Pike's Folly (5 page)

Going to the oven, he looked inside and saw the turkey basking in darkness, its juices catching in the drip pan with a sizzle. Dinner wouldn't be ready for another hour, but this only added to his lazy feelings of contentment, of being loved by his daughter. Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday; as much as he liked the food, what he most enjoyed was spending time with Allison, lingering over wine—even when she was a little girl, he'd always let her have a glass, maybe two—and leaving the dirty dishes until morning, instead trooping upstairs to watch videos on the large-screen TV. Thanksgiving was a slow-paced, low-key holiday. There was no point, beyond savoring the daily occurrences of family life, having dinner together, then quietly sending one another off to bed.

As Heath and Allison busied themselves in the kitchen, Gregg made a tour of the dining room, the table set for three, two candles flickering beside a glass decanter for the wine. Allison had put on some music—a Natalie Merchant CD, the volume set just a touch too loud. He went to the stereo and edged the music down, not so much that she'd notice and push it back up again.

Returning to the kitchen, he said to Heath, “I'm glad you could spend Thanksgiving with us.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reese.” Heath had tied his hair back in a ponytail, and Gregg could now see more of his face. Regrettably, the boy hadn't shaved, and the black speckle on his cheeks called attention to the fact that he'd dyed his hair blond. Next to him, Allison looked overdressed; her red evening gown, with its low back and frilly sleeves, was something her mother would have worn to a New Year's party.

Remembering his ex-wife, he asked, “How's Renee? I feel like I haven't spoken to her in ages.”

“She's good,” Allison said, busy arranging a half-dozen varieties of cheese on a cutting board. Although more than enough food had already been set out in the parlor, she'd taken it upon herself to assemble a tray of appetizers, complete with cheese and crackers, red caviar and smoked salmon. “I guess she's going to Ibiza next month.”

“What's in Ibiza?” he asked, not even certain
where
it was.

Caught up in her work, she sucked a cheesy film of Brie from her fingers. “You should check it out sometime. Lots of gay bars.”

Gregg winced but said nothing. Tonight he wanted only to eat and drink, to watch his lovely daughter at the dinner table. He wanted the conversation to be general and spirited, followed by the traditional movie upstairs. Lastly, he wanted to go to bed, content and just a little drunk, at eleven o'clock.

By the time dinner was ready, the candles had burned down to gnarled stubs, and the Natalie Merchant CD had restarted itself on autorepeat. Gregg, Allison and Heath passed the food around—Allison, who occasionally fancied herself a vegetarian, took a sliver of white meat just to be polite—and when the last silver serving platter finally came to a rest, Gregg lifted his glass of wine and offered a toast. “To you, Allison. I'm glad you picked me this year.”

Feeling obliged to add something, Heath said, “Thanks for having me, Mr. Reese.”

“Of course, Heath.” Gregg kept his glass raised. This spirit of toast making, which in most families rarely lasted more than a few seconds, was something he liked to hold on to for as long as possible. “You know, when Allison was a little girl, Renee and I would bring her down to the soup kitchens on Thanksgiving.”

“Thank God we don't do that anymore,” she said affectionately.

To show that he didn't take himself too seriously, he laughed and set down his glass. “Well, we don't need to anymore, because you're a full-grown woman, and your mother always did a good job teaching you strong values.”

Allison cracked up. “Mom didn't do shit. You were one who taught me everything, not her.”

He shook his head but didn't argue the point; he was starting to lose his focus, and he could tell that Heath wanted to eat. “Anyway,” he said, “I'm very proud of you, and I'm grateful for having both of you here on Thanksgiving.”

She reached out and took his hand. “I'm grateful for you, too, Daddy.”

Pleased, he gave her hand a squeeze. Across the table, Heath thought,
I can't believe I just met Nathaniel Pike.

5

Sixty miles away, in the rolling hills of western Massachusetts, Marlene and Stuart were getting ready for their own Thanksgiving dinner. The inn where they were staying was packed with guests—young couples, mostly, weekenders from Boston, New York, Connecticut. According to the register, the Breens were the only guests from Rhode Island.

The view through their bedroom window was of a brown fallow field and, in the distance, a margin of trees—most of them bare but some still clinging to a hint of autumn orange and red. Staring out the window, Marlene pictured her naked body striding across the bright, empty field. From the time they'd arrived, she'd kept an eye out for streaking opportunities, whether a suggestive overpass or a bend in the road. Here in the Berkshires, she could stay outside for hours at a time, maybe even bring herself to orgasm by the banks of a gushing, foamy-cold millstream. She and Stuart could have sex if they wanted. In the country, the roads and streams and skirting trailways were a constant invitation to take off their clothes and show themselves to the world.

“We're going to have the best vacation, honey,” she said, inspecting herself in the bedroom mirror. Her skirt was a full size too tight around her waist, and her feet looked swollen where she'd stuffed them into a new pair of spiky heels. “Let's eat quickly, okay? The less we order, the better. I'm fat enough as it is.”

