Mortal Friends (10 page)

T
he next night, Bob took me to a black-tie opening at the National Gallery. Maxwell called for me as usual, and we drove to Bob’s office. I was nervous about seeing Bob. Gunner’s unwelcome revelation about the strip club had taken the whole day to really sink in, but sink in it had. I wanted to know why he’d gone there. Was it just to relax? Or was there someone special there he wanted to see? I couldn’t very well ask him without betraying my relationship with Gunner. But it was very much on my mind when Bob got into the car and gave me an affectionate kiss hello.

“How’s my girl?” he said, settling into the back seat.

“Fine.”

“This should be a fun evening.”

“I thought last night was a fun evening,” I said, throwing a little chum in the water.

“Parts of it were, anyway,” he said.

“Guess what Violet and I did today?”

“Let me see…. You planned an invasion.”

“We went jogging in Montrose Park. She took me up to see where that poor woman was murdered.”

“What poor woman is that?”

“Don’t you remember that woman who was murdered in the park a couple of months ago? The one they think was the victim of the serial killer.”

Bob shrugged. “They think everyone’s the victim of a serial killer. Frankly, if there were that many serial killers around, we’d all be dead.”

“Don’t you believe they exist?”

“In Hollywood more than anywhere else. They’re on the major villains list: Nazis, terrorists, the CIA, rich white guys, and serial killers. Where would movies be without them?”

His amused nonchalance was no great relief to me. On the contrary, it made me wonder if I’d had suspicions about him that I wasn’t admitting to myself.

“I can’t believe you didn’t read about it. It was all over the papers.”

“I probably did, but you know what? I try to put that kind of story out of my mind. It’s mental pollution.”

I stared out the window at the passing night, trying to make up my mind whether to ask him the next question. Finally, I turned and asked him, “Did you mean what you said last night?”

“I don’t know. What did I say?”

“That you loved me.”

He feigned surprise. “Did I say that?”

I didn’t answer. I just nodded. I didn’t much care for his coyness.

“Then I must have meant it,” he said, pulling me in close. “You mustn’t be so insecure, Reven. Let things take their course. Don’t worry so much.”

I laid my head on his shoulder, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. As we pulled up in front of the East Wing at the National Gallery, I realized that the partition in the car was down and that Maxwell could hear everything I’d said. I was a little embarrassed. That was the thing about Maxwell. He was like a fixture you forgot was there. I wondered if he’d been paying any attention, or if he just tuned out and drove. As he gave me his hand to help me out of the car, I thought I detected a sympathetic smile on his large round face and a look of compassion in his eyes. He’d surely been listening, and I think he felt a little sorry for me. This was the first time I got the sense that Maxwell wasn’t just a fireplug with a hat, but a person who took more of an interest in his boss’s life than he let on.

Bob held my hand as we entered the East Wing of the National Gallery. We paused for a photographer, who snapped our picture and asked for my name. Unlike the guard at the British Embassy, he knew who Bob was. We walked on into the airy garden atrium, with its multi-pyra
mided glass ceiling, pale stone floor, and large, whimsical Calder mobile dangling overhead. We headed one flight up, where the dinner was to be held. The many round tables covered in pearl gray tablecloths and set with lush white flower centerpieces and silver candlesticks softened the angular impact of the majestic modern space.

The evening was in honor of the opening of the Dan Flavin retrospective. Before dining, the guests were invited for a private viewing of Flavin’s innovative neon sculptures. A large placard hanging on the wall just outside the entrance to the show rooms read “DAN FLAVIN, 1933–1996,” in bold red letters. Underneath, printed in smaller black type: “
This exhibition was made possible by a grant from the Cynthia A. Rinehart Foundation
.”

My heart sank.

As Bob and I ambled through the maze of rooms, each one glowing with a work of Flavin’s elegant fluorescent art, we discussed the pros and cons of buying a Flavin for his dining room. We walked into a room where several railroad tracks of glowing neon tubes climbed the walls and snaked across the ceiling, showering us in a cool but intense red light. I was enjoying the somewhat hallucinatory effect when I noticed another couple at the far end of the room. It was Grant and Cynthia, staring at each other like Romeo and Juliet, their faces bathed in the red glow. Suddenly, the room was less like a cool shower and more like hell.

Had Bob noticed them? If he had, he made no sign of it. He was busy staring up at the red railroad-tracked ceiling.

“Think red would be good in my dining room?” he asked me.

That neon night belonged to Cynthia. Dozens of people came up to her to congratulate her on the exhibition. Many more people knew her now. She was becoming a real power player. She appeared to be in a good mood because she was even civil to me, the minion decorator. At one point she said to me, “We wanna get one of these in the house,” meaning a Flavin. All I could think of was her and Grant doing the horizontal cha-cha on the hall floor. The image was engraved on my retina like an etching on glass. I could see through it, but it was always there.

