As far as I could tell, my father, who had power of attorney for my mother, had decided that it was time to liquidate some assets. Or maybe my mother had insisted that he give me my inheritance while she still could. At any rate, my father was sending me the deed for the Hidalgo Ranch, a property my mother had purchased in New Mexico when, in a brief and expensive fit of optimism, she had thought a Zuni shaman held the key to a miraculous recovery.
Boris was so excited by the upcoming publication of The Little Vagrant that he had trouble mustering the required solemnity to deal with this delicate matter. I had never spoken of my family (he had never asked) so he remained crisp and businesslike, then added,
“I am so sorry, my dear.”
I too was having a terrible time finding the right key of emotion. “What?”
“I am sorry about your mother.”
“How does her illness affect you?”
“You are upset.”
“I’ve been upset for years.”
“Come to New York,” said Boris. “I will take care of you.”
“I think my being alone is better for both of us right now.”
“Perhaps. Others might recommend a distraction.”
I didn’t want to tell Boris that I was distracted, very, with all kinds of wonderful feelings for Arthur, so I half-listened to his odd attempts at nurturing and was probably more agreeable than I would have been otherwise.
Boris was having a party for The Little Vagrant. This was very premature, since the book wasn’t due out until the following summer, but Boris was of the opinion that every member of the New York literati was aware of the problems Rupert had faced. They thought he was washed up and he would prove—with an all-out, catered, open-bar gala—otherwise. I didn’t understand his reasoning, but the logic was vaguely familiar and I could picture something like that happening in a Russian novel. I could also picture Boris overextending himself and spending every penny he owned convincing an uncaring (and probably innocent) public that he knew no financial struggle. There was something desperate in his voice. I didn’t want to go, but the party wasn’t for another week and Boris was a financial interest of mine, like a stock—I thought—that I should monitor carefully.
“I will be there. Is that all, Boris?”
It was not all. Boris was in possession of an envelope of things that my mother wanted to me to have.
“The lawyer sent them to you?”
“Yes. This is after all your home.”
“And you went through them?”
“Katherine, we have no secrets.”
I demanded that Boris send the things immediately, FedEx, for morning delivery.
“Is that necessary?”
“If you ever want to see me again that envelope better be here by noon.” I set the phone on the receiver.
Arthur was standing in the doorway buttoning up his shirt. I was surprised to see him standing there. He’d just moved his clothes into the house the day before and I had yet to make the adjustment. “Who were you talking to?” he asked.
“A friend.”
“What friend?”
“Boris.”
Arthur nodded. I could tell he was disappointed and this made me angry.
“When are we leaving?” I asked.
“At eight. It’s just seven-thirty now.”
I took a quick shower. My mother had bought the ranch in New Mexico with money that she had inherited from Aunt Marion. She was in an advanced stage of her illness at that point, but there was still hope. I think my father had let her out of his sight because my mother seemed too weak to be of much danger to anyone, except maybe herself, and he felt indulgent and possibly guilty. A ranch in New Mexico had to be worth quite a bit of money. There were hundreds of turquoise-wearing, silver-clinking, Indian-loving New Yorkers who no doubt would cash in the time-share in Florida, forfeit the yearly ski trip, for this far more spiritual retreat. I wondered if my mother wanted me to sell it and get some money of my own. That was really all she’d ever wanted for me: autonomy, independence.
And I would escape Boris. I would, and as I showered and shampooed, I thought that he would be free of me. Boris would go back to Ann. Arthur and I would stay together for some impossible amount of time. After a few hurdles, my life would achieve a stunning, appealing normalcy.
I drove at eighty-five miles an hour down the highway into Portland. Arthur rested his hand on my knee, which made shifting the gears awkward, but I didn’t mind. He had put an Intravenous cassette on and the music came out in one stream of sound. I couldn’t hear where it went or make out any of the words. Arthur drummed on the dashboard with his forefingers, not particularly inspired, but very competent.
“I’m going away,” I said. I had just decided.
“Why?”
“I have some business I have to settle.”
“Where?” Arthur had stopped drumming. He was studying the side of my face.
“New Mexico.”
“Can I come?”
I shook my head.
“How long will you be gone?”
I hadn’t really figured this out. “My mother’s given me her ranch. I want to sell it.”
“Maybe you should keep it. We can become farmers.”
“I think it’s in the desert.”
“Or miners.” Arthur thought for a minute. “We can become Indians.”
Intravenous’s reunion gig had a good turnout. I was so busy planning my future—our future—that I spent much of the time zoned out in visions of New Mexican prosperity, or in yellow clogs in my mind’s flower garden, kneeling with a trowel, planting bulbs. Intravenous’s music was antimelodic and loud, interrupted by occasional guitar solos. Bob Bob was terrifying on stage. He must have fashioned himself after Iggy Pop, only Bob Bob was much larger and pinker. He looked like a violent, head-banging ham. During the break, the guitarist introduced himself. He was Mark Park.
“Let me get you a drink,” he said. He had a strange smile on his face, as if he wanted something. “It’s on the house.”
I looked out at the dance floor, girls swinging arms and hair, and it occurred to me that I might be too old for this, which was a strangely comforting feeling.
“Do you live with the Munjoy Hill gang?” I asked politely.
“Lord no. I have a condo on the Western Promenade. It has a lovely view. You should come visit some time.” Mark Park leaned across the bar. “Two Long Island ice teas,” he said. “Katherine, right?”
I nodded.
“I know you,” he added.
I looked closely at his face. There was something familiar there. “Are you sure we’ve met?” I could have known him at any of the three colleges I’d attended. He looked like everyone, down to his Mexican shirt with lengthwise embroidered panels.
“My father is Lawton Park,” he said.
I looked into his eyes and nodded to myself. He did know me.
Lawton Park was a business associate of my father’s, the “Park” in Park, Shea, and Dunn. Since my father had no friends, his business associates gained undue significance in my life. I hadn’t seen Mark since high school, but I remembered parties at the Park residence in Hyannis. Mark was a skinny kid with the latest stereo equipment. He’d used his various Discmans and components in place of foreplay, on his way to tempting you into the closet. I usually got stalled at the graphic equalizer. He had been very optimistic as a boy and I could see the same optimism now at play.
“Do you want to see my bass?” he said.
I hadn’t remembered him having a sense of humor. Arthur was nowhere in sight. I wasn’t sure what this meant, or if it meant anything. I saw Eva come stalking out of the downstairs, where the bathrooms were located. She gave Mark a peace sign and he nodded. The room was hot, but she wore her jacket, impervious to temperature along with age. She went up behind Bob Bob and wrapped her arms around his neck. She ignored me in an easy way, which made me regret having come out that night. I felt that I was wearing too much makeup, that my leather pants (a gift from Silvano) were too stylish.