Your hero flirts with danger.
Lung cancer claimed Grandpa Magnusson. We visited to the end and were spared little, morphine inadequate to the task. I have a dread of hospital wards. The parents caught Sonja smoking in the yard and pressed the warning. They should have known better, their disappointment rarely missing her chance.
The deck was deserted. At least, all the birds had flown. But smoke hung in the air, another delinquent taking a drag. A young libertine indulges a middle-aged man? Well, the consenting party had already undressed . . . from her headset.
“Honored to have your attention.” I dared a dart.
“Yes, you are.” She spoke, in my direction. Short of stature, she failed to lift her eyes. And the fog was her friend, though the late-afternoon sun sent a shaft over the security of the railings. No protection is perfect, nature’s trespass glinting in the light. A fly has no escape, the fineness of the thread no measure of the danger.
“What happened to the party spirit?”
“Haven’t pulled out my machete.” A husky voice belied the tender years. Her glass of wine was still perched on the railing, in need of replenishment.
“Boadicea slaughtered a hundred thousand Romans. We should give thanks for your restraint.”
“Such a good girl! You should know, checking me out like a perv.”
“I had strict instructions. And then there’s black lipstick!”
“Not my fave, either. But my mother really hates it.”
“Explains everything. So, I’ve done my duty, leaving soon.”
“Isn’t he the lucky one? Gotta stay over. Lollapalooza dragging on all night.”
“Your folks throw some party. Unfortunately. I should have brought a book.
“Boring!”
“You remind me of a painting.”
“I am an artist.”
“Isn’t Frida Kahlo cold out here?”
“The girl’s on fire. Freda, who gives a fuck?”
Gloria and Bill have three children. All were present, two were correct. Lily, the eldest, was following her father’s footsteps into law, though propelled by less venality of ambition. She featured cropped hair, square-cut jacket, businesslike blouse and slacks, and had invited a female friend of matching presentation to the party. This turn was news to me, and I would enjoy quizzing bombastic Bill for confirmation. Noah, the only son, had decamped to an East Coast prep school but had nevertheless managed to procure a brown-eyed Californian girlfriend, who was trailing him around as if leashed to a guide dog. Lily and Noah mingled inside, reeling in a generous catch. The parents hymn their praises, Bill’s devotion to his children redeeming his extensive list of crimes against humanity. Offspring of some privilege, they were nevertheless likeable, had inherited neither Gloria’s artifice nor Bill’s ego. The affable pair had little enthusiasm for the early guitar lessons of my recruitment, but we formed a bond, greet each other fondly. They appreciate my avuncular advice. At least they should.
Yes, Bill is devoted. But the fatherly favor is compromised. There is an apple in his eye. Another daughter holds his heart, a possession as publicly evident as privately denied. Mr. and Mrs. Connor rarely speak of the recluse. Family intimates know the drill, but a first acquaintance might suspect some guilty secret: a baby they made her give up; a lover biding time in state penitentiary; a hit-and-run manslaughter that her father had contrived to dismiss? The girl is pleasant to behold, can carry a conversation, acquit herself with adult aplomb. And she is smart, accepted by the nation’s top public university, if her attitude does test the limits of standard teenage deviation. Gloria never delivers on the deviant, whereas her spigot is impossible to staunch over the other two.
“Uncle? I wasn’t expecting such respect.”
“Wish you could trade places with my uncle. Don’t let it go to your head. Total douche.”
“Runs in the . . . ”
“The family? We don’t see eye to eye. Daddy is a total asshole, gotta respect that about him! Hates his brother too. Could tell you some stories.” The news anchor nonchalantly shook the pack. “Ray has stomach cancer. I cried when I heard the news . . . with joy.” Cold lips took another Camel. “We had an issue. Didn’t dare touch me though. Mess with me, Daddy cuts off your dick.”
“That Harvard education!”
“Ray was a cop, until he lost his badge.”
“You’re cool.” She lit another cigarette. “Some chicks click with old men.” The youngster took a drag. “But don’t be getting ideas, my gangster.” The lighter added an exclamation point.
“I’m a philosopher. I have no choice.” I did need some other help, my ground as solid as her smoke. “So, what hideous racket were you listening to?” I stroked her equipment.
“James Brown. Got soul, Uncle Annie?”
“Stay on the scene . . . uunh . . . like a sex machine.” I am not responsible. Did I write the damn lyrics? “I got the music in me. And no more Uncle Annie, please.”
“You’d like me to call you—”
“Sex Machine.” That chorus erupted again, with inebriated brio.
