The News of the World (18 page)

So when our friend Maxwell came by for a drink to introduce us to his new girlfriend, our dog Max paddled up to him and jabbed him a sharp one, a stroke so clean and fast it could have been a boxing glove on a spring. Maxwell, our friend, lost his breath and sat on the couch suddenly and heavily, unable to say anything beyond a hoarse whisper of “
Scotch.
Just
scotch.
No ice.”

Cody put Max out on the back porch, of course, where he has spent a good measure of this long winter, and Maxwell took a long nourishing sip on his scotch and began recovering. He's not athletic at all, but I admired the way he had folded, crumpling just like a ballplayer taking an inside pitch in the nuts. It wasn't enough to change my whole opinion of him, but it helped me talk to him civilly for five minutes while Cody calmed the dog. I think I had seen a sly crocodile smile on Max's face after he'd struck, pride in a job well done, possibly, and then again, possibly a deeper satisfaction. He had heard Cody and me talk about Maxwell before, and Max is a smart dog.

Maxwell, his color returning, was now explaining that his new girlfriend, Laurie, would be along in a minute; she had been detained at aerobics class. Life at the museum was hectic and lovely, he was explaining. It was frustrating for him to be working with folk so ignorant of what made a good show, of counterpoint, of even the crudest elements of art. Let alone business, the business of curating, the business of public responsibility, the business in general. I was hoping to get him on his arch tirade about how the average intelligence in his department couldn't make a picture by connecting the dots, a routine which Cody could dial up like a phone number. But I wasn't going to get it tonight; he was already on business, his favorite topic.

The truth is that Maxwell is a simple crook. He uses his office to travel like a pasha; he damages borrowed work, sees to the insurance, and then buys some of it for himself; he only mounts three shows a year; and he only goes in four days a week.

Cody came in for one of her favorite parts, Maxwell's catalogue (including stores and prices) of the clothing and jewelry he was wearing tonight. Cody always asked about the clerks, and so his glorious monologue was sprinkled with diatribes about the help. Old Maxwell.

When his girlfriend, Laurie, finally did arrive, breathless and airy at the same time, Maxwell had all three rings on the coffee table and he was showing Cody his new watch. Laurie tossed her head three times taking off her coat; we were in for a record evening.

Maxwell would show her off for a while, making disparaging remarks about exercise
of any kind
, and she would admire his rings, ranking them like tokens on the table, going into complex and aesthetic reasons for her choices. I would fill her full of the white wine that all of Maxwell's girlfriends drink, and then when she asked where the powder room was, I would rise with her and go into the kitchen, wait, count to twenty-five while selecting another Buckhorn out of the fridge, and let Max in.

IT
was a tough time and she didn't know why. One of those times that
develops
like a storm front, slowly, imperceptibly; you run to the store a few times, drive your boys to piano and tennis for a few years, and suddenly you look up and something's tough,
something
hurts.

Changes had already begun before Glenna saw Jim in the tub. She's already changed radio stations, switching from KALL and its forced adult glee to somplace in the sevens, a station she didn't even know the name of that played raw, vaguely familiar rock and roll. And she played it loudly, driving around in the Volvo. Glenna would come out of Seven-Eleven with a coffee and she could hear the music vibrating the running car. And she found herself going to movies alone in the afternoon. One day she went to see
Micki and Maude
at the Regency and though she knew it was one of the worst pictures she had ever seen, she couldn't help feeling for the characters, losing herself in the wash of images. On the way home, she stopped at the Upper Crust and had a cup of cappuccino sitting in the corner facing the wall, pretending she wasn't from Salt Lake at all, that she didn't have a son at East and one at Bryant, that her husband wasn't an accountant, that, somehow, there wasn't
something
bothering her heart at all.

It was when she arrived home that she saw Jim in the tub. She had driven home in a rush of Iron Maiden songs and found another
New Era
in the mail, a magazine her mother subscribed to for her, and it had been the limit. She took it, gathered the three others that sat politely on the coffee table and threw them in the garbage beside the patio. Tyler, the family's sheepdog, came bounding from his nap; if Glenna was moving this fast, it must mean play. He jumped up on her. It was bad timing. She swiped him across the ears with her fist, almost screaming: “Get away from me!”

