Happy All the Time (19 page)

That night, before his cousin Hester turned up, Vincent stood in the kitchen discussing his genius.

“I was brilliant,” he said. “They loved me. I got three laughs, but most of the time they were sitting on the edge of their chairs.”

“You are a disgusting ham,” said Misty.

“That's only because I have true fervor. I am an apostle of thrift. A mulch machine in every home! Use your sewage to fuel your power mower! Heat your home with your own sludge!” He grabbed Misty. “One of these days, we're going to be very rich.”

“Baste the duck,” said Misty.

“Duck? What duck?”

“While you were off being a genius, I was buying a duck for dinner.”

“And I have another idea,” said Vincent. “After you finish the Church in Life study, we're going to collaborate on a garbage study. An ethnic study. We'll travel. We'll go to India and Africa. We will set out to discover how other cultures deal with refuse. We will analyze the implications of the language used to describe this problem.” He bent down and poured orange juice over the duck. “What do you think?”

“I think you're still making your speech,” said Misty.

“I am a genius,” said Vincent. “Now, please get out of here while I make one of my brilliant salads. And, as you will see, I am not only a genius. I am also thoughtful and kind. There is a cake box over there inside of which is the perfect dessert your astonishing husband has brought home.”

Hester Gallinule was a tall, freckled forty-year-old woman with fuzzy hair and tinted glasses. She took off her coat as if revealing a monument. She wore a pink sweater, pink skirt, and boots so tight you could almost see her veins. She accepted a glass of white wine and collapsed against the sofa cushions.

“What a day,” she said. “Sheer hell, except for tonight, of course. How divine to meet Vincent's wife.” Hester had a wonderful, husky voice. “My voice,” she explained, “has been feathered by my adenoids and tarred by my cigarettes.” She smoked her cigarettes through a black holder.

“I don't have a present for you yet, darlings,” she said. “I was out of the country when I got the announcement and I've been breaking my back to mount a new show. I simply can't get everything done.”

Misty sat back on the couch enraptured. She had never had an older sister but Hester was like the older sister of every friend Misty had ever had. Those older sisters had gone to nightclubs. They wore pleated skirts, strapless evening dresses, and smelled of Shalimar. They carried in their handbags leather cases containing eyelash curlers, tubes of Persian Melon lipstick, and little pots of something that looked like Vaseline to rub on their eyebrows. They wore scanty underwear, Capri pants, and used ballet slippers as bedroom slippers. They had paid off Misty and her friends not to tell their mothers that they snuck cigarettes in the bathroom. Misty mentioned this to Hester.

“Darling, I am simply embedded in my generation,” said Hester. “I feel so sorry for you young things. Think of what you've missed. Wrist corsages. Strapless bras. Garter belts. Every time I think about my adolescence I smell nail polish remover. We used to spend hours doing our nails. I still keep scrapbooks. I have all my old corsages and by now, of course, they're almost antiques. I even have one of my old strapless dresses. I've lugged it around all these years. You have to wear about ten petticoats with it. Of course, the petticoats disintegrated but the dress still stands. I used to wear it to masquerade balls. Jacques—that's my ex-husband—thought I was simply crazy but of course he was born all grown up. It's heaven to be a divorcee, depending of course on who you married. As Vincent will tell you, my ex-husband was a real son of a bitch.”

“I liked him,” said Vincent.

“You were a mere child at the time. A gawky teenager. Jacques probably looked like an adult to you. He was extremely dull and stupid and mulish. The worst type of French person,” she said. “The sort that admires the English. French parsimony and English stuffiness. Too dreadful. When I was on “Dangers of Midnight”—that was my soap opera, did Vincent tell you?—Jacques never watched it. He hated it. It shamed him in front of his stuffy friends. I, of course, loved it. It ran for years and years until I got bored and they killed me. I played Emma Jacklin, wife of Steve Jacklin, the young attorney. By the time I got killed, he was a middle-aged attorney. Anyway, he was cheating on me with a woman named Melba Patterson, who had an illegitimate son whose father was a complete mystery. Around the time I wanted to quit, they wrote in that the father was Steve Jacklin's father and the shock caused me to have a fatal car crash. Isn't that heavenly and retrogressive? By that time, Jacques was long gone and I went on tour with a play called
Very Fancy
. An appalling turkey. You've probably never heard of it. So, I figured enough was enough and that instead of acting I would take a little flyer and I invested in a musical about the occult called
Hocus Pocus
, which ran for seven years off-Broadway and made us all rich, rich, rich. Now I'm a pillar of the theatrical community and Jacques can go to hell.”