Meanwhile, Violet stood by, basking in the reflected neon light of
her protégée. I overheard her talking to one of the guests.

“You know, when Cynthia first suggested this show, some of the old fuddy-duddies around here didn’t want it. They don’t think light is art. But she persisted—with a little bit of help from me and Grant, of course,” she said with a wink. Violet never missed a chance to subtly remind people that Grant was a trustee of the National Gallery, and his father had once been the president.

“Cynthia’s like a shot of adrenaline for this town,” she went on. “She won’t let sleeping dogs lie, that woman,” Violet said with pride.

I thought of one sleeping dog Cynthia had woken up with a vengeance.

We sat through an interminable dinner. Just before dessert, Rutledge Price, the director of the National Gallery, stood and introduced Cynthia as “the woman who made this evening possible.” Another grant. Another speech. Another party.

Cynthia took her kudos, then introduced a heavy metal band who sang so loudly the Calder mobile shivered. Not a great choice for that staid, older crowd. Bob remarked that the only upside was that a lot of them were pretty deaf anyway. Still, many people left, including Bob and me. I waved good-bye to Violet, who was boogying away in her seat, snapping her fingers, having a high old time, gloriously oblivious to the treachery around her.

I felt physically and mentally depleted by the time I got home. Even Bob noticed that my mood was subdued. He asked if I was feeling okay. In fact, we were both a little reticent. If a relationship was two steps forward, one step backward, we were in the midst of a backward step. He kissed me good night at the door. It was clear that neither of us felt in the mood for anything more. As I got into bed, the only bright side to the evening I could think of was that Melody hadn’t been there to stoke up old memories.

A
couple of days later I had lunch at Café Milano, a chic, airy restaurant in Georgetown. By day, Café Milano was almost like a private club where we all went for lunch and where we were bound to run into people we knew. Dinner was the same. Starting at around ten at night, however, the place transformed into a glitzy singles scene. A younger, hipper crowd congregated at the restaurant’s long bar, drinking and flirting to strains of loud music. Violet and I often speculated on what the array of gorgeous girls in their halter tops and skinny jeans did for a living, since we never saw folk like that during the day. “You can bet they ain’t working at Brookings,” was Violet’s line.

My lunch date today was Peggy Myers. As president of the Capitol Symphony and the wife of Rolly Myers, an influential power broker around town, Peggy went everywhere, and she was privy to a lot of gossip. Rolly had worked his way up from modest roots, but Peggy came from a grand old African-American family of doctors, lawyers, and intellectuals going back generations. Her sense of elegance was innate, not merely a patina she had acquired. Her one failing was that she was too discreet. Still, we were such good friends that I could usually read between the lines of her diplomatic lips.

I was curious to know if she’d heard any whispers about Grant and Cynthia, particularly since Cynthia was around the Kennedy Center a lot, and Peggy was there too on account of the symphony. I was trying to artfully steer her around to that subject when who should loom over our table but Marge Horner.

“Mind if I join you girls until my lunch date arrives?” she said, sitting down before we could object.

I flung Peggy a beleaguered look and ordered another glass of wine. We started one of those conversations about the various ambassadors and their wives, which embassies gave good parties, and which ones were to be strictly avoided. It was a little dicey talking about these things with Marge, because Marge wasn’t considered what Corinna Huff deemed a “safe” person. Corinna divided the world into “safe” and “unsafe” people. Safe people were comprised mainly of her glittery, high-powered group of friends, people around whom she felt comfortable and could say anything without fear of its being retailed to the gossip vendors around town. Unsafe people were those who threw scraps of information to bigger dogs in order to further their social prospects.

Marge Horner, who lived to repeat gossip because she thought it stamped her as an insider, was definitely an unsafe soul. She blurted out rumors and secrets under the guise of deep concern. She also had that irritating knack of reminding people they’d once said something they clearly regretted—like having spoken ill of a candidate they were now supporting, or having criticized a hostess whose hospitality they were currently enjoying.

Marge brought up the evening at the British Embassy, mainly to let us know she was now a good friend of the Morelys. Or so I thought. But then she mentioned that she had been sitting at Violet’s table, and that there had been a discussion about the Beltway Basher.

“Violet regaled us with all the gory details about the crimes. It was the most un–British Embassy conversation you can imagine,” Marge said.

“That’s Violet,” I said.

“Isn’t it?” Peggy said with a smile.

Marge leaned in toward us and lowered her voice. “I was so shocked to hear that she and Grant are separating,” she said with intrusive concern.

Marge Horner’s information was like secondhand smoke—that is to say weak, but just as deadly.

