A Changed Man (17 page)

Irene’s heart goes out to Roberta, and Bonnie, and an office full of women and men who have Meyer instead of a life. In fact, Irene feels so badly that she has invited someone for Roberta: Elliot Green, divorced for a couple of years. In any case, Meyer owes Elliot, whose law firm does a lot of pro bono work for the foundation. If nothing clicks with Roberta, at least Elliot will have been invited to a payback dinner.

Irene told everyone to come half an hour before Bonnie and the skinhead. Then she could get things settled before they have to deal with whatever craziness a Nazi dinner guest turns out to involve.

That extra half hour was a mistake. Within seconds, everyone knew that Roberta’s lukewarm interest in Elliot was unreturned. Irene wondered how she, Irene, could have spent decades married to a man like Meyer without a bit of his goodness rubbing off on her. A decent person would never feel the competitive lift that Irene got from watching Roberta strike out. So what? It’s not Irene’s fault if the survival of the species depends on sexual competition. Not that Irene has done much—biologically—to help the species survive. By the time she married Meyer, she was almost forty. In those days a woman that age was considered way too old to have children. Now the streets are full of gray-heads pushing triplets in designer strollers. Irene’s done her part, in other ways. Who knows how many lives have been saved because of her smiling and lip-reading at those noisy dinners?

No one’s life will be altered by what transpires this evening. Roberta won’t even wind up with a date. After they watched the high-speed drama of faint hope and rejection transpire between Roberta and Elliot, the others felt depleted, and the collective energy wilted, though Meyer tried to keep the group focused with news about the Iranian.

Then Bonnie and the skinhead showed up, and he spilled red wine down his shirt, not a promising sign for a future of putting the squeeze on wealthy donors. Meyer took the guy off to change. Bonnie and Elliot said hello. They knew each other from work. Elliot showed even less interest in Bonnie than he’d shown in Roberta. Irene introduced Bonnie to Sol and Minna, whom she also already knew.

Bonnie said to Minna, “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”

Minna, who Irene thinks has been behaving oddly since her illness, said, “Thanks. I’m surprised you knew I was ill. You must be very busy raising money for all Meyer’s causes.”

Bonnie seemed confused, then recovered and said, “Meyer was terribly worried.”

Sol and Minna seemed thrilled to hear it. And that was it for conversation. Now, as they wait for Meyer’s return, trying not to feel slighted by his absence, it’s Irene’s job to get the derailed chitchat back on track.

It’s a relief when Bonnie says, “Irene, could I talk to you for a moment? Alone?”

Irene looks guiltily at the other guests. Maybe they will find it easier to relax without her around.

Whatever Bonnie has to say must be terribly private, or scandalous—Irene hopes—because Bonnie drags her across the room, all the way to the piano, on which Irene can’t help admiring her piano shawl, an heirloom artifact from a tribe of nomadic Ethiopian Jews. A souvenir of their travels, a grateful gift to Meyer.

When the drinks tray comes by, Bonnie exchanges her empty glass for a full one with such a desperate lunge that the waiter is tipped off balance, and they nearly have the second casualty of the evening. Already Irene is prepared to agree to whatever Bonnie asks.

Irene’s heart goes out to Bonnie, raising those two boys alone, though something in her reacts against a certain pride and vanity she senses beneath Bonnie’s self-effacing exterior—pride in the nun’s life she is leading, supposedly for her boys’ sake, as well as the vanity with which she wears the mantle of goodness that she imagines has dropped on her just from working with Meyer. Meyer, who at this moment is being so good that he’s wandered off with the Nazi and left Irene to deal with whatever Bonnie is apologizing for in advance. With her admirable but hopeless desire to
be
good, to
do
good, Bonnie reminds Irene of that ninny in
Middlemarch,
which they read in Irene’s book group.

“This is all my fault,” Bonnie is saying. “Blame it completely on me.”

“What could be so bad?” says Irene. Bonnie also reminds her of a woman she met once, a pale girl who had turned out to be a former lover of Meyer’s. When Irene asked Meyer how in the world he could have found the woman attractive, he’d said: Waifish. A certain waifish appeal. A quality Irene had never considered an ingredient in any recipe for attraction. Meanwhile, speaking of vanity…Irene could be wrong, but has Bonnie streaked her hair? When would Bonnie get the time? On her lunch break, maybe. And whom did she do it for? Not the skinhead. Or is it?

