The Cousins (16 page)

“I don’t want to run a store.”

“Neither do I.”

“Grady liked to watch over things,” Taylor said. “But I think they’re doing a very good job.”

“Grady didn’t seem to think so,” Olivia said. “He seemed . . . upset.”

“He was hurt,” Taylor said. “He asked Uncle Seymour to give him a job in the family business. He didn’t want to be a stuntman anymore. He had lost his nerve. I knew that. Grady couldn’t get work for a long time. He wanted to learn about the store. Uncle Seymour and Charlie said there was no place for him. That means they didn’t want him. They were keeping it all for Charlie’s son Tony. But they could have hired Grady, too. There were lots of things he could have done. Grady was very smart.”

So that was what Grady had been thinking about when he came to the house for lunch with me so soon before he died, Olivia thought. It was what he had seen Uncle Seymour about, and why he seemed so bitter.

“It was a waste,” Tim said. “It was all a waste.”

“I’m still stuck with his house,” Taylor said. “I can’t sell it. I have to pay the mortgage every month. I haven’t disposed of his ashes yet. Why do people die and leave you these things to do?”

You mean, why do they kill themselves, Olivia thought.

“Grady left me and I can’t even grieve in peace,” Taylor said, as if reading her thoughts. “I’m still angry at him.”

“Of course you are.”

“People think you’ll be sorry when they kill themselves, but you’re not. You’re too angry at them.”

“It’s the same thing,” Olivia said.

“I wish you had learned to sign better,” Taylor said. “Talking makes me tired.”

“I wish I had, too,” Olivia said. Taylor does all the work, she thought, and we do nothing. She signed
I’m sorry
, and
I love you
, some of the few signs she still knew, and then she leaned over and put her arm around Taylor and kissed her downy cheek. “I love you. You’ll always be my little brat cousin. I miss him so much.”

They drank more coffee in silence.

“The week before Grady died,” Taylor said, “he sent me a tape of the movie
Torch Song Trilogy
. And he sent me a script of it so I could follow the words. He wrote a note with it. It said: ‘I used to be Matthew Broderick, now I’m Harvey Fierstein. Ain’t life a bitch.’ “

Poor lonely, conflicted Grady—his regrets, his yearnings, so different from the way he presented himself. He couldn’t have been much clearer about his secret life, Olivia thought. And he didn’t want to get old. Not being young and cute anymore must have changed the tenor of all his relationships. So Taylor knew.

“Did you watch the tape?”

“No,” Taylor said. “I threw it away, and the script, too. I didn’t want to see a movie about some old drag queen.”

“It wasn’t about some old drag queen,” Olivia said. “It was about a man who only wanted his family to love and accept him. You shouldn’t have thrown it away.”

“Well, I did.”

“And he never asked you about it?”

“No. We never said a word.”

19

W
HENEVER
O
LIVIA AND
R
OGER
were on an airplane together he would reach over and hold her hand during takeoff. She didn’t know whether he did it because he thought she was afraid or because he was; and it was one of the few things she had never asked him about, because she didn’t want to know and because it seemed too fragile an issue to mention. It seemed so sentimental, so protective, that she preferred to think he was taking care of her, even though she had never been afraid of flying. So now, beginning the night flight to Paris, their plane hurtled along the runway and Roger covered her hand with his without even thinking about it. They lifted safely into the air, and she was suddenly filled with such unexpected excitement and hope that it was as if they had left more than the earth behind.

Their plane was a closed-off and protected capsule to adventure. Roger let go of her hand, as he always did when it became apparent that once again they would live. They adjusted the paraphernalia of comfort and drank champagne.

“Happy birthday weekend,” she said, and lifted her glass to him, smiling.

“To us,” he said, and smiled back.

After dinner he slept, and she tried to. She thought about the past and edited it to remember only the happy things. Whatever happens, she thought, we’ve always loved Paris, and we’ll have a good time there. Then she dozed, and they woke up to coffee, dawn and France.

The Plaza Athénée Hotel was legendary to her. They had never actually stayed there before, but on their trips they always tried to have a drink at the Relais Plaza bar and watch the people. A large, elegant limestone building, with tall French windows giving way to tiny metal balconies with red awnings above them, overlooking Avenue Montaigne with its expensive shops, the limousines parked in front, the imposing lobby, the well-dressed guests, the feel of money—it was definitely a hotel for grown-ups. Rich grown-ups.

The hotel was quieter in the summer, though, and there were lower-priced summer special rooms, one of which they had. The furniture was antique, there was air-conditioning and a television set and a minibar. The two beds were separated with a night table in between.

They unpacked. “A shower and a walk, or a nap first?” Roger asked.

“Oh, I’m not tired,” Olivia said. “Let’s hit the streets.”

They walked until it got too hot, wandering the way they used to in their happier days, and stopped for lunch in a little cafe they happened to come upon, where they had sandwiches and beer. There was a long line of people trying to get into the Louvre. She was relieved that they had been there several times before and that today they didn’t even have to pretend to seek out culture. The winding little streets were culture, and the old houses, and the wide avenues, and the statues, and the huge, beautiful, historical buildings whose facades were kept so clean, unlike the ones in New York.

