The Romantics (20 page)

The inherent melodrama of the story was somehow doubled by William’s treatment. Musical highlights included songs such as “Mein Minesweeper,” “Rosie, I’m Riveted,” “Uncle Sam, I’m Your Man,” and the incomparably horrifying “Nuremberg Trials and Errors.” When William finished his performance, Augusta was in tears. Mercifully, he assumed she had been moved by the story. But pity is, of course, a dangerous blow to any marriage.

For the first time, Augusta understood her role in her husband’s paralysis. She had allowed him to choose between life’s two most important aspirations—art and money—and the choice had proven fatal. He had come unmoored, as useless as a compass at the North Pole. But even more disturbing than the spectacle of her husband’s incompetence was its eerie resemblance to the predicament her own
children faced. She shuddered to think that their own privilege might condemn them to equally directionless lives.

Chip had certainly exhibited many of the same weaknesses. Lacking a pressing need—and therefore, the drive—to make money, he had identified art as an outlet, if only insofar as he expressed it as a thirst for disorder. To be sure, Chip’s problems were not so simple as to be solved by a painting class, but at least the freedom of creative pursuits had offered some liberation. Minnow was much like her mother, creative but ultimately practical. Lila had always been immune to the lure of most abstract things and so had landed squarely and unapologetically in the realm of materialism. Her choice of husband, Augusta had always felt, represented a sort of a concession. Tom, however, seemed to be headed in the same direction as William—only he lacked the financial resources to support the lifestyle. Or rather, he had until he met Lila.

It was this, finally, that kept Augusta awake as it neared midnight: the knowledge that her impeccable daughter would imminently pledge herself to someone imperfect. More to the point, she feared Tom harbored a hidden agenda, that he intended to burden Lila—and her family—with a lifetime of patronage. Lila would surely have disowned her mother had she ever voiced this opinion. But if Tom counted on this—and of course, he did—well, this was nothing short of despicable.

“William,” Augusta whispered. “Please wake up.”

William sat up, mouth agape.

“Please tell me they’ll be beautiful,” she begged.

“What will, darling?”

“The centerpieces,” she said.

“They’ll be beautiful,” he promised. “Perfectly beautiful.”

T
here was not a single member of Pete’s high-school class who was not shocked and slightly appalled when Pete received his acceptance letter to Yale, and early admission to boot. They attributed the break to his impressive athletic record and, of course, his impressive last name. The Allerton family was an early leader in the tobacco trade and had profited almost as much from Philip Morris as Philip Morris himself. Shortly after admissions letters went out, Pete’s high-school student center was vandalized with an outraged slogan:
PETE + THE ALLERTON ATHLETIC CENTER = EARLY ADMISSION
.

It was not that Pete was dumb. No one was admitted to Yale below a certain level of intelligence (although the sports recruits did their part to bring down the average). But Pete’s college counselor had been wise in her pitch for Pete. She told Yale’s director of admissions that Pete had “raw potential,” invoking a term used to describe students with higher test scores than grades. It was, in fact, a
brilliant spin on Pete’s high-school performance. The other interpretation was, of course, that Pete had blown off his work, squandering the high IQ that his test scores revealed. In other words, he was the very kind of student Yale sought to sift from the pile.

Luckily, he rose to the occasion when he arrived in New Haven, meeting his requirements due to the collective effort of his friends. But after graduation, lacking this crutch, he had struggled significantly. Most recently, he had considered mounting an application to film school, having heard of one too many classmates selling a pilot for a mint. Ultimately, he bailed on the application because of the essay requirements. But he did purchase the expensive screenwriting software, read the first several chapters of the manual, and write thirty pages of a script about a clique of college friends who reunite at a funeral.

“Let’s go through every one of our friends and say what we really think of them,” Weesie declared. She had progressed through various positions over the last hour, from the sofa, to a fraying upholstered chair, back to the sofa where Pete now sat, to a reclining position with her feet in Pete’s lap. This was the most comfortable position so far, and also the one that best obscured her view of the house’s spooky dark hallway.

“You’re drunk,” said Pete.

“Well, yeah,” said Weesie. “We’ve been drinking since five o’clock. What time is it now?”

Pete shrugged. “Hell if I know.”

“Of course, you don’t wear a watch.”

