Heart and Soul (14 page)

He crossed his heart. Then I took his fingers and kissed them one by one. “Thanks for dealing with him.”

“What do I get for it?”

The nice thing about stretch limos is there's lots of room to move around. I crawled into his lap. “Anything your heart desires or that I can think up,” I said.

We had a button that raised the partition when we needed privacy. The glass was tinted and soundproof, so we were safe getting naked, or at least in this case, I got naked for fear of messing up my new duds. Fortunately, we weren't pulled over by the constabulary on the L.I.E.—Litter is Everything or Long Island Expressway, depending on how disgusted you are at any given stretch—which is, without a doubt, the ugliest hunk of highway on earth. We would have caused somewhat of a scene, but I felt David deserved a reward for taking Dutch on, and I was beginning to think that if David thought I was so tough, why get freaked out by a bunch of rich dudes in Southampton. Besides, sex was the best way I knew to distract myself, and I was dealing with massive confusion here from our visit to Walnut Avenue. My friends and family were not staying put in their accustomed ruts and I didn't know what to make of it. But when in doubt, shut up and put out, is my motto. That's what I did, and in my opinion, it was one of our better trips of many on America's highways and byways.

I
've seen big houses in my day, but this one rivaled the Mall of America. It made me feel like I'd grown up in one of those Monopoly game houses, little green ones. I mean, why does a married couple with no kids and a cockroach of a dog need a house as big as the
QE2
?
But hey, this wasn't my territory so I just took David's arm in a ladylike fashion and walked up the driveway those forty miles to the entrance.
Columns Galore,
that's what they should have called the place. Columns at the doors, columns at the windows, even the little generator shed had columns. I was surprised that the hostess didn't have columns stuck to either side of her dress. Actually, she was very welcoming, just a pleasant lady with lipstick smears where air kisses had front-ended her cheeks by mistake.

She led us through a humongous hallway and out onto a patio overlooking the Atlantic. I say patio, which sounds like a sweet little porch, but this was a stretch of flagstone that would accommodate the Los Angeles Philharmonic. There were a couple hundred people milling around. A thin cloud cover had snuck across the sky, softening the glare, and on account of some wind in the night, the waves were really giving the shore a pounding. Short of fog or light rain, it was my favorite kind of beach day. What I really wanted to do was toss off my clothes and take a dip. But I could see right away that the theme of this party was
Who is Bess Stallone and what's the scoop between her and David Montagnier?
When we walked outside, all those faces swiveled around in unison like they'd been cued. There were a lot of famous people I recognized and a lot more I didn't. I was pretty fascinated by the breasts on the famous director's wife. They sat right under her collarbone and were so big she could easily have rested her head on them and grabbed a quick nap.

“Where's Elvis?” I whispered.

“Any minute,” David said. “Ready?”

It was only four o'clock and I knew this thing was slated to go through dinner. A stiff breeze blew our words away from the crowd so I was safe looking up at him with a big fake smile to say, “Why don't we just tell them we're sleeping together and they can all relax?” He laughed, put his hand on that place he liked on my spine, and guided me into the lion's den.

It started out a little rough. I stuck to David like we were glued, but he kept getting drawn into conversations in alien tongues. It seemed like every other woman was an incredibly sexy European film star who said stuff like, “Ah, Dah-veed, kum zhe sooey err-rerz duh too vwahr,” etcetera, etcetera. The lipstick smears kept working their way closer and closer to his mouth. Then when David would respond in English, they'd look at me, all fake apologetic, and do some of those little shrugs I could never master no matter how many times I practiced in front of the mirror. Anyway, it got tired real quick and so did I.

Next thing, we got talking with a novelist whose brain was so excellent they should use him to figure out why drivers who dangle their arms out their windows are such road hazards. Also very old people in big white American-made cars. But the guy just assumed I had read all the classics (not), and kept saying things like, “But then, Thomas Mann's use of music symbolism is so patently echoed by Saul Bellow…”

I'm making it up, but the bottom line was, I didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. At Juilliard, I read
Catcher in the Rye,
which I liked because I thought Holden Caulfield was a pisser and also because it was short. Everything else, I got the Cliff's Notes and shoveled my way through the exams. David tried to help me out with the guy, but he was drilling me for oil. All he got, however, was mud, as in highly intelligent responses like “huh?” and “wha?”

