Kruse turned abruptly to take someone’s hand and his wife was caught off balance. Throwing her arm out for support, she took hold of his sleeve and held on tighter, wrapping herself around him. He continued to knead her bare shoulder, but for all the attention he paid to her, she might have been a sweater.
“Low self-esteem,” said Larry. “You’d have to be down on yourself to fuck on film.”
“Guess so.”
He drained his mug. “Going for a refill. Can I get you something?”
I held up my half-full soda glass. “Still working on this.”
He shrugged and went to the bar.
The Kruses had circled away from our table toward one filled with magpies. A fizz of small talk; then he laughed, a deep, self-satisfied sound. He said something to a male graduate student, pumped the student’s hand while running his eyes over the young man’s pretty wife. Suzanne Kruse kept smiling.
Larry returned. “So,” he said, settling, “how’s it going with you?”
“Great.”
“Yeah, me too. That’s why we’re here without our women, right?”
I sipped soda and gazed at him. He maintained eye contact but busied himself with a chicken wing.
The therapist’s look. Gravid with concern.
Genuine concern, but I wanted no part of it. Suddenly I felt like bolting. A quick jog back to the big stone arch, farewell to Gatsbyland.
Instead, I dipped into my own bag of shrink-moves. Parried a question with a question.
“How’s Brenda doing in law school?”
He knew full well what was going on, answered anyway. “Top ten percent of the class for the second year in a row.”
“You must be proud of her.”
“Sure. Except there’s another entire year to go. Check me same time next year and see if I’m still functioning.”
I nodded. “I’ve heard it’s a rotten process.”
His grin lost its warmth. “Anything that produces lawyers would have to be, wouldn’t it? Like turning sirloin into shit. My favorite part is when she comes home and cross-examines me about the house and the kids.”
He wiped his mouth and leaned in close. “One part of me understands it- she’s bright, brighter than I am, I always expected her to go for something other than housework. She was the one who said no, her own mother had worked full time, farmed her out to babysitters, she resented it. She got pregnant on our honeymoon, nine months later we had Steven, then the rest of them, like aftershocks. Now, all of a sudden, she needs to find herself. Clara Darrow.”
He shook his head. “The problem is the timing. Here I am, finally getting to a point where I don’t have to hustle referrals. The associates are reliable, the practice is basically running itself. The baby starts first grade next year, we could take some time off, travel. Instead, she’s gone twenty hours a day while I play Mr. Mom.”
He scowled. “Be careful, my friend- though with Robin it’ll probably be different, she’s already had her career, might be ready to settle down.”
I said, “Robin and I are separated.”
He stared at me, shook his head, again. Rubbed his chin and sighed. “Shit, I’m sorry. How long’s it been?”
“Five weeks. Temporary vacation that just seemed to stretch.”
He drained his beer. “I’m really sorry. I always thought you guys were the perfect couple.”
“I thought so, too, Larry.” My throat got tight and my chest burned. I was certain that everyone was looking at me, though when I looked around, no one was. Just Larry, eyes as soft as a spaniel’s.
“Hope it works out,” he said.
I stared into my glass. The ice had melted to slush. “Think I will have something stronger.”
I elbowed my way through the crush at the bar and ordered a double gin and tonic that fell just short of single strength. On the way back to the table I came face to face with Kruse. He looked at me. His eyes were light-brown flecked with green, the irises unusually large. They widened- with recognition I was certain- then flicked away and focused somewhere over my shoulder. Simultaneously, he shot out his hand, grasped mine firmly, covered it with his other, and moved our arms up and down while exclaiming, “So nice you could come!” Before I had a chance to reply, he’d used the handshake as leverage to propel himself past me, spinning me halfway around before relinquishing his grip and moving on.
Politician’s hustle. I’d been expertly manipulated.
Again.
I turned, saw his tailored back retreating, followed by the shimmering silver sheet of his wife’s hair swaying in counterpoint to her narrow, tight derriere.
The two of them walked several steps before being taken in hand by a tall, handsome middle- aged woman.
Slim and impeccably assembled in a custard-yellow silk cocktail dress, white rose corsage, and strategically placed diamonds, she could have been any President’s First Lady. Her hair was chestnut accented with pewter, combed back and tied in a chignon that crowned a long, full-jawed face. Her lips were thin, molded in a half-smile.
Finishing-school smile. Genetic poise.
I heard Kruse say, “Hello, Hope. Everything’s just beautiful.”
“Thank you, Paul. If you’ve a moment, there are some people I’d like you to meet.”
“Of course, dear.”
The exchange sounded rehearsed, lacking in warmth, and had excluded Suzanne Kruse. The three of them left the patio, Kruse and the First Lady side by side, the former Suzy Straddle following like a servant. They headed for a group of swans basking in the reflected light of one of the pools. Their arrival was heralded by the cessation of chatter and the lowering of glasses. A lot of flesh was pressed. Within seconds the swans were all listening raptly to Kruse. But the woman in yellow seemed bored. Even resentful.
I returned to the table, took a deep drink of gin. Larry raised his glass and touched it to mine.
“Here’s to old-fashioned girls, D. Long may they fucking live.”
I tossed back what was left of my gin and sucked on the ice. I hadn’t eaten all day, felt a light buzz coming on and shook my head to clear it. The movement brought a swatch of custard-yellow into view.
The First Lady had left Kruse’s side. She scanned the grounds, took a few steps, stopped and flicked her head toward a yellow spot on the lawn. Discarded napkin. A waiter rushed to pick it up. Like a captain on the bow of a frigate, the chestnut-haired woman shaded her eyes with her hand and continued to scan the grounds. She glided to one of the rosebeds, lifted a blossom and inspected it. Another waiter bearing shears was at her side immediately. A moment later the flower was in her hair and she was moving on.
“That’s our hostess?” I said. “In the pale-yellow dress?”
“No idea, D. Not exactly my social circle.”
“Kruse called her Hope.”
“Then that’s her. Hope Blalock. Springs eternal.”
A moment later, he said, “Some hostess. Notice how we’re all kept outside, no one gets into the house?”
“Like dogs that haven’t been housebroken.”
He laughed, lifted one leg off the chair and made a rude sound with his lips. Then he cocked his head at a nearby table. “Speaking of animal training, observe the maze-and-electrode crowd.”
Eight or nine grad students sat surrounding a man in his late fifties. The students favored corduroy, jeans, and plain cotton shifts, lank hair and wire-rims. Their mentor was stoop-shouldered, bald, and wore