It was nice to relax with nothing to do but find things that seemed like fun, and after lunch they went to the Left Bank to look in antiques stores and finally walked along beside the Seine, watching people, most of whom looked like tourists watching them. Roger wanted to have a drink in an outdoor cafe, so they did that. Olivia had mineral water, Roger had a small carafe of wine, and they looked at the view over the river.

He was her favorite companion. She couldn’t imagine anyone she would rather wander around with. And yet the thought nibbled at the edge of her mind that all this was a temporary dream. Something else had happened. It wasn’t really like old times. It was more like a date with someone who had been her love a long time ago and had been away. If that was the case, she should be asking him what he had been doing; but of course she knew.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

What indeed? “That I have to buy you a birthday present,” Olivia said.

“I don’t want a present.”

“I saw something you’ll like.”

“You’re my present,” Roger said. “Being here with me.”

“Well, then, a souvenir.”

Of course she should buy him something. She had been ambivalent about buying him anything at all, which was why she had waited so long. Now she felt sentimental about all the years they had been together, and touched that he was trying to recapture their closeness, and she wanted to. There had been a funny old microscope in one of the antiques shops they had browsed in and Roger had liked it. She would go back tomorrow and if it wasn’t too expensive he could have it for his desk.

“A souvenir,” he said, and smiled.

He ordered another carafe. I wonder if he’s nervous being here with me, she thought, or if he’s just on vacation. In the old days, after so much walking and wine they would have gone back to their room to rest and make love. It was so different now. At least they could rest, and she could worry about the other possibility later. She was, finally, exhausted.

“I’d like to take a nap for an hour,” she said when he had finished his wine.

“Did you get any sleep on the plane?”

“Not much.”

“You know how you are with jet lag,” Roger said. “If you lie down this late in the day I can never get you up. I made reservations tonight at a brasserie called Benoit that’s supposed to be very fashionable. Nine o’clock. Will you be able to wake up?”

“I promise.”

When they went back to their room they each automatically headed for the bed that was on the side where they usually slept in their big bed at home. We’re like two comfortable old animals, Olivia thought. We didn’t even discuss it. Roger set the alarm and then suddenly went to sleep so fast she wondered if he was pretending.

She looked over at his familiar form under the covers. It had been a long time since they had slept in the same room, and just having him there made her feel safe. But strangely she wasn’t actually attracted to him. What she felt for him was more a deep and abiding love than a real sensuality. There were, of course, a number of reasons: exhaustion and self-protection came first to mind. She had always enjoyed sex with him, they made each other happy, but it had been a long time since she had regarded him in that haze of lust they had shared in their early years. She had always assumed it was the normal progression of things and not worth worrying about. Their love had developed and grown. They had always remained affectionate, which was more than she could say about a lot of other couples she had observed.

This faded passion is the same way Roger felt about me before he met her, Olivia thought sadly. And it’s how he still feels. I know him so well. No matter what he’s done to make him seem a stranger, I still know him. I acknowledged those subtle changes so casually, but they must have concerned him a lot. I didn’t think lust was that crucial. He apparently did. What are we going to do about our lives? What will become of us?

* * *

The brasserie where they had dinner was warm and cozy and very French in an old-fashioned way. They had reserved at the other restaurants where they would dine for the next two evenings and left the rest to spur-of-the-moment decisions. Because it wasn’t August yet the places they liked or wanted to try were still open before France’s summer vacation overtook the city with a vengeance and closed almost everything as the Parisians fled.

They had fish and shared a bottle of wine, facing each other across a small table. Olivia wondered if this reconciliation they were attempting was supposed to involve lovemaking too, and when Roger ordered another bottle of wine she was sure he was thinking about the same thing. He seemed as nervous as a honeymooner.

“We’ll get drunk and sick,” she said and immediately was sorry she had said something so unromantic, although it was true.

“We won’t drink it all,” Roger said.

“Let’s take everything slowly.”

He looked at her. “Of course.”

“My feelings are so complicated,” she said. “I don’t even know what I feel from hour to hour.”

“That’s normal.”

“Do you feel that way?”

“Sometimes. Oh boy, do I!”

They smiled at each other. “I love you so much,” Olivia said. “You’re my best friend.”

“And you’re mine.”

“Are you having a good birthday weekend so far?”

“Very.”

They were lowering the level in the second bottle, he more than she. “Let’s pretend we just met,” Roger said.

“Then I’d have to tell you my life story.”

“Or make it up.”

“I’d probably just omit the things you shouldn’t know.”

“I’d try to impress you,” he said.

“Of course. I’d flirt with you.”

“I’d like that.”

“How could I tell you about my past?” Olivia said. “So much of my past is you.”

There was a silence while he seemed to be taking this in. Then he took her hand across the table and held it. “I’m glad you and I didn’t just meet,” he said. “I don’t want to have missed anything we had together.”

