The Slippage: A Novel Page 2

  “I never know what to say to celebrities,” Annika said to William’s shirt. Then, to William: “Should we go in? I should be a good date and fix Tom a drink. Maybe I’ll water it down a little.”

  William sent Annika ahead and tried the junk room door again. “Louisa,” he said. “Your brother’s here. With a woman claiming to be his girlfriend, even.” There was a shuffling and scraping from within, but still no answer. “You coming?” he said. “I’m going. There’s hosting to do. We have guests to feed.”

  Tom was already in demand, occupying the center of at least two conversations. He not only taught art at the local college but was an artist himself, which gave him the special status of a seer, or possibly a madman. “Sculpture is dead also,” he was telling Helen Hull, which meant he’d already made the same pronouncement about painting. Tom billed himself as a chart artist. He made large-scale graphs that he transferred to canvas. Sometimes he called them meta-graphs, sometimes still lifes of information, sometimes “data tragedies.” It depended on his mood, and to a lesser degree on his audience. Annika was evidently familiar with the performance as well; she stood off to the side, drinking white wine.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” Tom said, catching sight of William. “It puts a man in mind of nature. Mother Nature, I mean, not human nature. Human nature, well, the less said about that the better.” He laughed sharply and returned to the discussion, probably to drive a stake through drawing’s heart.

  The matte-black grill sat atop a white concrete island. From where William stood, he could see the window of the junk room, and he squinted to see if he could catch the curtain moving. He lost himself in the grilling. So many small pieces of meat about to disappear into larger pieces of meat. He put sausages on, took them off. Chicken followed. He added vegetables, peppers, and onions. The food hissed as it hit the grill.

  Alcohol, a fuel, had increased the speed of the proceedings. Graham Kenner was explaining that city government had its own special brand of corruption, which he said was “homegrown and thus perfect for survival in the local ecosystem.” Gloria Fitch was recalling how, in college, her boyfriend had rouged up her cheeks so she looked like a doll and made her sit cross-legged in bed, completely naked. People had moved closer to the edge of the deck, but no one had yet ventured onto the lawn. A squirrel patrolled the zone between the eagle tub and the lion tub.

  Tom appeared at William’s elbow. “Burgers?” he said.

  “Getting there,” William said.

  Tom made to drain his beer, which was already empty. He puffed and relaxed florid cheeks. “I haven’t seen Louisa yet. She’s around?”

  “She is,” William said. “I think she might have run out to the store for more ice. Our ice maker is on the fritz.”

  “Fritz,” Tom said. “Fritz.” The way he said it made it sound ridiculous. He stepped up onto the concrete island that surrounded the grill, where there was not quite enough space for both of them. “Damned precarious up here,” he said. “But the view is really something.” Annika was coming across the deck now, and Tom hopped back off the concrete onto the grass. “Well, well, well,” he said loudly. “And they told me there wouldn’t be any women here today who would meet my high standards.”

  “When I think of you,” Annika said, “high standards aren’t the first thing that come to mind.” She encircled his thick wrist with her eloquently thin fingers and they wandered off, Tom weaving as if avoiding obstacles. William plated the food.

  After another trip inside, and another session spent thumping on the junk room door—lightly enough, so as not to draw the attention of the guests—William went back outside and collected shards of conversation. He heard Graham Kenner on the fiction of a benevolent government and Paul Prescott on brandy’s healing powers and Helen Hull on how pleasure was a subdivision of something, though he didn’t hear what.

  He looked around for Annika and found her sitting on the stairs leading down into the yard, holding an unlit cigarette and smoothing her forehead with her fingertips. She wasn’t talking to Tom, who was halfway across the deck with Eddie Fitch, swinging his drink like a pendulum. More precisely, she was not-talking to Tom: she stared in his direction, slightly baleful, every once in a while taking a sip of wine.

  William walked up to Annika. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said.

