T.C. Boyle Stories II: Volume II Read online

  For the next hour, while the mosquitoes had a field day with her face and the back of her neck and her unprotected legs, Eunice kept trying. “Speak, girl!” she said. “Go get help. Get help! Speak!” At first, Walt did his part too, growling out one command after another, but all Booters did was whine through her slushy jowls and shift position to be near whichever one of them was exhorting her the most passionately. And when the automatic sprinklers came on with a hiss of air and the first sputtering release of subterranean pressure, the dog sprang up and trotted over to the porch, smart enough at least to come in out of the rain.

  —

  He was dozing when the sprinklers came on. He’d long since given up on the dog—what did Eunice expect her to do, flag down an ambulance?—and he was dreaming about nothing more complicated than his bed, his bed and a glass of water, half a glass, anything to soothe his throat, when the deluge began. It was a mixed blessing. He’d never been so thirsty in his life, baked and bleached under the sun till he felt mummified, and he opened his mouth reflexively. Unfortunately, none of the sprinklers had been adjusted to pinpoint the gaping maw of a supine old man stretched out in the middle of the lawn, and while the odd drop did manage to strike his lips and even his tongue, it did nothing to relieve his thirst, and he was soon soaked through to the skin and shivering. And yet still the water kept coming like some sort of Oriental water torture until finally the pipes heaved a sigh and the flow cut off as abruptly as it had begun.

  He felt bad for Eunice, felt powerless and weak, felt dead, but he fought down the despair and tried to sit up again. Or his brain tried. The rest of him, aside from the sting of his sun-scorched face and the persistent ache of his knees and the shivers that shook him like a rag, seemed to belong to somebody else, some stranger he couldn’t communicate with. After a while, he gave it up and called out softly to his wife. There was no response. Then he was asleep, and the night came down to lie on him with all its crushing weight.

  Toward morning he woke and saw that Eunice had managed to crawl a few feet away; if he rolled his eyes all the way to the left, he could just make her out, a huddled lump in the shining grass. He held his breath, fearing the worst, but then he heard her breathing—or snoring, actually—a soft glottal insuck of air followed by an even softer puff of exhalation. The birds started in then, recommencing their daily argument, and he saw that the sky had begun to grow light, a phenomenon he hadn’t witnessed in ages, not since he was in college and stayed up through the night bullshitting about women and metaphysics and gulping beer from the can.

  He could shake it off then. Push himself up out of the damp grass, plow through ten flapjacks and half a dozen sausage links, and then go straight to class and after that to the gym to work out. He built himself up then, every day, with every repetition and every set, and there was the proof of it staring back at him in the weight-room mirror. But there was no building now, no collecting jazz albums and European novels, no worrying about brushing between meals or compound interest or life insurance or anything else. Now there was only this, the waiting, and whether you waited out here on the lawn like breakfast for the crows or in there in the recliner, it was all the same. Nothing mattered anymore but this. This was what it all came down to: the grass, the sky, the trumpet vine and the pepper tree, the wife with her bones shot full of air and her hip out of joint, the dog on the porch, the sun, the stars.

  Stan Sadowsky had tried to block the door on him the day he came to take Eunice away, but he held his ground because he’d made up his mind and when he made up his mind he was immovable. “She doesn’t want to be with you anymore, Stan,” he said. “She’s not going to be with you.”

  “Yeah?” Stan’s neck was corded with rage and his eyes leapt right out of his head. Walt didn’t hate him. He didn’t feel anything for him, one way or the other. But there behind him, in the soft light of the hall, was Eunice, her eyes scared and her jaw set, wearing a print dress that showed off everything she had. “Yeah?” Stan repeated, barking it like a dog. “And what the fuck do you know about it?”

  “I know this,” Walt said, and he hit him so hard he went right through the screen door and sprawled out flat on his back in the hallway. And when he got up, Walt hit him again.