Pete smiled. It was a point of pride that he didn’t wear a watch. In college, it had seemed a more quaint rebellion. Now, it seemed subversive, a true rejection of societal rules.

“Jake wears a watch,” Weesie declared.

“I think he wears two,” said Pete.

“I bought him a really nice one for Christmas,” Weesie said, then she deflated. “It’s such a boring gift.”

“The worst,” Pete agreed. “Tripler gave me one for my last birthday.” He assumed a robotic monotone. “The gift you give when you want your spouse to show up on time.”

“Ha,” said Weesie. She let loose with a sharp jab to Pete’s thigh.

“I’m just kidding,” Pete added. “It’s beautiful. She had it engraved with our anniversary.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Weesie said. “I should have done that.”

“Not sweet. Practical,” Pete said. “I had forgotten it one too many times.”

Weesie attempted to administer another jab to the leg, but this time, Pete anticipated the motion and grabbed her foot by the ankle.

It occurred to Pete that holding Weesie’s ankle was inappropriately intimate, but he dismissed the notion quickly and held it firmly in his grasp.

Weesie made a halfhearted attempt to disengage from Pete’s grasp but, relishing the charge it sent through her body, quickly gave up. She batted one arm across the floor, searching for the wine bottle.

Weesie did not start drinking seriously until after she graduated from college. At school, she had earned the adorable, if slightly embarrassing, reputation of being the member of the group most likely to end the night sober. It was not for lack of trying. She tried to party voraciously. But instinctively, she didn’t enjoy it. To watch common sense, balance, even walls evaporate as a night progressed struck her as decidedly un-fun. Luckily, fate conspired with Weesie’s preferences. As a freshman, she was pretty enough to walk into any dorm room without a drink in her hand.

That her mother’s diet of vodka gimlets and peppermint candies
formed the basis for her aversion to alcohol did not occur to Weesie until she married Jake. At this point, it became clear that Jake shared her mother’s proclivity and, more importantly, that Weesie needed to acquire it in order for the marriage to survive. Even so, she had not developed an especially high tolerance. She was still as charmingly vulnerable to alcohol—red wine especially—as she had been during those first few months of her marriage, when she had ended most nights sitting on her bathroom floor, counting the tiles on the wall, wondering how she’d ended up with someone so much like her mother.

“Here; I’ll go first. Annie Wallace,” Weesie said. She elevated her diction as though she were presenting a diploma. “Lovable but neurotic. Totally obsessed with her looks. Not sure about her fiancé. Not as smart as she thinks.”

“Ouch,” said Pete.

“Sorry,” said Weesie. “I told you I was drunk.” Without getting up, she fumbled for the wine bottle resting on the floor. She lifted it to her mouth sideways, like a canteen.

“It’s empty,” said Pete.

“No,” Weesie whined. “What are we going to do now?”

“Oscar Clark,” Pete announced, and it functioned, for the moment, as a distraction.

“The smartest one among us,” Weesie said. “And the most annoying.”

Pete nodded his agreement.

“So far in the closet,” Weesie added, “it’s a wonder the boy can breathe.”

“You think so?” asked Pete. “Know,” Weesie said.

“Interesting,” Pete said.

“What the hell is ‘wireless content’ anyway? If he says that again, I’m going to smack him.”

“It’s huge, you idiot,” Pete said.

“Whatever,” Weesie went on. “Can someone please tell him the dot-com bubble burst?”

“He works for Google, dumb-ass.”

“Oh God,” Weesie said. “Really?” She sat upright and turned to Pete. “You would tell me if I were insufferable, wouldn’t you?” She fell back onto the sofa before Pete could respond. “Someone should tell Oscar.”

Pete poked the arch of Weesie’s foot, and she recoiled, giggling. He had never realized how hilarious she was until now. Tripler often contended that Weesie was the funniest girl in the group, but Pete had rejected the sentiment as a kind of consolation prize; it was better to be Lila, the prettiest, or Laura, the smartest. In all his time knowing Weesie, he had never seen evidence of this vaunted sense of humor. But now he realized the observation was justified, understated even.

“Your turn,” Weesie demanded.

Pete said nothing. He had never before spent this much time alone with Weesie, and he was surprised, not only by her rowdiness but also by the smell of her skin. It was a guilty realization, of course, but one that he quickly dismissed. How to feel this way with his wife, he decided, was the lesson he could take away from this night.

