Park Lane South, Queens (12 page)

“No, he won't,” Zinnie said. “Who are they gonna give it to? Him?”

“And who's going to pay if they follow him home?”

“Shut up. I'd like to see one of them follow him home. They'd be worn out.”

“Wait till Mom finds out—”

“Who's gonna tell her, miss goody two tits, you?”

The three of them watched as the Mayor headed off in the direction of Lefferts Boulevard. He looked once over his shoulder, furtively, then skedaddled fast as he could away from them. There was no stopping him now.

They climbed the hill with the same suspicious optimism with which all women over twenty-five start out for parties. Zinnie was in a good mood. Carmela too, for once. She'd always wanted to get in with the diplomatic set. This was as good a chance as any, even if the opportunity had presented itself through Claire. As for Claire, she was thinking about those pictures she'd left down in the cellar. Something about them … like a word on the tip of your tongue …

It was pleasant along Park Lane South. The houses changed to villas and the sun was pink above the woods. That meant good weather for tomorrow as well.

“Why didn't you wear my sundress, Claire?” Carmela asked, looking her up and down with disapproving eyes. “Aren't you hot? You know you could have borrowed it.”

“I'm fine,” Claire smiled, hot. She was glad she hadn't worn the lavender sundress. She almost had. She'd stared at it on its hanger and held its skirt up to her cheek. It had had the same feel to it as a shawl she'd had once, and as she'd stood there in Carmela's closet she'd remembered that shawl whipping around her in the breeze and how she'd walked happily, innocently through the forest outside Rishikesh and how it was so fine that she'd kept right on walking, past the sunlit temple and the perfect mossy fields. She'd relived the shock of seeing the back of her lover's neck as she'd turned from the shelter of the trees, recognizing that neck first, his back to her, his face to the lovely young Indian girl. He'd put out his arm to capture a strand of the girl's windy hair that covered her eyes and he'd anchored it kindly to her small, seashell ear. Claire had walked up to them, smiling brightly, consciously oblivious to their sudden discomfort, pretending (for whom?) that nothing had happened.

And she'd walked away from the lavender dress. She believed in the vibrations of clothes. She had things, beautiful things that suited her, that she would never wear because of something that had happened to her while she'd had it on. Such as a woman in the store not approving of her while she'd tried something on and she, thinking nothing, buying the item anyway. Those feelings were recorded forever in the fiber of the fabric, and Claire would relive that dislike every time she put it on. No. She was glad she hadn't worn that beautiful dress.

They walked and walked.

“Where is this place?” Carmela demanded finally. “My feet are killing me.”

“Serves you right for wearing my shoes,” said Zinnie.

“Your feet were always bigger than mine! When did your feet get smaller?”

“Probably when you put on all that weight.”

“What weight?”

“Let's not talk about weight tonight,” pleaded Claire, who had camouflaged her figure very nicely beneath a powder blue Afghani sheath. “Let's have a good time, all right? This is it.”

“This?!” Carmela dropped her purse.

“Who is this guy, Claire?” Zinnie gave a low whistle, “—a king?”

“Don't be silly. He's a diplomat. It's not his.”

“It wasn't Marcos's either,” Carmela checked her nose inside her compact. “What's the matter, Zin? You'd rather have the acreage in the back of the house? You don't like money? You think if money could buy happiness Franco Bolla would have his teeth fixed?”

“I wish I'd worn something else.”

“You just miss your gun.”

“I've got my gun.”

“You look adorable,” Claire said.

“I don't.”

“You do.”

They tripped up the cobblestone path that led to the side of the villa. There were yellow-and-white-striped tents set up along the yard, well hidden from the street by tall privet hedging. Lanterns twinkled, as early as it was, and groups of people stood chatting here and there, sipping what appeared to be champagne.

“I thought Poland was communist,” said Zinnie.

“Don't
we
pay for diplomatic housing?” Carmela ruminated on a thoroughly new sort of column. A political column.

“I think so,” said Claire.

“If I drink too much,” Carmela said, “don't bother to carry me home.”

“No, we won't, dear. You stay right here and check out our good tax dollars. Da?”

