I tbought that they were angels, but to my surprise, we something something something, and headed for the skies
The point of the party is having gone to the party. The reward is going to dinner afterward, the two of them, and then home again.
Particulars vary. Tonight there is Elena Petrova, their hostess (her husband is always away somewhere, probably best not to ask what hes doing), smart and noisy and defiantly vulgar (an ongoing debate between Peter and Rebeccadoes she know about the jewelry and the lipstick and the glasses, is she making a statement, how could she be this rich and intelligent and not know?); there is the small, very good Artschwager and the large, pretty good Marden and the Gober sink, into which some guestnever identifiedonce emptied an ashtray; there is Jack Johnson seated in waxy majesty on a loveseat beside Linda Neilson, who speaks animatedly into the arctic topography of Jacks face; there is the first drink (vodka on the rocks; Elena serves a famously obscure brand she has shipped in from Moscowreally, can Peter or anyone tell the difference?), followed by the second drink, but not a third; there is the insistent glittery buzz of the party, of enormous wealth, always a little intoxicating no matter how familiar it becomes; there is the quick check on Rebecca (shes fine, shes talking to Mona and Amy, thank God for a wife who can manage on her own at these things); there is the inevitable conversation with Bette Rice (sorry he had to miss the opening, he hears the Inksys are fantastic, hell come by this week) and with Doug Petrie (lunch, a week from Monday, absolutely) and with the other Linda Neilson (yeah, sure, Ill come talk to your students, call me at the gallery and well figure out a date); there is peeing under a Kelly drawing newly hung in the powder room (Elena cant know, can sheif shed hang this in a bathroom shes got to be serious about her eyeglasses, too); there is the decision to have that third vodka after all; there is the flirtation with ElenaHey, love the vodka; Angel, you know you can get it here anytime you like (he knows he is known, and probably scorned, for working it, the whole hey-Id-do-you-if-I-had-the-chance thing); there is scrawny, hysterical Mike Forth, standing with Emmett near the Terence Koh, getting drunk enough to start homing in on Rebecca (Peter sympathizes with Mike, cant help it, hes been therethirty years later hes still amazed that Joanna Hurst did not love him, not even a little); there is a glimpse of the improbably handsome hired waiter talking surreptitiously on his cell in the kitchen (boyfriend, girlfriend, sex for hireat least the kids who serve at these things have a little mystery about them); then back to the living room whereoopsMike has managed to corner Rebecca after all, hes talking furiously to her and shes nodding, searching for the rescue Peter promised her; there is Peters quick check to make sure no one has been ignored; there is the goodbye conversation with Elena, whos sorry she missed seeing the Vincents (Call me, there are a few other things Id love to show you); there is the strangely ardent goodbye from Bette Rice (somethings up); the claiming of Rebecca (Sorry, Ive got to take her away now, see you soon, I hope); the panicky parting grin from Mike, and goodbye goodbye, thank you, see you next week, yeah, absolutely, call me, okay, goodbye.
Another cab, back downtown. Peter thinks sometimes that at the end, whenever it comes, he will remember riding in cabs as vividly as he recalls anything else from his earthly career. However noxious the smells (no air freshener this time, just a minor undercurrent of bile and crankcase oil) or how aggressively inept the driving (one of those accelerate-and-brake guys, this time), there is that sense of enclosed flotation; of moving unassaulted through the streets of this improbable city.
They are crossing Central Park along Seventy-ninth Street, one of the finest of all nocturnal taxi rides, the park sunk in its green-black dream of itself, its little green-gold lights marking circles of grass and pavement at their bases. There are, of course, desperate people out there, some of them refugees, some of them criminals; we do as well as we can with these impossible contradictions, these endless snarls of loveliness and murder.
They are crossing Central Park along Seventy-ninth Street, one of the finest of all nocturnal taxi rides, the park sunk in its green-black dream of itself, its little green-gold lights marking circles of grass and pavement at their bases. There are, of course, desperate people out there, some of them refugees, some of them criminals; we do as well as we can with these impossible contradictions, these endless snarls of loveliness and murder.
Rebecca says, You didnt save me from Hurricane Mike.
Hey, I wrested you away the second I saw you with him.
Shes sitting inwardly, hugging her own shoulders though theres not even a hint of cold.
She says, I know you did.
But still, he has failed her, hasnt he?
He says, Something seems to be going on with Bette.
Rice?
How many other Bettes were at the party? How much of his life is devoted to answering these obvious little questions; how much closer does he move to a someday stroke with every fit of mini-rage over the fact that Rebecca has not been paying attention, has not been with the goddamned program?
Mm-hm.
