Chapter 1: An Invitation

The name is Anselm. And I answer to a call. One invitation lay under a kitchen pile of papers; the other was sitting in full view. You too would find the girl inviting. At least you should. Although the picture is not always pretty. 

Her eyes are blue. The maiden had mounted the redwood railing. Her figure was framed by cloudless sky and sea, her glass of wine golden in the sun. A slight smile polished the portrait, light brown locks fell over narrow shoulders and a loose bronze skirt afforded a revelation, when billowed by her knees. Bon vivants mingled across the spacious patio, where rainbowed umbrellas shaded a ring of tables and colorful cocktails glistened like precious stones. A Cadillac packs a punch, the loaded laughter lent more warmth and a further festival added to the fun: bees dotting a swath of pinkish-white petals, their tranquil hum arriving on the breeze. A bluebird flitted from the fence, a flock of goldfinches livened the bushes and a burst of green broke across the blaze, a carmine-throated humming-bird darting past the jasmine to hover by a rarer nectar—a flower girl has her attraction. She looked over the garden and saw that it was good. The free bird commended my cowboy cool, I have every confidence. She could also observe some opulence: a tall man in tuxedo, his wife in strapless gown. The couple were delighting in a slow dance of love, to the timely encouragement of Mozart. Our angel swayed in sympathy and the host received her blessing to more distant music, the comforting beat of the surf. 

We spoke too soon. The eyes are gray. A scowl drained the canvas, a scorn denied any invitation. The wind had picked up, bending boats out at sea and smothering the sun in a shroud of fog. But the gales of laughter had died down, the dropping temperature driving merrymakers inside, a remnant shivering in a silent vigil. A sullen sentinel now stood in a corner, alone on her feet. Her lighthouse beam swept past my mooring, interrogating my witness, exposing my guilt. I could not avert my gaze, pulled to her rocks over an abandoned table where a sorry starling was stabbing a plate of pastry shards. The stony edifice rebuffed my stillborn greeting, as attainable as an Olympic medal to a bedridden invalid. A wisp of smoke rose over the railing, conspiring with the fog. But no warm bonfire beckoned, the changeling waved a cigarette. Her inconsideration imposed before a wind dispersal, though her lips saw little of the vice. I presumed a provocation; my fellow sufferers pretended not to care. Our nemesis took one drag, dropped her litter, stepped on the glow, and we could pretend no more. A foot commanded the attention. A foot twisted in a taunt. A foot ground the burn. The foot was bare. I caught the eye of a neighbor, his cocktail in suspension, an arm around his date. The well-heeled executive had ignored my shabby insurrection, now we had a bond. What is a man to do?

Pete beats a retreat? Possibly, but I take things calmly in stride. The party pulsated, though the crowd was milling on best behavior—a palace demands respect. Provisions were plentiful, fine wine was flowing and the beef prime. Our queen was circulating, her black hair, golden dress, glowing skin complementing the cut of her court. Forced laughter carried over the strings of a fiercely competent ensemble, whose formal attire and practiced indifference betrayed a foreign import. Her highness livened the gala like a gust of summer wind through a cottonwood, introducing strangers, receiving tribute, dispensing charity. A monarch flutters with abandon; courtiers welcomed her interruption, however fleeting the favor. I took up a station by the bar to follow the performance and wait my turn. She glanced in my direction, but royalty pretends no common acquaintance. I knew no insult, trust me, the invisible man hewn of hardened timber. The gathering offered another feast, men foregoing West Coast indiffer-ence to wardrobe in favor of expensive sports coats, their partners a buffet of elegant dress, painstaking coiffure and pampered flesh. A kid in a candy store would unwrap any chocolate. All right, this grown man’s hands were empty, but he was quite content, have no fear. I have enjoyed my provisions, tasted my share of the sweets. My own outfit might not conform, but an outlaw quickens the maiden pulse. The rebel read the room and women reciprocated the review, as you would only expect. But the browser was not buying, costly confectionery seldom worth the price. And I speak from experience, trust me.

