Eve's Men (8 page)

“It looks just right,” she said. “Unpopular.”

And she was correct. Inside, the place proved to be quiet and nearly empty, possibly because there was no live music or jukeboxes, just the soft hum of latin Muzak. At one end of the bar there was a dark, cozy alcove with an open fire burning in a fireplace and some black vinyl love seats ranged around it, each with its own heavy oaken coffee table in front. Surprisingly, even this did not appear to be much of a drawing card, for there was only one other couple in the room, middle-aged and heavy, and so unabashedly hot for each other that Charley doubted they even knew he and Eve had entered.

When the waitress came, Eve ordered a daiquiri and Charley a double Scotch instead of vodka, since he’d had beer at the Purple Sage and didn’t like to mix colors when he drank.

“It certainly isn’t crowded,” Eve said.

“And I can’t figure why not. Myself, I’ve always liked drinking on my back.”

Eve smiled. “It’s not that bad.”

But Charley wasn’t sure about that. The overstuffed love seats were so soft and slanted that he had to prop his feet on the coffee table, which meant that he would either have to hold the icy Scotch continuously or unwind himself every time he wanted to pick it up and drink. Also, if they stayed long enough, he knew he could look forward to sloshing booze on himself and probably Eve as well. The fire was nice, though. And they did have a measure of privacy.

Waiting for their drinks, Charley told Eve that except for the incident at Jolly’s, he had the feeling he was here on a casual visit, not the emergency mission her phone call had led him to expect.

“So far no meetings with lawyers or prosecutors or anybody else,” he said. “It’s all so cut-and-dried. So laid back.”

Eve shrugged. “What can I say? Your brother’s laid back.”

“Except when he’s on a bulldozer.”

“Except for that, yes.”

The waitress brought their drinks, and for a time they fell silent, just sat there sipping and watching the fire. And soon the amorous couple got up and left, evidently having felt inhibited by their presence.

Eve smiled. “Now we’ll just have the fire to keep us warm.”

Charley held up his drink. “And the alcohol—don’t forget that.”

“Two will be enough for me,” she said. “Any more than that and I’ll be a wreck tomorrow.”

“Then I’d better drink fast. I was thinking more along the lines of a half dozen more.”

“Charley, that’s a
double
,” she said.

“Okay, then, three more.”

She shook her head in mock sorrow. “I didn’t figure you for a drinking man.”

“Normally I’m not. I’m usually a slave to moderation. But lately, I don’t know, lately it seems I don’t mind getting plowed now and then. Sort of a reversion to college days. My fraternity was a famous training ground for future alcoholics.”

“Maybe it’s that old debil—midlife crisis.”

Charley laughed softly. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.

Eve had taken off her shoes and was sitting almost sideways on the love seat, facing him, her feet tucked cozily under her legs. The fire crackled in her eyes and her lips were slightly parted in an expression that might have seemed hesitant and calculating in someone else, but in Eve seemed merely another aspect of her beauty.

“Tell me about your marriage,” she said, hesitant no longer.

“Just like that?”

“Then tell me about Donna.”

Charley couldn’t see that that would be any easier, at least not for him. So, somewhat reluctantly, he told Eve that Donna was pretty and intelligent, that she was a loving wife and mother whose only fault was in being much more ambitious and competent than her husband. He had meant this last part to sound light and ironic, but Eve didn’t take it that way.

“Brian told me she runs your company now.”

Charley forced a smile. “Well, yes and no. It’s my name on the broker’s license, and I’m still president. But over time we both agreed to go our own way in the business. Donna loves selling houses—or at least managing the agents who sell the houses—and I do what I like to do.”

“Which is?”

After ordering another drink, Charley briefly told Eve about his operation, not caring that he made it sound as if he were little more than a glorified carpenter. He didn’t mention that the operation had earned him over one hundred thousand dollars in profit the previous year, about a fifth as much as the brokerage itself.

That out of the way, Eve returned to his private life. “Donna,” she said. “You still love her?”

“Of course.”

“Why of course?”

Charley almost said the obvious: because she’s my wife. But he knew Eve would not have been satisfied with that, so he tried a different approach.

“It was in our wedding vows.”

“No—really,” Eve said, still doggedly serious.

“Okay, then. No reason. Habit maybe.”

“Do you cheat on her?”

Charley just sat there looking at her for a time, trying not to let his anger show, even though he believed she had it coming. “You’ve got no business asking that,” he said finally. “But the answer is no.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Maybe if you knew why I asked,” she said, her eyes suddenly filling. “Maybe then you wouldn’t be angry.”

“Eve, I’m not angry.”

“Of course you are.”

“Then why? Why did you say it?”

Even though the tears kept coming, she continued to smile at him. And when her face began to crumple finally, as if she were about to cry, she fought it off, straightening up and shaking herself, like a filly twitching flies away.

“Your brother,” she said. “That’s why. Oh, I guess I can’t really say he cheats, since he makes no pretense of fidelity. Instead he just throws it in your face and says live with it. Which unfortunately I do.”

Charley was more puzzled than shocked. “Who do you mean? Belinda?
Tonight?
”

“Who else?”

“But that’s ridiculous, Eve. She can’t hold a candle to you. Why would you tolerate it? You could have any man you want. You must know that.”

She shrugged indifferently. “But I love Brian. Even now, when I know not only what he’s going to do but why.”

Charley said nothing, waiting.

“Your brother’s just not like other people. When he’s like this—I mean in trouble, powerless, angry—he doesn’t want love or support or sympathy. He’d never come crawling for anything. Instead he does this. He says in effect, ‘Here, take a look, here’s my fuck tonight.’ And he dares you to go on loving him.”

