Rich Friends (52 page)

“She would've been family,” Vliet said.

“No,” Em denied.

“Roger was going to—”

“Vliet, watch it,” Sheridan said.

“—marry her.”

“Never!” Em shrilled.

“Thursday. They were coming to tell you.”

“No!” Em.

“For Chrissake, they might as well have been.”

“They weren't.” Sheridan stood. Erect, almost martial. He often said, proudly, that he could still fit into his old sergeant's uniform. “And you won't keep this up.”

I'm out of my skin about her, Roger had said, and set about proving it, not endearing Alix to their parents. Roger had left Vliet one hell of a job.

“Dad, think what Roger would've wanted.”

“I'm not about to tell you again!”

“But—” And then Vliet shut up.

Em had taken off her glasses and was crying. Who can argue with a weeping, grieving mother? Especially if she happens to be yours?

“Hey, Ma, none of that. Doctor's orders.” As he spoke he realized
doctor
was an unfortunate word. She shifted into fierce, gasping sobs. He hugged her. What's here to fight, anyway? A small, frail woman with flesh gone slack who smells of stale tears and liquor, a woman close to fifty, mourning her son.

In truth, Vliet shaped up equally poorly. Even though he was not crying, he had no resources left. He was incapable of further combat. They habeas corpus, he thought, they have the corpse and possession's nine-tenths of the law and is it so crucifyingly important that Alix Schorer be graveside? No, he decided, not if your mother's sobbing hysterically. He blew his nose and went to the cabinet, turning the key on the left side, taking the first bottle that came to hand, pouring Em a quadruple. “
Salud,
” he said. “Dad?”

“Don't mind if I do.”

By the time they had finished their sherry, Em was snuffling quietly.

Vliet got up. “See you at dinner, then,” he said.

“Where are you going?” Em asked.

“There's this little thing I gotta do.”

“What?” she wanted to know.

But he was out the door. For maybe two minutes neither Em nor Sheridan moved.

She wiped her eyes. “He's going to her.”

“He's worried she'll find out and come, that's all.”

“If it weren't for her, Roger would've been home. Safe and sound.”

“Please, Em. Don't.”

“She came between the boys.”

“There's no point, not now.”

“Nothing else ever did. They were so close. It's how we raised them.”

“We did a good job.”

Em's wan face suddenly went anxious. “Vliet's not angry, is he?”

“No. Not Vliet.”

“I am being fair, aren't I? It
is
Family only.”

“And she's not.” The tension around Sheridan's mouth had been loosened by time and grief. “She's just a little Jew tramp.”

Alix was not at her mother's place. She was, Dan said coldly, not elaborating or inviting him inside, at her father's. Vliet requested the address. Dan scribbled in a black-leather memo book, tearing the scrap of paper. He closed the door. Vliet deciphered directions before starting. Another hot day—he thought of putting down the top, but somehow an open car seemed frivolous.

Boats, thousands of them, enmeshed between docks. Sun rippling on tideless, turgid water. Vliet rechecked the address.

“What is it?” asked a gray man rising from a step.

“Is this Philip Schorer's apartment?”

“Why?”

“Are you Mr. Schorer?”

“No.” The man's eyes were frisking him.

“Does he live here?”

“Yes. And you're trespassing.”

“Is Miss Schorer around?”

“She's not seeing anyone.”

“I think she'll see me. I'm Van Vliet Reed.” He gave it the full treatment.

And got the expected results. “Let me ask Mr. Schorer,” said the gray man politely. “Wait here, please.” He used a key.

Vliet didn't have a chance to light his cigarette. Alix's father was at the door, a fabulous-looking guy, his deep tan set off by white sailing clothes, good ones. Well, Vliet thought, it figures, it figures.

And Alix was saying, “Vliet,” as she came down the stairs. Under her eyes were faint smudges, like a girl who's slept in lavender eye shadow. Otherwise she was perfect. A little too perfect. She might have been posing for a fashion layout, one leg behind her on the bottom step. Except she was better-looking than the models he'd dated. She gave him a smile, the economy-size smile used for mournful occasions. “Father,” she said, “this is Vliet. Vliet Reed, my father, Philip Schorer.”

