A Changed Man (18 page)

Bonnie’s a little afraid of Elliot, who, she feels certain, is fundamentally incapable of understanding who Vincent is or what he could do for the foundation. Bonnie knows how Elliot thinks: You can never be too careful. You see a skinhead coming down the street, you cross to the other side. She understands that Elliot and his law firm are a necessary part of the safety net that enables Meyer to walk his tightrope—speaking out, telling the truth, unafraid of the consequences. Let Elliot deal with the consequences! Bonnie’s put in a lot of time on the phone with Elliot—for example, last summer, after the pot bust at the Pride and Prejudice camp. How could Meyer
like
Elliot? He’s the anti-Meyer. Type A, so anal, so small-minded, always assuming that everyone has the basest, most selfish motives, always bringing everything down to his own scheming, conniving level. Bonnie should be grateful. Elliot works for them pro bono.

Elliot can never focus on Bonnie unless they have a problem to resolve. But he’s certainly fixed on Irene. For one thing, she’s married to the alpha male. Also, like many European women, Irene has a certain disputatious geisha quality that insists that every conversation be, simultaneously, a flirtation and a surrender.

Is Vincent drunk? When he and Meyer returned from their long break from the party, each was holding a drink. If he’s a little high—like Bonnie right now—perhaps that’s why he seems so wrapped up in what Irene’s saying to Elliot. One thing Bonnie likes about alcohol is how it gives you patience, lets you concentrate, relax, and look at someone for as long as it takes. As long as it takes to what? To watch Irene blow off Elliot and turn toward Vincent.

Irene’s smile shines on Vincent like one of those mirrors doctors used to wear on their heads. Perhaps Bonnie’s thinking of doctors because a small, elderly Indian man in a white surgical jacket has just entered the room with a silver tray. It’s Babu, the Maslows’ Harijan cook. Is this Bonnie’s third or second glass? That she can’t remember probably means she’s had enough.

“Thank you, Babu,” says Irene, taking both spoons and deftly helping herself to a tangle of dark, slippery ribbons. Bonnie will never be able to make the transfer so smoothly. She’ll scatter slimy worms all over Babu’s spotless scrubs. Irene puts one hand on Babu’s arm, checks rapidly down the table, then, with a pat on the elbow, sends Babu on his way and returns to whatever fascinating thing Vincent is saying. Someone touches Bonnie’s shoulder, and she spins around to find Babu and the platter.

Bonnie helps herself to the eel-like objects that, when they appear without mishap on her plate, turn out to be eggplant. The food has reanchored Bonnie to her end of the table, where now—dutifully, it’s like punishment, how strange that she should feel that way—she struggles to catch up with Meyer and Minna in midconversation.

They’re talking about the eggplant. Not a giant leap.

The ever-thoughtful Meyer shifts his posture to include Bonnie. “I’m afraid we can thank the horrors of the caste system for this marvelous
bhinji masala.
Our guardian angel, Babu, is a well-known activist for the scheduled castes—” He waits for some sign of recognition from Minna. “The Untouchables, as they used to say.” Another beat. “You know, Gandhi called them Harijans. Children of God.”

“Sorry,” says Minna. “You know, Meyer, I think I may still be a little spacey from the anesthetic.”

“By now, Babu has many dangerous enemies—not only in Hyderabad, but in Delhi and Bombay. And once we found out that he was also a brilliant cook…what can I tell you? It suddenly got much easier to get him a visa.”

“I guess your Brahmin friends won’t be eating here anymore. I gather they’re not fond of eating food handled by Untouchables.” Minna’s spaciness has worn off, fast and with a vengeance. Why is she being unpleasant? Meyer visited her in the hospital.

“I suppose you’re right,” says Meyer, who so fears making cultural mistakes that he keeps a file of newspaper clippings documenting scandalous gaffes. Bush vomiting in the Japanese prime minister’s lap. JFK telling the Germans, I am a jelly doughnut. The ill-advised marketing campaign that, literally translated into Tagalog, promised that a certain soda would bring their ancestors back from the dead. “Then our Brahmin friends will have to learn to overcome their prejudice.”

“Good luck,” says Minna.

“I love Indian food!” says Bonnie. In fact, her first bite of eggplant seems to be conspiring with the wine in her stomach.

“You know what I’ve noticed?” says Minna. “Every time Sol and I go out to an Indian restaurant, it’s always full of Orthodox kids courting, on dates. I guess they can go there and feel safe and not have to worry about the prosciutto bits in the pasta.”