“Laura. Brilliant, tortured, hates Lila, completely obsessed with Tom,” he said.

Weesie smiled and saluted. “Well stated.”

“Lila. Perfect, beautiful, gorgeous, tortures her friends for sport.” He paused, debating his next disclosure. “Not very good in bed.”

“No!” Weesie squealed.

“Afraid so,” said Pete.

“When did this happen?”

“Freshman year.” He paused. “And then one other time that nobody knows about.”

“What! When?” Weesie demanded. “We were still in college,” Pete said.

“But you were dating Tripler when you were still in college!”

Pete nodded. “Scandalous, I know.” He moved on before Weesie could launch a more extensive interrogation. “Tom. Hearthrob. Genius. Charmer. Missing, as we know. Not in love with Lila. And yes, I think that’s why.”

“Aha!” said Weesie. “I knew it.” She sat upright and turned to face Pete. “So where do you think he is?”

“Somewhere, freaking out.”

Weesie stared at Pete for a moment, nodding and smiling. “I knew it,” she said. “I totally knew it. That makes me feel better.”

So much better that she quickly lost interest in Tom and moved on to the remaining victims.

“We skipped ourselves and our spouses,” Weesie said.

“Seems fair enough,” Pete said.

“Come on. It’ll be fun,” she said. “I’ll do Tripler, and you do Jake. So we both have something on each other.”

Pete grinned and shook his head, pretending to refuse. Without thinking, he slid his hand from Weesie’s ankle to her calf.

“Tripler,” Weesie began carefully. “Hilarious. Driven. Terrified.”

Pete swallowed a treacherous feeling.

“I just worry sometimes that she’s going to snap.”

“I think she already did,” said Pete.

Weesie nodded solemnly.

Pete frowned as he digested the enormity of the betrayal.

“Your turn,” Weesie said. She reached again for the bottle, but tipped it to the ground.

“Jake,” he began. “Talented. Sensitive. One of Yale’s finest. But if the poor guy doesn’t write something soon, I’m afraid he’s going to go postal.”

Weesie covered her mouth with her hand, as though the gesture could obscure her agreement.

“They’d actually be really good together,” Pete said.

“Oh my God, you’re totally right,” Weesie shouted.

“Maybe we should set them up,” Pete said.

“I think Tripler’s already on it,” said Weesie.

“Good point,” said Pete. “But I bet we’re having more fun.”

It occurred to Weesie that the conversation had reached the threshold of propriety. But she waited too long to respond—or decided against it—and by the time she did, she was too drunk to tell the difference.

T
ripler stood suddenly from the sofa and beelined for the bar. The ideal ratio of vodka to vermouth eluded her at the moment, so she erred on the side of too much vodka. It was a policy she followed as a rule: masking self-doubt with self-assurance. Drinks in hand, she returned to the coffee table and set them down with a ceremonious clink. She produced a small white plastic bag and scanned the coffee table for an adequate surface. She rejected the coaster, a book on Colonial architecture, and the glass pane of the table before settling on a framed photograph of Lila.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jake said. Cocaine was never a part of the group’s repertoire in college. It was a staple of the classes that matriculated a few years later but considered by this group to be as passé as bell-bottom jeans.

“Come on,” Tripler said. “This is your last chance to do blow off of Lila’s thighs.”

Jake closed his eyes, the only response to this kind of provocation.
When he opened them, Tripler was hunched over the table, playing the role of the beautiful mess. The performance was perfectly calibrated—repellent yet irresistible. Before she had inhaled the first line, Jake was sitting by her side.

Despite her efforts to present herself as a confident, together person, Tripler felt, at the age of twenty-nine, as lost as she had at nineteen. No matter what she was wearing, she felt like a mannequin, shoddily pulled together, desperate to be reinvented in the coming season. It didn’t matter that she had finally kicked a ten-year eating disorder. Unfortunately, her particular disorder was the one that didn’t amount to weight loss. Instead, it had caused her weight to fluctuate over the same fifteen pounds and consumed much of the day with the search for a secluded bathroom. Choosing acting as a vocation certainly played into the disease. But oddly, the crushing rejections of auditions were not problematic in themselves. In some way, the dismissive directors and apathetic producers offered a kind of consolation, echoing a voice as familiar and nostalgic as milk and cookies.