A voice inside advised him to say something nice about her weight, but instead he began unpacking his suitcase. He wished that they could enjoy the evening one step at a time and not let whatever might happen after dinner preoccupy and distract them.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” he asked. The thought of spending eight hours going to galleries and antique stands didn't appeal to him. The bookstores in the area didn't look like the sort to carry his book, either.

Marlene went to the dresser, picked up her brush and used it to chop the snarls out of her hair. “It's your call. We can go bumming, or we can have a nice leisurely lunch. I'll go anywhere you're not embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“Why would I be embarrassed?”

She laughed. “No reason, Stuart. It's just a saying.”

“No, it's not. I wish you'd stop putting yourself down.”

“I'm not putting myself down,” she said. With the same willfully calm expression, she tossed her brush onto the dresser and went to work on her makeup. “By the way, if you're looking for the cell phone, I left it at home. We're here to have fun. Let's not worry about work or money or anything.”

“Sounds good,” he said, “but someone may need to call us.”

He knew that belaboring this would only hurt her feelings, so he didn't. This holiday was more for her sake than his, anyway. He was perfectly happy to stay in Providence, where at least there were limits to what they could or couldn't do.

Once they'd finished getting dressed, she said, “I'm sorry I'm so ugly and fat and bloated.”

Stuart took her face in his hands and kissed her with as much tenderness as he could muster. “You're not ugly,” he said. “You're the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“You're crazy,” she said, which was what she always said to him whenever he called her beautiful.

Taking their coats, they went outside and drove the quarter mile to the town's only restaurant. Two rooms—one screened-in and open only in the summertime—accommodated the guests of the inn, plus whoever else happened to stop by. With its chipped wooden floors and tarnished wall sconces, the dining room had the look of belonging in someone's old home.

All during dinner, Stuart kept wondering about their plans for later. The other couples in the restaurant would probably have dessert and an after-dinner drink, then drive back to their hotel, build a fire, make love and go to bed. Why wasn't that good enough for him and Marlene? Their expectations were too high for each other. Every night had to be as fresh and exciting as the first night they'd spent together.

Halfway through dinner, Marlene mentioned going to Martha's Vineyard in May with Bill and Carla Marshall. “I think we should do it,” she said. For a main course, she'd selected an appetizer of poached quail eggs to go with her bottle's worth of white wine, which she'd ordered by the glass. “You'll need a break after dealing with Mr. Pike all winter.”

“That's assuming we get the damn thing done on time,” Stuart said. “We might still be working on it in May.”

Looking down at her empty plate, she wished that she'd ordered something more substantial than just an appetizer. Still, she wanted to feel beautiful tonight, and that meant not having to worry about her weight. “Well, anyway,” she said, “you can always take some time off. I know how hard you work. You work a lot harder than I do.”

Stuart sulked as she asked the waiter for another glass of wine. He hated hearing her say nice things about him. These things, he knew, were impersonal and based mostly on wishful thinking. They certainly didn't apply to him.

“I
don't
work harder,” he said. “There was a time when I did, but that was long before you knew me. I don't even know
how
to work anymore. I think that's why Nate likes me. He doesn't like hard workers.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Because (a) Nathaniel Pike is a complete lunatic, but (b) he feels threatened by people who have conventional views about money. Nate never had to work hard for his money. He had to work
smart
but not hard. There's a difference.”

When Marlene's drink arrived, she poured the little bit of wine left in her glass into her new one, then handed the empty to the waiter.

“I'm not a hard worker either,” she said, “at least not compared to some people. Carla's a hard worker. I guess that's why she's my boss.” She gazed at one of the nearby couples, a nice-looking man and woman who were sitting over their espressos while a busboy cleared their dirty dishes. “I feel like I haven't done anything with my life.”

He didn't know what else to say, so he asked for the check and paid in cash, leaving a fat stack of bills under his water glass. Looking at the money, Marlene said, “That was wonderful,” but then remembered she'd had almost nothing to eat. It depressed her, wasting Thanksgiving on a few lousy quail eggs.

When she was finished with her wine, she offered him her hand, which he held over the table. He could tell by the dullness in her eyes that she was drunk. He knew this Marlene as well as the other; they were like two different copies of the same picture—all the details matched up and yet, side by side, they suggested a difference.

“Do you think I'm a bad person?” she asked.

He let go of her hand. “Of course not.”

“Because . . . I don't know. I was a good kid, and everything seemed okay when I got to be an adult, but then I just stopped wanting to do things.” Something lit up inside, and she stared across the table. “I've got to do it, Stuart. Tonight. I want someone to see me.”

He glanced nervously toward the maitre d', who was standing at the next table. “Take it easy, hon,” he said.

“I'm not drunk, if that's what you're thinking.”

His cheeks flushed hotly. “I never said that.”

“I know exactly where I am and what I'm doing. I want to be naked.”

“Shh, hon, you're raising your voice. Let's just go back to the inn. Trust me, you'll be glad in the morning.”

Some heads were turning to look at them, so she said, “You're right, I'm sorry. I'll stop.”

Oddly enough, that wasn't what he wanted to hear, either. He didn't know what he wanted.
I'm a mess,
he thought.

