This Crumbling Pageant Read online

  The woman was messing around with a carton of quail eggs. At the sound of Janet’s voice, she peered over bifocals. “Hullo, Janet. Didn’t see you there.” As if to teach the American a lesson in British manners, she had spoken in a discreet whisper.

  “That’s ok,” Janet brayed. “We’re just doing a little shopping, that’s all.”

  “Oh,” the woman said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you two were together. I’m Robin.”

  “Scott. Nice to meet you.”

  “American,” she said, nodding slowly. Her eyes flickered on Janet and back on him doubtfully. “Are you… related?”

  Janet busted out in derisive laughter. “Yeah, right!” She pulled Scott away. “Let’s go, mister. I need you to lift up some cases of soda for me.” She shouted back at the Englishwoman. “At least men are good for something!”

  After that, Janet called on Scott frequently. She came to depend on him for things which Scott suspected she used to be able to do perfectly well by herself. Sunday dinners were already a given. There he would sit, at “his place” at the dining table, before a wilderness of carbohydrates. There he would nod along, as his companion aired her various grievances and opinions and gripes. There he would stare, all the while, over her bobble-head at the painting on the mantel.

  It remained as aloof as ever. Scott felt that he had worked the count in his favor, but that he couldn’t quite find the strikeout pitch. He was starting to sweat over it. Looming over him anyway was that dread cut-off date, when he and Holly would, under pain of banishment, be forced to pack up and go home, and the thought of leaving the painting in the unmonitored custody of this unpredictable woman was too much to bear. So it was with mounting distress that he lavished compliments on Janet’s collection of trifles and period furniture, dropping bigger and bigger hints about what a bundle she would make if she ever had a garage sale. (“What garage?” she would retort, properly annoyed.) He was given to periodic rhapsodies about how good it feels, how refreshing it is, to clean house. He sought to lubricate her mood with any number of young wines—desperate to get her drunk. But how can you replenish a glass that has never been touched?

  She loved the attention, though. She didn’t question it—at least not outwardly. Only once did she, perhaps, betray herself, when apropos of nothing she barked, “What about that ring of yours! Doesn’t your wife mind you coming here so often?”

  Scott, sipping espresso in a deep armchair, gulped. He put his little cup down, leaned forward, massaged the bridge of his nose, and, steeling himself, said that her “eggplant parm” was worth the price of admission.

  As the night invariably dragged on, Scott would call it a wash and start planning his escape. Early on, he had hit upon a miracle cure for these situations. Janet could be going on for hours in the most mind-bendingly boring way, and all he had to do was say one thing about himself. Any little thing about himself. Then he would see such a look of ennui! Then, without hesitation, Janet would make it known that he was in peril of overstaying his welcome. It didn’t matter that she had occupied his entire evening telling him about her birds’ morning ablutions. She was a totally selfish windbag.

  One evening, while she was whining about all the spoiled children in Italy, Scott thought he heard her allude to her own childhood at a Catholic school in Mashpee.

  He was confused.

  “But Mashpee…” he said, “isn’t in New Jersey.”

  “Who the heck said I was from New Jersey!” she said scornfully.

  “Really?” He perked up a bit. She was a hometown girl! “I didn’t know that! I’m from the Cape, too!”

  Janet failed to disguise a yawn. “Yeah, well, it’s getting pretty late.”

  &

  Family kept calling, emailing, wanting to know when they were coming back. Scott’s mother reminded him over the phone that he had missed the leaves changing, and now he was going to miss Thanksgiving—all the best times to be in New England. She said she didn’t need to remind him about Christmas. She also felt it incumbent upon her (since no one else would) to broach the delicate subject of his future. She asked what his plans were, and how he was doing with money. She alerted him to the fact that he was twenty-seven years old. Then she asked if Holly knew what she wanted to do and if she could get her job back at the insurance company in Rhode Island.

  “She wants us to stay here, if we can,” Scott answered. His mother must have been calling from outside. He could hear the passing racket of Canada geese, honking like a party of clown cars. It would be nice to go back home.

