Lunar Park (7 page)

As I led Jay down a long hallway toward the door that opened into the garage, he said, “You took care of that so well.”

“Jay, she’s six years old and thinks her bird doll’s alive,” I said, exasperated. “Now, do you want me to stand there and deal with that, or do you want to shut up and do a line with me?”

“You really don’t know how to do this, do you?”

“Do what? Throw a kick-ass party?”

“No. Be married. Be the dad.”

“Well, being married’s okay—but the dad thing’s a little tougher,” I said. “ ‘Daddy, can I have some juice?’ ‘How about some water, honey?’ ‘Daddy?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Can I have some juice?’ ‘How about some water instead, honey?’ ‘Daddy, can I have some juice?’ ‘Okay, honey, you want some juice?’ ‘No, it’s okay, I’ll just have some water.’ It’s like some fucking Beckett play that we’re rehearsing constantly.”

Jay just stared at me, grim-faced.

“Hey, but I bought a book,” I said flippantly. “
Fatherhood for Dummies,
and it is helping immensely. If only
my
father—”

“Okay, I can see what sort of evening this is turning into.”

“Hey, how was the reading?” I asked, switching gears.

“I like your little town” was his noncommittal answer, and I realized that the reading had probably been a bust. Not high, I would have wanted to pursue this, but wasted I did not.

I opened the door and ushered Jay into the garage and then peered back down the hallway to see if we’d been followed. I closed and locked the door and flicked on the fluorescent lights. The four-car garage contained my Porsche, Jayne’s Range Rover and a motorcycle I’d just purchased with unexpected Swedish royalties. And, I just noticed, a miserable golden retriever that lay waiting for us in the corner, curled up against Robby’s bike. But Jay aroused so little interest that Victor barely looked up.

“Ignore that dog,” I told him.

“Ah yes, your intimacy problems with animals. I forgot.”

“Hey, I dated Patty O’Brien for three months.” And then: “Ready for a little
acción
?”

“Indeed.” Jay rubbed his hands together eagerly.

“I have brought us some very pure Bolivian Marching Powder,” I said, rummaging through my pockets.

“Ooh—the Devil’s Dandruff.”

I quickly located the stash and handed Jay a packet. He opened it, inspected the coke and then put it down on the hood of the Porsche and started rolling a twenty into a tight green straw.

After I did two huge bumps from my own gram I wanted to show off my new bike.

“Hey, Jayster—check it out. The Yamaha Y2F-RI. A hundred and fifty-two horsepower. Top speed: a hairsbreadth under a hundred and seventy miles per hour,” I purred.

“How much?”

“Only ten grand.”

“Well spent. What happened to the Ducati?”

“Had to sell it. Jayne thought it was giving Robby bad ideas. And my argument that the kid doesn’t care about anything proved totally useless.”

“Like father, like—”

“Start panting with eagerness and just do the fucking coke.”

Jay did a bump and then paused, grimacing. A moment passed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Actually, this baking powder is cut with
way
too much laxative.”

“Oops, wrong stuff.” I took the heavily cut junk from Jay, refolded the packet and handed him a proper gram.

“Where’s your guy, your dealer?” he asked, still grimacing, licking his lips.

“Um, back at the college. Why?” I asked. “And please don’t take a dump in our garage.”

“So your refund for that shit is unlikely?” he asked, opening the fresh packet. “Suck-ah!”

“That crap’s for wastoids who can’t tell the difference—I just gave you the real stuff.”

“You’re so cheap,” he muttered. He did two bumps and flung his head back and then smiled slowly and said, “Now, that’s much better.”

“Anything for a bud.”

“So, really, how is married life?” he asked, lighting a Marlboro and easing into coke chat. “The wife, the kids, the posh suburbs?”

“Yeah, the tragedy’s complete, huh?” I laughed hollowly.

“No, really.” Jay seemed mildly interested.

“Marriage is great,” I said, opening my own packet again. “Unlimited sex. Laughs. Oh yeah, and continuous companionship. I think I’ve got this down to a science.”

“And the ubiquitous student in the bathroom?”

“Just part of the package here at Casa Ellis.” I did another bump and then bummed a cigarette.

“No, seriously—who is she?” he asked, lighting it. “I hear today’s college women are ‘prodigious.’ ”

“Prodigious? Is that really what you heard?”

“Well, I read it in a magazine. It was something I wanted to believe.”

“The Jayster. Always a dreamer.”

