She gave me a quick kiss and a wave and ran off, trying to keep her slingbacks on her feet, the rain splashing her.
I stood in the doorway of Polo opening the present, lightning flashing suddenly in the sky.
It was in a tiny blue Tiffany box.
I remembered the day Brittany and I went to the beach in her mother’s BMW. We’d talked about Deep Blue Something’s hit “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” That was the day I met Huguette…and I remembered when I first saw her I thought she looked like the actress in that film: Audrey Hepburn.
All of that seemed longer ago than just a few weeks.
I took out a small gold key chain, with a solid gold circle attached, something engraved in its center.
Paint Over It.
There was a card enclosed.
I will play it for you soon. But this will help you remember the summer, and it is good advice, anyway, even if it is not a perfect song. H.
TWENTY-ONE
KEVIN MCCAFFERY OWNED Sob Story. He drove a beige SAAB convertible with a license plate that said SAB STORY. Except for the “sizzling” steaks, all the dinners were brought in from a food concession, preprepared, frozen. But every day McCaffery took great pains to compose a “Daily Specials” menu:
• Homemade Pot Roast fresh from the oven with Tiny Carrots, Onions, and Long Island Potatoes
• Our Chef’s delicious Fillet of Boneless Chicken Breasts Sautéed with Lemon and Butter.
Et cetera, et cetera.
In the kitchen I arranged the food on plates, pulled salads from plastic bags and doused them with dressing, cut pieces of cake and slices of pie, and scooped ice cream.
We were packed that weekend; we always were on the long weekends.
That was why I was surprised when McCaffery appeared in the kitchen at nine o’clock to tell me I was finished for the night.
“Take off your apron and get ready to leave.”
“Is something wrong, sir?”
“Something’s right for a change. Ben Nevada just called to say he wants to give a private party here tomorrow night in honor of The Failures.”
“Since when are we open on Sundays?”
“Since he called. I’m going to Roundelay with you now, to discuss the details with him. C’mon, Lang. You’ve been moving in slow motion all night. What’s with you?”
I hadn’t been able to get my mind off Huguette and the gift she’d given me. It was so totally unexpected.
As we drove through the rain, McCaffery told me they’d done 120 dinners the night before and close to that already tonight. He said he supposed he had me to thank for the party Nevada was planning, and I told him honestly that it was the first I’d heard about it. I didn’t even know Nevada had any connection with The Failures.
The only thing I did know Huguette had mentioned: that same article Nevada had told me he’d read in Rolling Stone about Cog Wheeler. Cog Wheeler had said that his song “Pop’s Rap” was a tribute to Nevada, inspired by “Dad’s Advice.” Wheeler told the interviewer that Nevada’s father sounded a lot like his own, and that he’d named his group The Failures because his father had once remarked that he was a failure and so were all his friends.
I’d never heard “Pop’s Rap.”
The only song of Cog Wheeler’s that I really knew was his big hit “Heard About You.”
Every time you turned on a radio that summer, you heard that fragile, reedy voice singing:
Heard about you,
Heard you couldn’t be true,
Heard you did it with Sue,
Heard about you,
We’ve all heard about you.
It was about a guy whose girlfriend had ditched him for another girl. When Alex had heard it, he’d said he doubted there’d be a hit song about a girl losing her boyfriend to another boy. The public wouldn’t go for that.
When we got to the gates at Roundelay, I said, “Let me off here.”
The rottweilers were in good form, and McCaffery had to shout above them to be heard. “You come up to Roundelay with me, Lang.”
“He’s not expecting me.”
“Just introduce me, okay?”
“He won’t like it, Mr. McCaffery.”
“Just introduce me and then leave!”
He didn’t wait for any more protests from me. The gates opened and we went through them.
There were about a dozen cars parked outside.
I said, “I’m not going in.”
“You work for me from five to ten,” McCaffery said. “It’s only nine twenty now.”
He pulled in behind a Lexus, and we ran through the rain to the side door.
Nevada was right there waiting.
“Hello, Penner.”
I said, “Mr. Nevada, this is Kevin McCaffery.”
“I know who he is,” he growled. “Hang your coats here on the rack.”
“I’m not staying, sir,” I said.
“Yes you are, Penner,” he said.
McCaffery hung up his raincoat, and I put my jacket next to it.
“Come along,” said Nevada.
I wondered why he’d given Franklin the night off when he was entertaining.
After we walked down the long hall, up two steps, down another hall, and into the living room, I knew why.
“Happy Birthday!” everyone shouted.
I just stood there.
While everyone sang, I looked around that huge yellow-and-green room with the three sofas, two settees, ten chairs, six benches, and four potted trees.
Some of the guests I knew. My mother and Franklin. Nick Ball and Allie Perez. And Huguette, of course, all smiles, hugging herself and laughing hard.
I didn’t know the guy next to her, but I’d seen him before. He wasn’t wearing the Red Dog beer cap, but he still had on the mirrored glasses.
When they’d finished singing “Happy Birthday,” Huguette took him by the hand and brought him across to me.
“You remember the serial murderer,” she said. “Lang, this is Cog Wheeler.”
TWENTY-TWO
THE FAILURES WERE THERE in full force, young girls with long hair, long legs, and short skirts following after them. Except for Cog Wheeler, the band had that grungy Seattle look.
He didn’t. With his cap off there was the trademark shock of fire-red, spiky hair. But he wore no jewelry, only a watch. He had on a khaki T-shirt, black jeans, and black high-top sneakers.
