“She’s fine, thank you.”
“Alex says she’s working for Ben Nevada. That couldn’t be easy, but what’s easy?”
“This is,” a woman seated beside her said, and she raised her glass to Mrs. Southgate and took a sip of her martini.
She said, “Who’s this?”—looking at me.
“Lang Penner,” said Mrs. Southgate.
“Penner?” said the woman. “Who married a Penner?”
“He’s a friend of Alex’s,” said Mrs. Southgate.
“Are you an actor?” the woman asked.
“He’s not anything,” said Mrs. Southgate. “He’s still in high school. You’re still in high school, aren’t you, Lang?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“From New York?” the woman asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Alex is a wonderful actor!” the woman said.
“Yes, he is,” I said.
“Peter’s here with his girlfriend,” said Mrs. Southgate. “Her father is a big film director: José Lopez.”
“Do you know Peter?” the woman asked me.
“Yes, I know him.”
“José Lopez has something to do with that new sitcom Sun Fun,” said Mrs. Southgate.
The woman said, “I never watch sitcoms.”
“I don’t either,” I said.
“I’m Dorothy Southgate,” the woman said as she stood up. “I’m Alex’s aunt.”
“Didn’t I introduce you?” Mrs. Southgate said. “I thought I introduced you.”
“I have to find my daughter,” said Dorothy Southgate.
“Did she bring the baby?” Mrs. Southgate asked.
“The baby’s with a sitter today,” said Dorothy Southgate.
Mrs. Southgate watched her leave.
She said, “Thank God I’ve got Peter! If I thought I’d have to go through life without grandchildren, I’d throw in the proverbial towel. You’re an only child, aren’t you, Lang?”
“Yes. There’s just me.”
“How does your mother feel about it?”
“How does she feel about what?”
“How does she feel about not ever having grandchildren?”
“We haven’t discussed it, Mrs. Southgate.”
“If you ever get around to discussing it” she said, “take plenty of Kleenex along—she’ll appreciate it.” She took a big sip of her martini. None of the guests were hurrying our way. Alex often said that his mother, in her cups, could frighten ravenous bees away from honey.
Mrs. Southgate rested her martini on her knee. She waved one hand in a circle. “This is what it’s all about, Lang, Anniversaries, grandkids, family gatherings.” And from behind me I heard Alex add, “And Stolichnaya, Mom, with a whisper of vermouth.”
“It’s about that, too,” she said. “Find me a cigarette somewhere, honey. I never should have given up smoking entirely. There’s such a thing as being too pure, not that it’d be anything you have to worry about.”
“We’ll be right back,” said Alex.
We walked in the opposite direction, away from the party, down along the path, where there was a good view of the Hudson River from the cliff.
“How are you holding up?” he asked me.
“I’m hanging in there.”
“I don’t want to stay much longer. There’s a cousin of mine heading back to New York; he said he’d take us in.”
“It’s a shame to leave when we’re having so much fun,” I said.
“Ha ha,” he said.
“Why do you do this, Alex? Why do I have to come to these things with you?”
“Peter brings his dates.”
“What happens when Peter has children? Do we rescue some poor orphans from China?”
He wasn’t listening to me. He said, “I was basting more ribs for Dad, and he seized that opportunity to give me a lecture about AIDS. He said, ‘I mention this because I read somewhere that you people are going back to being promiscuous.’ I said, ‘This is the sixth time you’ve met Lang. Peter hasn’t shown up at these things with the same girl twice. Tell Peter about safe sex, not me.’
“So he said, ‘Why do you always compare yourself to Peter? The only way you’re like Peter is your looks!’ And I said, ‘I’m a lot prettier than Peter, wouldn’t you say?’ ‘Pretty’s the word, all right, Alex,’ he said, ‘and look where being pretty has gotten you!’”
“Why do you always compare yourself with Peter?” I said.
“Because he’s my gawdamned twin!”
We stood there looking out at the long, low-hung Tappan Zee Bridge in the distance.
I told him about Nevada’s offer to get us tickets for the Fourth of July celebration.
“I’ve never understood one word Cog Wheeler sings!”
“I didn’t think you wanted to go.”
“It’s your birthday weekend, love. We’ll do what you want.”
“I don’t want to go either.”
“You sure?”
“That isn’t how I want to spend my birthday.”
“I never know with you anymore.”
“You never know with me anymore?”
“I don’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your girlfriend. You spend all that time with her.”
“Not that much,” I lied.
“Do you know what she did? She wrote me a note thanking me for last Sunday.”
“She said she was going to.”
“She sent it to the theater.”
“I told her to, since you say your mail’s always being swiped from your box.”
“It was waiting backstage last night.”
“So? What about it?”
“She closed saying she was going to get some ‘sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,’ and then she added, ‘as they say in Macbeth!’… Migawd!” He hit his forehead with his palm.
I said, “Give her a break. She was just trying to impress you by quoting Shakespeare.”
“She impressed me all right!” said Alex. “She named the play!”
“What about it?”
“She named it, Lang. In a letter to the theater!”
It took me a second or so to remember.
It’s bad luck to refer to that play by name. Actors really believe it is. It’s part of stage lore, the same as you’re never supposed to wish an actor good luck; you say something like “Break a leg” instead.
Alex took all that very seriously.
I said, “You mean you can’t even write the name?”
“If you have to write it, you write ‘the Scottish play.’”
“How would she know that?”
“The actor playing Horatio flubbed his lines last night! Cal Gherin never makes mistakes! And I got indigestion in the first act!”
“Come on, Alex. Get a life!”
“There’s something unlucky about her.”
“Last week you said you liked her.”
“Last week you said the masquerade was over. Did you tell her about us?”
“Not yet.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I will.”
“I won’t hold my breath.”
He turned and walked away from me. I knew it wasn’t just Huguette who had him so steamed. It was the way his family treated us. He
