Late at Night Page 3

  Jerry helped her put some of her things away, then handed her her makeup kit and let her fix her face at the vanity while he unpacked the few things he’d brought with him in his knapsack. Books. Comb. Hairbrush. Toothbrush. Bare essentials. He traveled light. “I can’t understand how people can go away for an entire weekend with barely the clothes on their back,” Gloria said as she savagely brushed her hair (100 strokes a day). “I packed two whole suitcases and I’m already positive I must have left some—some essential something—behind. Oh, well. That’s men for you.”

  Jerry put the last of his stuff in the bottom drawer, and threw his empty knapsack in the bottom of the walk-in closet. He closed the door, sat back down on the bed in the same spot as before, and waited for Gloria to finish. She did a little something to her lips and eyes, studied herself appraisingly in the mirror, frowned, and swiveled on the satin-covered seat of the vanity. “This is a nice place, isn’t it?” she said cheerily.

  Jerry nodded. “We’ll see.”

  “It won’t be so bad, dear.” She got up, patted his head on the way to the closet, and searched among the hangers for something suitable to change into. “I know Mr. Everson mentioned something about cocktails in the living room in half an hour. Cocktails. Cocktails.” She patted her lower lip with her finger. “What goes with cocktails?”

  As she tried on various outfits, she explained again why she had wanted to come on this trip to Lammerty Island. “I have an interest in things supernatural, did I ever tell you that? Oh, I’m not a fanatic about it, but I have a definite interest. When my niece, Lynn—did I mention she was my niece?”

  Jerry nodded. Why did she always seem to think he hadn’t heard what she was telling him? He knew that Gloria’s late husband had been the brother of Lynn’s father and of the old woman, Gladys Hornbee, who’d left Lynn Lammerty Island, and that Gladys and Gloria had never gotten along.

  “Well, when my niece mentioned that she was going out to the island to look it over, I reminded her of all the stories, and asked if she’d like me along for protection. And I asked you along to protect me.“ She wiggled her body and giggled. “Now isn’t that just lovely? Maybe we’ll even see a ghost or two. I’ve always wanted to go to a haunted island.”

  Jerry smirked. “Some of us have unusual ambitions.”

  “Now, dear,” she scolded. “We’re going to have u wonderful, wonderful time. You won’t miss the bad old city and that silly rock concert you wanted to go to one little bit. Wait and see.”

  She squeezed herself into a black dress with a deep bodice and a flowery pattern, grunting from the endeavor. She turned from side to side, surveying herself in the full-length mirror behind the closet door. She put her hands on her belly, trying to melt the pounds away. “Oh dear, I have put on weight, haven’t I? I’ll have to drop a ton starting Tuesday. Oh well, I suppose this will have to do for now.”

  “Just stay away from signs that say ‘elephant crossing.’ You might be mistaken for someone’s mother.” He knew she was used to his affectionate teasing.

  A pained expression on her face, Gloria suddenly looked upwards and wrung her hands in an exaggerated manner. ” ‘I’m fat,’ ” she quoted. ” ‘What man would look at me and say, “I want you”?’ ”

  Jerry rolled his eyes and recited in an exasperated whisper: “Now Voyager. Warner Brothers. 1942. Bette Davis.”

  Gloria smiled and congratulated him.

  Chapter 3

  Betty Sanders finished unpacking her suitcase and hung up her white cotton sweater in the wardrobe. The room was small and narrow, but charming. There was a dresser against one wall, above which hung a mirror with an attractive brown frame. She inspected her face, not really looking, just a quick glimpse to insure that she was still in one piece. She hated to look at herself, though her face was not unattractive. Her head was round and her hair set in a flattering, if old-fashioned, hairdo, the hair curling up at the sides and down in bangs over the forehead. Her mouth was small, her lips full, giving her a pouty expression. She had small hazel eyes, a small rounded nose, some freckles under her eyes, and now and then her bad skin broke out on the forehead.