What, do you think?
I have no idea. Something about when she said goodbye. I felt something. Ill give her a call tomorrow.
Bettes at an age.
As in, menopause?
Among other things.
They thrill him, these little demonstrations of womanly certainty. Theyre right out of James and Eliot, arent they? We are in fact made of the same material as Isabel Archer, as Dorothea Brooke.
The cab reaches Fifth Avenue, turns right. From Fifth Avenue the park regains its aspect of dormant nocturnal threat, of black trees and a waiting, gathering something. Do the billionaires who live in these buildings ever feel it? When their drivers bring them home at night, do they ever glance across the avenue and imagine themselves safe, just barely, for now, from a wildness that watches with long and hungry patience from under the trees?
When is Mizzy coming? he asks.
He said sometime next week. You know how he is.
Mm.
Peter does, in fact, know how he is. Hes one of those smart, drifty young people who, after certain deliberations, decides he wants to do Something in the Arts but wont, possibly cant, think in terms of an actual job; who seems to imagine that youth and brains and willingness will simply summon an occupation, the precise and perfect nature of which will reveal itself in its own time.
This family of women really ruined the poor kid, didnt they? Who could survive having been so desperately loved?
Rebecca turns to him, arms still folded across her breasts. Does it seem ridiculous to you sometimes?
What?
These parties and dinners, all those awful people.
Theyre not all awful.
I know. I just get tired of asking all the questions. Half those people dont even know what I do.
Thats not true.
Well, maybe its a little bit true. Blue Light, Rebeccas arts and culture magazine, is not a heavy-hitter among people like these, I mean its no Artforum or Art in America. Theres art, sure, but theres also poetry and fiction andhorror of horrorsthe occasional fashion spread.
She says, If youd rather Mizzy not stay with us, Ill find another place for him.
Oh, its still about Mizzy, isnt it? Little brother, the love of her life.
No, its totally okay. I havent even seen him in, what? Five years? Six?
Thats right. You didnt come to that thing in California.
Suddenly, a pained and unexpected silence. Had she been angry about him not going to California? Had he been angry with her for being angry? No recollection. Something bad about California, though. What?
She leans forward and kisses him, sweetly, on the lips.
Hey, he whispers.
She burrows her face into his neck. He wraps an arm over her.
The world is exhausting sometimes, isnt it? she says.
Peace made. And yet. Rebecca is capable of remembering every slight, and of trotting out months worth of Peters crimes when an argument heats up. Has he committed some infraction tonight, something hell hear about in June or July?
Mm-hm, he says. You know, I think we can definitively say that Elena is serious about the hair and glasses, et cetera.
I told you she was.
You never did.
You just dont remember.
The cab stops for the light at Sixty-fifth Street.
Here they are: a middle-aged couple in the back of a cab (this drivers name is Abel Hibbert, hes young and jumpy, silent, fuming). Here are Peter and his wife, married for twenty-one (almost twenty-two) years, companionable by now, prone to banter, not much sex anymore but not no sex, not like other long-married couples he could name, and yeah, at a certain age you can imagine bigger accomplishments, a more potent and inextinguishable satisfaction, but what youve made for yourself isnt bad, its not bad at all. Peter Harris, hostile child, horrible adolescent, winner of various second prizes, has arrived at this ordinary moment, connected, engaged, loved, his wifes breath warm on his neck, going home.
Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me, doop doop de doop
That song again.
The light changes. The driver accelerates.
The point of the sex is
Sex doesnt have a point.
Its just that it can get complicated, after all these years. Some nights you feel a little Well. You dont exactly want to have sex but you dont want to be half of a couple with a grown daughter, a private trove of worries, and a good-natured if slightly prickly ongoing friendship that doesnt any longer seem to involve sex on a Saturday night, after a party, semitipsy on Elena Petrovas much-vaunted private-stock vodka, plus a bottle of wine at dinner afterward.
Hes forty-four. Only forty-four. Shes not even forty-one yet.
Your queasy stomach doesnt help you feel sexy. Whats up with that? What are the early symptoms of an ulcer?
In bed, she wears panties, a V-necked Hanes T-shirt, and cotton socks (her feet get cold until the height of summer). He wears white briefs. They spend ten minutes with CNN (car bomb in Pakistan, thirty-seven people; church torched in Kenya with undetermined number inside; man whos just thrown his four young children off an eighty-foot-high bridge in Alabamanothing about the horse, but thatd be local news, if anything), then flip around, linger for a while with Vertigo, the scene in which James Stewart takes Kim Novak (Madeleine version) to the mission to convince her that shes not the reincarnation of a dead courtesan.