“What does Jacques do?” Misty asked.

“Money, darling,” said Hester. “They say they're investment bankers and securities analysts, but they just make money. I remember when Jacques decided to buy a company. It made some part of a helicopter. I said: ‘Jacques, you don't care about helicopters. You don't even like to fly.' He said: ‘I don't care about the flying. I care about the money.' That's what he does. He makes money. A few years ago he married the dullest girl who ever lived but whose vast wealth compensated for how awful she was. Jacques of course wouldn't know the difference. God knows where he found her. Maybe he imported her. She made him a nice little bambino all his own and the nanny takes it to the park in an English pram. It's all very proper. I'm sure they have very traditional ideas about child rearing.”

“It isn't called that anymore,” said Vincent. “It's called parenting.”

“In Jacques's case, it's called getting a nanny over from France,” said Hester. “Let's eat.”

During dinner, Hester discussed her lovers.

“Don't take this amiss,” she said to Misty. “But I believe in having lovers. I used to have two. Now I've got three. One is a divine young thing. He just graduated from the film institute. It's so marvelous to be adored. He's so sweet and gloomy. He asks me to marry him about three times a week and when I say no because I'm almost old enough to be his mother, he thinks it's tragic. I find it poignant. The next I really can't discuss because he's too well known and very married and then there's Franz. You met Franz, Vincent. I've known him forever. He owns the Liebenthal Gallery and we go to Europe together. It all adds up. I'm crazy about the little kid who adores me. I feel all sneaky and dangerous with my married friend, and Franz is my stability. Put it all together and you've got the ideal marriage.”

Just as the coffee was served, Uncle Bernie appeared. He hugged Vincent, kissed Misty, and kissed Hester Gallinule's hand. Hester sat bolt upright in her chair.

Uncle Bernie was carrying an enormous box, which he set on the floor.

“It's your W.P.,” he said. “Wedding present,” he explained to Hester. “Open it up, kiddos.”

Vincent and Misty bent to open the wrappings. Underneath the glossy white paper and ribbons was a dark blue box. Inside was what looked to be a fur coat.

“What is it?” said Vincent. He began to pull it out of its box. “It doesn't have any sleeves.”

“What does it look like?” said Uncle Bernie.

“It looks like a bedspread made out of fur,” said Vincent.

“You got it!” said Uncle Bernie. “That's exactly what it is. Fritz and Adalaide would never approve. I'll bet Misto doesn't either but if Uncle Bernie doesn't spoil you, who will?”

“This is the most wonderful thing I have ever seen in my life,” said Vincent.

“And it's an energy saver,” said Uncle Bernie. “That's right up your line of work, isn't it, Vincent my boy? Crawl underneath this thing and you'll never need a radiator again. Gorgeous, huh, kids?”

“I say let's go see how it looks,” said Misty.

They trooped into the bedroom and agreed that the fur bedspread was a thing of beauty.

“Now for coffee,” said Uncle Bernie. “So, you're in the theater, Hester. I used to be on the fringe of that myself. I was a song plugger. You're probably too young to know what that is.”

“Sing Hester your song,” said Vincent.

“I wrote a little ditty in the forties,” said Uncle Bernie. “It was what they called a novelty number. I hoped it would start a fad, but it never amounted to more than a passing fancy. You really think Hester wants to hear a song called ‘Dancing Chicken,' Vincent?”

“Hester does,” said Hester.

Uncle Bernie stood up. Taking the lapels of his jacket in his hands, he sang “Dancing Chicken,” did a little two-step, and flapped his jacket.

“That's the dance I made up to go with it,” he said as he sat down.