  “And what do you want?”

  “I’m hoping we’ll strike it rich.”

  “Have you given any more thought,” she said, not tuning in, “about entering that program to become a histotechnician? Aunt Rose keeps telling me how they desperately need people at her hospital.”

  “I still don’t even know what a histotechnician is.”

  “All I’m asking is to know what your plans are,” his mother declared, with just a pinch of self-pity. “I would like to know if you and Holly are thinking of staying here with us at the Cape when you get back, because you know we would love that—we miss you terribly and want to spend time with you—but no more than a week or two. Okay? We would like to keep the guest room open for friends when they come visit. You know, Frank and I are retired now”—Frank was Scott’s stepfather—“and at this point in our lives we just want to enjoy ourselves and not have to worry so much about our kids. I talk to parents all the time,” his mother went on, her voice breaking with emotion, “and I have to hear about who’s a lawyer, and who’s making six figures already, when I don’t even know what to say about my own unsettled children. I’m sorry.”

  “Mom,” Scott pleaded, “don’t worry about it. Holly and I weren’t even dreaming of staying with you guys—”

  “That’s not what I was saying! Of course we want you two here. We love you and miss you—”

  “Let’s just see how things turn out,” he spoke over her. He was suddenly anxious to get off the phone so he could get that damn painting and never have to have this conversation again for the rest of his natural days.

  After they hung up, Scott processed this new information more thoroughly. So, staying with his parents was no longer an option. His mother had been crystal clear: he was not wanted. Good. That made it even more crucial for him to acquire the Kensett painting. Hitherto, he had felt the need to make excuses to some part of his brain that demanded excuses and that accused him (in a voice very much like his mother’s) of frittering away his time—first with this Italy business, and then with this whole painting folly—as a way of avoiding his real responsibilities. But now, thanks to his mother, he could carry on in the same direction without apology. He could, in fact, blame her for leaving him no other choice and making his situation all the more desperate. What felt at first like a pipe dream was now his most practical plan. He was being practical, Mom.

  But, dear God in heaven, did that mean they would have to move in with his in-laws when they got back?

  Scott was dumbstruck. It would be just like them to offer their support. It would be just like Holly’s substantial parents to take in their daughter in her time of need, and her simpering, deficient husband.

  He foresaw the homecoming, pulling up to that rambling Prairie-style house. Holly’s mom would not be so bad. Sure there would be some hurt in her eyes as she welcomed him with a kiss, but he could stomach that. He could stomach it better than that obligatory handshake with Holly’s father. Doubtless, the man would be big about it. He would, as much as humanly possible, make eye contact with Scott. He would manfully extend his hand. His lips would be compressed as though they had a firm grip on a smile.

  “I hate you, Janet,” Scott heard himself say.

  Somehow, Holly was able to scare up a frozen turkey, and that, plus a pan of stovetop popcorn and a box of instant mashed potatoes picked up from the Aldi store, was their Thanksgiving
.

  Holly must have kept in mind the art opening of that painter, Luca—Gallo was his last name—because one evening Scott discovered her getting ready for it. She was wearing a short bandage dress, heels that strapped up her calves, chandelier earrings, a cuff bracelet, dramatic side-swept hair. She wasn’t wasting an opportunity to get dolled up.

  “You mean it’s tonight?” he asked.

  “Mm-hm.” She was putting on her lipstick in front of the bedroom vanity.

  He sat on the edge of their bed beside the puppy and brooded. Then, feeling a little jilted, he said, “I can’t go. I’m supposed to have a lesson with my tutor in an hour.” He had finally called the number from the flier offering Italian lessons.

  “Oh well,” Holly said. “It’s no big deal. You didn’t really want to go anyway.”

  “Who says?”

  “When I asked if you wanted to go, you told me yourself, ‘That’s the last thing I want to do.’”

  “Right. ‘The last thing I want to do.’ That means it’s on the list of things I want to do.”