“Who told you that?” I said angrily.

She drew back. “Oh, I don’t know. I forget.”

When I pressed her as to where she’d heard this horrible rumor,
she got very fluttery and evasive. She maintained she didn’t remember, but I didn’t believe her.

“Think, Marge. It’s important.
Think
.”

“I told you. I forget. I just heard it, that’s all. You hear things. I don’t keep notes on who said what. I’m sorry I mentioned it. I feel terrible now.”

What a lie. She didn’t feel terrible in the least. Marge knew I was Violet’s closest friend, and Marge had had it in for Violet ever since Violet gave a birthday party for one of the new cabinet wives and didn’t include her. Hell hath no fury like an uninvited guest, I always say.

I stared at Marge for a long moment with narrowing eyes, viewing her like a rival government agency, with hefty amounts of suspicion and disdain. She finally took the hint, stood up, and announced she was moving to her table to wait for her lunch date to arrive.

“I said I was sorry,” she muttered as she left, sounding about as sincere as an indicted lobbyist.

Peggy was ominously silent after Marge’s abrupt departure. She tried to avoid my gaze by sipping her wine.

“Don’t tell me…you’ve heard this too, haven’t you?” I asked her.

“Oh, you know what this town’s like, Reven,” she said dismissively.

Coming from Peggy, this was a clear yes. It was obviously a subject she didn’t want to get into. I reflected on the tricky syncopation of a long marriage. I knew for a fact that most of my married friends had lived through periods of infidelity—either on the part of the woman or the man. These dalliances were rarely spoken of and not generally known. They were tense moments that passed, after which adjustments were made and new rhythms set. A good marriage, like a good friendship, has to be larger than the sum of its parts.

But here’s the thing: if Marge and Peggy knew something was up, it meant the tom-toms were beating. It was one thing for me to know what was going on, and quite another for the whole world to sit and watch while Grant and the Trailblazer made a fool of dear Violet. By the time coffee arrived, two things were clear: I’d had one too many glasses of wine, and I needed to pay someone a visit. Before I went ahead and ruined my friendship with Violet by telling her what I knew, I would go to the source of all this angst. I looked at my watch.
It was just past three. The bank didn’t close until five.

The Potomac Bank was located in an ersatz Greek Revival building on the corner of Wisconsin and M Street. Its golden dome is a Georgetown landmark. Grant took over the building some years back from the now-defunct Briggand’s Bank, whose owner had been indicted for money-laundering. Grant always wanted to have his office there, even though the bank’s corporate headquarters resided in a towering office building in Chevy Chase. Grant liked the golden dome, the comfortable Georgetown atmosphere, and being able to walk to work.

I helped him decorate the place, preserving as many of the original fixtures and fittings as possible. The brass-barred teller cages, brocade curtains, mahogany furniture, and thick burgundy carpeting were heavy and old-fashioned, yet oddly soothing—like visual oatmeal. Grant believed his customers felt more comfortable in traditional surroundings. He was projecting.

As I walked toward M Street, I stared up at the famous golden dome, which cast a dull gleam against the overcast sky. It was like my brain—a dull gleam in my overcast head. The four glasses of wine at lunch may have had something to do with my decision to confront Grant that afternoon. But it was also the fact that I’d known the man for ages. We’d dated. I’d introduced him to Violet. He was now hiding Cynthia, a weapon of matrimonial destruction. Before a war started, I felt I had to try and reason with him first. I was just tipsy enough to think I could wing it.

I’d been to the bank many times. I breezed past the tellers and bank officers seated at their desks and took the elevator to the second floor. Grant’s secretary, Mrs. Madden, a gaunt, tightly wound, silver-haired woman with all the charm of a paper clip, was just coming out of his office. Grant and I caught sight of each other as she was about to close the door. I edged past her and sailed into the room. I knew by the look on his face that I was about as welcome as a bank inspector.

“You can’t go in there without an appointment!” Mrs. Madden cried.

Grant interrupted her. “It’s all right, Maddy. Close the door, please.”

Grant’s spacious office spread out over half the top floor of the bank. The wood-paneled room, with commanding views of Wis
consin and M Street, looked more like a library than a corporate office. The floor-to-ceiling brass bookcases were filled with sporting books. Two original bronze Remington sculptures of cowboys on bucking broncos flanked the picture window. A large partners’ desk floated like a big wooden crate in a sea of deep green carpeting.

Grant moved stiffly, as if he was wearing a suit of armor. He sat down on the leather swivel chair behind his desk, indicating with an awkward hand gesture that I should take one of the armchairs opposite him. He crossed his arms tightly in front of him and said, “To what do I owe this unscheduled visit?”