  But now, now there was the sun to contend with, already burning through the trees. He smelled the rich wet chlorophyll of the grass and the morning air off the sea, immemorial smells, ancient as his life, and when he heard the soft matitudinal thump of the paper in the front drive, he called out suddenly, but his voice was so weak he could scarcely hear it himself. Eunice was silent. Still and silent. And that worried him, because he couldn’t hear her snoring anymore, and when he found his voice again, he whispered, “Eunice, honey, give me your hand. Can you give me your hand?”

  He could have sworn he saw her lift her shoulder and swivel toward him, her face alive and glowing with the early light, but he must have been fooling himself. Because when he summoned everything he had left in him and somehow managed to reach out his hand, there was nothing there.

  (1997)

  Peep Hall

  I like my privacy. My phone is unlisted, my mailbox locks with a key, and the gate across the driveway automatically shuts behind me when I pull in. I’ve got my own little half-acre plot in the heart of this sunny little university town, and it’s fenced all the way round. The house is a Craftsman-era bungalow, built in 1910, and the yard is lush with mature foliage, including the two grand old oaks that screen me from the street out front, a tsunami of Bougainvillea that long ago swallowed up the chainlink on both sides of the place, half a dozen tree ferns in the fifteen-foot range, and a whole damp, sweet-earth-smelling forest of pittosporum, acacia, and blue gum eucalyptus crowding out what’s left of the lawn.

  When I sit on the porch in the afternoon, all I see is twenty shades of green, and when someone bicycles by or the couple across the way get into one of their biweekly wrangles, I’m completely invisible, though I’m sitting right here with my feet propped up, taking it all in. I haven’t been to a concert or a sporting event for as long as I can remember, or even a play or the movies, because crowds irritate me, all that jostling and hooting, the bad breath, the evil looks, not to mention the microbes hanging over all those massed heads like bad money on a bad bet. And no, I’m not a crank. I’m not crazy. And I’m not old, or not particularly (I’ll be forty-one in November). But I do like my privacy, and I don’t think there’s any crime in that, especially when you work as hard as I do. Once I pull my car into the driveway, I just want to be left alone.

  Six nights a week, and two afternoons, I stir mojitos and shake martinis at the El Encanto Hotel, where I wear a bowtie and a frozen smile. I don’t have any pets, I don’t like walking, my parents are dead, and my wife—my ex-wife—may as well be. When I’m not at the El Encanto, I read, garden, burn things in a pan, clean spasmodically, and listen to whatever the local arts station is playing on the radio. When I feel up to it, I work on my novel (working title, Grandma Rivers)—either that or my master’s thesis, “Claustrophobia in Franz Kafka’s Fictive Universe,” now eleven years behind schedule.

  I was sitting on the porch late one afternoon—a Monday, my day off, the sun suspended just above the trees, birds slicing the air, every bud and flower entertaining its individual bee—when I heard a woman’s voice raised in exasperation from the porch next door. She was trying to reel herself in, fighting to keep her voice from getting away from her, but I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. The woman’s voice rose and fell, and then I recognized the voice of my next-door neighbor saying something in reply, something curt and dismissive, punctuated by the end stop of the front door slamming shut.

  Next it was the sharp hammer-and-anvil ring of spike heels on pavement—toing, toing, toing—as they retreated down the Schusters’ macadam driveway, turned left on the sidewalk, and halted at my gate, which was, of course, locked. I was alert now in every fiber
. I slipped a finger between the pages of the novel I’d been reading and held my breath. I heard the gate rattle, my eyes straining to see through the dense leathery mass of the oaks, and then the voice called, “Hello, hello, hello!” It was a young voice, female, a take-charge and brook-no-nonsense sort of voice, a very attractive voice, actually, but for some reason I didn’t reply. Habit, I suppose. I was on my own porch in my own yard, minding my own business, and I resented the intrusion, no matter what it turned out to be, and I had no illusions on that score either. She was selling something, circulating a petition, organizing a Neighborhood Watch group, looking for a lost cat; she was out of gas, out of money, out of luck. I experienced a brief but vivid recollection of the time the gardener had left the gate ajar and a dark little woman in a sari came rushing up the walk holding a balsawood replica of the Stars & Stripes out in front of her as if it were made of sugar-frosted air, looked me in the eye, and said, “P’raps maybe you buy for a hunnert dollah good coin monee?”