  She laughed, and seemed to think that was sufficient, because she wordlessly returned to her lipstick.

  “Strange you didn’t remind me about it,” Scott commented.

  She bundled herself up in her winter coat, took her clutch bag, and left the apartment, clicking carefully down the stairwell. Three mortal hours later she returned, looking wind-blown, with high color in her cheeks. She shook off her shoes and went right for the bathroom. Scott and the puppy watched as Holly bunched up her dress, lowered her underwear, and sat down hard on the toilet. Then, over a jet of pee, she gazed up at Scott and, with eyes watering in relief, told him about her night.

  If she had noticed how handsome Luca Gallo was, she didn’t show it. Principally, her remarks about him concerned his talent and promise as a painter. It was a subject she harped on with some fervor, and after a good amount of the stuff Scott began to wish she would talk about his looks instead. For the very words “talent” and “promise” were like two daggers to him now, touching him neatly in his vital organs.

  Next morning, bright and early, Scott received a call on his cell phone. He didn’t recognize the number, but it was from America.

  “Hello?”

  “‘ey Scott!” boomed a jovial voice. It was Johan, his ex-teammate from the farm system. Johan was a position player who had grown up in the Dominican Republic. Although there were a fair number of Dominicans on the team, and of course several other Spanish-speaking players, Johan had always preferred hanging out with the Anglos, despite his limited English. “Que pasa?”

  “Not much,” Scott said, rolling out of bed and taking the call in the kitchen, so as not to disturb Holly, sprawled out on the mattress with her mouth ajar and her eye mask tilted at a rakish angle. “You know. Not much. What’s going on with you?”

  His friend sounded like he was calling from a nightclub. In the background, Scott could hear a samba bass line shuttling back and forth and the brawling laughter of women.

  After being traded to another Triple-A franchise, Johan had been called up to the bigs around the same time as Scott, when a succession of hamstring injuries had put a pox on both their clubhouses. Johan, however, had performed passably. Now he was living it up in the off-season, getting drunk and fat and happy, and even checking in on his old, down-on-his-luck teammate. It was kind of touching.

  Both wildly overestimated each other’s language skills.

  Johan said something in Spanish. This was typical of him.

  “Say that again?” Scott asked.

  Johan laughed out of control and said in English, “That’s right!”

  Then another voice piped up. “Yo, is that Whittier? Is that Whittier?”

  “Who’s that?” Scott said.

  “Johan,” the voice went on, “tell that guy to get back over here. We need him here in Detroit. Tell him Lance says he needs to get the fuck over here.”

  Scott was honored. Lance Holland was a rising star in the league, and Scott didn’t know Lance even knew his name.

  Johan tried to work around the noise. “So, how is Italy?” he asked in Spanish. As part of a running joke, he added, “You find a wife for me yet?”

  Again Lance’s voice interjected, louder this time. “Yo, Scotty! You better be ready, man! Me and Johan are gonna take a trip out there to see you. We want some nice senoritas lined up for us!”

  Johan sighed and asked Scott, “You hear that?”

  “I don’t think Holly would like that,” he replied.

  Johan heard a few key words, picked up on the meaning, and thought it was the funniest thing he ever heard. “You right, you right!” he said through his tears.

  The phone call left Scott with a pang in his heart. As a listless afterthought, he remembered that he hadn’t yet checked his e-mail that morning. He said to himself, “I wonder if Lou emailed me.” But the question failed to make his heart lurch with mingled anticipation and hope, the way it used to.

  &

  Their time in Italy was dwindling. Contrite over the Morandi affair, Scott held his tongue as Holly pursued the museum job with the help of Luca San Michele. It was easy to keep his mouth shut because thus far their landlord had gotten nowhere. But one day in early December Holly said she was going out for lunch with San Michele and some people he knew, and Scott spoke up. First, he said, “What, no Scott?”