Hester's back had ceased to touch her chair. She looked like a girl recently let out of convent school. The expression on her face did not reveal what the sight of Misty's bald, portly, beautifully dressed uncle flapping around the living room had done to her. Misty thought she was horrified. It turned out that she was not.

“Give me your jacket, Vincent,” Hester said. “Okay, Uncle Bernie. Show me how it goes.”

Hester and Uncle Bernie were about the same height, but Hester's boots gave her several more inches. Uncle Bernie twirled her around the living room. They flapped their jackets in unison and then tangoed into the kitchen.

“Oh, my God,” said Misty. She was rubbing the bridge of her nose—a sure sign of distress.

“What's wrong?” said Vincent. “We have brought light and laughter into the hearts of our relatives.”

Uncle Bernie and Hester tangoed back to the table, where they drank coffee and brandy and Hester took a puff of Uncle Bernie's cigar.

“It's time to go, kiddos,” said Uncle Bernie. “I leave you to your vulgar bedspread. Now I'm going to escort your delectable cousin home.”

“What a nightmare,” said Misty, as she and Vincent cleared the table.

“Nightmare,” said Vincent. “My God. It's a daydream come true. What a perfect match. Why didn't we think of it?”

“It seems like a terrible idea,” said Misty. “Uncle Bernie is a crook.”

“Hester loves crooks. Besides, Uncle Bernie is only a little crooked. He said so himself. Hester loves a high roller. Honest to God, Misty. I sometimes think there's something wrong with you.”

“There is.”

“Well, what?”

“You believe in happy endings. I don't. You think everything is going to work out fine. I don't. You think everything is ducky. I don't.”

“Why don't you?” said Vincent.

“Vincent,” said Misty. “Sometimes I think you don't have the sense that God gave a chicken. Your family has been sleeping peacefully in Petrie since the beginning of time. I come from a family that fled the Czar's army, got their heads broken on picket lines, and has never slept peacefully anywhere.”

“That may be true,” said Vincent. “But you slept peacefully in Chicago. Your daddy grew up on a farm and as far as I can tell, your mother was brought up at the Art Institute. You never fled anyone's army. So explain yourself.”

“It's cultural,” said Misty.

“I'm for it,” said Vincent. “We need each other. Neither of us is safe alone.”

“Sometimes I think you don't understand how very different we are,” said Misty.

“I realize every day,” said Vincent. “But I think that love cures everything.”

“You would,” said Misty.

Nothing was heard of Uncle Bernie or Hester for several days. On the weekend, a formal thank-you note from Hester was received. In large, curly handwriting, she praised the duck, the charm of the apartment, her delight at Misty and Vincent's marriage and remarked that she and Uncle Bernie had been out dancing several times. A telephone call from Uncle Bernie confirmed this. He was just about to leave for Chicago and Medicine Stone and he called to say goodbye. He and Hester, he said, had found a number of wonderful places to dance: hotel roofs, Puerto Rican nightclubs, and shabby dance halls.

“We've been having a bang-up time,” he said.

It was late Saturday morning and Vincent had gone off to a meeting of the Ecological Union. Misty was curled up on the couch watching the rain and reading the paper. She was about to take a nap when she was roused by the doorbell. She thought it might be Vincent coming back early, but it was not. It was Guido.

Misty and Guido had not had a private conversation since their first meetings at the Magna Charta office. Those two conversations had tacitly sealed the deal: unstated affection abounded between them—a nice, warm, and free-floating affirmation. One look at Guido told Misty that he was in trouble of some sort. This made her slightly nervous. Guido had probably come to see Vincent, but there was no Vincent to see.

“Vincent's out,” she said. “Come in and have a cup of coffee.”

“I know he's out,” said Guido. “He's at the Ecological Union. I didn't come to see him. I came to see you.”

Misty collected Guido's wet raincoat and umbrella and sat him down at the table for coffee.

“Oh,” she said.

“Holly's pregnant,” said Guido, wearily.

“Oh,” said Misty. “Vincent doesn't know that.”

“No,” said Guido. “And I don't want him to know. I'm afraid I just can't face his smiles of delight at this wonderful news.”

“I see.”

“You probably do,” said Guido. “I guess I thought I could count on you not to chirp with joy. I need to talk to someone, and that someone is you.”