“Don’t you think you better slow down?” she said.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re not being exactly gracious.”
“I’m not? I thought I was being charming.”
“Hardly.”
He smiled at her and said, “Tough shit,” and as he spoke, he realized she was right: he had better slow down. He walked into the living room.
The children had gone upstairs. Dorothy Meadows sat on the couch next to Hooper and was chatting with him about his work at Woods Hole. Meadows, in the chair opposite the couch, listened quietly. Daisy Wicker was standing alone, on the other side of the room, by the fireplace, gazing about with a subdued smile on her face. Brody handed Meadows his drink and strolled over next to Daisy.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“Am I? I didn’t notice.”
“Thinking of something funny?”
“No. I guess I was just interested. I’ve never been in a policeman’s house before.”
“What did you expect? Bars on the windows? A guard at the door?”
“No, nothing. I was just curious.”
“And what have you decided? It looks just like a normal person’s house, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so. Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh.”
She took a sip of her drink and said, “Do you like being a policeman?”
Brody couldn’t tell whether or not there was hostility in the question. “Yes,” he said. “It’s a good job, and it has a purpose to it.”
“What’s the purpose?”
“What do you think?” he said, slightly irritated. “To uphold the law.”
“Don’t you feel alienated?”
“Why the hell should I feel alienated? Alienated from what?”
“From the people. I mean, the only thing that justifies your existence is telling people what not to do. Doesn’t that make you feel freaky?”
For a moment, Brody thought he was being put on, but the girl never smiled or smirked or shifted her eyes from his. “No, I don’t feel freaky,” he said. “I don’t see why I should feel any more freaky than you do, working at the whatchamacallit.”
“The Bibelot.”
“Yeah. What do you sell there anyway?”
“We sell people their past. It gives them comfort.”
“What do you mean, their past?”
“Antiques. They’re bought by people who hate their present and need the security of their past. Or if not theirs, someone else’s. Once they buy it, it becomes theirs. I bet that’s important to you, too.”
“What, the past?”
“No, security. Isn’t that supposed to be one of the heavy things about being a cop?”
Brody glanced across the room and noticed that Meadows’ glass was empty. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have to tend to the other guests.”
“Sure. Nice talking to you.”
Brody took Meadows’ glass and his own into the kitchen. Ellen was filling a bowl with Tortilla chips.
“Where the hell did you find that girl?” he said. “Under a rock?”
“Who? Daisy? I told you, she works at the Bibelot.”
“Have you ever talked to her?”
“A little. She seems very nice and bright.”
“She’s a spook. She’s just like some of the kids we bust who start smart-mouthing us in the station.” He made a drink for Meadows, then poured another for himself. He looked up and saw Ellen staring at him.
“What’s the matter with you?” she said.
“I guess I don’t like strange people coming into my house and insulting me.”
“Honestly, Martin. I’m sure there was no insult intended. She was probably just being frank. Frankness is in these days, you know.”
“Well, if she gets any franker with me, she’s gonna be out, I’ll tell you that.” He picked up the two drinks and started for the door.
Ellen said, “Martin…” and he stopped. “For my sake… please.”
“Don’t worry about a thing. Everything’ll be fine. Like they say in the commercials,
He refilled Hooper’s drink and Daisy Wicker’s without refilling his own. Then he sat down and nursed his drink through a long story Meadows was telling Daisy. Brody felt all right — pretty good, in fact — and he knew that if he didn’t have anything more to drink before dinner, he’d be fine.
At 8.30, Ellen brought the soup plates out from the kitchen and set them around the table. “Martin,” she said, “would you open the wine for me while I get everyone seated?”
“Wine?”
“There are three bottles in the kitchen. A white in the icebox and two reds on the counter. You may as well open them all. The reds will need time to breathe.”
“Of course they will,” Brody said as he stood up. “Who doesn’t?”
“Oh, and the
“The what?”
Daisy Wicker said, “It’s
Brody took vengeful pleasure in seeing Ellen blush, for it relieved him of some of his own embarrassment. He found the corkscrew and went to work on the two bottles of red wine. He pulled one cork cleanly, but the other crumbled as he was withdrawing it, and pieces slipped into the bottle. He took the bottle of white out of the refrigerator, and as he uncorked it he tangled his tongue trying to pronounce the name of the wine: Montrachet. He arrived at what seemed to him an acceptable pronunciation, wiped the bottle dry with a dishtowel, and took it into the dining room.
Ellen was seated at the end of the table nearest the kitchen. Hooper was at her left, Meadows at her right. Next to Meadows, Daisy Wicker, then an empty space for Brody at the far end of the table, and, opposite Daisy, Dorothy Meadows.
Brody put his left hand behind his back and, standing over Ellen’s right shoulder, poured her a glass of wine. “A glass of Mount Ratchet,” he said. “Very good year, 1970. I remember it well.”
“Enough,” said Ellen, tipping the mouth of the bottle up. “Don’t fill the glass all the way.”
“Sorry,” said Brody, and he filled Meadows’ glass next.
When he had finished pouring the wine, Brody sat down. He looked at the soup in front of him. Then he glanced furtively around the table and saw that the others were actually eating it: it wasn’t a joke. So he took a spoonful. It was cold, and it didn’t taste anything like soup, but it wasn’t bad.
“I love gazpacho,” said Daisy, “but it’s such a pain to make that I don’t have it very often.”
“Mmmm,” said Brody, spooning another mouthful of soup.
“Do you have it very often?”
“No,” he said. “Not too often.”
“Have you ever tried a G and G?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“You ought to try one. Of course, you might not enjoy it since it’s breaking the law.”
“You mean eating this thing is breaking the law? How? What is it?”
“Grass and gazpacho. Instead of herbs, you sprinkle a little grass over the top. Then you smoke a little, eat a little, smoke a little, eat a little. It’s really wild.”