  She was not exactly fat, though she could have stood to lose ten pounds, but her body was wide and short, giving her that unpleasant squashed look peculiar to her body type. Her hands were big, with fingers thick as sausages. She always wore long-sleeved blouses and, whenever possible, lengthy skirts, to hide her chunky arms and legs; her appendages just collected fatty tissue. She sat down on the bed against the other wall and tried to decide what, it anything, she should change into. Instead her mind wandered— it had a habit of doing that—and she found herself staring at the yellowed wallpaper with its pattern of swans and flowers. She twisted on the bed and looked at the wall behind her. There was a painting on the bedboard: an old woman’s face. The woman looked as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. Betty turned away.

  She needed to pee. She got up and went to the door next to the wardrobe. Opening it, she saw one of those ancient bathrooms with the raised tub and the deep sink with two faucets. There was no shower. Oh well, she could adjust. Baths were time consuming, but relaxing. Then she saw that the door at the other end of the bathroom was wide open, and she heard movement beyond it, saw a quick flash of a male figure holding a coat hanger. Anton.

  The pianist was whistling at the top of his lungs and taking his possessions one by one to the closet. Betty would have preferred the room with the closet: the wardrobe she had wasn’t big. And she was not crazy about having to share the bathroom with Mr. Suffron. “Insufferable Suffron” people called him. He was rather attractive, in a crude, ugly sort of way. What should I do? she wondered. Step into the bathroom and firmly close Anton’s door so I can have some privacy? Would he think it rude of me? Perhaps he had his door open because he planned to use the bathroom in a minute. Betty looked above the sink and saw that the medicine chest was open, that it was filling up with masculine things like shaving cream and hair lotion. She decided to go back, sit down, and wait until Anton was through.

  Were the two ugly people being segregated, she wondered, given one bathroom between them? Probably the smallest rooms in the house. Everson had explained and apologized, but she wondered why the lawyer hadn’t put her in the room with Andrea or Cynthia—the pretty 6nes— and put one of them in here. Stop being bitter, she told herself. You’re here to have a good time. Lynn invited you out here because she likes you. You’re her very best friend. You have been ever since you roomed together in college. You have always wanted to come to this island, for oh so many reasons, and now that you are here don’t spoil it by becoming difficult.

  Always on the defensive, aren’t you? she asked herself, a sad little smile playing across her face as she sat on the bed and smoothed the bedspread with the flat of her palm.

  And who has more of a right? she reminded herself.

  She wondered what her ugly-duckling counterpart thought of it all.

  Chapter 4

  If truth were known, Anton Suffron didn’t think much about anything.

  It was not that Anton lacked intelligence, but that he had learned long ago to take each day as it came, to accept things, and, when things got rough, to hold out until tomorrow. It was not a profound philosophy, but it worked. Growing up poor in Bucharest had hardened him, made him ride with the slow periods, the early days of constant struggle, until he found himself with a successful career and a prestigious reputation as one of the foremost concert pianists in America. A weekend away from the piano wouldn’t kill him, but he’d miss it just the same.

  Had the other door to the bathroom been opened and closed a moment ago? He should close his door—that Betty person might have wanted to use the toilet. He sensed that she was shy and retiring: his favorite kind of person, one he could lord it over, feel comfortable in the same room with. Because of his lack of good looks he had almost instinctively developed a charismatic, flamboyant personality that some would
call obnoxious. Now, after so many years playing the role of underdog only too well, he found he couldn’t resist having fun with the quiet, unassuming types who reminded him of himself during his younger, less assertive days. Yes, Betty would make a good pawn.

  He placed the rest of his toiletries in the medicine cabinet: toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant. He was scrupulous about his personal hygiene, and quite resentful of the way much handsomer men could attract women regardless of ”b.o.” and “halitosis” by virtue of their appearance. He had always figured he should hedge his bets. He turned the faucet on and splashed cold water on his face, ran his fingers through his hair. The thick black mane was his most impressive feature. It was his pride. It curled up at the back and was longish on the sides, and high and dark and lustrous on the top. Ah, if only he had the right kind of face to go with it. His was very long and very narrow; homely. His eyebrows sat atop protruding wedges of bone that stuck out over his eyes, the bushy, almost satanic tufts of hair blending together above the nape of the nose. His cheeks were hollow, and his lips, thick flaps of skin that puckered out in a permanent downwards sneer, the lower lip protruding below the upper. He had small eyes, but they were bright blue, and penetrating: his second most arresting feature. His teeth were crooked and yellow, his chin a tiny bump. He had once grown a beard and mustache, but it had only made it worse. His skin was pale and mottled, and very quick to burn in the sun.