  “I asked him. He said he wasn’t sure he could bring a guest at all. It’s just for a couple of hours, and it could be an important contact for me.” She looked at him, lounging on the sofa in the living room, reading a book by lamplight, and asked, “Why don’t you open the shutters and let some light in?”

  “Whatever.” Lamp, sun: his life was drifting free of such niceties. “But can you tell me the point of all this? You know we have to leave in a little over a month—”

  He cut himself off, because Holly was giving him a look.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, whacking the covers of the book shut. “But if it’s so important to you, why wouldn’t you want to include me?”

  “You’re not including me in your little scheme with that woman,” she came back.

  “You didn’t seem like you cared either way!” Scott literally rose to his defense. “If you want to come with me to her apartment next time and be insulted for hours on end, you’re more than welcome. I’d be happy to have some company.” Her comment had stung. “I didn’t think you wanted to be included.”

  “I was the one who recognized the painting.”

  “Yeah, and you never would have even noticed it if it weren’t for me.”

  They had wasted no time in getting ugly. And just like that, Scott saw his dreams of a husband-and-wife team scatter with the four winds. Holly flounced into the bathroom and locked the door. Scott walked around the living room in circles. Finally, he stopped at the window, unlatched the panes, and threw open the wooden shutters.

  From its unique position five stories up, the apartment had a picturesque view of the neighborhood and of the countryside that began immediately outside the old city walls: a dank, green fiefdom, where moody foothills rose up in the south. Somewhere in those foggy hills, their landlord lived.

  The lunch meeting had evidently been a popular success, because it went on till kingdom come. At last, though, Holly came back and delivered the good news:

  “They were all so nice!” She had left her coat and boots on, and was gathering up the leash to take the dog for a walk. “It was at the house of the director and his wife. They were the funniest couple. Two other men who are in charge of the museum were there with their wives, too. Honey, you would have been so proud of me!” The leash jingled seasonally as she bounced up and down in excitement. “I think they were really impressed whenever they asked me a question about my interests in art or about the collection at the museum.”

  “Mm-hm,” Scott put in, with withering sarcasm. “I’m sure the
y were.”

  She was about to go on, then paused. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “They were all men, right?”

  “Yeah… So?”

  “Nothing,” he said, averting his eyes from her and the dog. He was surprised himself at the nasty direction he was taking this. “I’m just saying I believe it when you say they were hanging on your every word.”

  “They were with their wives,” said Holly, enunciating each word, staccato, as if to hammer them through a skull so thick it was solid bone. “And I never said they were ‘hanging on my every word.’”

  “Alright, alright, I’m sorry.” Scott was suddenly conciliatory. Though he had fired the first shot, he was hoping it wasn’t too late to avoid a skirmish. “I believe you. That’s great, honey. So what did they say about the job?”

  She looked straight at him.

  “Forget it,” she said. “You ruined it for me.”

  “Why, baby? I wasn’t saying anything!”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “No, I wasn’t, I promise! I was just saying I’m sure they were all amazed to see this hot young American girl speaking so well about Italian art in their own language.”

  But Holly would not be comforted. Her eyes welled up with tears.

  “I came here,” she began, “so excited to tell you about my day, and instead of being happy for me, you try to hurt me and make me feel bad and try to… to… keep me down!”

  “What!” he cried, alarm bells going off. She was making him sound like the villain in the daytime movie of her life. “No one’s trying to keep you down! I’m not keeping you down, Holly!”

  The leash went back to the floor. The terrier, concerned, looked up suddenly. Holly was digging in her purse. “Here,” she said, and handed Scott a bag of sunflower seeds. “Better this than smoking cigarettes.”

  She had also bought him a stack of Mickey Mouse comic books in Italian, to help him learn the language. She began to weep piteously, and Scott chased her into the bathroom to beg her forgiveness.

  “I’m sorry, Holly. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. I haven’t been this insecure since I was going through puberty and watching my face change and not knowing when or where it would stop. And I’m jealous of everyone: the museum people, Luca our landlord, the other Luca. I think everyone in this land is hitting on you. Please forgive me.”