I’d prepared a flowery lead-up in my head. But when I opened my mouth, the Imp of the Perverse just popped out. I couldn’t help it.

“Grant, I know you’re having an affair with Cynthia Rinehart.”

Grant was stunned for a moment. And so was I, for that matter. I couldn’t believe I’d just blurted it out like that. He got all huffy and indignant, sputtering away like a double boiler as he denied the accusation. He demanded to know where I’d gotten such a “preposterous idea.” I watched him like I was watching a movie, the wine having imbued me with a curious detachment. Finally, I had to interrupt.

“Stop!” I cried, holding up my hand. “I was
in
the house. I saw you two going at it on the floor.”

That shut him up. He reddened to the shade of his burgundy blotter and stared at me like he couldn’t believe what I’d just said. His face was a kaleidoscope of torment. I softened my tone.

“Look, I know this is none of my business. But Violet’s my best friend. I introduced you guys. I care about you both. Talk to me, Grant. What’s going on with you?”

After a long pause, he said: “Are you going to tell Violet?”

“That’s the last thing I want to do. You think I want to hurt her? That’s why I’m here. Word’s getting out, Grant. Marge Horner knows about you two, for Christ’s sakes. And let me tell you, if Marge knows, you may as well put it on YouTube.”

Grant shot up from his desk, shoved his hands in his pockets, and strode over to the window. He stared down at the street for a long moment, then said, “I think this may be a bad-luck building. The guy who owned it before me went to jail.”

“These days they don’t put you in jail for adultery—at least not here. If they did, the whole country would be locked up.”

“‘Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage,’” he said morosely. “That’s practically the only thing I remember from English class.”

Grant was a little too earnest and uncomplicated to be a tragic figure. But he was clearly having a Hamlet moment of angst and indecision. I sensed he was itching to talk, so I let him talk. He told me that Cynthia had come to see him initially to open an account. By the time she left his office, he was hooked. She kept coming back, ostensibly to discuss her “mission statement,” and other things pertaining to her foundation. I gathered from what he said that her mission was less about a statement and more about seduction.

“I always thought that love was something you had to work at, that it took time,” he said. “But with Cynthia…I don’t know. It just kind of happened. I feel drunk when I’m around her. Dizzy, off-balance, and yet totally grounded, like I could take on the world…. As much as I care about not hurting Violet…? I kind of
don’t
care when I’m with Cynthia, if you know what I mean. It’s hard to explain.”

I actually could have explained it to him. Grant was like an adolescent boy who had just gotten laid by a pro.

He refused to tell me exactly when the affair began, but I sensed it had been going on quite awhile, and that far from abating, it was heating up. That day in the house might have been an example of its intensity. I asked him if he was seriously contemplating leaving Violet. He hesitated for a nanosecond too long, then said weakly, “I haven’t really thought about it,” in such a way as to make me think he’d thought of little else.

“Violet’s the mother of my son. I owe her a lot. My parents adore her. I can’t leave her. I can’t…. But you know what?”

“What?” I braced myself.

“I’ve been thinking about other people my whole entire life. Maybe I need to start thinking about
myself
for a change. Maybe it’s time for me to take care of
me
—yours truly, numero uno,” he said, tapping his chest with his index finger.

This sort of infantile psychobabble certainly didn’t sound remotely like the Grant Bolton I knew. It sounded to me like pap spoon-fed to him by his sexy mattress partner.

Instead of challenging him, I said, “You’re right, Grant. You do need to think of yourself. And you need to think about your whole life, not just one aspect of it.”

“I know. I’m trying not to see Cynthia. But she keeps calling me. She’s so hard to resist. You know why she bought Gay Harding’s house?”

I wanted to say, “So you two could have a convenient place to fuck?” But I refrained.

“Why?” I asked innocently.

“Because I mentioned to her how much I love it and how we almost bought it. All she wants to do is please me…. Jesus, I’m so confused.”

So I was right, I thought. Cynthia had ordered those light-proof shutters for Grant. I then tried my best to convince him that the sturdy bonds of loyalty were truer than the gossamer threads of the illicit. In other words, he couldn’t have his cupcake and eat it too. As I spoke, he kept giving me these woeful little nods, like a schoolboy being chastised. He interrupted.

“Let me ask you something, Reven. Have you ever done something…something you couldn’t control? Like on the spur of the moment you just acted impulsively, and that thing changed the course of your whole life because you suddenly realized you were another person? Someone you never thought you were? Never dreamed you could be…? I don’t know. Am I making any sense?”

“Yes. Listen, Grant, we’ve all done things we wish we hadn’t, made choices we didn’t even know were choices at the time. But that doesn’t mean we have to stick by them. In life, you find out who you are gradually, not all at once. You made a bad choice, okay? But you can still get out of it.”