seem to like your company. And now with Izzie so upset. We could all use a change of scene, if you want to know the truth. That's why we're flying down to the islands today. Please don't say no.”

“Bora Bora?” said Nat, thinking of Lorenzo.

“Just the Caribbean.”

“I can't.”

“Why not? You could bring your books, and if you need some more, that's no problem—give Albert a list.”

“Thanks, but—”

“If you're really set on Bora Bora, we might—”

“Oh, no. It's not that. It's just—the hotel, the airfare—I can't afford it.” Mrs. Zorn started to speak; he held up his hand, not wanting to even hear her charitable offer. “I'd have to pay my own way, Mrs. Zorn, and since I can't—don't you see?”

She laughed. “Let's not make this into a big production,” she said. “There is no hotel or airfare. It's not that kind of thing.”

“But—”

“And it would be good for Izzie to have friends around right now.”

“Why? What's happened?”

“I thought you were there.”

“Where?”

The maid entered. “Phone for you, sir,” she said, and handed a cordless one to Nat.

“Hello?”

“Nat? Merry Christmas.”

“Mom? I was going to call you.” And: “How did you get this number?”

“From information. Their name was on the card.”

“What card?”

“Don't you know? It's the sweetest thing. They sent flowers, your people. The Zorns. The most beautiful flowers I've ever seen in my life, Nat. Is Mrs. Zorn around, by any chance?”

“She's right here.” He handed the phone to Mrs. Zorn. “My mom wants to talk to you.”

“Hello,” said Mrs. Zorn. She listened. From the expression on her face, Nat could tell that she knew nothing about the flowers; it must have been Albert's doing. And must have happened many times before: Mrs. Zorn didn't even stumble. “Oh, don't be silly,” she said. “It's our pleasure. And your son seems like such a wonderful young man.”

She handed the phone back to Nat. “Mom?”

“She sounds so nice, Nat. And so . . . grand.” Nat, recalling that Mrs. Zorn and his mom were both from Arvada, missed whatever she said next.

“What was that, Mom?”

“I said hang on. Patti's here. She wants to say hi.”

“Nat? Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Did you get my package?”

Nat remembered it, sitting unopened on his bed in room seventeen of Plessey Hall. “Yes,” he said. She waited for a reaction; he heard her breathing. “I wasn't going to open it till Christmas.”

She laughed. “What day do you think it is, you goof?”

“No one's opened anything yet.” He hadn't even seen the Zorns' tree, now that he thought about it.

“What's it like there?”

“Nice.”

“Your mom says you're staying with some college buddies?”

Nat didn't reply.

“That was nice of them, inviting you.”

“Yeah.”

“Been to the Empire State Building yet?”

“No,” Nat said, glancing out the window; the top of it had been visible before the clouds rose.

“What have you been up to, then?”

“Not much.”

Pause. “Nat?”

“Yes?”

“I . . . I wish I could talk to you.”

“You can.”

“No. I . . . I just . . . miss you so much.” There was a muffled sound: she was crying. He caught a word or two—“sorry,” “Christmas”—felt Mrs. Zorn's gaze on his face.

“Me too,” he said, which didn't even make sense, and therefore couldn't be a lie, even though she might have inferred that he missed her too. But he didn't miss her.