  When had he stopped caring about his appearance? If he ever had. When had he no longer worried about sweeping triumphantly into a room after a particularly magnificent performance, and sensing, almost seeing, the disappointment in the women’s eyes, how they lost some of that special glow once they’d seen him up close? People often told him that they fell in love with the way he played, but he knew what they were saying behind his back. “He plays so beautifully. It’s a shame he’s so homely.” People expected a maestro, a genius like him, to look as good as he sounded. But he simply couldn’t measure up. So he settled on being striking and arrogant and strong. This helped him cover up the disappointment he invariably felt when he noticed the fading promise in women’s eyes, and the almost relieved expression on their menfolk’s faces when they saw that, despite his enormous gifts, Anton Suffron would certainly be no competition.

  Anton had also learned to dress to perfection.

  Had he been crazy to come here? he asked himself, changing into a suit he had bought the other week in Paris. As far as Lynn was concerned, he and she were now good friends who had once been lovers; an odd story, that. Lynn was not beautiful, but she was attractive enough for him to have wondered what she ever saw in him. Didn’t she realize that he was still in love with her? That he had come along this weekend not merely because of his interest in the island, but because of his interest in her, his desire to win her back? This little weekend was going to be a very busy period for him. There were so many things he had to do.

  And if things didn’t work out, there was always little Betty Sanders for him to amuse himself with. She was so—vulnerable, wasn’t she?

  Anton wrapped the tie around his neck, knotted it, and smiled.

  Chapter 5

  In the larger bedroom down the hall, Cynthia Marcovicci and Andrea Peters were catching up on each other’s lives while they unpacked. The room they were in had two old-fashioned canopy beds placed against opposite walls, and in between them were two large windows with lovely lace curtains billowing silently in the breeze. The first thing the women had done was open the windows to let in some air.

  They had been friends in college; Lynn had, in fact, introduced them to each other. They had eventually become closer to one another than either had ever been to Lynn. They had taken very different paths, however, and grown apart in the years since graduation. Now, at twenty-six, the only thing they seemed to have in common was their good looks.

  Andrea opened a bottle of Cynthia’s perfume that she’d found in the cabinet and sniffed it. “Umm. This is nice stuff,” she said. “Expensive?”

  Cyn peeked in, a blue cotton dress in her hand. “What’s that? The Leonine? Oh, it’s only forty dollars a bottle.”

  Was she serious? Andrea assumed that she was, so said nothing. What had happened to the days when they’d hardly had money for a cup of coffee between them? Cynthia went back to the closet, dress in hand. “If you want to use some,” she offered, “be my guest. Only don’t touch my toothpaste. It’s special for sensitive teeth.”

  Andrea laughed and said “okay.” She looked at her skinny row of supplies, and Cynthia’s wall of cosmetics and skin creams and hair sprays and lotions, and thought it looked like a counter at Bloomingdale’s compared to her wedge from Macy’s bargain basement. Well, there was nothing left to unpack. Andrea had no choice but to go back to the bedroom and wait for Cynthia to finish. She wanted to hear about Cyn’s glamorous life since college almost as much as she didn’t want to talk about her own. So far their conversation had centered on the island, on how well Lynn looked, on Lynn’s good catch—a lawyer, no less— with just a few asides about their current lifestyles. Andrea knew a lot about Cyn’s life already, from Lynn, from talk shows, from tabloids. How could her dull little life ever compare?