Meyer says, “You know how they say that duck is Jewish pork? Well, curry is—”

“Instant heartburn,” says Minna. What is Minna’s problem? Bonnie always liked her. “I remember when Sol and I visited Cochin, and right in the middle of this Indian city, we turned a corner into the ghetto, and suddenly everyone looked exactly like my neighbors on the Upper West Side. And this marvelous little old man showed us around the synagogue, and Sol was speaking Yiddish to him. It was all so moving—”

The memory of her travels is reviving Minna. Bonnie wonders if Minna is as fully recovered as everyone wants to believe. Meyer listens and lets her shine, because he’s singled out Minna as being in the most urgent need of his therapeutic attention.

Minna says, “They claim to have come over in King Solomon’s times.”

“Some say around the time of the Assyrian exile,” Meyer corrects her. “The first documentation is a dispensation from the Malabar king, written on copper plates, in Tamil.” How does Meyer know so much about the Cochin Jews?

A peal of laughter from Irene floats down the table, ending Meyer’s disquisition. Blindsided by shame, Bonnie, Meyer, and Minna stare into space. How stiff and serious they feel, with their dull, scholarly chat about the Malabar Jews, while, just a few seats down, Irene and Vincent are having so much fun.

“Oh, dear.” Irene dabs at her eyes. “Vincent was just telling me the most hilarious stories about redneck cuisine!”

“Critter cuisine,” says Vincent.

“Apparently,” says Irene, “Vincent and his friends used to hunt squirrels, and they’d cook the
legs
—little squirrel drumettes—in the microwave oven. Have you ever heard anything more disgusting in your life?”

No one has, it seems.

“Grotesque,” says Roberta. “Honestly.”

“Free protein,” Elliot says. God forbid anyone think that the foundation lawyer has been dining on gourmet delicacies while his manly brothers have been hunting the beasts of the forest.

“And apparently,” Irene continues, “Vincent knows a recipe for cooking a trout on some engine part. Vincent?”

“The manifold.” Vincent looks proud, the shy kid picked to star in the school play. “You wrap it in tinfoil and put it on the manifold and drive for, like, a hundred miles. Let’s say, Manhattan to Kingston.”

“Doesn’t it smell?” Minna asks.

“Nah,” says Vincent. “The smell burns off.”

“Let’s try it!” Irene says. “Too bad we don’t have a car. Who does? Bonnie? What do you say?”

“I’d be afraid to try,” Bonnie says. “My van’s got a hundred and twenty five thousand miles on it, and it’s not in the best shape already.” So much for the general merriment. Bonnie never got the joke in the first place. And why has Vincent never made
her
laugh with amusing anecdotes about squirrel and trout? All he tells her are sad stories about the IRS, his breakup with his last girlfriend, Margaret, his time in ARM. The kind of stuff you’d tell your understanding older sister. Why should Bonnie care? And why has she gotten so possessive? Like after that press conference, when she was so upset that Vincent had told the reporter something he hadn’t told her. She should be delighted that Irene is charmed. Bonnie should be trying to decide which rich woman of a certain age should sit beside Vincent at the gala.

Babu appears with a bottle of wine.

“Fill ’er up,” says Bonnie.

What happened to the eggplant? Could Bonnie have eaten it all? While they were contemplating the challenge of cooking a trout on an engine, Babu has cleared their plates. And now he’s returned, staggering under the weight of an enormous silver platter and a gargantuan fish.

“Oh, Irene!” cries Roberta. “What a magnificent creature.”

“Moby Dick,” says Vincent.

“Very good, Vincent,” says Meyer.

Irene says, “Striped bass. Heart healthy. In honor of our dear Minna.”

“To Minna!” Meyer raises his glass, and the others do the same—all, that is, except Bonnie, whose glass is empty. Babu replenishes her wine so that Bonnie can join in the toast and the vigorous gulping that follows.

“Where did you get such a lovely fish?” Minna calls down the table, as Irene addresses herself to the fish, struggling slightly to saw through its spine with the two serving spoons. If Irene’s having trouble, how will Bonnie manage?

“Oh, I caught it myself,” says Irene. “At Citarella. And then we got a car, and Babu cooked it on the engine.”

“That would have been quite a trip,” Vincent says. “New York to Tennessee.”

Irene says, “Why would anyone want to go to Tennessee?”

That’s where they hold the Homeland Encampment. But Bonnie would never say the two words that would destroy the positive effects of everyone’s efforts to overlook Vincent’s past. Vincent told her that the ARM convention was just an excuse to play drinking games and get laid. He said it wasn’t so different from what college kids do at frat parties and football weekends. A neo-Nazi Cancún.