“I am so relieved. I knew the whole suburban scene was a great idea for you. By the way,” he said, gesturing at a plastic skeleton hanging from a rafter, “is this how the house normally looks?”

“Yeah, Jayne loves it.”

He paused. “And you’re still sleeping on the couch?”

“It’s a guest bedroom and it’s just a phase—but, wait, how did you know?”

He just inhaled on his cigarette, debating whether to tell me something.

“Jay?” I asked. “Why do you think I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom?”

“Helen told me that Jayne said something about you having bad dreams.”

Relieved to have an out, I said, “I’m not having any dreams at all.”

Jay’s expression led me to believe that this was not all he’d been told.

“Look, we’re in couples counseling,” I admitted. “It helps.”

Jay took this in. “You’re in couples counseling.” He considered this as I nodded. “After three months of marriage? That does not bode well, my friend.”

“Hey, earth to Jayster! We’ve known each other for almost twelve years, man. It’s not like we met last July and just decided to elope.” I paused. “And how in the hell did you know I’m sleeping in the guest room?”

“Um, Bretster, Jayne called up Helen.” He stopped, did another bump. “Just thought I’d warn you.”

“Oh, Jesus, why would Jayne call up your wife?” I tried to toss off this question casually but shuddered with coke-induced paranoia instead.

“She’s worried that you’re using again, and I guess”—Jay made a gesture—“she’s wrong . . . right?”

“Haven’t we outgrown all this tired irony? Weren’t we supposed to give up acting twenty-two forever?”

“Well, you’re wearing a marijuana T-shirt at your own Halloween party, where you just were making out with a coed in the bathroom, so the answer to that, my friend, is a definite nope.”

Suddenly the dog had enough and started barking for us to vacate the garage.

“On that note,” I said. “We’re heading back to the party.”

We reentered the labyrinth and weaving through the darkness I felt twitchy. The rooms seemed even more crowded than before, and outside people were swimming in the pool. Realizing that a lot of kids from the college had crashed I started worrying about what Jayne was making of all this. The hallways were so jammed that Jay and I had to walk through the kitchen to get to the living room for drinks and just then Joe Walsh’s familiar opening riffs to “Life’s Been Good” blasted me into a manic moment of air jamming. Jay looked suitably amused. The sweet aroma of pot began announcing itself in the living room. My heartbeat had doubled because of the cocaine, and I had acquired a new crystalline focus and wanted everyone to be friends. That’s when I noticed Robby wandering around in a Kid Rock T-shirt and baggy jeans so I grabbed him roughly by the neck and pulled him toward us. “I bet it took a lot outta you, huh? Coming down all them stairs?” Robby shrugged, and I introduced him to Jay and then handed them both margaritas, which Robby took so reluctantly that I had to playfully smack him around, urging him to drink it. Robby and Jay started having the kind of inane conversations eleven-year-olds have with people approaching fifty. Robby had taken his usual stance when talking to an adult: You mean nothing to me. I noticed he was gripping a baseball designed to look like the moon.

And then more tugging on my guitar: Sarah again.

I rolled my eyes and muttered a curse under my breath. I looked down and sighed: she was wearing tiny white hot pants.

“These are the kids,” I told Jay, gesturing at Robby and Sarah. “Her look is glam, and pink is very in on six-year-olds this season. Robby’s wearing white hip-hop and is now officially a tween.”

“A tween?” Jay asked, then leaned toward me and whispered, “Wait, that’s not like a gay thing, is it?”

“No, it’s a tween,” I explained. “You know, someone who isn’t a child or a teenager.”

“Jesus,” Jay muttered. “They’ve thought of everything, haven’t they?”

Our conversation had not deterred Sarah.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetie? Why aren’t you up in bed? Where’s Marta?”

“Terby’s still mad.”

“Well, who’s Terby mad at?”

“Terby scratched me.” She held out her arm, and I squinted in the purple darkness but couldn’t see anything. This was exasperating.

“Robby—take your sister back upstairs. You know she needs her usual twelve hours and it’s getting late. It is now officially bedtime.”

“Then can I come back down?” he asked.

“No, you cannot,” I said, noticing that half his margarita was gone. “Where’s your friend?”

“Ashton took a Zyprexa and then fell asleep,” Robby said blankly.

“Well, I suggest you take one too, buddy, because tomorrow’s a school day.”

“It’s just Halloween. Nothing’s going on.”

“Hey, I said it’s bedtime, buster. Jeez, kids demand so much attention.”

“Daddy!” Sarah shouted again.

“Honey—you’ve got to get in bed.”

