Free A Certain Age by Tama Janowitz Page B

hotel or country club—what was Darryl doing here? It had probably been built around the turn of the century: dark wooden shingles, a porch that extended across the entire facade. It was three stories high, with turrets and cupolas, and across the circular drive and parking lot, there was an old carriage house converted into a garage and caretaker's or chauffeur's quarters. He circled the car around to the front and hopped out. "I'll only be a minute," he said. "I'm not going to come back this weekend. Everyone's probably already gone to sleep, so I want to leave a note."
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    She sat in the car. She could hear the sea, quite close by, probably just on the other side of the house. It was the real thing, the real summer beach cottage for rich people, and it made her realize just how poor an imitation Natalie's house was: no matter how much money had been spent, nothing seemed quite right, as if aliens from another planet had constructed a human habitation based on photographs. She was about to go in and find out where Darryl had disappeared to when he emerged with a suitcase and several paper bags. "Sorry about that," he said. "My . . . uh, they were still awake, and kind of upset that I was going. They were expecting me to stay at least through tomorrow."
    "Who lives here? Friends?"
    "You might say."
    She was surprised he knew anybody as wealthy as people who would own a house like this. They sped in silence back toward the city. She was relieved he didn't mind being quiet. She turned toward him, watching him in the flickering lights off the highway. He drove quite badly and she was grateful there was so little traffic; he had a way of pressing the gas pedal with a jumpy motion and then releasing it, so that the car jerked forward and then slowed.
    "So tell me, what happened?"
    "The hostess threw me out," Florence said. "She threw a big scene, and accused me of sleeping with her husband."
    "Of what?"
    "Screwing her husband."
    "You slept with John?" He sounded sickened.
    "He attacked me. I pushed him away, but he told Natalie I seduced him."
    "That's terrible! These are terrible people, Florence. You should never have gone to stay with them."
    "Mmm."
    "God, if I had known, I wouldn't have gone to her party. I'll never have anything more to do with them."
    "That's nice of you."
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    "I've never liked them anyway. I just went because I knew you were going to be there ... So maybe now you are liking to come for a drink, and I will show you how are Russian peoples?"
    "How are Russian peoples?"
    "Just as bad." He gave her a grin.
    They went to a noisy club under the subway tracks somewhere in Queens. It was an area she had never been to, full of shops with signs in Cyrillic, almost like visiting another country, dirty and yellowish and sour. The club was crowded, but the man at the door obviously knew Darryl, who held her hand and pushed through the crowd. They joined a large table of people—he shouted out their names to her, she shook her head with a dismayed smile. A bottle of half-frozen vodka was placed in front of them; he poured them each a shot and passed the bottle down around the table. A little orchestra played Russian music, hokey but charming, on a small stage while a revolving disco light spun on the ceiling.
    She had the sensation she was on a ship, probably a sinking ship, but nevertheless everyone seemed determined to have a good time. Or perhaps that was why it was so much fun. At the far end of a table a red-haired woman, in her forties, sat weeping into her drink; no oneelse paid any attention. Next to her was a large man with a red face, who gave the illusion of having a large walrus mustache, no doubt some ancestral trait that haunted his face. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him. "Why are you looking so sad?"
    "I'm not!"
    "What?" the man haunted by the mustache shouted, spewing flecks of spittle. His small blue eyes almost popped out of his head. "You are not treating my friend