No Quarter - Part 3
January 13th, 2010
Opening the suitcase in the corner of his bedroom for the first time, Jamie wishes he had time to iron. He also wishes he owned an iron. But surely he has more than one suit. An all-black, polyester get-up seems to be his only option. This will have to do.
Struggling with the weight of the lobby’s french doors nearly twice his height, Jamie steps out onto the glaring white concrete leading to the blue-green infinity pool. The sun is angled in the sky, an hour or so from setting, and its burning reflection ripples on the overflowing surface.
Discreetly tucking in his shirt, he’s shocked to find he’s the first guest to arrive. Being half an hour late must not be fashionable enough. He slings his orange beach towel around his shoulders and strolls toward the intimidating pool, dragging his square-toed shoes through the off-white pebbles close to the edge. He rolls up his sleeve and lightly pierces the water’s surface tension, tracing a wave pattern through the chlorinated overflow. It feels like a soft, smooth skin, and rays of light scatter across the bottom in a tantalizing pattern. One solitary weed pokes its way through the imported stones. Its only lifeline is a spray of water deflecting off a pebble. The plant will be gone once the evening shift of the pool maintenance staff arrives.
Just off the far side of the pool, Jamie sees the party already in progress behind a glass-enclosed veranda. Behind the floor-to-ceiling windows, chiffon dresses shift and mingle with sport coats, loafers, and intricately-patterned scarves. He tucks his beach towel out of sight, next to a potted palm.
“I thought you weren’t going to show. I’m sorry for your recent loss.” Bradley inspects Jamie’s version of proper attire. An extra foot of fabric wilts around his knees, and his sleeves nearly reach his fingertips. He wore this suit to his great aunt’s funeral eleven years ago.
He scans the crowd. The guests float effortlessly across the dark wood floor. They laugh softly, grabbing arms and patting backs, exposing cocktail rings and chunky, solid watches. They drink from fluted glasses and periodically set them down on the white leather ottomans that dot the landscape. Heading for the bar, Jamie inches between a couple who will not budge.
“Excuse me. We ordered the ceviche fifteen minutes ago. Can you go back to the kitchen and tell your chef to hurry? We’re famished.” The crisp, over-washed hand of a man in a very convincing hair piece grips Jamie’s elbow. A cuff link digs into Jamie’s rough polyester. The perfume of the woman next to him is subtle but inescapable. Her smile twists to one side, and her smoky eyes flutter and stare past Jamie.
“Sorry, I don’t work here. I’m a guest.” Jamie frees from the grip and turns down the fifty-dollar bribe. He’s off to a great start.
“The biggest glass you have with a little ice, please.” Jamie presents a bottle to the bartender-Glenlivit Single Malt, 1964. He was saving it for his mother’s impending visit.
“No alcohol at pool parties, sir.” The server at the bar pours Jamie a flute of sparkling white grape juice, which he reluctantly accepts. He shoves the scotch back in his jacket pocket. He wishes he’d brought his flask.
Hours go by, and it’s 6:42 PM. Jamie shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Experimental jazz screams softly from the speaker mounted behind his ear. He knows exactly how the lead trumpet feels. From what he can discern from the low chatter, the racquetball court should be rebuilt by fall, Mr. Vanderhoof may have some complications with his diabetes, and Ruby has a heart condition. Everyone is engrossed in their exclusive conversations, unblinking, and Jamie doesn’t know any of the people they mention. Their dialogue sounds like what he used to overhear at his great-grandmother’s Canasta games at The Home. Invisible, he takes a nip from the bottle in his jacket.
“Jamie, please try the tartare. It’s tuna with wasabi. Our chef made them spicy per my request.” Bradley addresses him like he’s narrating from a formal email of high importance. A tuxedo-clad server extends a platter of the curious red and green cubes. Jamie likes spicy. The babbling suddenly ceases, and Jamie directs the unsettlingly soft cube toward his mouth. The server dutifully holds a cloth napkin a few inches under Jamie’s chin. He gives the tartare a thumbs up. The raw fish mixes sourly with his swig of scotch, but he remains gracious. He will like this food no matter what the FDA says about food preparation.
“Jamie, what brings you to Berkshire? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.” The woman with the fluttery eyes addresses him directly.
Why would he want to live in the country’s most renowned gated community? Why would he want to be the sole proprietor of 4,500 glorious square feet and a Space Bed?
“The brochure was pretty nice.” A soft laughter emanates from the group. He’s charming them. His joke was subtle, yet undoubtedly witty-almost British. It feels right.
The first round of tuna went down easily, so he goes for a victory lap. But with the next cube, his sinuses instantly catch fire. His nose runs as he encounters a gum-ball-sized lump of wasabi. The stinging flame crushes his spine into a question mark. It’s all he can do from collapsing and army-crawling to the door. He could make it out in less than fifteen seconds. He could dive in the pool to stop the burning, sprint home, and eat cold pizza in bed. As far as his new friends go, he’ll just have to start from scratch.
Jamie brushes his nose to see if his body has betrayed him. Nope. He’s clean. The other guests smile politely with anticipation of his next words. Including Bradley, he counts an audience of ten.
