Spin Dry Page 8

  “It’s him,” she said.

  “I know,” Rachel soberly.

  “A plan. We need a plan.”

  “I’m crummy at plans.”

  “He’ll make his next move through you. You via Leon. Why’s he interested in your friend Wilkes?”

  Rachel shrugged.

  “A possible way in. He’ll offer to help—”

  “Gretchen, he seems so efficient. Do we really need a plan?”

  “Are you serious? The planless ones wind up with the Leons of this world. This is a man who wears three thousand dollar suits and looks like the young God. We absolutely need a plan.”

  “Do you think he likes me?”

  “Not at all. He was working on me. Anyway, you’re happily married, and I’m cresting thirty-five.”

  Cresting? “But what’s Harry got to do with you?”

  “Not Harry, Dimbulb. Mr. Perfect. Harry is Leon’s problem and Leon is your problem. Be fair. It’s the least I deserve for the scares I’ve been getting from the mirror. Rachel, you just haveto help me. Especially after what you said about Ted. He’s no dumber than you are, you know.”

  “Gretchen, Ted seemed OK. Honest.”

  “No, you’re right. Let’s not start making excuses for stupid Ted.” Gretchen peered out through the smoke and din of a hundred people standing nose to nose in pairs and in tight circles holding white plastic cups in their hands, talking, smoking, drinking, laughing. “The walking dead,” she observed. She took a step closer to Rachel, hissing. “See Alex Silver.”

  “Gretchen, I’ll think about it. I’ve never been to a psychologist.”

  “If you’ve never been to a psychologist you’re not qualified to decide. Rachel, listen. When Ted comes back tell him you don’t know where I am. And Rachel—let me know what happens with Silver. I’m worried about you.” And then she broke down sobbing on Rachel’s shoulder, refused to talk about it, and ran off into the crowd.

  In bed that night Rachel lay beside the new, improved Leon and tried to understand what this transformation in him meant for her. After a while she touched her fingers to his cheek. He grunted and turned away.

  “Leon—”

  “What.”

  “Are you sure you want to sell houses?”

  “Not at all. I took a real estate course so I could become an investment banker.”

  “I mean, will you be happy?”

  “Happy? How could I ever be as happy as I have been playing idiot nursemaid to Cam Wilkes?”

  “Leon, did something happen between you and Cam tonight?” On the way back from the reception they had stopped in to feed him. Rachel waited in the driveway. In three minutes Leon was getting back into the car looking grim. “Did you have a falling out?” she asked now.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Silence.

  “So,” Leon said. “What would you like me to sell with my new training? Shoes?”

  “You’ll go see Nick Sirocco?”

  “Sure, I guess so. Why not.”

  “Sounds like he could help you.”

  “Molstad landed him?”

  “She’ll try.”

  “On second thought, I don’t think I will go see Sirocco. With Molstad on the case I won’t have a chance. You know how she likes to make trouble for the fun of it.”

  “Leon, don’t be paranoid.”

  “I’m not big on guys in suits that expensive. I don’t trust charmers.”

  “Harry’s a charmer.”

  “Harry. When are you going to forget about Harry? You really do get stuck in ruts, don’t you? Sirocco is no Harry, believe me. Cam Wilkes is the key to that one.”

  “But he could help you.”

  “Sure. Like I could help Cam Wilkes. He could also screw me over and steal my wife. I saw the way he was looking at you.”

  “Oh, Leon.”

  “Oh, Rachel. Try to see past the aluminum siding for once. These guys in the expensive suits are birds of prey. Vultures. Cormorants. They don’t do favours out of the goodness of their hearts. They don’t have hearts. If Gretchen Molstad doesn’t do me in, there’s bound to be an ugly catch, like suddenly I’ll owe a favour to some Mafioso in Tonawanda. No, I think I’ll take a pass on this Nick Sirocco. Let’s just say I don’t like the cut of his jib.”

  Rachel did not have to keep on at Leon to see Nick Sirocco because Sirocco dropped in that Sunday afternoon. Leon was out on the balcony doing steaks on the propane barbecue he had bought himself to celebrate passing real estate school and getting a job at Bi-Me Village Realty. “Hey Rachel! Look at this!” When Rachel came out onto the balcony what she saw settling down on the rhomboid of grass beyond the back yard was a shining black helicopter. Dogs and kids from all over the neighbourhood were pelting towards it. “Feel that?” Leon murmured, in awe. He meant the breeze from the propellers. The noise, ricocheting inside a perimeter of townhouses, was deafening. “What’s it say on the tail?” Though nearsighted, Leon refused to wear glasses.