In her state, near tears, she cut through the boys' bathroom to reach her bedroom, and that's when she saw Jim, her fifteen-year-old, lying in the soapy water. He was reclining, his Walkman earphones clamped on his head. The little machine sat beside the tub on a towel.

On seeing his mother march through, Jim started and said, “Mom?” way too loud in a tone that implied:
What's the matter
?

Even then it was too late. Glenna sat on her bed and thought: something's wrong. The image rushed her closed eyes: her son's long body floating, his white belly, his navel, the dark hair below in the soapy water. She couldn't figure it out, but she was mad, really mad. She was mad because her son had hair growing on his body.

She wanted to accuse Lance, her husband. “Did you know our son has pubic hair! Is this something you've arranged?” She sat on the edge of the bed and rocked back and forth slightly. She felt tragic and silly at the same time; she felt betrayed.

It didn't let up. Mark came home late from Bryant, and though Glenna had calmed herself, she still jumped him: “Where have you been? Feed your damn dog!”

“Mom,” Mark said, sliding in to one of the kitchen chairs. “I've got to talk to you.”

Mark was in a little trouble at school. He was halfway through his tale about the vice principal, when Jim came down the stairs dressed in his McDonald's uniform.

“Where are you going?” Glenna asked him.

“Mom,” Jim said, opening his palms to model his outfit. “I'm going out to do drugs. What do you think? You know I work tonight. Carl's picking me up. He's out front right now. See you at eleven.”

She turned back to Mark. He had “Oreoed” the vice principal's car, and he and three other boys had had to stay and wash the car, and they were going to be in detention the rest of the term, thirty minutes after school
every
day. Lance, her husband, walked in. He saw the looks on their faces and asked, “What's up?”

Glenna looked at Lance with the very look that said: “You're the author of all this misery.” And she brushed by him on her way upstairs. What she did say was, “I'm sick of it. I'm sick of them. No more boys. No more dogs. You handle it.”

That night, as a surprise to Lance, Glenna came on as a tigress. She covered his mouth every time he tried to speak, insisting that they just make love
her way.
At times it was strangely rough. Afterward, Lance rose on an elbow and asked, “Glen? Is there anything the matter? Glenna?”

Glenna knew something was happening. She found herself trying to remember the lyrics to Boston and Twisted Sister songs. She even knew she was self-conscious when she went to Nordstrom and bought whole outfits of Guess and Camp Beverly Hills. She wore her Guess sweatshirt around the house without a bra. Late one afternoon she stood at the sink singing, “I Want To Know What Love Is” along with Foreigner on the radio. She could see the stupid dog, Tyler, sitting in the backyard watching her, his head cocked to the side in what looked like sympathy. In the evenings, she noticed that her sons avoided her when possible.

LANCE
and Glenna went to cocktails at the Weymans'. The Weymans' children were grown, out of college, and lived in other cities. The Weymans were the oldest couple in the neighborhood. While Glenna looked forward to the party, she needled Lance about it, saying, “Oh yes, another gathering of the stodgy status quo.”

“They're nice people, Glenna.”

“They could get over that with the proper help.”

It was a rather large gathering. The Weymans' house was filled. Glenna didn't know many people there, most were from the University. This was the party for Dr. Weyman's retirement. She left Lance with a group he played tennis with and scouted onward into the den, where she found her friend Mimi.

“Ah, basic black,” Mimi said, nodding at Glenna's dress. “Your credo still is ‘safety first,' right?”

Glenna liked Mimi, and seeing her, she was tempted to confess her pain, ask her, “Mimi, is there something happening to you?” But there was just enough jealously to prevent it. Mimi was four years younger, richer, and—Glenna thought—more clever. The two made fun of their husbands for a moment. Mimi had names for them: “Ordinary Lance” and “Dull Don,” but when she looked through the archway, Lance was leading a small conversation and he looked handsome and animated. Don leaned against the mantel talking to two attractive women, members of the history department.

“Want to get stoned?” Mimi asked.

