Making Love (42 page)

He couldn't take her seriously. He'd financed his two brothers in a small furniture factory which ticked over profitably, sprung his sister to a boutique, Hilda's of Manhasset, and his mother was clipping coupons, getting three hundred a week and living the life of Riley in a condominium in Mill Basin with a view of the Bay and within walking distance of the floating Canasta game. Winters she repaired to Miami Beach, Hotel Tides on Ocean Drive. He'd given his whole family solvency. His mother wanted his soul, or failing that, for him to keep a kosher home, referring to Lee as “that Jap who should've been at Pearl Harbor.”
 

Complainers, brooders, women with secret sorrows, he knew them well and was perfectly prepared for Jane. Planning ahead like a lunatic—the Jane business had been open for about three minutes, not even enough time to have bought a good-luck plant—he realized that marrying Jane might enhance his mother's lyrical predilection for the death which waited for her with outstretched hands, reuniting her for that final twirl with her favorite rumba partner, his late father. The two had studied the dance for nine years; a hobby had become an obsession, finally a business. They worked old-age homes for twenty-five dollars a night plus dinner, rhumbaing their way into the hearts of the infirm and diabetic. Repeats of
Ben Casey
had killed the act and his father.
 

Best to keep Jane away from his family, his mother, practically separate categories in his mind. On to society and golf clubs. No one could mistake Jane for a Jewess. A simple ceremony in the JP's chambers, a classy reception at Sea-Beech, his spread. A church wedding she could forget about. Contributions to Boys' Town were one thing, kissing Cardinal Cooke's hand another. A terrific honor, but not for a Litvak. He wanted to strike an ideal balance: He wouldn't allow chopped liver or stuffed derma into the house and no one would make the cross over him. He mused, lost.
 

Since Nancy's confinement at the clinic, the house had been closed and the servants discharged. Two neighbors had snapped them up. Jane didn't even know their names, had vague recollections of having met them. Who? What? Where? Adverbs. They passed by. She had memories. Luckmunn's voice in the background had the quality of Muzak in an elevator.
 

I had my first period over there....
 

Her lips hadn't moved. Luckmunn was talking about tennis, the backhand that never existed.
 

I kissed Tub Feeney over behind the maple tree and had my first experience....
 

“Pity it's falling apart.” Luckmunn mused.
 

A time of firsts, a time to forget....
 

“We're here, Mr. Luckmunn.”
 

“Well done. Get us settled, then pick up the things in town. A bill, Bob,” he said ominously.
 

He helped Jane out of the car.
 

“Welcome to Sea-Beech.” His own singles weekend amid Connecticut gloaming.
 

It was gracious enough. Graystone and squat as a frog, a note of merriment struck by yellow awnings. A concealed drive with both traffic and vagrant lovers out of earshot. He'd plowed Nancy there once, when she couldn't make it from the car. About four acres well laid out; it looked like more. Jane had grown up on a hundred acres, one of the last of the unsubdivided estates. She never knew about Sea-Beech in spite of the fact that home was less than two miles away. Fairfield was like that. He took command as usual. Tour time. She followed him along the path through neat conical snow drifts. He pointed to a massive snow blanket.
 

“I'm building a tennis court here with an all-weather surface. I play a pretty fair game. But the trouble is, I'm not vicious enough. I beat your mother once. Actually I don't believe she was trying very hard.” He paused, examined a tree and she turned away. “I've got two brothers, a sister,
and
a mother. They've never been up here. I want to invite them but I sense they'll be uncomfortable. You see, I'm the youngest and we've got a small problem. We don't talk. Two years now. Pity. But that's show business.”
 

He playfully hooked his head over her shoulder.
 

“No air pollution here.”
 

She was crying now, hard, bitter, her face racked and twisted.
 

“What have I said?” He shrugged it off. “I knew you couldn't hold out forever. Come on now, I'll show you where you're going to live.”
 

 

* * * *

 

There were two in staff besides Bob and Lee, but Luckmunn made the martinis himself, lovingly measuring, stirring with a precise movement, as if it were cobalt and not vodka.
 

“Anybody ever tell you, Jane, that you're not exactly a fraternity sweetheart?”
 

She was staring into a healthy birch-log fire. He approved, a man of his word, a fireplace in every room. He handed her the cocktail and she sipped it, removing the threat of a toast. This made him uncomfortable, since he was anxious to recite fine sentiments, even worked on the syntax while shaving. Robbed of his poetic moment, he sat at her feet, resting his chin on her kneecap for a short glissando passage.
 

“Those logs really can burn.”
 

At long last she noticed him and said:
 

“I wonder what the hell I'm doing here.”
 

“You'll find out. Take my word for it.”
 

Nobody had to draw Luckmunn a picture to tell him that he was witnessing the other-guy syndrome. Fighting terms. Sympathy became his combat shield. Yet she seemed so virginal. He couldn't believe she'd been intimate with a man. Heavy petting, yes. It was a little difficult to reconcile this impression with the fact that she was Nancy's daughter. Another life, he reflected. He was on the verge of canceling the marriage arrangements when he realized that he was threatening himself, a lonely practice, leading perhaps to insanity.
 

“Do you want to talk about it, Jane?”
 

“Not with you.”
 

“Why not?” He put on a Bacharach medley; the composer himself sounded in fine voice. He took the tray of canapes from the top of the bar, recoiled when he saw that the caviar had been done in his initials. Luxury of course was a little new, but this was disgusting. He dropped them in a basket behind the bar. She wasn't watching. Fortunately the herring tabs had resisted the stencil, and nobody could work with a rolled anchovy. He offered her a choice and she took one. Progress. He excused himself, returning shortly after with a jar of Sevruga on a silver tray. This was the way it should have been done in the first place.
 