  “6544T3.”

  “Huh.”

  The propellers were individually discernible now, the engines quieter. The whut whut whut of those big blades, the barkingdogs, the happily screaming kids, were the dominant sounds. A door opened on the far side of the cockpit. A slight delay, and a crouching man in a dark suit sprinted out from under the blades.

  “It’s Nick Sirocco,” Rachel said as a thrill muscled through her stomach and up into her chest. “He’s coming this way. The house is a mess—” My hair is filthy.

  “You’ve got 45 seconds to tidy up. The kids are slowing him.”

  Nick Sirocco waved. Leon waved back. “Want a beer, Nick?” he shouted.

  Rachel plumped a few cushions and floated down to open the back door.

  And Nick Sirocco was right there. Smiling. Whitened teeth, brilliant in sunshine. Could this really be Harry? Broad daylight was certainly not as hard on him as Rachel had hoped. He was definitely still a member of the class of All Slightly Dissipated Men Who Look like God. The reason of course Rachel was hungry to find physical flaws was that it did not feel right to be desired by so attractive a being. Too disproportionate a level of outward beauty would indicate scales balanced on his part by inner flaws discrediting to his taste in women. Nick Sirocco kissed Rachel’s cheek, right next to the ear. A shiver passed down her body. He confessed that he had come to take her husband for a ride. “Hey, I’d really like to ask you along,” he murmured, “but I can’t. It’s confidential. I’m sorry. I’m going to have to tell Leon not to talk about it to anybody.” Disappointed, Rachel nodded. And then she found herself standing next to Nick Sirocco and calling up to Leon, “Hey Leon! Mr. Sirocco wants to take you for a ride!”

  “Me!?” Leon pantomimed against the sky, pointing at his chest. “Great!” Already he was fumbling with his apron. “Just let me do something about these steaks here—”

  As hissing and smoke hid Leon from view, Nick Sirocco said, “Hey, what’s this Mr. Sirocco. Call me Nick. Didn’t you tell me you work at Millpond Indemnity? In the Village Green?”

  “Yes—?”

  “I’m with Mortprop Investments. Same complex. How about lunch Wednesday. Timbers ‘n Spokes. Twelve-thirty, by the elevators.”

  “Gee, I don’t think I should—”

  “Come on. Just a little lunch—”

  “Well, OK.”

  “Terrific.”

  They stood and gazed at each other until Leon was there looking foolishly, heartbreakingly keen. “All set, Nick!” he cried.

  Ten minutes later, amidst a cheering, barking crowd of Millpond residents buffeted by the wind from those enormous blades, Rachel watched the pilot manipulate a stick and the plexiglas bubble lift off. She waved, but Leon was too engrossed in talking to Nick Sirocco to notice.

  Rachel walked back to the house depressed. Divide and conquer. Wasn’t it an Italian who said that?

  Rachel sighed and got out the vacuum cleaner. Five minutes later, as she was changing t
he attachment to do the parquet inthe front hall, it came to her that Nick Sirocco had no deal for Leon. He was working on her. A promise of something for Leon to make her grateful enough, long enough, for him to make his move. An extension of that feigned interest in Cam Wilkes. Either that or there really was a deal, but the only reason he’d chosen Leon was her. Sleep with me baby or your husband is not handed this sweetheart contract.

  Unless of course the picture was even bigger and nastier. The ‘copter would not return. She would never see Leon again, her willingness to eat lunch with Nick Sirocco directly, in some sickening, hard line, bad novel way, responsible.

  Gawd, Rachel thought as she wriggled the vacuum nozzle around under the little hall table, accept one lousy lunch date and I’m losing my mind. Did I always think the world was this sleazy? Or am I the big sleaze around here? I mean, was I always such a pushover? Whole days before I’ve been pushed?

  Vacuuming the stairs, she thought, Who am I kidding. Do I really believe a hunkerama like Nick Sirocco would be interested in a Plain Jane like me? Here Rachel’s knees grew weak, and she had to sit down on a stair.