  She blanched. Her wine was next to her, on the railing, and she picked it up as if that were the problem.

  “You’re not eating. That’s against the rules.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I was just admiring the lawn.” She meant the tubs, but she didn’t mention them. That happened often.

  “Very admirable, I agree. But you have to eat.”

  “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “I know you are,” he lied. “Tom told me. That’s why we have grilled vegetables—for you and people like you.”

  “Okay,” she said. “You sold me. I’ll get myself something and be right back.”

  She returned a few minutes later, plate heaped high. She slid it onto the railing until it balanced and then she lit her cigarette. She was about the same height as Louisa, which meant that she was almost as tall as William. He looked toward the house, toward the junk room. Were the blinds moving?

  “Well,” Annika said after just one drag on her cigarette. “If I’m going to eat healthy, might as well get rid of this.” She looked around for an ashtray, couldn’t find one, then bent down and dropped the cigarette into a beer can.

  “Don’t do that on my account.”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “Although . . .”

  “Although what?” William said. He was excited to hear.

  “I think this was someone’s beer. It belongs to that bald man over there.” She pointed to Graham Kenner. “What if he wasn’t finished?” She knelt to pick up the can.

  “It’s no matter now,” William said. “That beer is, for all intents and purposes, no more. It has left our world for another world. We should wish it well.”

  Annika came up slowly, like she wasn’t certain she wanted to. “I can’t bear that tone,” she said. “The tone like we’re in a play. Don’t you think I get plenty of that with Tom?”

  “I can see how you might feel that way,” William said.

  “Or not,” she said, frowning. “Who am I to complain? People are who they are. You either take them as they come or you don’t take them at all.” She had a look on her face like a lifeguard about to go into a churning sea. “Okay, then,” she said, coming to her feet, “let’s go find the boy.”

  The afternoon light was draining, and with it the specifics distinguishing one guest from another. William found Tom by height. He had no drink in his hand, but it was shaped like he was holding one. Fitch, beside him, was laughing so hard he was bent over.

  “What’s so funny?” Annika said.

  “Milady,” Tom said. “Allow me.” He pulled out a chair with a flourish and then sat in it himself.

  Annika got a chair for herself and pushed it alongside Tom’s. William took a spot on a built-in bench across from Tom. “Did you have a nice talk?” Tom said. Annika slid out another cigarette, turned it over consequentially, returned it to the pack. Lines of strategy were visible between all of them, which made the whole thing beautiful, if unbearable. It was like a card game without cards.

  One of the young women who’d been talking to Gloria Fitch wandered over. Sour-faced, eyes drenched in blue makeup, hitching a skirt that was already too short, she leaned on the deck rail. “Tamara,” she said, blurrily enough that it was unclear whether she was calling out or identifying herself.

  Tom stood and bowed at the waist. “Good evening,” he said. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

  “I’m Paul’s niece,” she said.

  “I don’t know Paul,” Tom said.

  Her eyes skittered from side to side. “I’m also a student at the college,” she said. “I came to one of your summer lectures.”

  “O
f course, of course,” Tom said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.” He gestured to his chair. “Sit, sit. A lady should not be kept on her feet.”

  Tamara waved him off. “Thanks, but I’m okay,” she said. William slid over and made room for her.

  “We were just talking about art,” Tom said. “But if you came to my summer lecture, there’s no reason to rehash it.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “And yet,” Tom said, “I’m interested in what an intelligent young woman has to say about the matter. Do you remember the distinction drawn between urban and rural art forms?”

  “Well,” she said. She ran a hand through her hair. “I was auditing.”

  Tom leaned toward her as if he was about to release a secret. Instead his head drooped forward until it was nearly in her lap. He brushed a fingertip across her knee and then, grasping that same knee, pulled himself in closer and looked up her skirt. “Ah, for the views of the countryside,” he said.

  “Come on, man,” Tamara said. “Don’t be a snake.” She was smiling as if he had said something kind.

