BY THE TIME Matthew has brought out cognac and liqueurs, he has the feeling that each of them has come to the independent conclusion that coming here was a bad idea, but none of them wants the evening to end on a wrong note, so they are all making a big effort to try to enjoy it.
He stands beside Jack at the windows, looking out at the lights.
“You have a great view, Matthew,” says Jack. Matthew wonders whether there is a social comment lurking in that remark.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” he ventures.
“Sure is,” says Jack. “Must be the best view of the get-toe available. You ought to invite the black folks up, let ’em see how good they look from a distance.”
Matthew laughs uneasily. He wonders what Jack thinks about the whole question of race now that he’s a rich black guy.
“What’s with the hole, Matthew?” asks Richard.
“Hole?” Matthew says. “What hole? This hole? This hole represents the unstinting efforts of our management company, Ingalls and Nelson, known affectionately as Ignore and Neglect, to discover the source of — ah — ” He’s embarrassed to say it. The idea that his apartment stinks is as embarrassing as the idea that he might.
“Leaks?” asks Richard.
“Yeah,” Matthew says. This seems less painful to admit. He glances at Belinda. She looks surprised. He shrugs. The idea that his friends now think his apartment leaks begins to embarrass him, but not as much as their thinking it stinks would, and not as much as, say, having to admit that he has begun to leak, that he’s started dribbling after urinating, like an old man. “Let’s not talk about it,” he says.
“Okay,” says Jack. “Let’s have a drink and put on some music and put out the lights and look out over the city and watch the cops hassle my people.”
Matthew pours and Belinda hands the drinks around. The story of Jack’s missing lobster is told again. Richard mimics Jack’s looking for it under the plates of food. Belinda asserts that she and Effie could have talked the people at the next table out of one of theirs. Jack snickers and rubs his hands together and vows to get even somehow in his commercial. Matthew chuckles and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll get even in my review.”
“Are you writing restaurant reviews?” asks Effie.
Matthew looks over at Belinda and grins. “Shall I tell them?” he asks.
“Up to you,” she says.
“What do you think? They’re not going to spread it around. Why not?”
“I don’t know, Matthew,” says Belinda.
“Maybe I’d better not,” he says.
“Well, you have to now,” says Effie. “Whatever it is, you have to tell us now.”
Matthew looks to Belinda again, gives her a questioning look.
“Matthew,” she says, “I don’t have anything to do with this. If you want to tell them, then tell them.”
“Oh, it’s no big deal,” Matthew says. “I write for Boston Biweekly. Restaurant reviews. ‘The Epicurean Adventures of B. W. Beath’?”
“We read that!” say Richard and Effie almost simultaneously.
Matthew could hug them.
“Oh, I can’t wait to see what you say about Flynn’s,” says Effie.
“I can’t wait to see what you remember about Flynn’s,” says Jack.
“Maybe it is time to call it a night,” says Belinda.
She’s looking at Matthew. He realizes that he had fallen asleep for a moment.
“They keep you parked in that damned lounge so long,” Matthew says.
No one responds. They begin to go. There are visits to the bathrooms, the getting of coats. Matthew gathers glasses, begins cleaning up in a desultory way. Effie helps and takes the opportunity to whisper to him, “That was a nice thing you did.”
For a moment Matthew has no idea what she means. He runs through the events of the evening. Was there some little kindness that he’s forgotten? Around the corner from the kitchen, where they’re out of everyone’s sight for a moment, Effie kisses him, quickly, impulsively. It isn’t much of a kiss, but it is a kiss, and when she pulls away and looks at him, something lively flickers in her eyes and she repeats the kiss, just another peck, but a kiss. Matthew remembers what she means, why she’s kissing him, and he’s ashamed, but he hazards a return kiss anyway, and she accepts it and squeezes his arm. He’s glad that he’s been so regular at the health club.
Then suddenly everyone’s at the door, and then out the door, waiting for the elevator. Belinda’s leaving, too, and Matthew doesn’t ask her to stay. He’s not too drunk to know that he’s too drunk for sex. He might as well save himself the humiliation of failure. She blows him a kiss and says she’ll call him in the morning, and they’re gone. Matthew weaves in the doorway for a moment, and then he shuts and locks the door and goes to bed.
He lies on the bed in his clothes for a minute, but then he’s disgusted by the idea of falling asleep drunk and dressed. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls his things off, tosses them onto the floor. He pulls his wallet from his jacket and takes the bills from it. He counts them three times and decides to believe the third count: fifty-seven dollars. He puts the money on the bedside table. He promises the memory of Effie’s heart-shaped face that he’ll take it with him on his way to the health club in the morning and give it to the beggar who stands at the corner every morning and asks, with downcast eyes, “Anything today? Anything at all?”
However, when morning comes he will have the vague, unsettling feeling that he made a fool of himself. He’ll remember Hester Hooker, and the idea of distributing money to the poor, and he’ll be embarrassed. He’ll put the bills back into his wallet, and when he sees the beggar, he’ll keep his head down and pass without pausing.
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🎧 454: By the time . . .