  “I’m your neighbor,” the voice called, and the gate rattled again. “Come on,” she said, “I can see you, you know—I can see your feet—and I know you’re there. I just want to take a minute of your time, that’s all, just a minute—”

  She could see me? Self-consciously I lifted my feet from the floorboards and propped them up on the rail. “I can’t,” I said, and my voice sounded weak and watered down, “I’m busy right now.”

  The fraction of a moment passed, all the sounds of the neighborhood butting up against one another—crows cursing in the trees, a jet revealing itself overhead with the faintest distant whine of its engines, a leaf blower starting up somewhere—and then she sang out, “I like your shoes. Where’d you get them? Not in this town, right?”

  I said nothing, but I was listening.

  “Come on, just a minute, that’s all I ask.”

  I may live alone, by preference, but don’t get me wrong, I’m no eunuch. I have the same needs and urges as other men, which I’ve been able to satisfy sporadically with Stefania Porovka, the assistant pastry chef at the hotel. Stefania is thirty-two, with a smoky deep Russian voice that falls somewhere in the range between magnetic and aphrodisiacal and two children in elementary school. The children are all right, as children go, aside from a little caterwauling when they don’t get their way (which seems to be about a hundred percent of the time), but I can’t manage to picture them in my house, and by the same token, I can’t picture myself in Stefania’s psychotically disordered two-bedroom walk-up. So what I’m saying is that I got up from the porch and ambled down the walk to the gate and the girl of twenty or so standing there in blue jeans, heels and a V-neck top.

  She was leaning over the gate, her arms crossed at the wrists, rings glinting from her fingers. Her eyes and hair were the exact same shade of brown, as if the colors had been mixed in the same vat, which in a sense I guess they were, and she had unusually thick and expressive eyebrows of the same color. From where I was standing, five feet back from the locked gate, I could see down the front of her blouse. She wasn’t wearing a brassiere. “Hello,” I said, regaling her with a cautious nod and the same approximation of a smile I put on for my customers at the bar.

  “Oh, hi,” she returned, giving it the sort of emphasis that said she was surprised and impressed and very, very friendly. “I’m Samantha. I live up at the end of the block—the big white house with the red trim?”

  I nodded. At this point I was noncommittal. She was attractive—pretty and beyond, actually—but too young for me to be interested in anything more than a neighborly way, and as I say, I wasn’t especially neighborly to begin with.

  “And you are—?”

  “Hart,” I said, “Hart Simpson,” and I put my hands on my hips, wondering if she could translate body language.

  She never moved, but for a slight readjustment of her hands that set her bracelets ajingle. She was smiling now, her eyebrows arching up and away from the sudden display of her teeth. “Hart,” she repeated, as if my name were a curious stone she’d found in the street and was busy polishing on the sleeve of her blouse. And then: “Hart, are we bothering you? I mean, are we really bothering you all that much?”

  I have to admit the question took me by surprise. Bothering me? I never even knew she existed until thirty seconds ago—and who was this we she was referring to? “We?” I said.

  The smile faded, and she gave me a long, slow look. “So you’re not the one who complained—or one of the ones?”

  “You must have me confused with somebody else. I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Peep Hall—” she said, “you know, like peephall.com?”

  It was warm, midsummer, the air charged with the scent of rosemary and lavender and the desiccated menthol of the eucalyptus trees. I felt the sun on my face. I slowly shook my head.

  She rubbed the palms of her hands together as if she were washing with soap and water, shifted her eyes away, and then came back to me again. “It’s nothing dirty,” she said. “It’s not like it’s some sleazoid club with a bunch of Taiwanese businessmen shoving dollar bills up our crotches or we’re lap-dancing or anything like that—we don’t even take our clothes off that much, because that totally gets old—”

  I still had no idea what she was talking about, but I was beginning to warm to the general drift of it. “Listen,” I said, trying to unhinge my smile a bit, “do you want to come in for a beer or maybe a glass of wine or something?”