“But Terby’s
flying.
”

“Okay, well, you’ve got to put him to bed too.”

Robby rolled his eyes anxiously and kept sipping from the margarita. Something got stuck in his teeth and he pulled a green spider out of his mouth and studied it as if it meant something.

“Terby’s angry,” Sarah whined, pulling on my guitar until I knelt down at her level.

“I know, honey,” I said soothingly. “Terby sounds like he’s a big mess.”

“He’s on the ceiling.”

“Let’s get Mommy. She’ll get him down.”

“But he’s on the
ceiling.
”

“Then I’ll get a broom and knock Terby off the ceiling. Jesus, where’s Marta?”

“It tried to bite me.”

“Maybe it wants you to brush your teeth and get into bed.”

Suddenly Jayne was behind me and above me, talking to Jay, but I couldn’t hear their conversation because of the music. They both looked down at me with accusatory expressions, and when I motioned to her she excused herself from Jay and, as I stood up, Sarah still clutching my hand, gave me a withering look. I suddenly realized I was waving a cigarette around and sweating profusely. The room was so packed with people that we were practically crushed together.

“Are you okay?” she said, but it was a statement, not a question.

“Sure, honey, why wouldn’t I be okay?” I sniffed loudly. “This is one rockin’ party. But your daughter—”

“You’re very talkative and sniffly.” She was glaring. “And you’re sweating.”

Sarah tugged on my arm again.

“That’s because I’m having fun.”

“And look, all around us, half the college showed up and is already inebriated to the point of unconsciousness.”

“Honey, you’ve got to deal with your daughter—her doll’s freaking out on her.”

“People are complaining that the music’s too loud,” Jayne said.

“Only your friends,
chica.
” I paused. “Plus I can hear you perfectly fine.”

“
Chica?
Did you just call me
chica
?”

“Look, if you don’t want to be sociable and can’t be tremendously cool about how to throw a party . . .” I found myself absently fondling a bowl of candy corn.

“There are students in our pool, Bret.”

“I know,” I said. “What? They’re swimming.”

“Jesus, Jay’s wasted and so are you.”

“Jay does calisthenics,” I said indignantly. “He doesn’t get wasted.”

“What about you, Bret?” she asked. “Do you get wasted?”

“Look, being America’s greatest writer under forty is a lot to live up to. It’s so hard.”

She gave me a scathing look. “I marvel at your courage.”

“Will you deal with your daughter, please?”

“Why don’t you deal with her?” she said. “She’s holding
your
hand.”

“But who’s going to greet the mystery guests and—”

Jayne walked away midsentence and started talking to someone dressed as Zorro, who was in real life a runner-up on last season’s
Survivor.

I dragged Sarah over to Jayne and said, “Listen—will you take Sarah back up to bed?” I asked, no joke.

“You do it,” she said without looking at me.

A moment later, after noticing I was still there, she added, “Get lost.”

But Sarah wouldn’t go back to her room—she was too frightened, so Marta escorted her to ours. The cocaine was flowing through me as the Ramones were singing, “I don’t want to be buried in a pet sematary/I don’t wanna live my life again” and when I staggered through a mob of dancing students and saw the Patrick Bateman guy was still here, there was suddenly the sense that the party was verging out of control. Something in me dropped and exploded—a moment of pure, almost visceral despair—and I needed another line. I looked back into the crowd. Jay had drifted over to the celebrities—my wife and David Duchovny—and Robby had disappeared. So I walked up the curving staircase to the second floor to check out Sarah’s room—using my investigation of the alleged Terby incident as an excuse to do more blow.

It was so quiet up there that you could barely hear the party downstairs; that’s how large the house was. It was also freezing, and I shivered uncontrollably as I moved down the darkened hallway. I walked by Robby’s room—his friend was zonked out in the huge king-sized bed, the Steven Spielberg movie
1941
(which had been on a lot lately) glowing from the wide-screen TV, the only light in my son’s room. I continued my walk down the hall and stopped at a huge expanse of window that looked out over the backyard: people were swimming in the heated pool and sprawled on chaise longues. A group of students had congregated in the mock graveyard, sharing a joint, and another group was crawling around each other through the headstones. And above the headstones I noticed the moon and a lunar light fanning over the field and there was actually a mist rolling in from the woods and drifting toward the house. I wanted suddenly to do another massive line and join the students when something behind me flickered, then dimmed—it was a wall sconce, wrought-iron and gold-rimmed, one of many that lined the hallway walls about six feet up from the floor. Tonight, though, they’d all been switched off.