After a pause, she asked, “Stuart, are you sorry that you married me?”

He scowled. Questions like this always annoyed him. “No. Why?”

“Because I'm so boring.”

“You don't need to entertain me. That's not why people get married.” He squinted to see what she was doing with her right hand. Having already unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse, she'd gone to work on the third. “Cut it out,” he snapped.

“I'm sorry,” she said, dropping her hand.

“All right, Christ, fine . . . if you're so goddamned determined.”

He pushed his chair away from the table, and she followed him out of the restaurant. Other couples were just arriving for the second seating; the men were older than Stuart, better dressed, with an air of inherited wealth that reminded him of the Reese family on local TV. As for their wives, Stuart counted a number of lantern jaws, which he'd always associated with over-bred, entitled women. He couldn't imagine any of them doing what he and Marlene were about to.

Once outside, Marlene hurried across the parking lot, taking tiny steps in her heels. The cold autumn air embraced her, and she could feel an undefined, ethereal body racing a few steps ahead of her own physical form. It was the same sensation as when she'd streaked across the backyard with Stuart, only more intense.

Sitting in the car, he reached over from the driver's side and put his hand on her leg. Her pantyhose was rough, and her skin felt hot through the material.

“Where should I get undressed?” she asked.

His ears pricked up; he felt as though he could experience each second of time an instant before the rest of the world did. He looked out the window, then behind him, across the backseat. The parking lot was lit up with yellow sodium lights. “I don't know,” he said. “Let's just drive for awhile.”

“What are we looking for?” she asked. Her hand had moved up her skirt as she touched herself through the fabric of her pantyhose. She did this out of a compulsion, hardly aware of it herself.

“I don't know,” he repeated, then started the car and pulled out of the lot. The roads were perfectly dark; the car's high beams shone cones of hazy white light across the two-lane street. Dense walls of trees flickered by, dissolving away to expose a fenced-in field, a mill, an old pharmacy, a block of antique shops—all of them closed down for the night—and then just more trees and darkness, here and there a gravel trail that led straight into the forest.

Marlene steeled herself and, in a thoughtless burst of energy, tore off her clothes. Like Stuart's, her sense of time had accelerated; all of this was happening much too fast for her to experience it in the present tense. As if from a distance, she observed her naked body in the seat of the car, her bare feet raised and pressed against the windshield, hands moving across her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. “I can't believe I'm doing this,” she said.

The road continued straight for another quarter mile or so. When another car appeared, she spread her feet apart and thrust out her chest, staring determinedly into the headlights that illuminated her body. She couldn't see the driver's face, but she was fairly certain that he or she, whoever it was, could see her. She
had
to believe it.
Look at me,
she thought, then said it out loud, her right hand rubbing between her legs. Once the car had passed, she tried to remember what it'd felt like. The only way she could explain it to herself, and this revelation came much later, was that she'd given the other person something so central to herself—the sight of her naked body—that the stranger now maintained a sexual control over her, control that was total and could never be revoked.

By the time they'd reached the next little village, her need to put herself in an even more dangerous situation had increased to the point where she felt like a passenger inside her own body. She had no choice over what her body decided to do, so she had no accountability for any of its decisions. Swept along, she unrolled the window and tossed her skirt and blouse outside. Wind filled the car, wrapping around her torso like a pair of cold hands.

The woods became more sparse as they drew closer to Great Barrington, where a Mobil station stood at the junction with Highway 7, a police car parked out front with its engine running.

Marlene crouched under the level of the dashboard as Stuart drove past. Her own thoughts confused her. As expected, she felt excited, aroused, a little dizzy—but also trapped, unable to control herself, filled with regret. Climbing back up to her seat, she rolled herself in a ball and thought,
Please stop doing this, please.
I don't want to do this anymore.

“Take a left here.” She pointed at a sign marked To Mass Pike. Stuart veered the car onto an empty street and continued for another few miles before she told him to pull over. He hesitated; the breakdown lane was narrow and hard to see in the dark. As he eased to a stop, his tires kicked up a cloud of dust that hung suspended like fog in the headlights. He turned off the car, and they both sat quietly for a moment, almost too stunned to speak.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

With her arms wedged between her legs, she'd managed to cover both her breasts and her pubic hair, but this only made her look even more naked. “Scared,” she admitted.

Stuart checked the rearview mirror. It reflected nothing, only black. “Do you want to go home?”

“Oh, no,” she insisted but said nothing more.

He felt as though he were looking at and speaking to a very young girl. “What do you want to do?”

She pushed a lock of her dark hair behind one ear. Because the danger had passed—this was a quiet street, after all—being naked didn't feel special anymore. In fact, it struck her as depressingly banal. She hadn't risked enough, hadn't gone far enough. She lacked the courage to continue. From now on, her nakedness was a punishment—given by herself, to herself—for having a body and for being a bad person.

Stuart's voice prompted her. “Marlene?”

Feeling pressured, she asked him for his sports jacket, which he took off and handed to her. “Just turn around,” she said. They'd both been through enough for one night—especially Stuart, who wasn't as committed as she was. But it was a good start. She felt good about what she'd done.