  ——

  Alex Silver was looking at his watch. “Whups, we’re over the hour. Better resume this tomorrow. OK, Rachel. Go home, have something to eat, relax—no napping—and be back at the Dream Centre by ten o’clock tonight. No sign of Leon?”

  “No sign.”

  “Maybe he’s there now.”

  “I don’t think so. Alex? I want to quit the study.”

  “Three days, Rachel? Just three, and then decide? For the study? For science? For me? So you can tell yourself you gave it a chance, you tested the waters? So you won’t feel like a complete shit?”

  “C’mon, Alex—”

  “Please?”

  “All right. Three days.”

  Leon wasn’t home. Rachel was wandering through the darkness of 201 Dell, too sad to turn on the lights, when the phone rang. Cam Wilkes? Hadn’t heard from him in a few days. Nor from Gretchen, but that was hardly surprising. Rachel took it in the streetlit living room.

  Her mother. “How are you?”

  “I’m OK. Mother, what is it?”

  “I’m sorry if I tire you.”

  “You don’t tire me.”

  “Your tone says otherwise. Anyway, it’s not you I want to speak to. Please put Leon on.”

  “He’s not in.”

  “Out with the boys, I suppose.”

  “Leon has no friends. He’s at work.” Rachel wished.

  “Excuse me while I pick myself up off the floor. Leon is at work? Why didn’t you tell me? Not management, I hope. The man couldn’t organize a one-float parade.”

  “I have told you. Over and over. He’s been selling real estate since the summer, practically.”

  “Oh. In that case I do have to talk to him. There’s a real job opening up, with Vera Hedstrom’s cousin Jerry. Stock control.”

  “Leon wouldn’t be interested. He likes selling houses.”

  “You don’t have to put up with it, you know. I didn’t. If you’re unhappy, Rachel—”

  “I’m fine, Mother. I’m also hanging up!”

  “Get him to call me. As soon as—”

  That night Rachel spent at the Dream Centre with Alex Silver and her fellow guinea pigs, who turned out to be two women she had met with Gretchen one evening at the Café Smile: Babs Goreau and Frankie DeSoto. Babs was a tall, strong-boned woman resembling Sophia Loren’s deranged cousin. Frankie, a head-and-a-half shorter than her friend, was a sallow, ratlike person with oily hair and a small aggrieved face. Babs chaired, and Frankie sat on, the SMILE SIS (Sexism in the Schools) Committee currently engaged in a study of the Dick and Jane readers. That night at the Dream Centre, Rachel wondering why Babs and Frankie were being dream deprived, the three of them were sitting around sipping dexedrine sulphate with Alex Silver, when Babs opened a Dick and Jane reader called We Work and Play to a picture of Dick and Jane on a teeter-totter, Dick up, all smiles; Jane down, her back turned.

  “Notice anything funny about this picture?” Babs asked.

  Rachel studied it. There was Dick: familiar, forgettable, as ever; the back of Jane’s head. Alex Silver studied the picture too, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. Being on SIS, Frankie already had her opinion. She smoked a cigarette in her cheesed-off way.

  “Why’s Dick up if he’s heavier?” Silver murmured.

  “Exactly,” said Babs.

  After Rachel had checked that Dick wasn’t closer to the fulcrum, she said, “Wouldn’t Dick’s legs be longer and stronger, and so, I mean, what’s wrong with realism?”

  “Of course Dick’s winning,” Babs said. “But it’s beyond realism, isn’t it. The kid is definitely just hanging up there. He is violating gravity.”

  “Maybe the artist couldn’t do movement,” Rachel offered. “So he did them right at the moment between teeter and totter.”

  “The artist was a woman,” Frankie said. “Eleanor Campbell. She could do movement all right.”

  “How’s this,” Silver said. “Here’s this winsome little thing, but on the inside Jane’s a fatty. The flip side of sweet helplessness is big drag. Weight. Load. Of course she’s heavier.”

  Babs levelled a look full of sabres at Silver. “So it’s Jane’s fault.”

  “Could just be,” Alex replied mildly. “Most real thinnies are fatties.”

  “Bullshit.” From the sternum.

  “Next page, please,” Rachel gaily.

  On the next page Spot grabs Dick’s shoelace in his teeth and pulls Dick down level with Jane.