Vliet held out his hand and it was taken. “Mr. Schorer, sir.”

“Philip,” Mr. Schorer corrected. And went through the platitudes du jour, how sorry he was, a great loss, and so on and etcetera. He excused himself, tactfully sliding open glass, closing it after himself.

“It's his only place,” Alix said, removing an invisible fleck from a modern couch.
Order, once everything's in order, I'll be in better shape. This damn music won't keep repeating like raw onion
. “I've got his room. And there's just this.” She gestured, taking in more square footage than is in most houses. Above the kitchen the ceiling was lowered.

“The bedrooms are up there?” he asked.

“Just one. I've got it. The view's terrific.”

A terrific view, he agreed. And in his estimation it was. A billion dollars' worth of boats. Mr. Schorer settled into a webbed patio chair, moving a felt-tip pen across a proof sheet.

“He's doing the new catalog,” Alix said.

“For what?”

“Schorer Furniture.” She moved to the kitchen area. “Let me fix you lunch?”

“Thanks anyway, but I ate.”

“Oh, that's right. It's almost four. A Coke, then? A drink? Or coffee's ready?”

“Thanks, nothing.” He tapped his cigarette. “Why aren't you home?”

“You mean Mother's?”

“Yes, Mrs. Grossblatt's.”

“She keeps wanting to mother. A lot of body contact and stuff.”

“It gets to you.”

Did I sound a mite off? Vliet's got a very good ear
—
but if it's so damn good, how come he can't hear this hideous Handel
? “I just don't need any,” Alix said.

And perching on that sterile couch, she crossed her ankles to one side. Toned down, yet crisp. Exactly right. It baffled Vliet. She baffled him. Come to think of it, she always had. There was a mystery about Alix, something mysterious. Untouchable, a perfect, uncrazed Grecian urn in a museum niche, her very imperviousness hinting at unrevealed pasts, depths, twilit secrets. As he'd been hot to hear her breath coming jagged from beneath him, so he now needed Alix to display grief. He needed to see her lose her cool. He needed proof that his brother, his late other, had meant something to her. On the way over, he'd rehearsed speeches to let her down easy. Forget it, he told himself.

“The funeral,” he said, “is Wednesday.”

She leaned back, clasping her knees, momentarily withdrawing to some private speculation.
Funeral. Roger wanted cremation
—
after parts were donated to those in need. But his parts weren't in donatable condition, were they? Oh God, please don't let me break down. I'll never get it together if I do
. “Where?” she asked.

“Forest Lawn.”

“The main one?”

“Glendale, yes. It won't be in the papers.”

“Understandable,” she said.

“Family,” he said. “Strictly family.”

For a blink of time he saw, or maybe he hoped he saw, that she swallowed with difficulty.
I never said good-bye, never. My chest is pulling like a cramp, keep moving, that's what they tell you when you cramp up, don't they? Roger, tell them if I'm not there, you won't be, either. What am I going to do, alone? Not go to the funeral. Never say good-bye, ever
.

“You're telling me I'm
persona non grata
?”

“I'm sorry, Alix.” Really, he thought, I could have phoned it in kinder. She's smiling, though, so what the hell. His eyes grew moist and he thanked God for giving us Coolray Polaroid sunglasses.

“Flowers, then,” she said. “I'll send flowers. Where?”

“Forest Lawn.”

“Oh, that's right. You said. The Glendale one. What time?”

“Alix—”

“Not to worry. Flowers. No me. But the florist'll need the time.”

Forever and ever, he thought.

She smoothed an invisible wrinkle in her shorts. “The time, Vliet?”

“Noon.”

“Noon,” she repeated.

“Uh-huh.”

“I appreciate it, Vliet, you coming to tell me.”

“They feel strongly.”

If only I could shut off the sound track, and that's an idiot's thought, still, it's also a kind of litany against grief, and I'll never say good-bye, never, and my chest does hurt so, and shut off the damn sound
.

“I'm sorry,” Vliet said. He wasn't. He couldn't care less. She fried him. He was consumed with anger, rare for him. One trace of emotion was all he asked of her. One trace.

“By now I can handle their attitude.”

