“Anything I need?”
“I assume you’ve found the bathroom? Through that second door. The television and a small fridge are in the armoire, and you can listen to whatever’s on the sound system by turning the volume dial over there.”
“Oh. Thanks. And thanks for having me. I hope it’s all right.”
“All right?”
“I mean on such short notice.” Or maybe none at all. Nat went forward, held out his hand, introduced himself as he’d been trained.
“Pleased to meet you, Nat.” They shook hands. “I’m Albert.”
Nat, unused to calling his friends’ parents by their first names, and unable to remember the last name, if the girls had told him at all, said: “Pleased to meet you, too, sir. It was very nice of your daughters to invite me.”
Albert’s eyebrows rose. “My-?” Then he smiled, a smile quickly erased, the mouth part, anyway. “Mr. Zorn is not due till Christmas Eve. I am Mrs. Zorn’s personal assistant.”
“Oh.”
“So if there’s anything you need, food, drink, laundry or dry cleaning service, goods from the outside world, just say.”
“Thanks.”
“Not at all. It’s always so exciting when the girls are around. Any special dietary requirements, by the way?”
“Pardon?”
“The kitchen is very flexible.”
“Good,” Nat said, the first word to pop out. He felt his face grow hot.
Albert backed out of the room. Nat had the feeling the man would burst out laughing the moment the door closed, and to stop that, more than anything, he said: “There is one thing, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“No trouble whatever,” said Albert, one heel still raised.
“I’d like to buy a bottle of wine.”
“Shouldn’t be necessary,” Albert said. “We have quite a varied selection on the premises, if it’s something specific you’re interested in.”
“As a gift.”
“Ah. How thoughtful. Wine is something of a hobby with Mr. Zorn.”
Nat wrote the name of Mr. Beaman’s wine on a sheet of paper, handed it to Albert with thirty dollars, not knowing much about the cost of good wine, but sure that would be more than enough. Albert took the note only. “Why don’t we settle accounts later?” he said.
Nat lay on the bed. He wasn’t at all tired, felt lively, even restless, wanted to walk the streets, see the city, do what people do in new places. At the same time, some part of him was a little afraid to leave the room. He had the opposite of claustrophobia, like Lorenzo. Expandrophobia? No, there was a real word; it would come to him.
Nat rose-made himself rise, really-went to the door, put his hand on the knob, paused. Mistaking a personal assistant-was that like a servant of some kind? — for their father. Dumb. And the conversation that followed, also dumb. But he wasn’t dumb. He was good at learning things. And what was the point of coming all this way for college if not for new experiences? Creme de la creme, Mrs. Smith had said. Imagine the people he’s going to meet. He was meeting them now. It suddenly occurred to him that Mrs. Smith and Miss Brown, the women most responsible for his presence at Inverness, were twins, like Grace and Izzie. Was there some meaning to this? None that he could come upon by analysis. Still, he couldn’t help but suspect that in some way this coincidence was a good thing, an indication that he was on the right course. Nat opened the door.
In the hall, Grace was passing by, trailed by another distinguished-looking man, somewhat younger than the first, deeply tanned, carrying a frothy blue drink in a tall glass. This time Nat made no assumptions.
“Anton, Nat,” said Grace. “Nat, Anton. Anton’s my stepmom’s personal trainer. Nat’s a friend from Inverness.”
“Cool,” said Anton.
Nat laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Grace said. She raised an eyebrow, just like Izzie, except it was the left one.
“I was just thinking about Lorenzo.”
Grace laughed too, touched his arm, said: “I know what you mean.” Her touch: it felt cold, meaning there was a temperature difference, one he hadn’t felt with Izzie. There were many possible variables, of course, but he noted it anyway.
He’d told Grace a little lie. It wasn’t the thought of Lorenzo that had made him laugh, but the word cool, and this guy saying it, and the name Anton, and the frothy blue drink, and personal trainers. Things began to come together in Nat’s mind: the drink, for example, was for the woman in the pool and she was not Grace and Izzie’s sister, but their stepmother, Mrs. Zorn, despite how young she was. He could keep up. He was going to enjoy himself.
At that moment, too, he remembered the opposite of claustrophobia: agoraphobia. He didn’t have it. Five minutes later he was down in the street by himself, taking in New York, his mind going like never before.
Peter Abrahams
Crying Wolf
6
“One seeks a midwife for his thoughts, another someone to whom he can be a midwife; thus originates a good conversation.” Thus too does Nietzsche describe both the goal and method of Philosophy 322.
Living at home wasn’t perfect, but at least Freedy could see his old friends, old friends like Ronnie Medeiros.
“Give you twenty bucks for it,” Ronnie said, down in his basement.
“Fuck you, Ronnie. It’s a Panasonic. Look-picture-in-picture.” Ronnie had turned it on to make sure it was working.
“Take it or leave it,” Ronnie said.
Freedy took it. What was he going to do? Return the goddamn thing?
They lifted for a while. Ronnie’s place was in the flats, not far from Freedy’s mom’s. Being in the flats was what made the basement so damp, but why was it so cold? “Why’s it so goddamn cold?”
“California made you soft, is all.”
“Right.” Freedy slid another 45 on each end, meaning he was benching 305, the kind of weight Ronnie could pump only in his dreams. Ronnie spotted him, but didn’t have to lay a finger on the bar, not even on the last lift of three times ten. Freedy looked Ronnie in the eye on that last one, as if to say: Soft, you son of a bitch. The charge he got from that moment of silent communication gave him the strength to bust one more.
“What’s California like, anyway?” said Ronnie. Freedy knew what was going on in Ronnie’s mind, could follow his train of thought: California, the fountain of youth, Ponce whoever he was, Muscle Beach. Freedy had always been strong-would have been the captain of the football team if he’d kept up his grades, or maybe just not dropped out-but never strong like this.
He sat up, rubbed his chest. Ripped. Buff. A fuckin’ animal. Not like Ronnie, who had gone soft since high school, with his pot belly, extra chin, receding hairline, and that stupid hairy thing hanging under his lower lip: he’d turned into a Portagee, which was what he was, of course.
“Whole different scene out there, Ronnie.”
“Run into any movie stars?”
