The crew wasn’t paying much attention. His wife, Frieda, had brought a copy of TV Guide to the table and was surveying the evening’s listings. She was a pretty woman given to fat and to peevish little smiles when she was annoyed and didn’t want to admit it. They appeared frequently during mealtime when she was struck by the gross unfairness of Hilton being able to eat everything in sight and never gain an ounce, while she couldn’t even walk past a chocolate éclair without putting on a pound or two.
The rest of the crew was equally inattentive. Lisa, the college student who served dinner every night because the cook refused to work after seven o’clock, moved rhythmically in and out and around and about as if she had an invisible radio stuck in her ear. Her skintight jeans and T-shirt were partly hidden by an embroidered white bib apron, the closest thing to a uniform that Frieda could coax her into wearing. She was the same age as Cleo but the two seldom had any personal communication except for occasional shrugs and eye rollings when Hilton was being particularly boring.
Cleo sat with her left hand propping up her head, her eyes fixed on the plate in front of her.
Frieda had come to depend on television for company. Hilton was often away on business, and even when he was at home the conversation was kept on Cleo’s level so Cleo wouldn’t feel excluded. It was Frieda herself who felt excluded.
“Please remove your elbow from the table, Cleo,” Hilton said. “And eat your soup like a good girl.”
“I can’t. It’s got funny things in it like shells.”
“They are shells. It’s bouillabaisse.”
“And bones, too.”
“Well?”
“The gardener won’t even give his dog bones. He says they might make holes in his bowels.”
“I don’t consider this a suitable subject for dinner conversation. Now eat your soup. Cook makes excellent bouillabaisse. Waste not, want not.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Frieda said. “Don’t eat the soup if you don’t like it... Now tell us what you did today.”
“I went to the museum.”
“You were gone all afternoon.”
“I saw lots and lots of pictures.”
“Did you meet anyone?”
“There were lots and lots of people.”
“I meant, did you talk to anyone?”
“One person.”
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“A man.”
“Cleo, dear, we’re not trying to pry,” Hilton said. “But what did you and this man talk about?”
“I asked him where the ladies’ room was. And he told me, and then he said, ‘Have a nice day,’ so I did.”
There was a brief silence, then Hilton’s voice sounding worried: “I thought the museum was closed on Mondays.”
The girl sat mute and pale, staring down at the bones and shells in front of her until Lisa came to take them away.
A twitch appeared at the corner of Hilton’s right eye, moving the lid like an evil little wink. “Of course you know how important it is to tell the truth, don’t you, Cleo?”
“I went to the museum. There were lots and lots of pictures. I saw lots and lots of people...”
“I care about you very deeply, Cleo. Your welfare was entrusted to me. I have to know where you go and what company you keep.”
“I go to Holbrook Hall. I have lots of company at Holbrook Hall.”
“Leave the girl alone for now,” Frieda said sharply.
“Obviously this is one of her foggy times. We can’t expect her to behave like a normal person.”
“I am exceptional,” Cleo said.
“Certainly you are, dear. And it’s not your fault you’re different. Everyone’s different. Look at Lisa. She’s different from other people.”
“In what way?” Lisa said, putting the gravy boat on the table, spilling a dollop and wiping it up with her forefinger.
“You wear awfully tight pants,” Cleo said. “I don’t see how you can go to the... well, you know, the ladies’ room if you’re in a hurry.”
“Practice.”
Hilton sat in gloomy silence. He had felt for some time now that things were getting out of hand, that he had no control over Cleo or Frieda or the servants. Even the gardener’s dog, Zia, didn’t acknowledge his presence when he walked down the driveway to get the paper in the morning.
Bad manners and taxes and crime and Democrats and unsuitable subjects for dinner conversation were sweeping the country. He was only forty-five and he wanted to stop the world and get off.
“I would rather be exceptional wearing tight pants,” Cleo said.
Hilton sighed and served the scrawny rock hens which reminded him of Cleo, and the wild rice which was only grass from Minnesota, and the asparagus which he hated.
“Why couldn’t I be exceptional wearing tight pants? Why not?”
“Please don’t argue with me, Cleo.”
“Why can’t I wear...”
“Because that style of dress is not suitable for you.”
“Why isn’t it?”
“There’s a stranger in our house. We don’t air our personal problems in front of...”
“I’m going to tell on you. I’m going to tell everybody.”
“They won’t listen to you.”
“Oh, yes, they will. I have rights.”
Hilton ate the scrawny little hen that reminded him of Cleo, and the wild rice which was really grass and the asparagus which he hated. His hands shook.
“I have rights,” the girl said again softly.
Later that night Ted came home on his semester break from college. He’d hoped to arrive in time to make a pass at Lisa but she’d already left and he went up to his room alone. He rolled a joint with some pot he’d bought from an assistant professor who’d allegedly smuggled it in from Jakarta. More likely it was grown in somebody’s backyard, but he lit up anyway, stripped to his shorts and lay down on the bed.
He was a good-looking young man, tall and heavyset like his father. His long brown hair reached almost to his shoulders in spite of Hilton’s attempts to get him to cut it. He wore a beard which his parents hadn’t seen yet and were certain to squawk about. But after the first couple of puffs he didn’t care.
He was only halfway through the joint when there was a knock on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Me. Let me in.”
He opened the door and Cleo came into the room. She was wearing a pink nightgown, not quite transparent.
“Hey, go and put some clothes on,” Ted said by way of greeting. “The old boy will have a fit. He thinks I’m a sex maniac.”
“Are you?”
“Sure.”
“What do sex maniacs do?”
“Oh, Christ, beat it, will you?”
“You’re smoking that funny stuff again, aren’t you? I could smell it all the way down the hall.”
“So?”
“Give me a puff.”
“Why?”
“Donny Whitfield says it makes you feel keen. I want to feel keen.”
“Well, at least you don’t have to worry that it will damage your brain.”
She took a puff and immediately let the smoke out again, then sat down on the bed. “I don’t feel keen.”
“You should inhale and hold it. Like this.”
“Okay.” She made another attempt. “Your beard looks awful.”
“Thanks.”
“May I touch it?”
“If you’re that hard up for a thrill, go ahead.”
She touched his beard, very gently. “Oh. Oh, it’s soft. Like a bunny.”
“That’s me, Playboy bunny of the year. Now haul your ass out of here.”
“You talk dirty,” she said. “Give me another puff.”
“I will if you promise to leave right afterwards.”