American Psycho (37 page)

“No, I’m not really,” I say, snapping out of it, then, not of my own accord, “I mean, does anyone really
see
anyone? Does anyone really
see
anyone else? Did
you
ever see
me
?
See
? What does that mean? Ha!
See
? Ha! I just don’t get it. Ha!” I laugh.

After taking this in, she says, nodding, “That has a certain kind of tangled logic to it, I suppose.”

Another long pause and I fearfully ask the next question. “Well, are
you
seeing anyone?”

She smiles, pleased with herself, and still looking down, admits, with incomparable clarity, “Well, yes, I have a boyfriend and—”

“Who?”

“What?” She looks up.

“Who is he? What’s his name?”

“Robert Hall. Why?”

“With Salomon Brothers?”

“No, he’s a chef.”

“With Salomon Brothers?”

“Patrick, he’s a
chef.
And co-owner of a restaurant.”

“Which one?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, really, which one?” I ask, then under my breath, “I want to cross it out of my Zagat guide.”

“It’s called Dorsia,” she says, then, “Patrick, are you okay?”

Yes, my brain does explode and my stomach bursts open inwardly—a spastic, acidic, gastric reaction; stars and planets, whole galaxies made up entirely of little white chef hats, race over the film of my vision. I choke out another question.

“Why Robert Hall?” I ask. “Why him?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she says, sounding a little tipsy. “I guess it has to do with being twenty-seven and—”

“Yeah? So am I. So is half of Manhattan. So what? That’s no excuse to marry Robert Hall.”

“
Marry
?” she asks, wide-eyed, defensive. “Did I say that?”

“Didn’t you say marry?”

“No, I didn’t, but who knows.” She shrugs. “We might.”

“Ter-rific.”

“As I was saying, Patrick”—she glares at me, but in a playful way that makes me sick—“I think you know that, well, time is running out. That biological clock just won’t stop ticking,” she says, and I’m thinking: My god, it took only
two
glasses of chardonnay to get her to admit this? Christ, what a lightweight. “I want to have children.”

“With Robert Hall?” I ask, incredulous. “You might as well do it with Captain Lou Albano, for Christ sakes. I just don’t get you, Bethany.”

She touches her napkin, looking down and then out onto the sidewalk, where waiters are setting up tables for dinner. I watch them too. “Why do I sense hostility on your part, Patrick?” she asks softly, then sips her wine.

“Maybe because I’m hostile,” I spit out. “Maybe because you sense this.”

“Jesus, Patrick,” she says, searching my face, genuinely upset. “I thought you and Robert were friends.”

“What?” I ask. “I’m confused.”

“Weren’t you and Robert friends?”

I pause, doubtful. “Were we?”

“Yes, Patrick, you
were.
”

“Robert Hall, Robert Hall, Robert Hall,” I mutter to myself, trying to remember. “Scholarship student? President of our senior class?” I think about it a second longer, then add, “Weak chin?”

“No, Patrick,” she says. “The
other
Robert Hall.”

“I’m confusing him with the
other
Robert Hall?” I ask.

“Yes, Patrick,” she says, exasperated.

Inwardly cringing, I close my eyes and sigh. “Robert Hall. Not the one whose parents own half of, like, Washington? Not the one who was”—I gulp—“captain of the crew team? Six feet?”

“Yes,” she says. “
That
Robert Hall.”

“But …” I stop.

“Yes? But
what
?” She seems prepared to wait for an answer.

“But he was a
fag
,” I blurt out.

“No, he was
not
, Patrick,” she says, clearly offended.

“I’m positive he was a fag.” I start nodding my head.

“Why are you so positive?” she asks, not amused.

“Because he used to let frat guys—not the ones in my house—like, you know, gang bang him at parties and tie him up and stuff. At least, you know, that’s what I’ve heard,” I say sincerely, and then, more humiliated than I have ever been in my entire life, I confess, “Listen, Bethany, he offered me a … you know, a blow-job once. In the, um, civics section of the library.”

“Oh my god,” she gasps, disgusted. “Where’s the check?”

“Didn’t Robert Hall get kicked out for doing his thesis on Babar? Or something like Babar?” I ask. “Babar the elephant? The, oh Jesus,
French
elephant?”

“What are you
talking
about?”

“Listen to me,” I say. “Didn’t he go to business school at Kellogg? At Northwestern, right?”

“He dropped out,” she says without looking at me.

“Listen.” I touch her hand.

She flinches and pulls back.