My parents married young. The nuptials were rushed by geographical exigency rather than biblical sin, my mother an exchange student in London where her future bridge partner had disembarked the Royal Scotsman for work. An intransigent Roman Catholic and an ornery Swede, their wedding vows sealed the triumph of first love over in-law reservation—bake a pie with chalk and cheese, why don’t we? The offspring knew an uneasy truce, alternate Sundays imposing the pomp of Latin Mass in the company of a crisp-suited father and the austerity of Methodist hymnal when worshipping with his wife, the chapel of clapboard construction after we migrated stateside on my tenth birthday. The feuding parties of the schism engaged in subterfuge, politicking and defamation, but left the final decision to the children—when they’re old enough to know their own minds. I have yet to receive the certificate. The dispute found no partisan resolution, their first-born sitting on the fence with Huxley while his sister lost her religion altogether. But the damage was already done, Rome winning naming rights to the boy, the prairie to the girl. And to a life-long misfortune, my father, a model of restraint and good sense, pillar of the community, member of the Chamber of Commerce, golfer of steady nerve, reserved his one moment of reckless abandon for the christening of his son after a twelfth-century saint and author of an eponymous proof for the existence of God. The original sin was only the first offense. Anselm could easily reduce to Andy, or Al. I would happily share a name with the wilderness photographer. Even Anse would be acceptable. But no, ever since kindergarten I have suffered the same indignity, the bane of my daily round, root of my distress. I may be the only man so-burdened on the continent. The mockery arrives like a stomach pang, a burden I cannot dislodge and have done nothing to deserve. For I boast a deep enough voice, guzzle cheap beer, can grow a full beard and know my way around a hardware store. Reginald changed his name, to become a huge rock star. I have also considered a correction.

“Annie, dear boy, there you are.” The queen could no longer pretend; the peasant’s time had come. “Mr. Bookseller has come to the party.” She cast a long-suffering eye over my untucked shirt. Have no fear, I can afford a visit to a tailor, was just making a little statement. “And how is the Last Resort? 

“Refuge!”

“Why you play the scoundrel is beyond me. Although I do have a friend who reads. I suppose I could send her your way.” My promoter had yet to visit the store herself, to my certain recollection. Gloria squeezed my hand and pressed close. And her eyes fastened onto mine, which I struggled to save from a southerly settlement, where the plunging neckline revealed a generosity. 

“The Last Refuge prevails, like Old Faithful. Though I left my staff in charge, so I have to fear the worst.”

“Jolly good. And the dame?”

“Agatha is giving me grief, as usual.”

“You’re a lucky man.” Our grandee evidenced no such fortune, inspecting my unshaven jowls.

“She was looking forward to this, likes to get out of town.”

“Naughty boy, you’re moving house, I heard the news, but not a squeak from you.”

“I’ve sold the house, renting an apartment. A little detour on the road to my first billion.”

“Not to worry.” She leaned yet closer—other guests need not know that a pauper had infiltrated their number. “Why does a single man need a house anyway?”

“The simple life worked for Thoreau, apparently. And he’d feel right at home. My landlord has a religious objection to modern convenience.”

“Sounds just darling. Do tell, where?” 

“Dolorosa Street. No vacancies on Hope Road.” 

“Super. Wait, you’ll be neighbors with a good friend of mine. Have you met Grace?”

“A room with a view, according to his advert.” I had met Grace. “Which is hard to disprove, if you think about it. I don’t suppose your husband would take the case.” A fixture chez Gloria, Grace would seek me out, making an assumption. The face of my future assumed a complexion. However, as far as I could tell, the worthy Grace was absent.

“We were at Stanford together. Lovely woman. Her husband died a few years ago. He was a lot older, mind you, could have been her father. Now she’s making quite a name for herself as a freelance journalist. I should introduce you, she’s not afraid of a challenge.”

“Honored, I’m sure.” I was introduced every six months or so.

“Isn’t the music heavenly? We flew them in from Germany. All the rage in Europe you know, we’re so lucky they had the time. I asked them specially to play this piece. Don’t you just adore Schubert?” 

“Beautiful.” I was too numb. The Trout Quintet marks daring musical taste, you know.

“Sorry you couldn’t make it to celebrate New Year with us, and the new millennium no less. Quite the shindig, I still haven’t fully recovered—”

“Next time. Only a thousand years to wait.” My good woman, how can I possibly make it when I have no idea? 

“Lovely crowd, at least one of us knows how to throw a party. Bill had a veterans’ reunion here last month, professional obligation. They fell on my spread like vultures, you’d think they hadn’t eaten since Vietnam. America will insist on integrating the military! And they had to bring their wives, so-called, he never listens to me. The resentment, you have no idea. You’d think it was a crime, having a beautiful house. We’ve earned our money, get over it.”

“Communists! I trust they didn’t loot the palace.”