Oh God! What was I thinking? It meant nothing, you must understand. I’m perfectly innocent; Gloria had charged the waiters, no empty glass. It wasn’t my fault. Chip might lose his grip? Maybe so, but Merrywood is the name, remember. And I had the tightest grasp . . . of a whisky glass.
Party guests would have another story! A man of half century was hitting on a girl, his oldest friend’s daughter, no less. The beloved child will rat and her protective father punch me out, his paternal prerogative. The afternoon lurched from bad to worse, an abyss of stupidity. Oblivion, swallow me up. I finally find someone to talk to, if thirty years my junior, only to scare her away like a homeless lunatic shrieking at a pigeon. And I couldn’t muster the simplest apology.
The bird giggled. “Can’t a girl get a little foreplay?” The mirth blew in like a rain shower in the desert. “Mr. Sex Machine. Totally.”
“Hubba hubba!”
My cheer outlasted her chuckle. And I had to celebrate in silence, finding nothing to match the wit. A buzz animated the party hive, and lanterns shone through the stained glass as the gray fog enveloped two truants and smothered the ocean waves. But a glow suffused my core. Who would have thought? I had last known a gawky adolescent, undistinguished to male survey. That small, skittish shadow had firmed into the sunlit form I had assayed from an earlier remove. With button nose, upturned lip, and eyes of enigmatic hue, the closer company faced the world on her own terms, although proximity replaced the flattery of distance with some pallor. But a spring blossom possesses a pollen. And she knew.
The skin betrayed no blemish. The breeze blew away the smoke. And our solid deck gave onto a well-tended garden, no sore blighting the bucolic scene. The beach beckoned, waves broke steadily in the distance, and a nearby voice won my further approval. Come together, we shared a taste in music, right now, she liked to sing their songs. The surest web spreads softly. Love, love me do, Arachne wove a tapestry; you know I love you, Alice wound a tape,
“Can I fill up your wine? Doing the math here, you won’t get me into trouble?”
“You should be so lucky. My mother said she wanted me to enjoy myself.”
“Very generous, given all the judges in attendance.”
“Reverse psychology. I’m onto her, as usual. I’m fine.”
She was fine. I withheld the quip; the older player should hold his cards. And he should not inadvertently brush her arm—even when she waives her right of recoil. You might suppose an understanding. However, pages had turned since we were playing hide-and-go-seek in their overgrown yard. I recalled a cycling route around the neighborhood, a detour to the swings and slides of a small park. But in later visits to the family home, she was sighted as often as Huckleberry Finn in the employment office, her adolescence sequestered in a rumored attic.
—Huck, you came and went, of your own free will. You wore castoffs, one suspender supported your trousers, and your hat was a vast ruin. Luckiest of boys, the more properly dressed envied your latitude. Yet I have a sneaking suspicion: Becky Thatcher, of the lovely blue eyes, long blond hair, white summer frock, and embroidered pantalettes was in love with your friend, respectable Tom Sawyer. A vagabond will whistle, but didn’t you ever have the thought?—
“Your folks are really lucky, having this place.”
She turned her back. The banal remark placed me in exile. Silence hung over the deck with the thickening fog, though strains of laughter still escaped the house.
“Don’t want anything more to drink. Jonesing for some weed.”
Drugs fuel the teenage fire! Dealt a royal flush, the poker player gulps. But the seasoned gambler plays his cards with calm.
“Here?” I shrugged.
“Timbuktu. I’ll borrow Daddy’s private jet.”
“Funny girl. I don’t suppose Daddy would be overjoyed, in full view of the—”
“Don’t suppose he’d be overjoyed!” She knew her scoff. “Girl gonna hit the beach. What can he do?” She rose to full contempt.
Hit the beach? The news aired with some static. Smoking pot is a social indulgence. But though the girl went her own way, a rebel respects one rule: a woman will never ask.
She lit another cigarette. We studied the surf in silence. The wind was waning, the weed was waiting, the woman withheld the wink. But the worldly man does not want for . . .
“Well, Alice . . . I’m actually in no big hurry . . . I don’t . . .” I am never at a loss, trust me. “The beach . . . ” I seize the opportunity. “I’m thinking . . .” I get right to the point. “I smoke . . .” I am not shy. “If you . . .” I am a conversationalist of some cool. “If you want some company, that is . . .” All right, the words might seem a little wayward. And ’tis a kind of good deed to say well . . . Oh shut up, Shakespeare—even thou would lose the facility, if a maid blewest cigarette in thy face!
“Wild man! I’ll get my stuff.”
Merrywood! . . . What a tangled web? . . . A pretty simple story.