“This could be terrible,” Bonnie says. “Vincent…For a former Nazi, Irene, the guy’s got a lot of problems—”

“A problem getting a glass to his mouth.”

Bonnie tries to laugh. “Irene,” she says, “this is serious.” Everything is, with Bonnie. Sex is probably serious, which is probably why her husband took off with the two-time-loser widow. Irene can never tell if, from behind her thick glasses, Bonnie is looking deeply into her eyes or trying, as Irene suspects, to figure out if Irene’s had surgery since Bonnie saw her last.

What if Bonnie and her colleagues knew that it’s Meyer who wants Irene to get the procedures? Not that he would admit it. In fact he makes fun of women (women like Irene!) running to expensive, miracle-working dermatologists. But she can read it in his face, in his exquisitely controlled distaste for each new wrinkle and pouch. And considering what other men do—presidents getting blow jobs from interns, respected surgeons chopping up their mistresses and dumping them out of helicopters—who could fault a prince of peace and a Holocaust hero for wanting to sleep with his own wife? Only minus the eye bags. Meanwhile, Irene’s fate is to have everyone think she’s had surgery, even though she hasn’t—and won’t as long as she thinks Meyer wants it.

“Irene!” A note of childish petulance has crept into Bonnie’s voice. “Listen.”

“I
am
listening, Bonnie.”

“I forgot to tell you that Vincent is fatally allergic to nuts. All he has to do is eat something that’s been in the same bowl with a peanut, and he winds up in the emergency room. If he makes it to the emergency room. Irene, he could
die.
”

“Americans,” says Irene. “Always allergic to something. In Europe there are no allergies.” Irene’s shock is disingenuous. And she knows how ungracious it sounds to have lived here for forty years and still be talking about
Americans.
Nowadays, Europeans have allergies, too. They also jog and don’t smoke. In fact Irene is so aware of how common such allergic problems are that she usually asks her assistant to call and ask the guests’ assistants what the guests can’t eat. But ex-skinheads don’t have assistants, and—incorrectly, as it turns out—Irene never imagined that one would have food allergies. A nightmare in the making. She and Meyer will have to personally escort the guy to the emergency room, and wait around on plastic chairs amid screaming gunshot victims.

Irene sighs. “It’s in Europe now, too. Anyhow, I’m joking. The truth is, this happens so often that at this point I would sooner serve rat poison than a bowl of cocktail peanuts. Just to be safe, tell your friend to stay away from the hors d’oeuvres, and I will go and interrogate poor Babu about the main course.”

“Oh, I feel so bad,” Bonnie says.

“Don’t,” is all Irene can bear to reply.

“And dessert,” prompts Bonnie.

“Of course, dessert,” says Irene.

“Thank you. I appreciate this so much, Irene, I—” Bonnie is visibly relieved now that she has dumped her crisis in Irene’s lap.

What’s the Hindi word for allergy? Irene races into the kitchen and somehow locates a bag of walnuts and mimes eating a walnut and grabbing her throat and dying. Babu shakes his head no. No nuts in the dinner. But does he mean no walnuts? Or no nuts of any kind? Irene has done her best. If the guy has an attack, they’ll deal with it when it happens.

When she returns to the living room, Meyer still isn’t back. Everyone stands in a circle, staring into their drinks, except Minna, who can’t drink, and who sinks down onto the sofa. Oh, good Lord, where is Meyer? What has Irene done to deserve this?

Irene has passed the point of irritation when Meyer emerges from his study, his skinhead friend in tow and looking rather handsome in Meyer’s black cashmere sweater. She recalls a photo she saw once: Nixon shaking hands with Elvis. Not that Meyer looks anything like Nixon, nor does Nolan look like Elvis, though his eyes do have that unfocused, slightly druggy look. It’s something about the two men’s complicity, their having recognized one another. Both are holding drinks. This could be one of those evenings when someone gets totally smashed.

“Well, at last!” Irene says. “Meyer! We all thought you gentlemen had gone out for a drink!”

Nolan gives her a searching look. Does he wonder if she’s serious, if that’s something Meyer does, wander off from his parties and wind up at the corner bar? Or does he think she’s remarking on
his
inebriation? What did Meyer give him? Doesn’t he realize that she is just giving Meyer an ordinary, married-couple hard time?