They went out the side door and sat in Mimi's Audi. It was cold in the car and the two passed the joint back for forth in silence. Glenna looked through the windshield at the ice hanging from the Weymans' garage. Finally, Mimi announced: “This is your life, Glenna!” Glenna looked at Mimi placidly and felt the panic of having another person read her mind. Then Glenna watched in alarm as Mimi said something Glenna knew she was going to say. Glenna felt she could see each word fall from Mimi's mouth, and Glenna felt how they lined up in the air and were at once right
and
obscene: “I saw Jim the other day,” Mimi said. “He's quite a hunk.”

Glenna snapped: “You stay away from my son!” And though she meant it and intended it as a grave warning, the two women began to laugh, to howl uncontrollably, laughing until there seemed no more air in the car. Glenna's stomach hurt from laughter and her jaw ached, when she turned in slow motion and saw the close-up of Lance's face outside her window. “Ahhhhhhhh!” Mimi screamed as she too saw the face, and the laughter tripled.

“Honey,” Lance said to the closed window. “Honey, come in before you catch cold.”

A moment later Lance was introducing Glenna to Jim's French teacher, Mr. Van Vliet. “I've always wanted to learn French myself,” Glenna said, interrupting the compliment Mr. Van Vliet was making about their son. “Do you do any private tutoring?”

Sunday afternoon, Glenna sat alone on the kitchen table with her feet on a chair, nibbling Saltines, staring at Tyler out in the backyard. She had sent Lance, Jim, and Mark off to her mother's house.

“Why is Mom not going?” Jim had asked.

“Your mother has her reasons.”

“And tell her to stop sending me magazines
and
do not bring back any clippings she's saved. I've had it with that stuff,” Glenna had said.

“You've had it with a lot of stuff,” Mark had said.

“That's enough, Mark.”

“Well, Dad, it's true!”

“Let's just go. Let's just go to Grandma's,” Jim had said.

“I'm bringing back the clippings,” Mark had called from the front door. “I'm bringing them all!”

She had watched them climb into the car. Mark was still upset, Jim resigned, Lance dutiful. She had heard Jim say, as he pushed Mark into the backseat, “Forget it, big guy, she's having a little trouble with her
heritage.
”

Glenna nibbled the crackers and rolled her eyes again, remembering his words.
Heritage,
for chrissakes. She stood, and Tyler in the backyard responded by standing too and waving his tail.

“No way,” Glenna said to him, and moved to turn the radio on.

Mark arrived home from school just as Glenna was leaving for her first appointment with Mr. Van Vliet. Mark was doing better in school. The vice principal's car was okay; the Oreos hadn't damaged any of the paint. The vice principal had even admitted to the boys that in a way, a harmless prank could be funny. Mark stood on the front walk and watched the Volvo back down the driveway. Glenna saw him watching her. She rolled down her window. He just looked at her.

“Well?” she said finally. “What is it?”

“Mom,” he said calmly, walking down to the car. “You're always running. I don't care that you don't talk to me. You're mad at me maybe. But Tyler's the family dog. You ought to be nicer to Tyler.” In the cold air, his breath rose on both sides of his face. They looked at each other.

“I'll see you later,” Glenna said to her son. “I'm late.”

MR. VAN VLIET
met Glenna at the door. “Can I get you something? Some coffee?”

“No coffee,” she heard herself say. “But I'll take a drink.”

As soon as he went into the kitchen and Glenna sat down, she felt like a fool. “French? I'm going to study French?” A flame of panic touched her throat.

Mr. Van Vliet returned with two coffee cups. “White wine. There's no other choice.” Glenna tried to picture this man teaching her son's class, fussing over the roll, scolding a daydreamer.

The apartment was modern, primarily white. A framed poster centered each wall anouncing exhibitions of paintings in French. Stolen on summer sabbatical, she thought.

“Now,” he sat down on a stool by the counter, “what makes you want to study French?”

Her throat constricted again, but she managed: “Oh … I've always wanted to. This seems like a good time for me.” Then in her flooding nervousness a picture flashed in her mind. She was standing at cocktails with Mimi, saying, “Oh, yes, I'm taking French. It's
wonderful
.” Glenna looked up at Mr. Van Vliet and said, “I'm not sure. If my son can learn it, can't I?”