CHAPTER II. THE PALACE

Your hero comes to the party.

 I headed for the house. Pete beats a retreat? Perfectly possible, but I take things calmly in stride, as you will find many an occasion to confirm. The sliding door made my entrance. Inside, a party was a-pulse, though the crowd was milling on best behavior—a palace commands respect.

 Provisions were plentiful. Care to indulge? Truffles tempted, fine wine flowed, and the beef was prime. Our queen was circulating, her black hair, golden dress, glowing skin complementing the cut of her court. Their 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. The grandee did glance in my direction, but royalty pretends no common acquaintance. I knew no insult, trust me, her invisible man hewn of hardened timber. The gathering offered another feast, men foregoing West Coast indifference to wardrobe in favor of expensive sports coats, their partners a buffet of elegant dress, painstaking coiffure, and pampered flesh.

The store is open. The goods are on display. Andy unwraps any candy? Maybe so, but a man of discrimination does not lose his head. And though my hands were empty, I was quite content, have no fear. A hearty eater, I have found plentiful provisions, tasted a singular share of the sweetness. My own outfit might not conform, but so what, an outlaw quickens the maiden pulse! The standout read the room, and single women reciprocated my review, as you would only expect. But the browser was not buying, costly confectionery seldom worth the price. I speak from experience, trust me.

My parents married young. The nuptials were rushed by geographical exigency rather than biblical sin, the 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. Unlike the lark, I have yet to find the exaltation. The dispute found no partisan resolution, the 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 lifelong misfortune, George Merrywood, 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, foreword to the following chapter. Original sin was only the first offense. Anselm could easily reduce to Andy, or Al. I would willingly 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 strong beer, can grow a full beard, and know my way around a hardware store. Reginald changed his name, to become a rock star for the ages. I have considered the correction.

“Annie, dear boy, there you are.” The queen could no longer pretend; her 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!”

“I do have a friend who reads, I should send her your way.” My promoter had yet to visit the store herself, to my certain recollection. “Dottie is single, and isn’t too particular.” Gloria squeezed my hand and pressed close. “Such a scoundrel!” 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.” The hostess 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. I heard the news from Chris, but not a squeak from you.”

“I’ve sold the house, renting an apartment.”

“My lovely invitation—!”

“Pride of place. The post office was able to track me down. They still deliver behind enemy lines!”

“Silly boy!” 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. 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 another 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, freelance journalist. I should introduce you, she’s not afraid of a challenge, haha.”

“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.”

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

“Sorry you couldn’t make it to celebrate New Year’s 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 insists 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?”

Time was up. I have known the queen since she and Bill were dating. Her subject of suspicion 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, blessed by her bounty, a poor supplicant now soaked in a spa of stimulation.  

She pulled the plug. My boyhood bane recurred, a mind to prolong the attention vying with concern lest a private protuberance provoke a public panic? Anselm, really! Have no fear, all eyes were on the level. And I will level with you, the dog is no excitable young pup. Maybe a smuggled flask of bourbon was to blame for any bulge! And we really need to know?!

“Actually, Gloria, I do feel a headache coming on. Better sit down.”

“Marvelous, 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 a glory 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? 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, stained glass sold a sanctity, 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 once brought to my attention. I am not remotely jealous, whatever they suggest. Gloria extols joint weekends on the coast, though I could little conceive her consort away from his desk of dividend, no matter how storied the retreat.

Looking for a rich husband? Gloria retained a promising lawyer, the contract conjugal. Fremont and Hayward is the firm, William Connor the name on that desk. And Connor has some clout, the senior partners in clamorous attendance, their wives in glamorous attire. Some bash! And some more biography: I had not only come to Bill’s party, but belonged to the same alumni association, crossed the same Yard. Veritas, I started the juridical journey, to pursue a purer path.

The state school grads met in One L. Merrywood nursed no chip, needless to say, but made few other friends, knowing neither secret handshake nor second home in the Berkshires. Connor roiled with resentment. Preppies and perfume! Aren’t we special? Be fucking you in the ass when I make it. We took the same classes, rode the same train, roomed 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 played in a band. 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 his wife 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, over an hour’s drive from the city.

 I did not make that trip alone. Sherman marched his army to the sea; Merrywood motored his lady up the coast. I am a knight of automotive steed, though the dame was in one of her moods and the going tortuous. Not all cars reach the destination: A soft-top hung shamefacedly over a sandstone bluff, the owner in a daze, staring at the road ahead as if he were stranded on the beaches of Dunkirk. If only I knew!

A lady has an expectation. But a ground campaign moves slowly, and we were already an hour late. A file of 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 horn-blowing driver failed to share my fondness for the fowl. We had to make another stop, where our 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 the dame 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 respect 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.