  Cynthia came out of the bathroom five minutes later, dressed in a chic, crimson cocktail dress. Her clothes were so beautiful. Everything looked good with her long, wavy hair; she wore it draped over one side of her face and tucked behind the ear on the other in that sexy, coquettish way—a kind of style Andrea would never have dared to try. Cyn’s makeup was carefully applied, a little heavy for the surroundings, but not too garish. She had a pert, upturned nose, nice rounded cheekbones, a perfect chin, and exotic-looking brown eyes made striking through makeup. About five-feet-seven and becomingly slender, Cynthia looked even better now than she had in college days. “How do I look?” she asked, twirling around and laughing.

  “Great,” Andrea said. And she meant it. She surprised herself by realizing that the shame she felt, because her own life was so drab compared to Cynthia’s, had not been caused by envy. She really was glad for Cynthia’s good fortune. “I don’t know who I’m getting dressed up for,” Cynthia said, putting on her earrings. “The lawyer’s taken, the blond stud is the property of Lynn’s elderly”— she stressed the word for comic effect—“aunt, and the pianist is not my type at all. Say, why was he getting on your case back there? Is he an old lover, hmmm?”

  Andrea smirked. “Really, Cynthia. Anton’s been carrying the torch for Lynn for years now. They were rather intense for awhile—”

  Cynthia laughed. “He must have inner beauty.”

  “—and we’d double-date a lot, Lynn and Anton and me and—whoever. Anton’s always picking on me because …” She wondered if she should bother going ahead. She always got such strange reactions from people. “Well, remember how I used to be ‘into’ the paranormal when we were in college?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m into it again. Only a whole lot more. You might say I’m—well, I’m psychic.”

  “Really?” Cynthia’s smile seemed to be genuine, not the strained grin people often wore after they’d heard Andrea’s confession. “I think I remember Lynn mentioning something about it. You mean, you think you may actually have some kind of, what do they call it, ‘gift’?”

  Andrea nodded. “Don’t ask me why. I didn’t ask for it.”

  “You mean you really meant it, that bit about feeling ‘strange vibrations,’ feelings, whatever you said on the dock?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Nothing definite. Just a kind of weird tingle.” »

  Cynthia walked over to the window, looked down at the forest beyond. “Well, with all the weird things that have gone on here it isn’t surprising.”

  Andrea sensed that Cyn was already losing interest; she often did. “Well, forget about my abilities,” she said, cocking her head, “and tell me all about your adventures in Hollywood.”

  “Oh, Hollywood,” Cynthia sai
d disdainfully, digging in her purse on the dresser for a cigarette. She found the pack, lit one. “Actually, I haven’t made it to Hollywood yet. Days of Eden is filmed in a studio in New York.” She frowned. That still sounded exciting to Andrea, but Cyn didn’t seem to impressed with her own career. “It’s a grind. I’ve been stuck on that soap for a year and a half waiting for the doors to open. I’m the ‘bad girl’ in the town of Eden, y’ know. The writer is this middle-aged hag who thinks kissing on the first date is sinful. I’m supposed to be such a disgusting character, but half the things I do on the show I’ve done in real life. And you wouldn’t believe the letters I get. I mean, those broads out there really think that show is for real.” She puffed furiously on the cigarette like an auditioning Tallulah Bankhead and continued. “They write to me: ‘Sarah Rose’—Sarah Rose McAvoy, that’s my character’s name—‘Sarah Rose, you are a disgusting jezebel, stealing that woman’s husband away. Sarah Rose, how dare you abort that baby, God will get you for that. Sarah Rose—’ ” She stopped in mid-sentence and threw her hands up in the air. “I get more letters than anybody else on the show, but they’re all hate mail. I mean, I’m scared to go out alone at night. I got this hot-shot publicist who guaranteed to turn me into a household name, and he’s got a good chance of doing it. He gets me booked on talk shows, gets me interviews in those supermarket scandal sheets—I’ve been linked to eight men, two women, and a horny German Shepherd —cameos on cop and comedy shows, but the real work never materializes. I mean, where are the movie deals, the offers to star in my own situation comedy? ’Morty,’ I said (Mortimer Stevens is my agent), ‘I’m sick of being a target for all these moronic, infuriated housewifes who think I steal men and kill babies.’ God!”