Loonglow (19 page)

He was silent. “No,” he said finally. “He doesn't know you, and there's nothing about you to hate on sight.”

“The hook, the scales?”

“Half his wives had those. No, see, as long as I was working with you, he couldn't enlist me in the firm.”

“Why does he want you to be a lawyer if you don't want to? Or do you really not want to?”

“I never wanted to do much of anything, Louey, if you want to know the truth—except drink.” He couldn't meet her eyes. “I guess that's the sign of a true alcoholic.”

“Did you ever not drink so much?” She held her breath, half afraid to hear his answer.

“When I was writing, I didn't drink at all.” He smiled bitterly. “So much for stereotypes. When I was growing up, I drank to be companionable with my mother, who, as you'll notice, has few other hobbies. I suppose I would have been embarrassed if I'd realized what was going on, but all I could see was a sort of desperate need to get away from my father, which I certainly understood.”

“Wasn't he ever nice to either of you?”

“I think my parents had a brief period when they were happy together, but it ended once she became pregnant with me. She'd had a really hard delivery with my sister, which made her terrified of giving birth, and I think he lost all patience with her. By the time I was born, she told me he never wanted to touch her while she was pregnant—and once he'd forgiven her for losing her shape—as he put it—”

“Jesus.”

“—she no longer could stand anything about him. She couldn't believe how he'd treated her, as if her body was the result of some vulgar overindulgence and nothing to do with him at all.”

“Cold. He didn't act that way when she was pregnant with your sister?”

He shook his head, “First shot at immortality, I guess.” He motioned her almost conspiratorily to a small room, where he plopped down on the bed. “This was my hideout; our housekeeper, Mona, used to live here, but some nights she'd let me stay.” He hugged a pillow to his chest. “At least she loved me.”

“Your mom loved you.”

He stretched out, closing his eyes. “Well, sure, in her way. I never doubted that, but she was someone I took care of, as if she were the child and I was the adult, or so it seemed to me.” He sat up abruptly. “I guess I should check on her. Why don't I take your stuff to the guest room?”

“Which one? There are thousands.”

“I'll bet she's put you in the room across the hall from mine. Let's go see.”

Sure enough, there were fresh towels and flowers in the brightly painted room across the hall from Clay's.

“Pink?” Louey snorted. “You guys trying to tell me something?”

“Coming from Mother, it's a supreme compliment. Pink is her color.”

“Naturally.”

“I'll see you in about ten minutes, for dinner.”

She nodded. A moment later she found herself facing a strange room and more pink than she'd seen in her entire life.

The next day Clay had three surprises: one waking Louey up; one finding her engrossed in conversation with his mother; and one spending the evening with her in the water.

He woke to find the sun streaming into his room and looked out the window to see the lush countryside and a fresh, clear blue sky he'd missed so much it now struck him almost physically. Standing at the window for what seemed like hours, he finally turned from the dazzling greens and browns and roused himself to go downstairs.

His mother had few words for him as they drank morning tea, nor could he bring himself to make conversation, though it gave him a sad pleasure to look at her. Why did she seem so defeated, as if she knew she was just marking time? One of the things he'd admired most about her had been her unwillingness to give up; even her insistence that her whims be treated with the utmost deference pointed to a spirit that never capitulated. It was heartbreaking to find her so caved in, as if it all had been pretense that she'd lost the will to continue. She patted his hand fondly. He wanted to shake her, force her to come to life again.

Had it not been for Louey, upstairs, asleep, oblivious to the wreckage awaiting her, he would have taken a drink. Yet somehow he felt he should be as clear as possible for Louey. Maybe it was a conceit that she needed him, but it was one he wanted to believe.

At twelve-thirty, he climbed the steps to her room, knocking and calling out her name. There was no answer.

He knocked again, hesitating, then opened the door. She was fast asleep. How could anyone sleep so late with the sun streaming down on her? He stood over her bed, looking. Her face was pink, crushed against the pink pillow, her body twisted around in an inverted question mark. She could be four years old, he thought.