“And you do?”

Looking rueful and whipped, she nodded. “It’s not as though I didn’t expect it. In the beginning he wouldn’t let us live together because he said this would happen and poison the relationship. He said he loved me more than he’d ever loved anyone, but that he could never be monogamous. Things would happen, he said. He’d be down and depressed or having a great time, and some girl would come along, some girl he would have to have. He was only being honest. In L.A., I think that’s the way it is with most men, the only difference being that they’re not honest about it. And that’s what I told him. I said I could live with it—because I couldn’t live without him.”

Charley didn’t know what to say. Brian after all was his brother, and he had to admit that if he looked at the matter objectively, Brian’s stand was not without merit. At least he was being honest, which was more than could be said for most men, including Charley himself at the moment. He hadn’t forgotten his response to Eve’s question about whether he had ever cheated on Donna, for the truth was somewhat different. While he had never cheated on her in spirit, never having had an affair of the heart, he nevertheless had had a number of one-night stands during the last eight or ten years, usually when he was away from home, at a convention or the like. Though he was not proud of this, neither did it eat him up, for he believed that marriage met a woman’s needs much more fully than it did a man’s, in that men were more promiscuous by nature, forever frustrating their abiding lust for other women. So, over the course of a marriage, he regarded a few missteps as only natural. But they were also
private
, he believed, not the sort of thing he cared to share with anyone, certainly not with Donna, and now not with Eve either.

Still, even though he may have shared his brother’s weakness, he was offended by what Eve had told him. It rubbed him the wrong way. There was just something unsavory about it, almost an element of sadism, the way it virtually institutionalized the infidelity, rubbing the woman’s nose in it, making her live with it. Charley didn’t like it, and he especially didn’t like it if that woman happened to be someone like Eve, who he thought deserved the best.

Certainly she deserved better than this, sitting in the firelight with her lover’s brother, probably wondering at that moment if Brian and his gaudy snow bunny were making love.

Charley looked down at his glass, surprised to find it empty again. “My brother’s a goddamn fool,” he said. “But then, I already knew that.”

“He has his problems,” Eve conceded. “But he’s no fool.”

“You couldn’t prove it by me.”

Since the barmaid had not appeared for some time, Charley got up, preparing to go for a refill. “You okay?” he asked, even though he could see that her glass was still almost full.

She smiled up at him. “I’m fine. And maybe you should be too. Maybe we should leave.”

“I can’t now. I’m angry. I’ll need at least one more to cool off.”

“Don’t be angry on my account.”

“I can’t help it,” he said. “I hate to see the natural order of things turned upside down.”

“Meaning?”

He knew she understood, so he didn’t bother to explain. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

The spectacle of someone sloppy drunk was so distasteful to Charley that he never completely let himself go, even at the country club or a friend’s party where he could count on an invariably sober Donna to drive them home. Lately, though, he would occasionally go so far that he would have to make a conscious effort not to
appear
drunk. This was one of those times.

To make matters worse, Charley wasn’t even sure why this was happening. He wasn’t in a partying mood, and he certainly didn’t want to make a bad impression on Eve. Yet here he was, no longer even counting the drinks he’d had. And as the evening wore on, Eve became quite talkative and seemed to want to tell him everything about her life, especially the problems she had growing up under the smothering love of a very Jewish father when she herself felt so gentile, so Irish. She also told Charley about her years in Hollywood, and he listened attentively, even sympathetically, while all the time he was thinking about other matters, such as the beguiling curve of her neck and the way her high, small breasts rose and fell with emotion as she told him this or that. And all the while, he kept drinking.

Twice he got up and made his way to the men’s room, to teeter there at the urinal, full of piss and whimsy. Disdaining to wash his hands—what was so dirty about his old friend anyway?—he made his way back to Eve in the alcove, stopping on his second trip to inform a newly arrived couple that they were dead ringers for Fred and Ginger. When the man suggested he get lost, Charley happily informed him that he was already lost and wouldn’t likely ever be found.

By then, Eve wanted to leave, but Charley insisted on still one more, claiming that he needed it in order to drive with “extraspecial” care. Soon, though—even before the new drink was gone—Eve simply got up and pulled him after her. And Charley found himself trailing her through the virtually empty bar. On the way, he detoured over to the bartender and warned him that he might have to hose down the couple in the corner.

“Thee gringoes,” he told him, “they have no shame.”

In the parking lot, Eve asked for the car keys, but Charley took himself in hand, standing straight, smiling confidently, speaking as clearly as he could.

“I’m really okay, Eve. The stuff affects my tongue more than anything else. My motor faculties are unimpaired. I’ll drive us home in absolute safety. I promise.”

She was standing with her back against the car, looking up at him, her expression dubious but amused.

“First, though, I’m going to need a brotherly hug,” he heard himself say. And, amazed at his temerity, he took her in his arms and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“My brother’s a jerk,” he said.

She gently moved out of his embrace. “You’re probably right. But more to the point, are you sure you can drive?”

“Am I? Watch this.” He deftly thrust the key into the lock and opened the car door.

“I’m impressed,” she said, getting in.

After that little scene, which he remembered clearly, the rest of the night seemed like a crack passenger train thundering past, with only an occasional lit window. In one of them, he remembered seeing a carful of teenagers screeching past him in a rage, honking the horn and giving him the finger. Then there was a red streetlight dancing above the car, whipsawed in a suddenly roaring wind. And he saw himself trekking up a seemingly endless flight of stairs, arm in arm with his brother’s lady, after which things briefly became clearer again. He remembered insisting on walking her to her room.