Except for the swastikas, Bonnie thought. And the pamphlets. The Internet site. The slime trails of hate.

“Why Tennessee?” says Meyer.

Meyer knows why Tennessee. He wants to see how Vincent handles this, what he finds to say. It makes Bonnie anxious to see Meyer playing guinea pig with Vincent. But it’s what they’re all doing tonight.

Bonnie looks at Vincent, who evades her gaze and leans toward Irene, almost with defiance, unless Bonnie’s imagining it. How irritated Joel always was when Bonnie found him deep in conversation with some woman at a party. He’d keep on talking, leave her standing there like a demanding child, whining, Daddy, can we go ho-ome? And oh, the fights on the drive back. He was only
talking.
Was Bonnie saying he wasn’t allowed to
talk
to another woman? As it happened, Bonnie never saw him talking to Lorraine. She heard them on the phone. Even now, she hardly sees Lorraine. Joel picks up the kids. Is Bonnie thinking all this because Vincent talked to Irene?

“Why would you go to Tennessee?” Vincent asks the table. “To buy legal fireworks!” Everyone laughs. Vincent’s rockets and Catherine wheels have blown away the dark galaxy of the Homeland Encampment. He’s saved himself, saved the moment, and in the process saved Bonnie, who would rather think about fireworks than about a white separatist convention. Or about Joel’s bad behavior. Such thoughts keep Bonnie from relaxing and enjoying herself, like Irene.

Irene makes people feel better. Lucky to be alive. Whereas Bonnie makes them uncomfortable. I’ve drunk too much, Bonnie thinks.

“Fireworks!” says Irene. “If only we had some. We could set them off on the terrace!”

Bonnie’s trying to picture this scene—Vincent kneeling, lighting the fuse, making the others stand back—when she becomes aware that Babu has appeared beside her with the fish. The bass stares at her dolefully, as if it knows it’s missing huge ragged chunks of flesh. Bonnie can’t make it whole again. She grabs the spoon and manages to tug a small portion of fish away from the carcass.

“Is that all you’re having?” Meyer says.

Bonnie tries to say she’s not hungry but for some reason can’t speak. So she idiotically puffs out her cheeks and points to her stomach. Meyer helps himself to some fish, then turns back to Bonnie.

“So how are your sons?”

Meyer always asks after the boys, though sometimes she suspects that he could care less. How
are
the boys? Home alone, without her. She’d asked the kids if they wanted a babysitter. Danny pointed out that most kids his age
are
babysitters. He’d asked what she was afraid of. Did he really want to hear? Armed intruders, fire, flood. Leaking carbon monoxide.

Bonnie says, “Speaking of the boys, I think I’ll call and check.”

“Use the phone in my study,” Meyer says. “You’ll have more privacy.”

“It doesn’t have to be private,” says Bonnie. But that’s the phone Meyer offers, and Bonnie can hardly pull out her cellphone and call from the table. Standing up is a bad idea. Too late to fix it now. Bonnie lurches off. She notes that she’s listing toward one side. But she’s sober enough to remember that here, if you slam into the walls, a Degas comes crashing down.

Bonnie should be ashamed, helping arrange this dinner partly to see how Vincent behaves, and now she’s the one who’s loaded. She’ll worry about that later. For now, she needs to find Meyer’s study. But first a trip to the bathroom, where in the glare of shocking white light, she briefly forgets why she’s there and looks in the mirror. A big mistake. What did that guy on the street say? The lady looks fatigued. And Bonnie’s upset about that, instead of feeling good about the fact that Vincent stood there and let the guy say that without breaking his head. Vincent has changed already. He…Bonnie loses track. She must have drunk even more than she realized. She splashes cold water on her face, then stares in horror at Irene’s inviolate white towels. She grabs a crumpled cloth from the top of the laundry hamper. Vincent’s wine-stained shirt. She wipes her face, inhales. How has she reached the point of standing, drunk and dizzy, in Meyer Maslow’s bathroom with her streaming face pressed into a Nazi’s dirty shirt?

Bonnie walks into what appears to be Irene and Meyer’s bedroom. Meyer said his study. Bonnie’s never been back here before. There’s a phone on the night table. Meyer didn’t say not to use it. Bonnie sits on the bed and dials.

The line’s busy. Bonnie slams down the receiver. Is everything okay? Probably Danny’s online or talking to a friend. How can he do that when she’s trying to phone him? But of course, he doesn’t know that. She’s getting call-waiting tomorrow.