CHAPTER III. THE BALLROOM

We get the party rolling.

The house offered an escape. Pete beats a retreat? Maybe so, but Merrywood is the name, and I am the very figure of fortitude. And now we have cleared that up, a portrait can still use a change of scenery.

The sliding door made my entrance. Inside, a party was a-pulse, though the crowd was milling on best behavior—a palace commands respect. To say nothing of the spread!

The unexamined life is not worth living? Socrates, get over yourself! A philosopher need make no apology—truffles tempted, fine wine flowed, all the ribs were prime. The gathering offered another feast, men foregoing West Coast indifference to wardrobe in favor of polished shoes and tailored jackets, their consorts a buffet of designer dress, painstaking coiffure, and pampered flesh.

A ball needs a belle. Gloria needed no introduction. Our queen was circulating, her jewels agleam, skin aglow, gown revealing a generosity. Her court was cut with more discretion. Forced laughter filled the ballroom, carrying over the strings of a fiercely competent ensemble, whose 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! 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, the butt of her scorn built of hardened timber.

A memorable occasion? Well, one man made his mark. A famous fairy tale has immortalized a ball with the magic of glass slippers; a memoir will now commemorate another, with an incredible show . . . of sneakers! Is there a law? Snobs might be sniffing, but I was wearing clean underpants, in case you have any doubt!

Such a character! A scoundrel has no shame, needless to say. I did have a sustenance; the adult likes his beverage, the bar was well stocked, the ballroom full of female interest. Gloria must judge a beauty contest, when drawing up her guest list. Alluring eyes, inviting lips, fine legs, coy curls; the pageant was provoking, the man getting ideas? Well, I am a philosopher, life’s rich tapestry always food for thought!

My fellow man? The gentry were having a feast. Entitled males stood around the linen, sipping fine champagne, wrapping arms of privilege round the waists of their reward—though their eyes wrapped me only in contempt. Little did they know! My own arms might be empty, outfit not conform, but an outlaw pushes the perfumed pulse, n’est-ce pas? Robin Hood robbed the rich, you might recall. Indeed, when the rebel read the room, a wealth of women reciprocated the review, to tell nothing but the truth. In amusement? The fun is just getting started!

My parents married young. The nuptials were rushed by geographical exigency rather than biblical sin, the mother a nanny in London, on a temporary visa, where her future bridge partner had disembarked the Royal Scotsman to pursue his career. An intransigent Roman Catholic and 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 kneeling 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 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 done, Rome winning naming rights to the boy, the prairie to the girl. And to my lifelong misfortune, George Merrywood, model of restraint and good sense, pillar of the community, golfer of steady nerve, reserved his one moment of 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. 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, which I cannot dislodge and have done nothing to deserve. I boast a deep enough voice, guzzle strong beer, grow a full beard, 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.” Her Highness could no longer pretend; the peasant’s time had come. “I was looking for you everywhere!” The hostess cast a long-suffering eye over an old acquaintance, whose untucked shirt successfully failed to fit in. “Mr. Bookworm has come to the party!” I had no respect for royalty? Well, Henry VIII chopped off their heads, remember! “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 plenty.

“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?”

“Giving me grief, as usual.”

“You’re a lucky man.” The hostess evinced 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.”

“But my lovely invitation! Hand-printed by an artist.”

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

“Silly boy!” She leaned yet closer—nearby nobility had no need to know that a tenant 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 woman would not grace the present production.

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

“Please do.” 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.”

“Exquisite!” I was too numb. The Trout Quintet marks daring musical taste, you know. And my chance listen to classical radio can confirm your suspicion, Hamburgers regularly on the menu in the American concert hall.

“Sorry our famous writer couldn’t make it to celebrate New Year’s with us, and the new millennium. Quite the shindig, I still haven’t fully recovered.”

“Next time. Only a thousand years to wait.” My good woman, how could your famous writer possibly make it without a single word of notice?

“Lovely crowd, don’t you think? 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 boot camp. America insists on integrating the military! They had to bring their wives, so-called, he never listens to me. The resentment! 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 worst fear was his best man! Familiarity over many years has bred, not contempt but, well, familiarity. In 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. And a 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!

“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 bustling ballroom parted like the Red Sea, and a glory glided through, the splendid rump outlined through the cling of her dress.

The man was out of sight. The menace was present to the ears, his volume control stuck on self-congratulation, his fiftieth milestone offering them both an excuse. Gushing guests were spewing their spectaculars, though 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 fevered fancy.

—Crusoe, I have you in mind, as often. You had to strip the ship to fix your habitation. And I commend attention to another episode. Of course, that footprint in the sand would leave you thunderstruck. But a single print has no natural explanation, there must be more to say. Unreliable narration? Well, no one is perfect. Your whole damn story is mere figment? Never let it be said!—

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 spotlit tide pool, of manifest 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 at the coastal villa, though I could little conceive her partner deserting his desk of dividend, no matter how storied the retreat.

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

The state school grads met in One L. 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. Merrywood nursed no chip, needless to say, but made few other friends, knowing neither secret handshake nor second home in the hills. My roommate roiled with resentment. Aren’t we special? The prole had a nose for privilege. Pretty preppies, reeking of perfume! An aspiring attorney will seek justice. Fuck ’em in the ass when I’m through. One of us never cheated on the test, was generous with late-hour tutorials, worked pro bono, and played in a rock n’ roll band. The other was subjected to review, serially failed the Bar, but with the compensation of bruising hours and an ambition pressing on pathology, 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.

Let’s talk about another lady. Sherman marched his army to the sea; Merrywood motored his amour up the coast. I am a knight of automotive steed, though the dame had a tantrum and the going was tough. Not all cars reach the destination. A soft-top two-seater hung over a sandstone bluff, the owner in a daze, staring at the road ahead like Churchill at Gallipoli. I had been warned!

There’s nothing like a dame. 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-blasting driver failed to share my fondness for the fowl. 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 my lady’s charm 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 could breach. 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!

Loud was the laughter. But I could not breathe easy, all merriment under threat. The story is familiar, the fabled hero defined by ordeal. He hazards the seas, beset by pirate ship, tempest and whirlpool. He struggles across the land, where bandits lie in ambush, menacing highway and byway, their crimes shocking a fine sensibility like jagged lightning disturbs a good night’s sleep. He does battle on the field, where dismembered bodies mount and blood flows like a river. He fells a giant, slays a dragon, burns down an enemy city. The then perils reach a peak.

A woman. “Hello, Anselm.” The challenge sounded to my rear. “Anselm!” Party hubbub providing an excuse, I might slink to safety? “Don’t run away.” I could as little escape as a rabbit in a steel claw.