Rich Friends (6 page)

It was. Beverly raced for the door.

Dan, glancing around the tree-lit scene, his thick brows shooting up, bellicose as the MGM lion about to roar. He said nothing. “Come have a drink,” Beverly said, tugging him through the living room past Gene, Caroline, Em, and Sheridan, who gazed with open curiosity. In the dining room Dan stopped to greet Mr. Linde and to present a gold-wrapped chocolate box to Mrs. Linde. Mrs. Linde introduced him to the Harleys, and Thad Harley (Mr. Linde's partner) said in his veddy British accent that it just can't be Christmas, not with such masses of flowers and sunshine, then Beverly and Dan, drinks in hand, moved on to listen to a heated masculine discussion of the upcoming Rose Bowl game, and Dan, from Michigan and therefore loyal to the Big Ten, said Illinois by thirty points, and the men tackled him, saying UCLA would win by two TDs at least, and Mrs. Linde tapped Beverly's shoulder, saying, “Dear, you mustn't forget your guests,” so Beverly mumbled to Dan she was going in the living room, turning quickly, hoping he'd continue to do battle for the Illini.

He followed her.

Grasping his hand with her icy one, she introduced him to Caroline and Gene, to Em and Sheridan. She stumbled over names.

Caroline invariably blanketed awkward situations with talk. Spooning eggnog, dripping on her chin, a triangular blob she remained blissfully unaware of, she chattered about a favorite subject of Gene's: State Senator Tenney's blowing in from Sacramento to huff and puff on liberal professors at UCLA. “He's about,” she declared, “to attempt mass conflagration of any he thinks bow in the direction of Moscow.”

“And quite a few others,” Gene interpolated.

“The faculty won't
stand
for it!” Caroline.

“They will,” Em said. Over her smock her freckled hands clenched. Lately Em had become depressingly aware that fair play does not the real world make. “People with families think twice about losing their jobs.”

“But Em, the way the Tenney Committee works,” Gene said, “is against the state constitution.”

Dan asked, “Going into law—it is Gene, isn't it?”

“Yes. Gene. No. Teaching.”

“At the university level,” Caroline added. “And, of course, write.”

At the word write, Gene's pleasant, hound-dog face turned red.

And Em asked, “Dan, where did you go to school?”

“The University of Michigan.”

“Oh?” Sheridan's finger drummed on his glass. “Grossblatt? I should've thought you'd've gone to an Eastern college.”

This was one of those inexplicable lulls in party conversation, otherwise you never would have heard the slight inflection in Sheridan's voice as he said Eastern. His meaning was obvious to Beverly. Admittedly, though, she was a specialist. So was Dan. His smile disappeared.

“Why?”

“Beverly said you live in New York.” Sheridan's tone was morose, chilly.

“And that limits my choice of colleges?”

The tension around Sheridan's lips was heavy, as was his dislike. He said nothing. He did not need to.

“We are,” Dan snapped, “allowed out of state.”

Em pushed back a sandy bang. “C-Columbia's one of the best sch-schools.”

Caroline held up her empty glass. “All gone,” she cried. “Gene, get me another. And Beverly's is empty, too. Poor thing, she's dying of thirst, aren't you, luv?”

Dan took Beverly's glass, setting it on the piano. “Already she's
shikker,
” he said.

Beverly's face burned. She was pretty stewed, but she could see only too clearly Gene's questioning expression, three other pairs of eyes glazed with bewilderment. None of them knew the word. She herself had learned it from Dan, a Yiddish expression and one she was positive he'd used with malice aforethought.

“You're right,” she said to Dan. “I need some air.” And pulled him past a group of PTA ladies, through the door, down the short hall to her bedroom.

It was cool and smelled, faintly, of Apple Blossom cologne that she'd sprayed on two hours earlier. She kicked the door shut. Laughter and sounds of Christmas revelry were muffled, receding in waves. Dan didn't put his arms around her. Their being alone, though, was comfort. She was sober enough to know they shouldn't be in here, drunk enough not to care.

She kissed his chin.

“Uhh-uh.”

“Why not?” She kissed his mouth lightly, touching her tongue to his lower lip. His breathing slowed. She could feel
it
pressing against her. Closing her eyes, she traced the twin tendons in back of his neck. Freshly barbered hair prickled her fingertips.