  “I think I’ll take a refill on that wine,” Annika said, standing.

  Tom had a hand on each of the girl’s knees now, delicately, as if he were measuring tremors. He whistled faintly.

  “You were drinking white?” William said.

  “Anything.” She wasn’t looking at Tom or the girl.

  “I’ll get it,” William said.

  They walked briskly together, saying nothing. Annika stopped at the crackers and started to turn them like she was looking for the perfect one. William, affecting purpose, continued on into the kitchen, where he found a bottle of white wine in the refrigerator.

  On the freezer door was a picture of him and Louisa, a Post-it note stuck just beneath it. “Family vacation?” it said. The question mark tripped William up. He marched to the junk room. Where knuckle had gone before, fist now went, a bass note against the door. “Louisa,” William said. “This is ridiculous. I’m done entertaining your brother. He’s however many sheets to the wind a person can be. I’m going to have to drive him home.”

  “I thought there was a girlfriend,” he heard her say. “Can’t she do that?” She sounded far away, though the room was small.

  “The mummy speaks,” William said.

  “I’m in here,” she said.

  “You should be out here.” She didn’t answer. “I’m losing my patience,” William said, pretty sure it didn’t matter. Just then he heard a noise, a pollen of alarm filtering in from outside.

  Tamara, the young woman in the skirt, was pointing into the yard, and William followed her finger to find Annika sitting cross-legged on the grass, about five feet to the right of the rightmost tub, the tiger. She had grown tired of waiting for William to bring her wine and had switched to the orange punch. Tom was on the grass, too, though without his shirt, which lay crumpled at the foot of the stairs. He tottered toward the eagle tub, went slowly around it, and then shook his head, an unsatisfied customer. He did the same with the lion and arrived at the tiger, where he stood silent for a moment and then lowered himself into the tub. “Uh oh,” Eddie Fitch called to William. “I think that’s your cue.”

  William went down into the yard. The grass crackled under his shoes. He stood next to the tiger tub.

  “Are you my father?” Tom said.

  “No,” William said.

  “My father’s dead,” Tom said. He made a noise like a sob. His legs were up and he had kicked off his shoes. He took an airline bottle of single malt out of his pocket and emptied it into his mouth. “You know,” he said, “it seems at last that things are looking up.” He lifted the bottle as if to toast and then threw it as hard as he could toward the eagle tub. “Shatter,” he said, but it merely bounced once in the grass and settled.

  William extended his hand to Tom and pulled, aware as he did that Tom was coming to his feet voluntarily; he was too thick for William to move if unwilling. His belt was undone, buckle dangling, and his belly hung out over his pants. “It’s come to this,” he said.

  Everyone else at the party was lined up along the edge of the patio now. Their mouths were parted slightly, as if they were tasting the air. William looked toward the bedroom window. The curtain was pulled aside now and he could clearly see Louisa. William wondered if she could hear Tom. “I require the protection of a truly moral man. Are you that man?”

  William sensed that the question was in earnest. “I might be,” he said. “Though not by design. It just kind of happened that way.”

  “A good man designs,” Tom said. “A great man submits to design.” He sat down hard, belt buckle clanging on the side of the tub. William felt something slide across the back of his legs and stepped free. It was Blondie, sniffing the whiskey in the grass. William turned back toward the house and saw Louisa there, at the edge of the deck, tasting the air with the rest of them. Tom spotted her too. “Lou,” he cried. “It’s good to see you! There’s nothing more important than family, is there?”

  At this, Annika burst into tears. Her crying was arrhythmic and harsh and sounded, finally, foreign. Tom shouted at her from the tub. “Goddamn you,” he said. “You’re so beautiful.” He stepped out of the tub, grabbed for her dress, got a bunch into his fist, and pulled. She reached for William to steady her, but he was no match for Tom’s power. William pitched forward, a side of a tent collapsing. Annika’s leg buckled. The punch, still orange in the dusk, splashed across the front of her dress.