“Louey?” No response. He spoke louder: “Louey?” She groaned. “You awake?” He touched her shoulder gently.

“Who wants to know?” she muttered, turning over on her stomach with a loud sigh.

“It's past noon, Louey.”

“Think that's funny?” she said into the pillow. After a moment she pulled the covers around her as if unwilling to let even the air come between herself and slumber.

He smiled at her furrowed brow; he'd never seen anyone so ferociously dedicated to sleeping.

“My mother's beginning to wonder if you survived the night.”

She turned over on her back, this time with less of the sheet following her. To his shock he realized that she was naked under the blankets, and out of them, too, for much as he wanted not to believe his eyes, her breasts were exposed as she flung an arm over her eyes in protest against the light.

He nearly bent to cover her, stopping as his hands hovered suspiciously close to her bare flesh. Christ. After all the trouble he'd taken to undress her the night she'd gotten drunk and passed out at his place, here she was, displayed as matter-of-factly as could be. He looked away, then looked back for an instant. Her skin was so creamy, like a little girl's, but she wasn't a little girl, with beautiful breasts that called out to be cupped, caressed, concealed by his hands. Jesus, enough of this; he bent to tug the blanket over her, but her arm had it pinned too securely to move. He was in the process of trying again when she moved the arm that was shielding her face and surveyed him with two narrow blue smudges. He had never seen anyone so asleep with her eyes open; her face was barely recognizable.

“What are you doing?”

“Covering you up.”

She looked down at herself and color rose in her cheeks. “How friendly.” She tugged the sheet, then pulled the blanket completely over her head, shaking with laughter. “I'll just be a moment, thanks. Have to get 'em ready to point at your mother.”

“That's okay,” he said. “You will have some explaining to do about the sheer amount of sleep you've managed to accumulate, though. It's nearly one.”

The layers were lowered abruptly. “Why didn't you wake me earlier?”

“We were counting on putting you on the mantel, after we had you stuffed.” He sat on the bed next to her and toyed with the pattern on the bedspread.

“Tell you who'll get stuffed,” she muttered. He looked at her creased face and laughed.

“Not too cheerful in the mornings, eh?” The pillow she hurled at him only seemed to confirm that he was right.

After he'd seen to her breakfast (“fried eggs, fried bread, fried milk”), Clay ran into town to do some errands for his mother. Everywhere he looked it seemed that people were staring at him; he'd forgotten what it felt like to live in a small town. Was it his imagination, or did things seem shabbier, the people frailer, more subdued?

The last thing he expected on his return was to find Louey and his mother earnestly engaged in conversation. From the distance he could see them sitting together on the patio, the sunlight glinting down on Louey's face, the greenery against his mother's hair a pretty sight, her obligatory tall drink at her side. He nearly stopped in his tracks when he saw his mother's face, more animated than it had been since his father had left. Louey gestured emphatically with her hands. He could only wonder what they might be talking about so heatedly. As he came closer, he noticed another unusual sign—his mother's drink was hardly touched, and the full pitcher next to her seemed to indicate that it was her first. He hastened his approach, making sure they heard him.

“Oh, Clay dear.” His mother's face closed instantly, and the two women faced him blankly, as if caught doing something illicit. “Done so soon?”

“I've been gone over two hours. Missed me terribly, I see.” He seated himself beside her on the ground and nodded to Louey. “Everything is so damned slow around here; I'd forgotten what it was like.”

“You're just out of practice, darling,” his mother said. Louey studied him, as if searching for secrets between him and his mother.

“So what have you two been talking about?”

At this his mother took a large sip. He regretted having intruded. How could his own mother be uneasy at the sight of him?

“Your mother and I have been talking about men,” Louey said. She cocked her head, waiting for his wisecrack.

“Had a thing or two to teach Mama, I'll bet,” he said.

