Rich and Pretty(7)

Huck is not very tall but seems massive; Huck is not fat but seems so. Huck’s natural tone of voice is loud, but because when he speaks, everyone else stops speaking to hear what he’s going to say, it seems he’s always shouting. That’s probably why he’s so successful, his ability to shut other people up simply by speaking.

“This is Lauren,” Huck declares. “She grew up with my Sarah. An honorary member of the family, this one. They were girls only days ago. I don’t understand!”

Someone says “Nice to meet you,” and Lauren realizes, too late, that this has been an introduction. She smiles. There’s no need to speak, since Huck has the floor.

“You know my Sarah, of course, the only real work I’ve ever done. Lead line in my obituary. There it is. Tell that to Lehmann at the Times, I mean it.” General laughter. “And if you can believe this, she’s getting married. Betrothed. ‘Thou art sad. Get thee a wife!’ Is that Much Ado? The Venetian Merchant? Never mind. Promised to a wonderful young man. Sarah, Dan’s not here tonight, is he?” Sarah shakes her head. “A doctor. But not one of the saps making rounds, stethoscope at the ready. How are we feeling, Mrs. Johnson? Jesus no. Ten bucks a pop for that shit, though the socialists would have it like the sanitation department. Free for all! A doctor drops by for your vaccinations, Mondays, Wednesdays, Saturdays. Thursdays, they’ll pick up the recyclables and send the gynecologist.” More laughter. Four more minutes of this and he’s leading an honest-to-God toast to Sarah, right there in the foyer, a clutch of guests raising highball glasses to the future health and happiness of Doctor Dan and Huck’s little girl.

Lauren escapes his grasp—it’s physical, he’s had an arm around her waist all this time, right up through the raising of glasses, but unlike Sarah’s touch, Huck’s doesn’t kindle fond memories—and steps backward slowly the way you’re supposed to leave the presence of the Queen of England. She’s in the living room, she’s free, no one has noticed. Huck is talking about monetary policy now.

The living room is not that crowded, but the walls are covered with Lulu’s collection of folk portraits so it seems full of life. A trio of women with identical haircuts are having a serious conversation near the fireplace. Lauren sits on the sofa, which is covered with pillows. She’s never understood that, lots of pillows on a sofa; how are you supposed to sit with all that comfort? It’s aggressive. She takes one cushion from behind her, leans back into the couch, and places it on her lap. She wishes she had a drink, but doesn’t want to move. She wants to check her watch but doesn’t wear one. Forty minutes. She can leave in forty minutes. A wave of loud laughter from the back garden: Something funny has happened. She feels no curiosity at all about it.

“Don’t hide.” Sarah sits on the couch. “It’s not ladylike.”

Lauren studies her. There’s a bit of pink in Sarah’s eyes but she’s feigning sobriety pretty well. “I don’t want to get up,” Lauren says. “I’m comfortable.”

“It’s a party,” Sarah says. She stands, grabs her by the hand.

Lauren lets the velveteen pillow fall on the floor. She doesn’t pick it up.

They cut through the dining room and down the back staircase without having to go past Huck in the foyer. The basement stairwell is bright, white, the only bare walls in the place, because Lulu figured it’s best to create the impression of light and space where there isn’t any. Lulu could have been a decorator. She likes to bring this up in conversation.

There’s a table in the kitchen, plates of grapes and strawberries and something wrapped in some kind of very thinly sliced meat, and sweating bottles of white wine and sparkling water. Lauren grabs the glasses, Sarah pours both full, takes a healthy sip from one glass, tops it off. Lauren tastes the wine. It’s too sweet, but never mind. Sarah is pulling on her arm still, and they squeeze through the scrum toward the back doors, and out onto the bluestone slabs of the garden.

There is Lulu, in just the pose Lauren imagines when she imagines her—head turned to the left as if someone’s only just called her name, cocked just a bit as if there’s some music she’s straining to hear, mouth communicating a smile without actually smiling. There are lanterns in the trees, and the light from neighboring houses, and the ambient glow of the city, and anyway it’s not late so there are traces of sun, and the effect is theatrical. Retired or not, Lulu is a star.

She can be loud, is maybe the only person in the world who can be louder than Huck, but she’s most effective when silent. She sees them, she sees all, and beckons urgently, waving enthusiastically but also commandingly. Gripping wineglasses and holding hands, they trip across the stones, weave past partygoers, Lauren’s arm brushing right up against the back of the honorable associate justice. Lulu is standing on the stone, too, but seems somehow to be onstage. She grabs them both, one hand on each girl’s arm.

“There you are” is all she says.

“Hi, Mom,” says Sarah.

“Hi, Lulu,” says Lauren.

“Hi nothing.” She squeezes Lauren’s arm. “You never come anymore. You came.”

“I came,” Lauren says. “I come sometimes.”

“You came!” She relinquishes their forearms and claps her hands together, once, twice, three times. “I’m so happy. Oh, you’ve made me so happy, but darling, where’s Dan; Dan’s not here tonight?”