“They're so damn operatic looking,” Zinnie complained. “Oh, hell, Carmela, what are you doing putting on
gloves
?”

At that moment, Stefan spotted Claire. Silkily, he glided across the tilted lawn. “Don't tell me!” he stretched out his dinner-jacketted arm, “—not one policelady, but two!”

“Wadja, tell 'im I'm a cop?” Zinnie glared at Claire.

“No, this one is a writer. This is Carmela and this is Zinnie. I hope you don't mind my bringing the whole family.”

“Mind?” Of course Stefan didn't mind. Three beautiful sisters were an asset to any party, weren't they? They all agreed they were. Stefan guided them over to the canopy and settled them each with a glass of champagne.

“He looks like a sun-bleached Count Dracula,” Zinnie whispered in her ear.

Carmela fluttered her eyelashes at Stefan. “One thing that women forget nowadays to do,” Claire remembered reading in one of Carmela's articles, “is flutter their lashes.”

“I've always been dying to see the inside of this house,” Carmela was telling Stefan. “Can you believe that I've lived practically around the corner most of my life and I've never been inside! Do you collect anyone in particular?” She steered him away.

Claire felt the wine whiz right to her head. “Count Dracula seems to have found his bat.”

“Oh, he'll be back,” Zinnie poked her between the shoulder blades. “Men like that want a little hard to get. You don't think he doesn't have women throwing themselves at him all day long? Anyway, who cares? He's no big deal. Debonair. Tall. Witty. Rich. I'm so glad Freddy's not here. He'd fall in love with him.”

“Stop worrying about Freddy. He'd want you to have some fun.”

“No, he wouldn't.”

“All the more reason, then.”

“Jesus. Catch that old broad. Are those chandeliers or earrings? Everybody's so
rich
!”

“And boring, I bet.”

“Yeah, well. You can't have everything.” Zinnie looked about her apprehensively … eagerly. As though she'd found herself out on the tip of the high board and wasn't so sure which course to take. She is so pure, thought Claire. No longer innocent, but pure.

There was a band of musicians in tuxedos circuiting the lawn. Claire finished her drink and when the waiter passed she took another.

“Look at this,” Zinnie sniggered in her ear, “a croquet mallet.”

Sure enough, there were half hoops and mallets sprawled across the lawn on the other side of the house.

“What bliss,” said Claire. “Bygone fragments of a more gentle era.”

Zinnie pirouetted across the grass and picked up a mallet. She swung it crazily around her head. “Game?”

“C'mon, Zinnie,” Claire looked around uncomfortably. “Cut it out.”

“Why? Don't you want to play? You've been talking about getting some exercise. Let's see a little action here.” She kicked off her shoes and held the splintered mallet in a batter's stance. “Look. There's a ball.”

“I can't take you anywhere,” Claire griped jokingly. But she meant it. You never knew what Zinnie would do. She got so desperate and arbitrary sometimes. “I forget how to play,” she grinned unhappily.

Zinnie proceeded to line up the hoops. “This can be home base,” she dropped her curly blond head and nudged it at the first stepping stone. It was bordered in chamomile.

“You can't use a slate for base,” said Claire. “And croquet has no base. I think.”

“What happened to the little champagne man? There he is. Yoo-hoo!”

“Zinnie! Stop it!”

“Why?”

“Everybody's looking.”

“So? Let them see someone having a laugh, for once.” She swung her mallet. The ball traveled through several hoops and landed, perfectly round, at Claire's long toes.

“Nice shot. Only aren't we supposed to each have our own balls?” There was no sense in arguing. It would just make Zinnie worse.

“That's the spirit!”

“Mademoiselle!” A Nigerian fellow in tails who'd been watching, ambled over with another ball. He presented it to Zinnie as one would a precious gift.

“Oh, hello,” she said. “Want to play?”

“
Volontiers
.”

“What's he say?” Zinnie frowned.

“He'd love to. What's your name?”

“René.”

“Okay, René, you've got second base.” She dragged him over to a far-off hoop.

“You're a sick girl, Zinnie. This is croquet.”