  Louisa sprang into action as if this were the moment she had been waiting for. She sped down into the yard, seized Tom by the arm, hustled him back up onto the deck; she located paper towels and club soda for Annika; she loaded Tom into Annika’s car and waved as the car grumbled off down the gravel driveway; she returned to the deck, triumphantly smoking one of Annika’s cigarettes and regaling the group with the story of what they had just seen. She grew animated in the retelling; a thin strip of perspiration appeared on her upper lip. “I don’t know how, but I knew just what to do,” she said, a note of surprise carbonating her tone.

  William watched her with admiration. He wanted to keep the picture in his mind: his girl, on top of the world, and him right there with her. The cigarette burned down. Guests said their good-byes. Louisa stood to gather plates and cups. “Don’t bother,” William said. “I’ll get it.” When he looked for her again, she was gone, and he was alone in the thickening night.

  Part II

  A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME

  ONE

  Most of the neighborhood was green, streets canopied by trees, lawns compassed by hedges, the houses themselves rarely exceeding complementary pastels, but about a mile north of William and Louisa was a stretch of highway that exploded simultaneously into tight-lipped gray and chattering color, a half mile of strip malls where buildings were densely packed in bric-a-brac and reader boards shrieked the latest specials. It was difficult to pass through this part of town without cringing, and for that reason its southern boundary was a site of welcome relief, as well as something of a local landmark. The last building on the strip had been a barbecue restaurant called the Pit, a faux log cabin topped by a stout iron pole, on top of which sat an enormous plastic pig wearing a chef’s hat. The Pit had changed hands two or three times as a restaurant and then become a discount-retail outlet, though the new proprietor had wisely chosen to keep the sign. To get home, William turned right at the pig on the pole, which is what he was doing when the real estate agent waved to him from another car.

  “Hi there,” she said. He couldn’t remember her name, but her face was the same as always, fully invested in a synthetic smile.

  He returned her wave silently. It was Sunday morning and he was out for coffee only.

  “Good news,” she said. “We sold it.”

  “Great,” he said. The light changed and he went around the corner.

  It took him a few blocks to realize what she meant. The cul-de-sac where William lived was
considered one of the most desirable in the area. His neighbors had not changed since shortly after he had moved in: Brooker and Pentz to his left and Eaton and Roth to his right, the other side running from Marker at the closed end of the street through Morgan, Johnson, and Kenner, with Zorrilla at the mouth. The houses were all one-story, Graham Kenner liked to joke, because that is what they told. More than once William had stepped out to collect his newspaper or water the lawn and seen at least one other man doing the exact same thing. There was a laugh of recognition and embarrassment they used in these situations. The structure of the street was as rigid as a crystal. Then one day at a party, Ron Johnson’s wife, Paula, clinked on a glass and pulled her lips in with a secretive smile. “Someone has some news about sunny California,” she said victoriously.

  At first the neighbors had cheered the move, in part because it introduced some excitement into an otherwise uneventful April, and in part because most people disliked Ron Johnson and were glad to see him go. But after a month or so, with the FOR SALE sign still planted in the front lawn like a taunting flower, William began to resent the place on two counts. For starters, it bothered him that Ron Johnson could afford to move without selling. People whispered that the money came from Paula’s parents, though Ron had assured William it wasn’t true. The second issue was that the vacant house began to look like a missing tooth in the smile of the street. It was directly opposite William, the first thing he saw when he left his front door in the morning, and he began to internalize its failure.

  Now, finally, the place was sold. William went left on Conroy and right on Powell. He gunned the engine enthusiastically as he took the shallow turn off of Brashear, then coasted through the intersection of Jensen and Patrick. When he turned onto his street, he spotted the absence immediately: no sign at all, just the flat broad lawn, which was under the care of the Realtor and as a result far healthier and more manicured than it had ever been when Ron Johnson lived there.