I try to smile. “Robert Hall’s not a fag—”

“I can assure you of that,” she says a tad too smugly. How can anyone get indignant over Robert Hall? Instead of saying “Oh yeah, you dumb sorry bitch” I say soothingly, “I’m sure you can,” then, “Tell me about him. I want to know how things stand with the two of you,” and then, smiling, furious, full of rage, I apologize. “I’m sorry.”

It takes some time but she finally relents and smiles back at me and I ask her, once again, “Tell me more,” and then, under my breath, smiling a rictus at her, “I’d like to slice open your beaver.” The chardonnay has mellowed her, so she softens and talks freely.

I think about other things while she describes her recent past: air, water, sky, time, a moment, a point somewhere when I wanted to show her everything beautiful in the world. I have no patience for revelations, for new beginnings, for events that take place beyond the realm of my immediate vision. A young girl, a freshman, I met in a bar in Cambridge my junior year at Harvard told me early one fall that “Life is full of endless possibilities.” I tried valiantly not to choke on the beer nuts I was chewing while she gushed this kidney stone of wisdom, and I calmly washed them down with the rest of a Heineken, smiled and concentrated on the dart game that was going on in the corner. Needless to say, she did not live to see her sophomore year. That winter, her body was found floating in the Charles River, decapitated, her head hung from a tree on the bank, her hair knotted around a low-hanging branch, three miles away. My rages at Harvard were less violent than the ones now and it’s useless to hope that my disgust will vanish—there is just
no way.

“Oh, Patrick,” she’s saying. “You’re still the same. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“Say it’s good.”

“Why? Is it?” she asks, frowning. “Was it? Then?”

“You only knew one facet of my personality,” I say. “Student.”

“Lover?” she asks, her voice reminding me of someone human.

My eyes fall on her coldly, untouched. Out on the street,
music that sounds like salsa blares. The waiter finally brings the check.

“I’ll pay for it,” I sigh.

“No,” she says, opening her handbag. “
I
invited
you.
”

“But I have a platinum American Express card,” I tell her.

“But so do I,” she says, smiling.

I pause, then watch her place the card on the tray the check came on. Violent convulsions seem close at hand if I do not get up. “The women’s movement. Wow.” I smile, unimpressed.

Outside, she waits on the sidewalk while I’m in the men’s room throwing up my lunch, spitting out the squid, undigested and less purple than it was on my plate. When I come out of Vanities onto the street, putting on my Wayfarers, chewing a Cert, I murmur something to myself, and then I kiss her on the cheek and make up something else. “Sorry it took so long. Had to call my lawyer.”

“Oh?” She acts concerned—the dumb bitch.

“Just a friend of mine.” I shrug. “Bobby Chambers. He’s in prison. Some friends of his, well, mainly
me
, are trying to remount his defense,” I say with another shrug, then, changing the subject, “Listen.”

“Yes?” she asks, smiling.

“It’s late. I don’t want to go back to the office,” I say, checking my Rolex. The sun, setting, glints off it, momentarily blinding her. “Why don’t you come up to my place?”

“What?” She laughs.

“Why don’t you come up to my place?” I suggest again.

“Patrick.” She laughs suggestively. “Are you serious?”

“I have a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé,
chilled
, huh?” I say, arching my eyebrows.

“Listen, that line might’ve worked at Harvard but”—she laughs, then continues—“um, we’re older now and …” She stops.

“And … what?” I ask.

“I shouldn’t have had that wine at lunch,” she says again.

We start walking. It’s a hundred degrees outside, impossible to breathe. It’s not day, it’s not night. The sky seems yellow. I hand a beggar on the corner of Duane and Greenwich a dollar just to impress her.

“Listen, come over,” I say again, almost whining. “Come on over.”

“I can’t,” she says. “The air-conditioning in my office is broken but I can’t. I’d like to but I can’t.”

“Aw come on,” I say, grabbing her shoulders, giving them a good-natured squeeze.

“Patrick, I have to be back at the office,” she groans, protesting weakly.

“But you’ll be
swelt
ering in there,” I point out.

“I have no choice.”

“Come on.” Then, trying to entice her, “I have a 1940s Durgin Gorham four-piece sterling silver tea and coffee set I’d like to show you.”

“I can’t.” She laughs, putting on her sunglasses.

“Beth
any
,” I say, warning her.

“Listen,” she says, relenting. “I’ll buy you a Dove Bar. Have a Dove Bar instead.”

“I’m appalled. Do you know how many grams of fat, of
sodium
, are in the chocolate covering alone?” I gasp, mock horrified.