Naturally, I felt just a tad out of my depth. But then I got a big surprise. On the way back from my third escape to the bathroom, which was the kind of place you'd like to move into with your extended family, I saw Sal Peroni talking to a middle-aged man with a beard and a white hat. At first, I couldn't believe my eyes. Like, what was that lowlife who snagged my virtue on the backseat of his LeBaron doing at this blast? Not that he was a lowlife for doing it, because I was certainly dying to get laid. It's just that it was my first time, and he wasn't exactly sensitive about it. But at this point, I would have been happy to see my friendly neighborhood tire slasher. At least I could understand what the hell he was saying.

I went and tugged on Sal's jacket. He turned around and I could see he was totally pleased. He'd put on a little weight and had lost some hair, but he still looked good in a faintly sleazoid way. He gave me a big squeeze, which was comforting. Enough already with those bony handshakes and nonkisses.

“Bess! Man,” he said, giving me the old up-and-down. “You are one gorgeous sight. Congratulations.”

I glanced at the older guy who was looking at me with lizard eyeballs. They were pretty much all you could see on account of the hat and the thick white beard.

“Oh, sorry,” Sal said. “August Nardigger, this is Bess Stallone.”

Since Nardigger didn't extend a hand, I did the nod-and-smile. It didn't register with me right away, I was so busy being knocked out to see Sal.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked Sal. Then I remembered myself and said to Nardigger, “We went to school together.”

“Among other things,” Sal said. So he hadn't forgotten the backseat. “I produce movies now,” he went on. Porn, I figured. “I'm bending this gentleman's ear about soundtracks. I want a classical composer for the film I'm working on.”

I was almost speechless. Almost. “Sal, you're shitting me.” Then, with a nod at Nardigger again, “Sorry.” But Nardigger's expression never seemed to change one way or the other. He just went on looking disgusted, like he'd taken a bite out of a big fat garden slug.

“No classical composer worth a damn is going to write a soundtrack,” Nardigger said. It sounded like that slug was now stuck halfway up his nose.

“Didn't Aaron Copland…?” I began.

“Aaron Copland was a whore,” Nardigger said.

My eyes must have gone a little buggy.

“The pathetic aspect of it was, he didn't even know it,” Nardigger went on. Sweat was making dark splotches in his beard. I figured it was the hat, which wasn't doing such a great job of keeping that head of steam bottled up. He was obviously a composer himself, and couldn't stand how successful Copland had been.

“You're getting pretty worked up there,” I said. “Why don't you take off your hat and catch some of this soothing sea breeze?”

Sal gave me a warning elbow as Nardigger barked at me, “I never take off the hat. I'm famous for the hat.”

“Maybe so,” I said, “but for me, you just got famous for bad manners.”

As Nardigger stalked off, it dawned on me,
Nardigger.
August Nardigger of
The Listener
fame. “Oops,” I said to Sal.

“The man is ordinarily known to love celebrities.”

“You mean he's a star fucker,” I said.

“Precisely stated. What say we Eye-talians go for a little stroll on the beach.”

Sal was half dragging me down toward the water. I looked around for David. I knew I was supposed to be mingling, but so far it had been like cozying up to a convention of porcupines. We walked along a path to the dunes, slid down onto the beach, and left our shoes in the sand. Then we set off in the direction of Rocky Beach.

“How long you think it'd take us to get to Hard Eddie's?” I asked him. Eddie's was a beach joint where they served fried seafood and beer. I sure could have used a brew about then. And I'd just been feeling so grateful to get out of the old neighborhood. As I mentioned, it had been a confusing day.

“You still think about the old times, a famous star like you?” Sal asked.

“First of all, I'm only a junior star and it's probably only temporary, especially when Nardigger writes his next piece. He didn't like the crack about the hat.”

“I always knew you'd make it.”

“Oh, bullshit, Sal. You must be a natural in Hollywood, slinging it like that.”

“I used to listen to you play. You'd sneak into the auditorium sometimes.”

I stopped in my tracks and stared at him. “I never saw you.”

“Well, it wasn't cool to like classical music, so I hid. Besides, I was scared I'd spook you.”

I watched the waves wash over our tracks and leave foot-shaped pools in the packed sand. “All right, Sal. Since we seem to be holding confession here …” I just stared at him. I figured he owed it to me to get there first. He turned away and looked out into the Atlantic.