  —

  My house—not the one I grew up in, but this one, the one I inherited from my grandmother—is a shrine to her conventional, turn-of-the-last-century taste, as well as a kind of museum of what my parents left behind when they died. There isn’t too much of me in it, but I’m not one for radical change, and the Stickley furniture, the mica lamps, and even the ashtrays and bric-a-brac are wearing well, as eternal as the king’s ankus or the treasure buried with Tutankhamen. I keep the place neat—my parents’ books commingled with my own on the built-in bookshelves, rugs squared off against the couches and chairs, cups and dishes neatly aligned in the glass-front cabinets—but it’s not particularly clean, I’m afraid. I’m not much for dusting. Or vacuuming. The toilets could use a little more attention. And the walls on either side of the fireplace feature long, striated, urine-colored stains where the water got in around the chimney flashing last winter.

  “Nice place,” Samantha breathed as I handed her a beer and led her into the living room, the house as dark and cool as a wine cellar though it must have been ninety out there in the sun. She settled into the big oak chair by the window, kicked off her heels and took first one foot, then the other, into her hands and slowly rubbed it. “I hate heels,” she said, “especially these. But that’s what they want us to wear.”

  I was having a beer too, and I cradled it in my lap and watched her.

  “No running shoes—they hate running shoes—and no sweats. It’s in our contract.” She laughed. “But you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  I was thinking about Stefania and how long it had been since I’d had her over, how long it had been since she’d sat in that chair and done something as unselfconscious as rubbing her bare white feet and laughing over a beer. “Tell me,” I said.

  It was a long story, involving so many digressions that the digressions became stories in themselves, but finally I began to gather that the big white house on the corner, where she lived with six other girls, was meant to represent a college dorm—that’s where the “Peep Hall” designation came in—and that the business of the place was to sell subscriptions on the Internet to overlathered voyeurs who could click on any time of day or night to watch the girls going about their business in living color. “So you’ve got all these video cameras around,” I said, trying to picture it. “Like at the bank or the 7-Eleven—that sort of thing?”

  “Yeah, but much better
quality, and instead of just like two of them or whatever, you’ve got cameras all over the place.”

  “Even in the bathroom?”

  Another laugh. “Especially the bathroom, what do you think?”

  I didn’t have anything to say to that. I guess I was shocked. I was shocked. I definitely was. But why not admit it? I was titillated too. Women in the shower, I was thinking, women in the tub. I drained my beer, held the bottle up to the light, and asked her if she’d like another one.

  She was already slipping her feet back into the shoes. “No, no thanks—I’ve got to go,” she said, rising to her feet. “But thanks for the beer and all—and if they do come around with a petition, you tell them we’re not doing anything wrong, okay?” She was smiling, swaying slightly over her heels. “And I don’t know if you’re into it—you’re online, right?—but you should check us out, see for yourself.”

  We were at the door. She handed me the empty beer bottle, still warm from the embrace of her hand. “You really should,” she said.

  —

  After she left, I opened another beer and wandered through the downstairs rooms, picking up magazines and tossing them back down again, opening and shutting doors for no good reason, until I found myself in the kitchen. There were dishes in the sink, pans encrusted with one thing or another on the stove. The drainboard looked like an artifact, the one incomprehensible object left behind by a vanished civilization, and was it merely decorative or was it meant for some utilitarian purpose? The windows were a smudge of light. The plants needed water. I’d been planning to make myself an omelet and then go up to the university for the Monday Night Film Society’s showing of The Seventh Seal, a film so bleak it always brought tears of hysterical laughter to my eyes, but instead, on an impulse, I dialed Stefania’s number. When she answered, there was an edge to her voice, all the Russian smoke blown right out of it by the winds of complexity and turmoil, and in the background I could hear the children shrieking as if the skin were being peeled from their bodies in long, tapering strips. “Hello?” Stefania demanded. “Who is it? Is anybody there? Hello?” Very carefully, though my hand was trembling, I replaced the receiver in its cradle.