“Okay, here are your rights,” Grady said. “You’ve got a right to stay in there until hell freezes.”
“There is no hell, everybody knows that.”
“Or until a tidal wave washes away the club.”
“The correct word is tsunami, not tidal wave.”
“Or an earthquake destroys the entire city.”
“Let me out, goddammit.”
“Sorry, it’s time for my lunch break.”
“I’ll tell everybody you beat me up.”
But Grady was already on his way to his locker to get his sandwiches and Thermos.
Left to his own devices little Frederic poured a bottle of Mercurochrome over his head to simulate blood and painted himself two black eyes with burnt match tips. Once his creativity was activated, it was hard to stop. He added a mustache, a Vandyke beard, sideburns and a giant mole in the center of his forehead. Then he redirected his attention to the problem of getting out:
“Help! May Day! Police! Paramedics!”
If some of the members heard him, they paid no attention. There was a strong tradition of status quo at the club as well as the vaguely religious notion that somewhere, somehow, someone was taking care of things.
Miranda Shaw lay on a chaise beside the pool, shielded from the sun by a beach towel, a straw hat, an umbrella and several layers of an ointment imported for her from Mexico. She had no way of knowing that she was the subject of Mr. Van Eyck’s current literary project.
... What a fraud you are, acting so refined in public and doing all those you-know-what things in private. I can see behind those baby-blue eyes of yours. You ought to be ashamed. Poor Neville was a good husband to you and he is barely cold in his grave and already you’re ogling young men like Grady. Grady is hardly more than a boy and you are an old bat who’s had your face, fanny and boobs lifted. Now if you could only lift your morals...
Miranda was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and there seemed to be no particular reason why. The sound of the waves was soothing, the sun’s rays were not too warm and the humidity registered forty percent, exactly right for the complexion. It must be the new ointment working, she thought, rejuvenating the cells by stimulating the nerve endings. Oh God, I hope it doesn’t hurt. I can’t stand any more pain.
She twitched, coughed, sat up.
Van Eyck was staring at her from the other side of the pool, smiling. At least she thought he was smiling. She had to put on her glasses to make sure. When she did, Van Eyck raised his free hand and waved at her. It was a lively gesture, youthful and mischievous compared to the rest of him, which had been sobered and slowed and soured by age. He must be eighty; Neville was almost eighty when he died last spring—
She gave her head a quick hard shake. She must stop thinking of age and death. Dr. Ortiz insisted that his patients should picture in their minds only pleasant gentle things like flowers and birds and happy children and swaying trees. Nothing too amusing. Laughter stretched the muscles around the eyes and mouth.
She attempted to picture happy children, but unfortunately little Frederic Quinn was screaming again.
Since his cries for help had gone unanswered, little Frederic was resorting to threats.
“My father’s going to buy me a fifty-thousand-volt Taser stun gun and I’m going to point it at you and shock you right out of your pants. How will you like that, Grady, you creep?”
“It’ll be okay for starters,” Grady said, finishing his second peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Then what?”
“You’ll fall motionless to the ground and go into convulsions.”
“How about that.”
“And maybe die.”
“What if your father doesn’t want you running around loose with a stun gun?”
“My brother Harold can get one for me,” Frederic said. “He has Mafia connections at school.”
“No kidding.”
“I told you that before.”
“Well, I didn’t believe you before. Now I don’t believe you again.”
“It’s true. Harold’s best friend is Bingo Firenze whose uncle is a hit man. Bingo’s teaching Harold a lot of things and Harold’s going to teach me.”
“You could probably teach both of them. And the uncle.”
“What a heap of crap. I’m just a kid, an innocent little kid who was molested in the locker room by the head lifeguard. How will that sound to Henderson when I tell him?”
“Like music. He’ll probably give me a medal.”
“You’re a mean bastard, Grady.”
“You bet.”
Happy children, swaying trees, birds, flowers — Miranda couldn’t keep her mind on any of them. Her discomfort was increasing. The doctor had assured her that the new ointment wasn’t just another peeling treatment, but it felt the same as the last time, like acid burning off the top layers of skin, dissolving away the wrinkles, the age spots, the keratoids. He promised no pain. He said I’d hardly be aware of the stuff. Perhaps I used too much. Oh God, let me out of here. I must wash it off.
She didn’t allow her panic to show. She rose, draped the beach towel around her with careless elegance and headed toward the shower room. She walked the way the physical therapist at the clinic had taught her to walk, languidly, as if she were moving through water. The instruction manual advised clients to keep an aquarium and observe how even the ugliest fish was a model of grace in motion. Miranda had an aquarium installed in the master bedroom but Neville had complained that all that swimming around kept him awake. The fish solved the problem by dying off rather quickly, with, Miranda suspected, some help from Neville, because the water had begun to look murky and smell of Scotch.
She moved through an imagined aqueous world, a creature of grace. Past the lifeguard eating a peanut butter sandwich, past the young sisters squabbling over a magazine, and into the corridor, where she met Charles Van Eyck.
“Good morning, good morning, Mrs. Shaw. You are looking very beautiful today.”
“Oh, Mr. Van Eyck, I’m not. Really I’m not.”
“Have it your way,” Van Eyck said and shuffled into the office to get some more stationery. It was fine sunny weather. His venomous juices were flowing like sap through a maple tree.
The episode left Miranda so shaken that she forgot all about fish and aquariums and broke into a run for the showers. Van Eyck watched her with the detachment of a veteran coach: Miranda was still frisky and the fanny surgeon had done a nice job.
“No, Mr. Van Eyck,” Ellen said. “Absolutely no. It has the club letterhead on it and must be used only for official business.”
“I can cut the letterhead off.”
“It could still be identified.”
“By whom?”
“The police.”
“Now why would the police want to identify our club stationery?” Van Eyck said reasonably. “Has there been any embezzlement, murder, interesting stuff like that?”
“No.”
“Then why should the police be concerned?” He peered at her over the top of his rimless half-glasses. “Aha. Aha. I’m catching on.”
“If only you’d just take no for an answer, Mr. Van Eyck.”
“When you crossed the terrace you peeked over my shoulder.”
“Not really. And I couldn’t help-”
“Yes really. And you could help. What did you see?”
“You. That’s all. The word you.”
“You and then what?”
“You... well, then maybe a couple of adjectives or so. Also, maybe a noun.”