“Okay, I'm not proud of the way I behaved. But I was just a stupid kid.”

“I thought you were a nice guy who I could trust.”

“We're talking fifteen years old. They never said they were going to show up. You think it was a bunch of laughs for me, having those guys drooling in the window when I didn't know what the hell I was doing?”

I whacked him hard, but it had been a long time coming. “Screwing when you're fifteen is glory for the guy, so don't hand me your sob story. I was looking to lose it, all right, but I wanted romance. I thought you liked me a lot. I thought you were sensitive. All those poems you wrote in English class. They made me cry sometimes. I don't know how I figured it was going to be so romantic in the back of a Chrysler; but I gotta tell you, Sal, I took a lot of grief for that night. I was tough, but I wasn't
that
tough.”

The whole thing had been so dopey, with me drinking Chianti out of a bottle and Sal trying to figure out how to get us both undressed with no room to maneuver. He hadn't been in me for more than two seconds before the clowns showed up at the window, giggling their asses off, but I was technically no longer a virgin. I slung the empty wine bottle at Vinnie Basilio and nailed him on the back of the head. Lucky for me he had a skull like concrete or I could've wound up in the slammer for homicide.

“I liked you a lot. I thought you were the sexiest, most amazing girl I'd ever seen. After that night, I knew there was no chance you'd ever see me again, so I got my punishment, too.”

“Sometimes I think I've spent the rest of my life trying to get it right.” I regret saying that. First of all, it didn't freak me out the way it would any halfway normal teenage girl. I kept thinking it was funny, me and Sal with our bare asses, not knowing what the hell we were doing, and those goofy boys looking for a thrill. I figured, Now I've got him, I might as well rub it in. But the truth was, we were all dumb kids, even the ones who came for the show. Some of those guys were perfectly decent and we all do stupid stuff, especially if there's booze involved, which for me was usually the case in those days.

Sal was looking like a dog I'd just whacked on the nose with a newspaper. “Come on,” I said, pulling him toward the surf. It's hard for me to be near water without getting into it. I rolled my pants up to the knees and started wading back toward the party. Sal stuck to the water's edge where he wouldn't mess up the crease in his perfect white pants.

“Okay, Sal,” I told him. “I figure we both showed up here so we could put this one to rest. Shall we call it ancient history?”

“Absolutely.” We slapped each other five. “So does this mean you'll go out with me?” he asked.

I laughed, pretending I thought he was joking. He got the point and didn't push me on it.

By the time we got back within view of the
QE2,
the sun was setting and David was standing on the dunes with a face like Darth Vader on a bad day.

“Uh oh,” I said. My new linen pants were still rolled up to my thighs and they were soaking wet anyhow.

“More than just business, you and Montagnier?” Sal asked.

I didn't answer. If
People
magazine wasn't allowed to know, I didn't see why I should tell Sal. We found our shoes and climbed the dunes.

“David, this is Sal Peroni, a buddy of mine from home.”

They shook hands, but David's eyes barely brushed Sal. He was concentrating on me. And my pant suit. I would have looked better if I'd jumped all the way in.

“There are a lot of people who want to meet you,” David said. Then to Sal, “I'm sure you understand.” David was so pissed his hair was frying at the roots. Sal backed off in a hurry with a catch-you-later wave.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Sal and I had some catching up to do. Plus I got tangled up with our pal Nardigger.”

“August Nardigger's here?”

“The very same.” I wrung some of the water out of my pants and slipped my sandy feet into my shoes. “You can't miss him. He's got a white hat implanted in his scalp.”

“He's a snob and a hypocrite.” The news about Nardigger didn't much elevate David's mood, but at least it got him off my case. I watched the muscles in his jaw clench. That trick always impressed me. Watch the close-ups of Gregory Peck's face in
The Guns of Navarone.
The trouble was, I got the feeling that David was putting Nardigger in the same category with those bad Nazis who were trying to sink our boys. I took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Aw, leave it, David. The guy's a jerk and a loser.”

David shook his hand free. It felt more violent than a slap from Dutch, I guess because David's touch had always been so tender.

“He wrote unforgivable things in that column,” David said, and off he went to fight for my honor except I knew he was also still furious at me for taking a leave of absence with Sal. What this did was strand me at the edge of the patio to face the peanut gallery that had been enjoying the little drama between David and me. I gave them a cheery smile and went to fetch myself a vodka tonic.