Loud party noises. The door had opened.

Mrs. Linde stood in the hall, her face a pale egg suspended in gloom. Beverly stepped back, hoping in her wild confusion that her mother wouldn't notice Dan's pants. Dumb, she thought. Stupid. When his chin looks as if someone used it to clean magenta from a paintbrush.

“Beverly,” Mrs. Linde said calmly, “I need help with the ham biscuits.”

The floor changed directions.

Dan gripped her arm. “Okay?” he asked.

“Beverly.” Mother's voice.

“Frances, she's not feeling well.”

Beverly opened her eyes and for the briefest moment saw aversion ripple through her mother's face. Her mother and Dan were staring at her. Beverly comprehended that she was a dueling ground, but she was too befuddled to understand what the combatants expected of her.

“Come on,” Dan said. “We'll walk around the block.”

“Beverly, your guests.”

Dan and her mother kept speaking, and in the living room Bing dreamed of a white Christmas.

“Get your coat.” Dan's voice was angry. Rasping. Was it the Scotch? She heard not him, but his father's gutturals. Maybe Dan was his father. Maybe. What did she really know about Dan except she loved him? Except right now she hated him.

“I'm fine,” she said.

Her mother blocked the hall. “First go wash your face, dear,” said Mrs. Linde. “And remember. Use a fresh napkin in the biscuit basket.”

Beverly dawdled over the washbasin.

When she emerged, Dan was leaning against the arch between dining and living rooms, talking with vigorous gestures to Gene, who listened, his head tilted attentively. Dan, smiling at her, kept talking. Loudly. About the good works of the B'nai B'rith Anti-Defamation League. In Glendale, Jewish people spoke of such matters quietly and always among themselves. Beverly wished she could erase Dan and his voice. At the table, tall Sheridan, holding a canapé, bent over bulgy little Em. As Beverly approached, they fell silent, and Em's cheeks, under the pancake makeup, flooded with color. Beverly had a quick drink. Caroline, laughing with the Tinkers, didn't ask Beverly to join them. Beverly offered beaten biscuits through the living room. She could hear Dan's voice. She had another quick one.

Finally, around six, she closed the front door on Caroline and Gene and the Reeds. She headed again for the reproduction sideboard which today served as a bar. She was dizzy, nauseated, and had to make an effort to appear (almost) sober.

“Quit while you're on your feet,” Dan said in her ear.

“It's a party.”

“You're ready to keel over.”

“Why'd you have to talk about that to Gene?” she asked. Never before had she used this low, furious tone. Never. A stranger was talking.
In vino veritas
. That stranger is me.

“The Anti-Defamation League?”

“Yes.”

“He was interested.” Bellicose. “And why the hell shouldn't I talk about it?”

“And did you have to make that scene with Sheridan? About nothing?” This definitely is not me.

She started to move away. Dan grabbed her arm, examining her. The Christmas tree a blinking rainbow pyramid, “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem,” a smell of pine, a fall of laughter, and the two of them facing one another.

The muscles around Dan's eyes contorted. “So that's what's with you,” he said.

Beverly twisted from his grasp.

A drink later, she heard Mr. Harley's polite voice being marched over by Dan, something about the British having no right to be in Palestine, something about a White Paper being reneged on. From time to time she caught Dan examining her with an expression she was far too drunk to interpret. He left as the disembodied tones of Lionel Barrymore started to creak out the story of Scrooge.

5

It rained January 5, on the night before Dan was to leave.

He was staying at the Biltmore, and he and Beverly ate in the Grill. Over his porterhouse he told of his day in various shoe stores. She looked into his face. She knew misery when she saw it, but he continued talking in a pleasant tone. He was standing. He must've signed the check. A convention of California Men's Clothiers, yellow identification cards on their lapels, crowded the vast lobby. Dan stopped at a gilt easel with a true-color photograph of Tanya Someone, appearing nightly. He said, “We'll go hear her.”

“No.”

“It's wet out,” Dan said. “She's convenient.”

“No,” Beverly repeated.

“Where do you want, then?”

“Your room.”