“Of course, I am only kidding,” she says. “Please. Come in. Let’s sit down. Dinner’s getting cold.
Meyer.
”

But Meyer makes them wait longer, makes them watch from across the room as he shows Vincent the Picasso drawings, the Degas sketches, the Redon watercolor—the private art tour most guests get the first time they visit Meyer’s. Bonnie remembers when Meyer took her on the tour, soon after she came to Brotherhood Watch. She’d tried to be cool. She knew about art, probably more than Meyer did. She’d majored in art history. She’d had curatorial jobs. She’d run the development program at the Clairmont Museum. Bonnie-the-professional noted that Meyer had good taste—or a good adviser. But Bonnie-the-human-being felt nearly incandescent, illuminated by the glow of Meyer Maslow’s regard, dimmed only slightly by the strain of trying to make some halfway intelligent comment as they hovered in front of each work, as Meyer took time from his busy life to treat his new employee as if she were the only person in the room. Of course it’s flattering to be seduced by a great man, a hero, and to know he’s seducing you into helping him save the world. Besides which, the paintings and drawings are great. Bonnie never has time to look at art anymore. She hardly has time to miss it.

Vincent is nodding. How nervous must
he
be? Bonnie catches his anxiety like an airborne virus. She tries to read their body language, but it’s as if she’s not wearing her glasses. Meyer’s pointing and talking. They both seem strangely relaxed under the circumstances—the circumstances being six pairs of eyes glaring at them, waiting to start dinner. Meyer’s giving Vincent his moment. It’s something Meyer does. At some point he’ll make each person in the room feel chosen.

So why does Bonnie feel protective, worried on Vincent’s behalf? Because tonight is an audition masquerading as dinner. Everyone—including her—is watching to see how he’ll do in civilized society, if they can trust him to stand up at the benefit and not start talking about Ricans and the Jewish media and the federal government’s plans to control its citizens via E-ZPass.

What right do Bonnie and Meyer and Irene and their friends have to judge him? Every right, in fact. While they have been working for human rights and world peace, Nolan was going to white-power jamborees and getting drunk and tattooed. But still, the poor guy might have dropped from Mars into Meyer and Irene’s art-filled, intimidating apartment. Well, it’s not a bad place to land. Bonnie hopes Vincent knows that.

Vincent can use the practice. It’s only fair to let him paddle around in the calm shoals of a dinner party before tossing him into the rapids of the benefit gala. Already he’s dumped wine down his shirt. No wonder he’s on edge. She’d sensed it on the way here. He’d strutted down Fifty-seventh Street like a rooster scattering hens.

Something else is upsetting Bonnie. It takes her a while to track back to that guy on the street telling her she looked fatigued. That’s what she’s been thinking lately, whenever she looks in the mirror. It’s why every piece of clothing she owns is, as of this morning, on her bedroom floor. Though maybe the guy was being aggressive instead of observant. No one tells you that you look tired unless they mean to hurt you and get away with it. Anyway, why is Bonnie concerned about the guy making her feel unattractive, instead of about the awful way he must have to live?

“Meyer can’t resist showing off his collection.” Irene’s voice is pitched loud enough so that it’s clear she’s talking to Meyer.

Meyer says, “On the contrary, darling! It’s not showing off. It would be so selfish to keep all this beauty to ourselves.”

Vincent turns and blinks at them. Meyer’s science project.

The guests stall at the dining room door, paralyzed by the gorgeousness of the table, until Irene points them toward their places with such forceful efficiency that she could be flinging them into their seats. Long ago, in that other life of giving parties with Joel, Bonnie went so far as to make seating plans in her head, but at the last moment she always gave up and told the guests to sit wherever they wanted. She was always so nervous, she always had a terrible time. But now she works out seating charts for dinners for five hundred. She has to remember who’s feuding, who’s single, who used to be married to whom. Seating potential donors next to their spouse’s lover or a former business partner they’re suing won’t deliver that fat check for Brotherhood Watch.

Irene and Meyer sit at opposite ends of the long table. Bonnie and Minna flank Meyer; Irene surrounds herself with Vincent and Sol and exiles Elliot and Roberta to face off in the dead zone in the middle.

Bonnie’s wineglass is full. She sips from it as the others shift in their chairs to establish the optimum distance from their neighbors. At the other end of the table, beyond the reach of Bonnie’s guidance, Vincent leans on his elbow toward Irene, as if he’s trying to eavesdrop on the tight-lipped chat between Irene and Elliot Green. Irene seems displeased with Elliot, perhaps because of his lack of interest in the two single women. Irene loves to matchmake. It was thanks to her that Bonnie enjoyed those few hellish dates after Joel left.