“No thanks,” she said.
 

He himself preferred salmon roe but showed good faith by helping himself to some. Now that he had her, he didn't know quite what to do about it.
 

“Is your room comfortable?”
 

“Fine. Can I have another drink?”
 

He sprang to his feet, grateful that she'd finally responded.
 

“We can have dinner any time you're ready.” It was past eight, and his stomach was growling.
 

“I'll just have the drink.”
 

“I wish you'd tell me a little about yourself. I'm genuinely interested. Your mother was a little secretive about you. But she raved about your marks in school.”
 

She switched off, and took herself and the drink upstairs. He followed about five feet behind. The room she had overlooked the front garden. She stood by the window. In the lightless night she could discern only dimly outlined silhouettes. She threw off her shoes and curled on the bed, ignoring the light tapping on the door. Luckmunn used only one knuckle. He felt like a tenant, there on the landlord's sufferance, timorously about to ask for more beat. She'd overwhelmed him. He stood outside quaking, martini glass in hand. Downstairs he heard the staff at table discussing the weather and snow tires.
 

“Jane?” he said in a whisper. “There's a switch on the table. If you turn it, you can get the music.” He let himself in. A dressing-table light was on. She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He inclined his head. Just eggshell paint. He sat down at the foot of the bed.
 

“Look, can't I possibly help? I care about you. But you know that.”
 

“I'm back where I started from.”
 

“In what sense? Couldn't you trust me?”
 

“What makes you such a nice guy?”
 

“Isn't it obvious?”
 

“I started out disliking you.”
 

“Why? You didn't even know me. Jane, I'm not such a fool as to be unable to see that you've been badly hurt,”
 

“The truth is that I've done the hurting....”
 

“That's true pain. What did the young man do for a living?” Luckmunn inquired. He wanted to find out if he was up against big money or Peter Fonda, so that he could make his battle plan.
 

“Unemployed.”
 

This was serious. Nobody could compete with a young bum, no doubt inexhaustible. In his favor was the admission that she'd caused the grief and he was up against secondary sorrows, rather than irreparable loss. He could accommodate passion and impulsively pressed his lips against her forehead. She tapped his head with her empty glass, breaking the spell. This called for drunken revelry and he was low on vodka. Only half a bottle remained and it appeared that she was just getting warmed up. His luck, he'd probably pass out when she was ripe for action. He'd switch to ice water—she wouldn't be able to tell the difference. To a man who sold invisible homes, this was child's play.
 

“I'll get the drinks. Just wait, be comfortable.”
 

He stopped off in the kitchen and canceled dinner, instructing Lee to leave coldcuts on a tray and stuff the egg-rolls up his ass. He'd serve himself. He reached the vodka and rejoiced. It was a Connecticut double-quart bottle. He could have sent Bob to town, but the chauffeur was dressed to kill and off to see his girlfriend in Bridgeport. An errand at this time of night and he might be looking for a new driver tomorrow. He loved his staff, they didn't gossip or get personal. He paid them well, slipped a little under the table every now and then to keep them sweet and away from the employment-wanted section.
 

He made a vain attempt to probe his motives about Jane, but found himself humming along with Bacharach. He thrived on logic, but was lost when he came up against self-analysis. Searching his past for a precedent, he found only a string of hit-or-miss sexual alliances, none lasting more than a week. His demands had been simple, cash on the line for a “trip,” without jeopardizing his liberty.
 

First thing on Monday he'd call his friend Bernie Hammerman for a ring, getting true wholesale value and maybe a Van Cleef box thrown in. He put down the bottle, and shook his own hand, the first on the receiving line to congratulate himself. Bob came in to say good night and caught his employer in the act, practicing dynamic tension on himself.
 

Luckmunn expansively said:
 

“Isn't she terrific, Bob?”
 

“Yes, she is, Mr. Luckmunn.”
 

“Bob, we've been together now for quite a while.”
 

“Almost two years.”
 

“Have you ever known me to act this way?” Luckmunn demanded corroboration for his madness. “I mean dropping everything to be with a young woman?”
 

“I don't believe so.”
 

“Come on, admit it, I'm behaving like a nut.”
 

Bob smiled. Luckmunn hosted many strange idiosyncrasies, none of which approached good humor.
 

“A little out of the ordinary.”
 

“Bob, I'm in love. Do you know what I was doing when you came in?”
 

“Exercise?”
 

“Close. No, I was shaking my own hand. Now I'd like to shake yours.” Bob extended his hand, and Luckmunn shook it warmly. “I don't want to keep you, but would you do me a favor?”
 

“Certainly.”
 

“This isn't one of my adventures. This is for real. Would you say to me: ‘Mrs. Luckmunn is on the line.'”
 

“Mrs. Luckmunn is on the line.”
 

“Now say: ‘Mrs. Jane is on the line.'”
 

“Mrs. Jane is on the line.”
 

“Bob, now tell me honestly, which form of address sounds better?”
 

“You serious, Mr. Luckmunn?”
 

“Come on, Bob, speak your mind.”
 

“Well, I haven't really thought about it. But Mrs. Luckmunn could be your mother, couldn't it?”
 

“That's true. I hadn't considered my mother for a moment. And if you or Lee said Mrs. Luckmunn is calling or something similar, it could be confusing.” He despised his surname now in that form, naked, unattended. “Let's stick to Mrs. Jane. Listen, thank you very much. I appreciate your candor. Now have a good time and remember the roads are icy, so gently with the Seagrams. I wouldn't like to lose you.”
 

Leave it to Bob to come up with the right answer, Luckmunn thought. Mrs. Jane had a fine southern ring to it, an antebellum Colonial quality. Treat people fairly and they'll give you respect.