“Queens rules. You can't beat baseball. Or do you think you can?” Chips of green in her blue-flecked eyes lit up with challenge.

“No, Zinnie. I do not, for the last time, think you can. Now can we stop this?”

But several more officious types, curious and bored, had wandered over. They let themselves be bullied into position. This was all to the stern disapproval of the servants, but by now what could they do? The Tunesian vice-consul was having a smashing time in charge of third and one wouldn't want to upset him. Nor any of them. What a muddle.

Zinnie had one team arranged on one side and Claire, absorbed now, the other. She continually checked over her shoulder to see what Zinnie was doing. Zinnie was, Claire realized, as natural a leader as she had ever met. If she'd have been a man … Claire thought before she caught herself. Why, nowadays, a woman could do anything a man could do. Why was it that even she, who believed this, still had trouble incorporating it into everyday thought? Because it had always been she, in each of her relationships, who'd done the dishes. That's why. No matter how much money she'd made or hefty chores she'd shared. Christ, it was exhausting. The whole man-woman thing could make you ill. And so resentful. She didn't want to be resentful. She took a deep, cleansing breath and tried to return to her previous bemused state. There, that was better.

“This,” Zinnie was informing the vice-consul, “is American culture. Just make sure that no one steals your base. See, any player from the other team can come and steal it while you're not looking.”

“But this is not a just system!” he cried.

“Yeah, but you get to voice that opinion and live.”

“Carry on,” the Turkish ambassador poised his mallet.

Claire noticed that Stefan and Carmela were nowhere to be found. Zinnie distributed her evening bag's supply of sugar-free chewing gum. It was, she assured them, prerequisite. All sorts of fancy shoes were off, tossed into one raucus and plebian heap. By now there was nobody left on the other side of the house. The game simmered into a businesslike seriousness and time flew by like magic. Suddenly it was the fourth inning, and what a job it had become to see that devious ball coming. One by one the lanterns all around the property went on and Carmela and Stefan emerged from the glamorous front door. Stefan's face fell. Not Carmela's. She arranged her expression immediately into the appropriate butter-wouldn't-melt-in-your-mouth. Claire's team was up. The Lebanese official's wife was at bat. Her teammates cheered her on with slurred directions—they were all experts now. The lady swung and missed. A titter went up from Zinnie's team. She swung again, this time connecting. The ball raced through several hoops and cracked into the Nigerian fellow's ankle.

“Yow, yow, yow, yow, yow, yow!” He limped hurriedly in a circle.

Everyone trooped over with inebriated concern.

“Hello, stand back, I'm a doctor,” said a handsome young blond man and they all moved aside. Zinnie lowered the wounded player onto the ground and she and the doctor took control. Claire backed off. Zinnie liked that young doctor, she could tell. She grinned to herself. Now let's just watch and see if he's married, she warned Zinnie silently. She found her shoes and walked across the lawn. There was a bench behind the tent where she could sit down and study the house. You seldom saw lead-paned windows like that anymore, or mossy stucco with ivy shooting up each corner. Nowadays the locals aluminum-sided any natural surface they could get their hands on. This was really the sort of place you could get used to. Quickly.

The others were wandering back. The wounded man was not badly hurt; Zinnie and the doc had him propped on a chaise lounge and were administering advice. Claire saw Zinnie throw back her head and laugh. Boy, to laugh like that again! Stefan came over and sat down next to her.

“Hello, troublemaker. I take it it was you who got the servants so upset.”

Claire gave a noncommittal frown. She wasn't sure whether or not it was going to be advantageous to take the credit. “I hope that man isn't hurt. He was such an excellent shortstop.”

“I suppose you see yourself as having saved the party,” he remarked, amused.

She felt herself redden.

“You have an interesting family. Your sister Carmela. She's very knowledgeable about art, isn't she?”

“Is she?”

“Yes, indeed.” He leaned over and removed a baby grasshopper that'd landed on her arm. She liked the way he did that, with fine feeling, not injuring the little fellow's legs. They watched him spring away. Stefan, charmed at his own kindness, exhaled a wacky, megalomanic chuckle.