  “Wow,” from Rachel.

  And on the page after that, Dick’s shoe comes off and he flies up.

  “Proving that Jane is fat inside,” Silver concluded.

  “Or,” Babs glaring at him, then looking around significantly at the others, “not only does Dick have to be better at everything than Jane, he has to be higher in the frame. Even when Spot pulls him ‘level’ with Jane, he is still higher in the frame. Literally, he is above her. The law of gravity has just been repealed. We are talking about an apparently ordinary little boy who in fact is portrayed as a higher being—”

  While Babs elaborated her point, Rachel slipped into that reader. Dick and Jane, who were those kids anyway? Once when the world had been elemental as earth, real as her father’s shoes, her mother’s Tabu, as love, she thought she knew. But now—?

  Baby Sally, a yellow-haired coquette stepping out against an enormous black umbrella, the sweet smile of a bimbo.

  Jane, vaguely pretty, strapping on roller skates, eyes downcast, curiously self-involved, possibly ill.

  And Dick, fists deep in his pockets, feet in high-lace leather running shoes planted wide apart. Cowlicked brown hair, high forehead, wide eyes that did not quite meet hers, pug nose, long upper lip, teeth bared in a grin. Four-square. Absurd. Sphinx …

  Harry, in short pants?

  “Rachel?”

  “Huh?”

  It was Babs. “Gretchen mentioned something about you having problems around Leon’s sexual identity. Frankie and I were wondering if you’d like to come to the Wednesday night discussion group at SMILE and share your feelings.”

  “Um, I’d like to, Babs, but I really don’t have any ‘feelings’ worth sharing—” Rachel’s low-key irony here backfiring to replicate textbook low self-esteem.

  Babs looked at Frankie and Frankie looked at Babs and they both looked at Alex Silver, who pushed his scarlet glasses up his nose and cleared his throat.

  “I mean,” Rachel doggedly digging herself in deeper, “he doesn’t mistreat me or anything—”

  “Just remember this, Rachel,” Babs laying a remarkably unwelcome hand on Rachel’s arm. “There are more colours in the rainbow of marital abuse than black and blue.”

  A half hour later, in bed, her head wired, Rachel thought, “Hey gee, maybe you’re right, Babs. Let’s see—There’s chartreuse, magenta, Nile green, puce, vermil
ion, ochre—”

  THREE

  Numero uno question about Harry: Was he the guy responsible for the incredible tackiness of the behaviour around here, the general dumpiness to the quality of life in these parts, this contagion of mediocrity—or was he the guy who kindly arrives by dogsled, 400 SL, chariot of fire, to lift the veils? Was Harry an unnatural by-product of some haywire reflex of neurotic dissatisfaction—or the touchstone of touchstones? What happened if you said, Hey Harry, I think I love you? Seriously Harry, I’m head over heels. I mean, your will is my will. You are the only theatre I will ever need. Let’s shack up and make a world. What happened then? Would this be redemption? Or one of the more predictable mistakes of minor life?

  The second and third nights at the Dream Centre were one long beep from the Hewlett Packard. The third morning dawned edgy, the place less and less familiar instead of the usual more. The path is a wild and rocky one, it seems, when there is no nightly healing. Speaking of healing, when Silver removed the electrodes from her head, Rachel noticed that his whole left forearm was now bandaged. Half asleep, she asked what had happened.

  “This? Oh, just a scratch.”

  Even un-dream deprived, Rachel would have found such evasiveness on the part of her therapist cause for concern.

  And then she looked at her watch and shot out of bed. Twenty minutes to get to work! Babs and Frankie were still unconscious, so there was no waiting for the washroom.

  Rachel was on her way out of that cubicle when she heard something like a child’s cry, or scream, from the next room. She tried the handle. Locked. “Alex!” she called in an urgent whisper. “Alex! Is everything all right?”

  A muffled sound, possibly a curse, followed by something more like a snarl.

  “Alex! Let me in! What’s wrong?”

  Suddenly Silver was right there, on the other side of the door. “You’re off to work then, Rachel?”

  “Alex, what’s going on in there?”

  “Nothing—You did your non-REM, vigilance, Stroop, arithmetic, Holzman, Reuben, and Nowlis-Green?”

  “I’ll have to do them at work. I’m late—Alex, I—”