“PLATO! PLATO! PLA-TO!”
The Beatles sang me out as I went down the walk at the side of the house. “Love Me Do.”
I thought of Alex and of the three months ahead of us.
TEN
THERE WAS PLASTER OF Paris all over everything: my shirt, jeans, arms, and legs—Brittany’s bikini, her body, even some on her face.
But we had these hardened chunks of sand and plaster to show for it, and we’d managed to get through the afternoon without an argument.
Then, on the way home, in her mother’s BMW, while WBEA was playing Deep Blue Something, Brittany said, “I always loved their old hit ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’”
“Yeah. It was a good song.”
“This pair who didn’t have anything in common but that movie they both liked.”
“I liked the movie too. What was her name? Audrey Hepburn. Sitting on the fire escape, playing her guitar, singing ‘Moon River.’”
“If it was really her singing.”
“I think it was.”
“Sometimes in movies they dub those singing voices.”
“I think it was her.”
“I forgot what a movie buff you are, Lang.”
“I’m going to miss that out here. All they have is U.A. crap. No revivals. No foreign stuff.”
“But you go into New York some weekends, don’t you?”
“Some,” I said.
“Isn’t your friend Alex in a play?”
“He’s in Hamlet.”
“Gawd, is he a hunk!”
“Yeah.”
“I wouldn’t mind meeting him.”
“You met him that day we ran into you at Saks.”
“I mean really meet him.”
I didn’t say anything. We’d stopped at The Red Horse so she could pick up some groceries, and we were crossing the Montauk Highway, headed south, where the houses got bigger and you could smell the ocean.
Brittany said, “With you out here this summer, and me in the city, it would be nice to have someone I could hang out with.”
“We wouldn’t hang out together if I was there, anyway.”
“You’ve made that clear.”
“Then what’s this ‘with you out here this summer and me in the city’ crap?”
“Lang, what is it with you? You don’t want me but you get mad if I hint that I’d like to meet Alex.”
“I’m not mad!”
“You’re mad.”
“You’ve met Alex. Call him up if you’re so hot to see him!”
“You see? You’d hate it if I called him up!”
“Call him up and see how much I’d hate it!”
“I might.”
“He’s the one who’d hate it.”
“Why would he hate it?”
“He wouldn’t be interested.”
“We’ll see.”
We were coming toward The Maidstone Club, which was the big-deal social snob scene, a block from Roundelay. Franklin had told my mother they’d turned Nevada down when he’d wanted to join so he could play golf there. They didn’t like rock stars. They didn’t like Jews or blacks, either. They didn’t like more people than they did like.
“I will call him up,” Brittany said. I thought she’d dropped it.
She said, “Just because you think I’m unattractive, that doesn’t mean others don’t find me attractive.”
“I never said you were unattractive, Brittany.”
“You said Alex wouldn’t find me interesting.”
“No. I said he wouldn’t be interested.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Why isn’t it the same thing?”
“Would you let me out here? I can walk from here.”
I’d had it.
It was what always happened between us: bantering until it began boiling, then boiling over.
“Tell me the difference between not being interested and not finding someone interesting,” she said.
I said, “Someone could be interesting, but if someone was gay, they might not be interested.”
I could see the property marker for Roundelay, which was four acres away from where we were.
“Oh, Gawd, Lang, you’ll really stoop to anything!” said Brittany
I was thinking just a minute or two more and I’d be out of there.
Brittany said, “Are you trying to tell me Alex is gay?”
“Alex is. I am.” My voice was very calm and suddenly so was I. Very calm.
I could feel her eyes on me. I kept looking straight ahead. Someone had to watch the road.
“You’re gay?”
“I’m gay.”
She said, “Then you and Alex are…?”
She didn’t finish.
“A couple.” I helped her out.
We were right at that point near Roundelay where I had to get out, down by the oak trees, away from the gate.
She stopped the BMW.
I said, “That was what was wrong. Not you.”
“Now you tell me.”
“I should have told you before. I didn’t know how.”
“Damn right you should have told me before!”
“Well, I told you.” I opened the door.
“Yes. Get out!” she said.
It was then that I saw Nevada’s Ford heading out of the gate, turning in our direction.
I got out.
I shut the door.
“Lang?”
I turned around. The window on the passenger side was open.
Through it came one of the sand casts.
I jumped out of the way and it crashed on the pavement.
Then Brittany took off, the wheels squealing as she made a right turn too fast.
The Ford stopped in front of me.
Behind the wheel was a girl with short black hair and green eyes, grinning.
She leaned over and called out, “Hey! Who threw the brick at you?”
I’d picked up the two pieces of the sand cast I’d made.
I held them up. “It’s not a brick.”
“Rocks?” She laughed. “Someone threw rocks at you?”
I laughed too. “It’s a long story.”
“Get in!” she said. “Show me the way to town, hmmm?”
I leaned against the door. The window was rolled down. “I’m Huguette Haun,” she said.
“I heard you were coming.”
“So who are you?”
“Lang Penner.” I thought of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She looked like her, like that actress Audrey Hepburn. Only she spoke with a French accent. “Glad to meet you, Huguette.”
“Eu, Eu, Eugette,” she said. “If you say my name Yougette, you get nothing!”
She opened the car door for me.
“Get in!”
ELEVEN
MAIN STREET IN EAST Hampton was filled with places where you could pick up a pair of old bookends for $1,000, or a pair of jeans for $300.
My mother would come back to Roundelay with her eyes rolling in her head, quoting prices to me. She never bought anything.
Huguette parked in front of Polo, flashing a charge card she said “Uncle Ben” gave her. That was what she called Nevada. They weren’t related, but she said he’d been in her life as long