“Come on,” she says. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“No,
you
come on,” I say, walking in front of her for a little while so she won’t sense any aggressiveness on my part. “Listen, come by for a drink and then we’ll walk over to Dorsia and I’ll meet Robert, okay?” I turn around, still walking, but backward now. “
Please
?”

“Patrick,” she says. “You’re begging.”

“I really want to show you that Durgin Gorham tea set.” I pause. “Please?” I pause again. “It cost me three and a half thousand dollars.”

She stops walking because I stop, looks down, and when she looks back up her brow, both cheeks, are damp with a layer of perspiration, a fine sheen. She’s hot. She sighs, smiling to herself. She looks at her watch.

“Well?” I ask.

“If I did …,” she starts.

“Ye-e-es?” I ask, stretching the word out.

“If I did, I have to make a phone call.”

“No, negative,” I say, waving down a cab. “Call from my place.”

“
Patrick
,” she protests. “There’s a phone right over there.”

“Let’s go now,” I say. “There’s a taxi.”

In the cab heading toward the Upper West Side, she says, “I shouldn’t have had that wine.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” she says, fanning herself with a playbill from
Les Misérables
someone left in the backseat of the cab, which isn’t air-conditioned and even with both windows open she keeps fanning herself. “Just slightly … tipsy.”

We both laugh for no reason and she leans into me, then realizes something and pulls back. “You have a doorman, right?” she asks suspiciously.

“Yes.” I smile, turned on by her unawareness of just how close to peril she really is.

Inside my apartment. She moves into the living room area, nodding her head approvingly, murmuring, “Very nice, Mr. Bateman, very nice.” Meanwhile I’m locking the door, making sure it’s bolted shut, then I move over to the bar and pour some J&B into a glass while she runs her hand over the Wurlitzer jukebox, inspecting it. I’ve started growling to myself and my hands are shaking so badly I decide to forgo any ice and then I’m in the living room, standing behind her while she looks up at the David Onica that’s hung above the fireplace. She cocks her head, studying it, then she starts giggling and looks at me, puzzled, then back at the Onica, still laughing. I don’t ask what’s wrong—I could care less. Downing the drink in a single gulp, I move over to the Anaholian white-oak armoire where I keep a brand-new nail gun I bought last week at a hardware store near my office in Wall Street. After I’ve slipped on a pair of black leather gloves, I make sure the nail gun is loaded.

“Patrick?” Bethany asks, still giggling.

“Yes?” I say, then, “Darling?”

“Who hung the Onica?” she asks.

“You like it?” I ask.

“It’s fine, but …” She stops, then says, “I’m pretty sure it’s hung upside down.”

“What?”

“
Who
hung the Onica?”

“I did,” I say, my back still to her.

“You’ve hung the Onica
upside down.
” She laughs.

“Hmmm?” I’m standing at the armoire, squeezing the nail gun, getting used to its weight in my gloved fist.

“I can’t believe it’s upside down,” she says. “How long has it been this way?”

“A millennium,” I whisper, turning around, nearing her.

“What?” she asks, still studying the Onica.

“I said, what in the fuck are you doing with Robert Hall?” I whisper.

“What did you say?” As if in slow motion, like in a movie, she turns around.

I wait until she’s seen the nail gun and the gloved hands to scream, “
What the fuck are you doing with Robert Hall
?”

Perhaps on instinct, perhaps from memory, she makes a futile dash for the front door, crying out. Though the chardonnay has dulled her reflexes, the Scotch I’ve drunk has sharpened mine, and effortlessly I’m leaping in front of her, blocking her escape, knocking her unconscious with four blows to the head from the nail gun. I drag her back into the living room, laying her across the floor over a white Voilacutro cotton sheet, and then I stretch her arms out, placing her hands flat on thick wooden boards, palms up, and nail three fingers on each hand, at random, to the wood by their tips. This causes her to regain consciousness and she starts screaming. After I’ve sprayed Mace into her eyes, mouth, into her nostrils, I place a camel-hair coat from Ralph Lauren over her head, which drowns out the screams, sort of. I keep shooting nails into her hands until they’re both covered—nails bunched together, twisted over each other in places, making it impossible for her to try and sit up. I have to remove her shoes, which slightly disappoints me, but she’s kicking at the floor violently, leaving black scuff marks on the stained white oak. During this period I keep shouting “You bitch” at her and then my voice drops to a raspy whisper and into her ear I drool the line “You fucking cunt.”