“Louey has been very enlightening.” His mother surveyed him almost warmly. To his surprise, she reached out and took his hand. He bent to kiss her soft cheek, warm from the sun. He had loved his mother so much when he was little there were times he was overcome with a feeling of panic at the thought of losing her. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Clayton.”

“I should hope so,” he remarked. “I got all my mother's looks, after all.”

“Now that is the truth,” his mother said, patting his cheek. A quiet overtook the three of them suddenly, and for a little while they sat gazing out across the tall grass and gently sloping hills, listening to the birds, content.

“Where do you go to get away?” Louey asked after dinner.

“Have I got something to show you.” He wiped his hands with a towel, finished with the dishes. “Come with me.”

They walked through a veritable forest of tall brush and uncivilized terrain. How had he maneuvered through this when he was a boy? Clay wondered, gazing at a lone wild-flower.

“It's so warm here,” Louey mused. “And so quiet.”

“You're just used to the screams of drunks and murdered editors.”

“True.”

Finally they reached his destination, the haven of his childhood. The pond was still and gleaming, as if it had been waiting for him, undisturbed, an oasis quietly nestled in the middle of wild, untamed brush.

“This,” she said, “is something.”

“I think of it as my own private lake.”

She gazed across the water. “Did you come here a lot with friends when you were a little kid?”

“Nope.” He thought of his sister, swallowing. “Not really.”

“You never brought girls here?” She snorted. “Come on. This is a perfect setup.”

“Well …” He wondered if he could tell her about Charlene, but couldn't think of a way to put it that wouldn't make him sound like a jerk. “I had a girlfriend, but I never took her here.”

“Why?” She sat down at the edge of the pond, smoothing the ground with her feet.

He stood looking out onto the water. “She wasn't someone you could really share things with. She didn't care about much.”

“Except you.”

He sat down next to her. “Sometimes not even that. She had fun displaying me, and I guess I had fun having as much sex as was humanly possible.” He shook his head. “I can't imagine how I kept on with it. I'm so damned—things just take me over, and I let them. I hate myself for it.”

She was silent for a moment. “You're not so bad.”

They lay back, resting on their elbows and looking out over the shimmering expanse. “So beautiful,” he murmured.

“Did you love her?”

“Don't think I've ever been in love.” It gave him a queer feeling in the pit of his stomach to say it, as if he were deceiving her. “I used to come here with my sister.”

She glanced at him. “You never told me you had a sister before today.” He nodded, looking at his feet. “Is she the girl in the picture by your bed?”

He ran his fingers through the dirt. “She killed herself when I was nineteen.”

“Oh, Clay.” She put a hand on his knee; he felt it even after she had taken it away. “Were you very close?”

“Not close enough to stop her.”

“No one can do that.” She sighed. “I used to think of killing myself, when I was younger. I felt so”—she frowned—“I don't know, so different when I was a kid. There weren't many Jews where I grew up, for one thing, just these blond cheerleader types.” She stopped, sneering. “No offense.”

“I never made the squad, myself.” He studied her. “Did you have many gay friends?”

“I don't know.” She laughed. “I didn't know
I
was gay until I was nearly in college. I just knew I didn't feel like talking about shopping and makeup.”

“Or boys.”

“I guess no one feels normal in high school. It's funny; I guess most people wouldn't be gay if they had the choice, but I'd feel so
deprived
if I weren't. I feel so lucky—I can't explain it without sounding ridiculous. It's—it gives everyone you know the chance to be their best selves, in a way. Do you know what I mean?”

“Once you tell them, you mean?”

“Somehow when you're open about something people expect you to be ashamed of, they surprise you by not being nearly as small-minded as you assume they'll be. Most are actually far more sensitive than you've given them credit for.”

“Do many people disappoint you?”

She shook her head. “You know, when I told my mother I was gay, she said she wished I was straight, because it would make life easier.”