“If that's the case, Alix, you're exceptional.”

“No-no. Just used to it.”

They stared at one another, Vliet Reed and Alix Schorer. His face, although he didn't realize it, had the same faint detachment. Her expression, however, cost far more, an unknowable amount that she would never be able to recoup. Yesterday, Vliet thought, yesterday she had knelt, Roger's blood covering her, her slender arms straining at the heavy, inert weight, her voice hoarsely, obsessively repeating Roger Roger Roger. Vliet gazed into shadowed eyes, and the throbbing of a boat's engine came like a heartbeat into the high, sunlit room.

Don't take off the glasses, that'll be worse than anything
. She turned abruptly, going to the door. “Mr. O'Hara, there's coffee.”

The gray man smiled. “Thanks, Alix.”

On the steps, Vliet said, “You're friends with the watchdog?”

“He's retired. This is his way of hanging in.”

Vliet had gone maybe ten yards when she called to him. He turned, inhaling dock smells of hot tar, gasoline, salt.

She raised a hand to visor the sun. “Will you give your parents my sympathy?”

“I will,” he lied.

Sun bounced from outsize windows of connecting beige condominiums, and not a sound came from any of them. At the parking lot, Vliet glanced back. Alix remained on the steps alone, a breeze lifting her glossy dark hair. He was too far to see her expression. He was near enough to see a girl of myth, fair enough to launch these thousand ships. Cold bitch, he thought, raising dark glasses to wipe his eyes. Cunt, he thought. These opinions in no way lessened his devotion.

Chapter Fourteen

1

Hallelujah, for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth
.

… The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ; and he shall reign forever and ever
.

King of Kings, and Lord of Lords
.

“Where to?”

The man had a maroon birthmark on his left cheek, it was raised and velvety and shaped like a pine cone. His uniform was navy, a slick and cheap dacron.

“Where to?” he repeated.

She looked up at the clock and saw hands pointing to 8:07. On a gray television screen were grayish letters:

8:40, FLIGHT 210 WASHINGTON

9:10, FLIGHT 88 VANCOUVER

9:25, FLIGHT 910 NEW YORK

Washington you can land for Baltimore, Washington is out. Far away, she heard shrill tinkling notes, the
Hallelujah Chorus
being played like Beethoven's Ninth in
Clockwork Orange
. Vancouver? New York? Trying to decide, she gripped on her purse strap, and behind her ear a man coughed, impatient, and Alix thought, The earlier the better, the sooner the best.

“Vancouver,” she said.

“Round trip?”

“One way, please.”

He took her BankAmericard, punching and writing behind the counter. Wednesday, she thought, today's Wednesday.

“Check your baggage?”

“
Voilà,
” she replied, holding up her big summer purse.

“That's what I call traveling light.”

“The only way to fly.”

“Gate Thirteen, Miss Schorer.” As he smiled the birthmark stretched, turning a shade paler, to raspberry.

At the moving sidewalk she hesitated, her sandals poised over segments. Her toenails were pretty, polished with clear. Now. Now. The bump ascended sharply, and she grabbed the rubber handrail. So, she thought, and began walking. “Excuse me,” she said, passing a fat corporal, his belt curved below his stomach. Today, she thought, today is Wednesday.
Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan Reed request/the absence of your company/at the funeral of their son/Dr. Roger Stuart Reed/at twelve o'clock noon on Wednesday the twenty-fifth of June
. Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord, but others can pull it off, too, don't let anyone kid you. The walk dipped, spilling her onto hard marble. She ran up the escalator, passing two nuns wearing short habits and shiny innocence, a little boy wrapping his tongue around a green sucker, a pair of businessmen lugging overnight cases. So many people I must not bump into, she thought, worried. Then, beyond the window walls, she saw them, taxiing, waiting, landing, taking off. The number soothed her. With so many, one could keep on the move forever and ever. At Gate 13 a woman with wide, feral nostrils told her that the flight to Vancouver was on time. Alix moved into the gift shop to pick a novel. She spelled titles letter by letter, but they made no sense.

“What's good?” asked a tall young man. As he talked, his inadequate yellow Fu Manchu goatee wiggled.