By the time they finished dinner he was quite drunk. Then he insisted on having a
poire
to finish the meal. They got back to their room and looked at the two beds, which seemed very small, and at the distance between them, which seemed very large, although a few years ago it would never have been an issue. “I think I drank too much,” Roger said.

“I did, too.”

He put his arms around her like a cuddly bear and put his head on her shoulder. “We’re going to have a great weekend,” he said. “You’ll see,” and then he got into his bed and pulled up the covers and was asleep.

The next morning he had a hangover. She wasn’t surprised. She didn’t feel so great but at least she was functioning, and she felt much better after a big café au lait from room service. “You sleep,” she said to him. “I’m going out to get your birthday present.”

“I’ll be fine in a few hours,” he murmured.

“I’ll come back and we’ll go to lunch at about one o’clock if you’re up to it.”

“Okay.”

The sun was shining, and as soon as she started walking through the fresh morning streets, Olivia began to smile. She noticed a few men smiled back at her, as if she had meant it for them instead of for the nice day in Paris, and she was pleased because it meant she was still attractive, still desirable, still a force to be reckoned with. She walked briskly all the way to the Left Bank, to the antiques shop where she had seen the old microscope the day before, and to her delight it was still there and what was more, it was even affordable.

“I hope you’ll take a traveler’s check?” she asked the proprietor.

“Of course.”

She filled it out and handed him her passport for identification.

“Miss . . . Oak-ren?”

“Okrent. Although Oak-ren is a lot prettier,” Olivia said. “Would you wrap it, please?”

“Of course.”

“Is that
you?
” an American-accented voice said. A young man came toward her through the gloom, emerging from behind crystal chandeliers and tapestry-covered chairs, glimmering a little in cream-colored linen Armani pants and a white T-shirt, his skin city pale, his long, straight black hair hanging on a slant over his forehead, his gray eyes gleaming like moonstones. “Dr. Okrent?”

Even though he was out of context, she realized in an instant who he was. Nobody else she ever saw looked like him. He was her client Marc Delon from New York, whose sturdy dalmatian she had been treating for two years. He had endeared himself to her by having named his dog Spot, because it was so silly, and also because he obviously loved Spot so much.

“Marc!”

“So this is where you come for your summer vacation,” he said.

“Not exactly. It’s just a long weekend. How’s Spot?”

“He’s fine. How’s Wozzle?”

“She’s great. What are you doing here?”

“I’m buying a birthday present for my grandmother.”

He’s so young, Olivia thought. He has a grandmother. I don’t even have parents. “I mean in Paris, not this store.”

“Well, I came to visit her. And you?”

“It’s Roger’s birthday.”

“Cool.”

Cool
, she thought with a twinge.
That’s what Wendy said
. “I bought him an old microscope,” she said. “What are you getting for your grandmother?”

“I thought this box. Do you like it?” He held it out to her earnestly, hoping for her approval. It was small and perfect, made of fitted mother-of-pearl pieces.

“It’s lovely,” Olivia said. “Does she collect them?”

“She collects everything. There isn’t an inch of any surface in her apartment that doesn’t have little things arranged on it, and no dust at all. It’s terrifying.”

“Do you like her?”

“Yes, I do. I love her. Do you still have your grandparents?”

“No, I’m afraid not. You’re lucky.”

“I think so. We’re having a big family dinner tonight.”

“Is it a significant birthday?”

“Every birthday is significant at her age,” he said. “But no, she’s seventy-eight. It’s a chance for the family to get together. I see my cousins, whom I hardly ever see now that I’ve been living in New York.”

“I know,” Olivia said. “I like seeing my cousins too, and we never get together unless it’s an occasion.”

“Are you having a party for Roger?”

“The two of us are going to the Tour d’Argent. He wants the view and the duck.”

“I’ve never been there,” Marc said.

“Is it too touristy?”

“Oh no, just too expensive. I’ll go when I sell my book.”

“You’ve written a book?”

“I’m writing one.” The proprietor handed them their wrapped packages. “Would you like to have a coffee with me, Dr. Oak-ren?” Marc asked.

“Only if you call me Olivia. We’re on vacation.”

“Okay, Olivia. I know a place right near here.”

He took her to a small neighborhood bistro with round marble-topped tables and straw chairs set outside on the sidewalk. The street was narrow, and a boy was playing with his dog, throwing it a ball. They ordered two coffees and watched the boy with his dog for a while.

“I miss Wozzle,” Olivia said.

“I miss Spot. Do you want me to tell you about my book?”

“Yes, please!”

“It’s about how children’s stories influence our lives as adults, and what their messages are. Some are inspiring and allay fears,
but
some of them have actually warped and corrupted our self-esteem and sense of adventure, as they were probably meant to. Cautionary tales—you wonder what kind of people wrote them! My research goes back over almost two hundred years—it’s quite historical. I cover some classic children’s stories and also books people remember having read or had read to them as kids. I ask people: What’s your favorite story from childhood, and then: What’s the worst one you remember? Usually the horrible ones are the ones that sent the message that lingered. The stories they wrote for girls were even more threatening to individuality than the ones for boys, although the boys’ stories were certainly about conformity in their own way.”