A threesome of Men's Clothiers eyed Beverly up, down, up again.

“To talk. I won't rape you. Dan, please?”

The men were listening. Dan shrugged, heading for the broad steps that led to the elevator hall. Neither of them spoke on their way to his room. Lighting a cigar, he lounged on the bed made up as a couch. Its perpendicular mate was turned down. She sat on the chair. Gusts of water slashed at windows.

“Lucky it wasn't like this New Year's,” he said. And conversed about the Rose Bowl. He'd been close on those thirty points, Illinois having skunked UCLA 45–14. She twisted her purse strap.

I must start, she thought, I must.

She was in this impersonal room to put an end to cocooned silences, to conversations breaking midsentence, to ambiguity about future letters. It was dead for him, she assumed, but she wanted it interred as it had lived. With honesty. She wanted to know cause of death. Even if the results of the autopsy killed her. She almost laughed. Wasn't she taking herself a mite seriously? If God didn't believe in her, how could she take herself so seriously?

Dan gestured at the windows. “This keeps up, they'll close the airport.”

“Dan.” Her heart was pounding furiously. “Listen, I'm very smart. It's obvious we're through, and it happened when I got drunk at the Open House. The thing is, I'm not sure why.” She swallowed painfully. “I mean, what happened?”

He was standing. “That Tanya, can she be all bad if she's booked here?”

“You'll be gone tomorrow. Dan, you're the only person I ever could talk to. Please?”

He sat again, tapping a cigar ash. “All right. Where shall we begin? Your parents?”

“It's us I need to understand.”

“For openers, then. Don't you think your mother talked a lot about age?”

“No. I guess. Maybe.” Yes. Of course. And hadn't Beverly eaten every meal to conversations about the quiet, unostentatious virtues?

“Dirty old man!” he snorted. “A first for me.”

“Parents always think their children are children.”

“On the button, in your case.” He spoke loudly. She jumped, and felt better. Being argumentative was more natural to Dan than the past few days' careful politeness. “And about this Lloyd Rawlings?”

She flushed. “They couldn't use their Civic Light Opera tickets. They gave them to Lloyd, a Christmas present.”

“And you don't call that running interference? Listen, there's one thing you ought to know. Your parents don't give one damn what's right for you. They worry about their friends. And put that word, ‘friends,' in quotes.”

“We're here to talk about us, not them.”

“I embarrass them. I admit I'm Jewish.”

“A lot of people there were. The Crowns, the Garets—”

Dan interrupted, “It's a new one on me.” Bewilderment creased his forehead. “Jewish parents who'd rather have their daughter take on a poor
goy
than—”

“They think we're more alike.…” Her voice trailed away. “Besides, Lloyd's not poor. He's bourgeois.” She didn't much care for that bourgeois. Pretentious. “Middle class. Like us. Middle middle. You try to fit in with everyone else, like it's a
Saturday Evening Post
world. Besides, money's not all that important to them.”

“
Mazeltov
!” he exploded. “And you don't know what you're talking about. Christmas trees, carols, the whole
schmear
, that's fitting in? There's nothing about their own God or their own past they want, so they horn in on someone else's.”

He's right, she thought, then her blood raced, and glands, loyal-to-her-parents glands that she hadn't realized existed in her, secreted hot acid in her arteries. She was on her feet, sorority white-cotton gloves, purse dropping unnoticed to beige carpet.

“Just because they aren't fanatics—”

“They're the worst kind!”

“They respect all sorts of people.”

“Respect, hell! They want to be them. They'll do anything, including wipe themselves out, to avoid being what they are. In Germany they supported Hitler. They gave him money. At the beginning they gave him money. They hated themselves that much!”

Cheekbones raised, Dan's face distorted as if he'd run the mile. Dan, looking into his not-so-private hell, a nightmare world that shrank Beverly's problems to nothing.

“They're not like that,” she said quietly. “You don't understand them.”

“The hell I don't!”

Her filial anger returned for a weak second round. “Just one afternoon couldn't you have behaved decently?”

“Decently? What's that mean?” Dan was talking in a deep, ferocious rumble, as if his voice came from a place beyond his control or volition. “Okay, okay, you're hot to have it out. I'd never seen this side of you, that's all, and—”