Lawn Boy(52)

By the time I cleared security and arrived at the country club, I was resenting the place all over again. I parked about a half block down from the clubhouse and made my way toward the festivities with a heavy heart. Drawing nearer, swing music and laughter could be heard wafting on the warm evening air. It was all so goddamn idyllic. And still, I felt like a shitheel. Suddenly I wished I’d gone ahead and invited Remy. Maybe I would have felt more confident with her at my side, maybe coming to this party would have felt like the right decision.

There were a hundred or so people socializing in the clubhouse, an airy and effortlessly elegant structure, with a high ceiling, its bare rafters strung with white Christmas lights. Four or five couples danced before the grandstand, where six old fogies blew brass and woodwinds, while one dude with a shock of white hair was beating the drums and looking like he might have a heart attack.

Piggot stood poised by the bar, looking his breezy self, dressed in peach-colored slacks and a white dress shirt. Standing nearby, a formidable old woman with a proud bearing, wearing a half ton of makeup, patted her sculpted hair.

“Mary, I want you to meet Mike, my new yard man.” Wink wink.

“Pleased,” she said, holding out her palsied hand like she was Queen Victoria.

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to kiss it or what, so I shook it limply, not wanting to crush it.

“Is this the writer?” she inquired.

I looked at Piggot for an explanation.

“Doug enlightened me regarding your literary ambitions,” he said.

“You talked to Goble?”

“Indeed, and he told me about your novel.”

“Uh, oh yeah.” I should have never told Goble I was writing a novel.

“Sounds ambitious,” he said.

“My nephew Richard wrote some poetry in college,” Mary informed us haughtily. “But nothing published, of course. Have you published?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh,” she said, averting her eyes and waving curtly at someone across the room.

“Grab yourself a drink, young man,” said Piggot.

I moved about ten feet to the bar, delighted to discover the booze was free—cha-ching! Not that I was planning on getting drunk. Not with the company truck. Plus I needed to make a good impression on these people. They didn’t have J?ger, so I ordered a beer and a shot of whiskey. They didn’t have Old Crow or Wild Turkey or even Jack Daniel’s, so I ordered some shit called Bushmills. I tried to tip the bartender, but he told me they weren’t allowed to accept tips.

“Why not?”

“Don’t get me started,” he mumbled.

As I was tossing back my shot, an old sheepdog in a worn tuxedo muscled up next to me at the bar and ordered a scotch. His bow tie was hanging loose. He sported some ruddy cheeks and the shaggiest eyebrows I’ve ever seen. Tufts of gray hair sprouted from his ears.

“You must be the writer,” he said.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Anything published?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah, I see,” he said, arching a shaggy brow. “You know, my son Richard wrote a little poetry in college. Nothing published, of course. Eventually, he outgrew it.”

“I guess there’s hope for me,” I said.

He considered me briefly, like one might consider a doorless bathroom stall.

“Perhaps,” he said, taking his scotch without so much as a nod at the bartender. Then, just like that, the old sheepdog walked off toward the bandstand.

And here I thought wealthy people had good manners.

“That’s the guy who hired me,” the bartender said, his voice lowered. “Loaded as they come—old logging money or something. He’s a real grab-ass. You know all these people are related, right?”

“I didn’t know.”

“They inbreed so their money stays in the family. Check it out. They all kinda look alike—weak chins, thin lips, wide hips.”

To be honest, I hadn’t seen the resemblance up until that point, beyond the fact that they were all conspicuously white.

“Don’t bother sucking up to them. That’s not what they want from you.”

“Oh?”

“Me, they want to suck up. But not you.”

“What do they want from me?”

“They want you to be yourself. The more yourself you can be, the better. You’re an exotic.”

“Me? Exotic?”

“Yeah. Catholics, artists, Jews. They get a real kick out of them.”

Piggot approached the bar, dragging a young lady with a weak chin and thin lips.

“Mike, I want you to meet Kaitlin. Kaitlin studied English literature at Tufts. I thought you two might find something to talk about.”

“Hey,” I said.

“Pleased, I’m sure,” she said, but only after Piggot gave her a nudge.

No sooner did Piggot plant her at my side than he wandered off again. We stood there uncomfortably for a moment, me and the girl from Tufts, while the bartender withdrew to polish glasses.

“Uncle Jud says you’re a writer.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s kind of the consensus around here.”

“Have you published?”

“Not yet. First, I’ve just got to finish my novel.”