“So happy to see you, Annie. How are you, anyway?” 

My time was up. The Queen and I have known each other since she and Bill were dating. I was his best man. Familiarity over many years has bred, not contempt but, well, familiarity. In domestic and sober encounters I am immune to her charms, often sweatshirt and sneaker muted. Caramba Tequila! Caressed by the coos, a poor supplicant now soaked in a spa of stimulation. And a distress that blighted my adolescence recurred, a mind to prolong the attention vying with a concern lest a private protuberance provoke a public panic. 

“Actually, I feel a headache coming on.”

“Tip top. I’ll see if I can find Bill. I’m sure he wants to catch up.” The congested room parted like the Red Sea, and she sashayed through, the splendid rump outlined through the cling of her dress. 

Her husband was not her match. But his volume control was stuck on celebration, a fiftieth milestone offering them both an excuse. Gushing guests might spew their spectaculars, but in truth the oceanfront property is too much. Gloria had tasked the architect—a “dear friend”—with a merger of masonry and beach, and the conceit had been duly executed, as if a shipwrecked shelter builder had the means to indulge his every fancy. 

Crusoe, I have you in mind, of course. You had to strip the ship, to fix your habitation. And I commend attention to another element of your story. Of course, that footprint in the sand would leave you thunderstruck. You were not alone on the island; was he friend or foe? But a single imprint, whoever heard of such a thing? There is no natural explanation; he knew that you were there, was leaving you a message. Will we ever hear his side of the story?

The design won an award. So what, I won a gold star in kindergarten!  Driftwood beams provided irregular support, rocks jutted through the walls and windows in the floor opened onto a spot-lit tide pool, of evident manufacture. The supposed showpiece did somehow find a spread in a section of the Sunday paper, as an early morning phone call brought to my attention. I am not remotely jealous, whatever they suggest. Gloria insists that they spend weekends, though I could little see her husband away from his desk of dividend, no matter how storied the retreat.    

Bill and I met in One L. The state school graduates made few other friends, knowing neither secret handshake nor second home in the Berkshires. We took the same classes, rode the same train, rooming together at the end of the T-line, where blue-collar locals cut down the Ivy League. One of us never cheated on the test, was generous with late hour tutorials, worked pro bono and nursed no chip. The other serially failed the Bar, but with the compensation of bruising hours and an ambition bordering on mania established himself as the most sought-after litigator in the state, as Gloria frames his repute. The boast has some material justification, witness the weekend house, the yacht, the ease with which they could summon self-important acquaintances to make a tortuous trip up the coast.   

Sherman marched to the sea. Anselm drove his lady up the coast. I am a knight of the automobile, though the dame was in one of her moods and the going hazardous. Not all cars reach the destination: a wreck hung over a sandstone bluff and the owner stood in a daze, staring at the road ahead if he were stranded on the beaches of Dunkirk. I scorned his steering. If only I knew! 

A dame has an expectation. But a ground campaign moves slowly, and we were already an hour late. Pedestrians crossing the narrow road came to an inconsiderate halt. I always make time for turkeys, but a truck was tight on my tail and the cussing driver failed to share my fondness. We had to make another stop, where the next foe lay in ambush. The tyke masqueraded as a gas station attendant and rejected my card, muttering juvenile insinuation. Anselm Thomas Merrywood is the name on the plastic, and I would not budge. Waiting motorists grew restive until Agatha persuaded her latest conquest to take a check.    

To what end? The city’s movers and shakers had congregated in the ‘big’ room to further some business, their circled backs forming a barrier that only Gloria dared penetrate. Less formidable attendees, some of whom I recognized, meandered through the house, clustering in admiration of its curious invention. The architect, Japanese, long haired and even more sloppily dressed than I, indulged a succession of reverent passersby. A photographer from the paper was doing the rounds. The mayor was stopping by! 

Jovial was the laughter. But I could not breathe easy, a menace threatening the celebration. You know the story. The hero faces a familiar ordeal, the enduring confrontation of good and evil. The road is unforgiving. Villains wait in ambush, menacing highway and byway, their crimes shocking the civilized sensibility as lightning bolts disturb a good night’s sleep. And then he crosses a woman. 

“Hello Anselm.” An alarm sounded to my rear. I held my breath. “Anselm!” The din providing an excuse, I might slink to safety. “Don’t run away.” The summons drew near. I could as little escape as a rabbit in a steel claw.