“I moved here from Philadelphia. I really love it here so far.” He learned from his brief media training class before his buyout to be confident, complimentary, and poised during press conferences. Shoulders back, chin up, lie if you must, and absolutely no sarcasm under any circumstances, no matter how easy the set-up. “It’s very nice to meet everyone.” Jamie restrains himself from waving at the crowd. He decides to nod instead.
“How rude of me. Let me introduce you to the other guests. This is Caroline and her partner, William.” Bradley gestures to the fluttery eyed-woman and the man who mistook him for the help. Both in their early forties, they retired from anesthesiology a few years ago. Jamie meets Michael and Michelle, who are former brokers as well. Clinton’s wife, Evelyn, is an heiress to a shipping dynasty, and her bloodline connects directly to some historical figure from the Boston Tea Party. Kristen and Bethany, the power-lesbian couple, are art dealers who met at Mensa. He can’t wait to introduce everyone to Colleen for the paper. He’ll have to make sure to remember all their names and titles. Maybe after tonight he can get a nice testimonial for the Weekly from the shipping heiress. That sounds very impressive.
Jamie meets the last of the group, Isabella Laudenslager. In her black cocktail dress and side-swept bangs, she bears a heart-stopping resemblance to Audrey Hepburn. Bradley informs him that Isabella is the guest of honor this evening. Originally from Atlanta, she is a direct descendent of the Daughters of the Revolution. She wears a black, birdcage-style veil, which falls gracefully over her left eyebrow. It cinches closed with a white flower just behind her ear. Jamie greets her warmly, and against his better judgement, allows himself to speak. “I like your hat. The flower is really pretty.”
“I’m mourning my late husband. It’s not a fashion choice.” She takes a large sip from her fluted glass, darting her dark eyes away to divert the swelling of tears.
Jamie connects her last name to the recent jet crash. “I’m very sorry to hear that. I didn’t realize. I’m really sorry.” He digs his pit of shame deeper. She turns to sit on an ottoman, dramatically staring down and off to the side. Evelyn rests her hand reassuringly on Isabella’s shoulder and furrows her brow at Jamie. He’s glad that the North and the South have found some common ground. So much for those testimonials.
“Everyone, I think it’s time we go swimming.” Finally. Bradley successfully diffuses the mounting tension. Jamie takes off his jacket and starts to loosen his tie, but the guests file behind Bradley through another interior door. Jamie looks at the pool longingly. A landscaper is lighting a fire in the stone fire pit as the sun sets. Deflated, he trails behind the others.
***
Bradley leads the group to a round room with baroque-patterned wallpaper. It looks more like the waiting room in an elegant bordello than a pool house. A Queen Anne round table, thick with mahogany finish, is the focus point. The oval backs of the matching chairs are upholstered with crushed velvet. There are no windows. Everything is maroon.
All the guests assume their seats but Bradley. Two chairs remain, with one next to Isabella. Jamie chooses the seat between Bethany and Michelle. He hasn’t profoundly offended either of them yet.
Bradley emerges from a walk-in closet and spins the combination, locking the door behind him. Maybe that’s where they keep the towels. He takes his seat by Isabella and rests a three-ring binder in front of him. A folder rests on top. Perhaps they have to sign some kind of insurance waiver before swimming. He didn’t see a lifeguard on duty.
“By now, Jamie, I trust you’ve figured out that we’re not going to be taking a dip in the pool tonight.” Jamie joins in the group’s casual laughter, now regretting his decision to wear swim trunks under his suit. The inside of his thighs are starting to chafe.
“Michelle, would you please take the minutes this evening?” Michelle pulls a Netbook from her purse and reveals the laughably tiny screen. Jamie never understood the purpose of those things. They have no memory and they can’t run most basic programs. He squints over her shoulder, looking for clues as to what is about to happen. She simply types the date. Jamie hopes this isn’t leading into an Eyes Wide Shut scenario. One of the two women he finds attractive already hates him.
Bradley retrieves a pen from its holster and taps it open on the table. “For our first order of business this session, I’d like to officially offer Jamie McCloskey membership to our group. I briefly introduced you out on the veranda, but I’ll let you all know a little more about Jamie.”
Jamie panics. He never mastered the art of self-introduction. They did this in college with each new class. When his turn came up, he never knew what to say. Without skipping a beat, Bradley opens the folder quickly rattles off his statistics.
“Mr. McCloskey comes to us from Philadelphia. He has a BS in computer science. At 31, Jamie comes to us with a clean bill of health, with no history of smoking, drugs, or STDs. Don’t let appearances fool you; this man comes from excellent stock. He has no history of heart disease, diabetes, degenerative diseases, or cancer. He currently has five octogenarians in his family who are still alive and well. The most recent death in his family was that of his great aunt eleven years ago from a slip and fall incident in a bathtub. Dad reportedly liked to drink, but due to his Irish lineage, we won’t hold that against him. Off the record-and pardon me for saying so, Jamie-but your people have been known to have livers that could filter a distillery.” Low laughter from the group. “But since he’s had no contact with dear old Dad in over 15 years, we won’t hold the son accountable for the sins of the father.”
Bradley must have his file from Dr. Osgood. “Jamie, are you interested in joining us?”
Concerned that Bradley and friends plan to hunt him for sport, he tries to stay calm. “I’ll say yes after I find out a little more about what we do in this group.” He speaks quietly, almost muttering. “Didn’t I sign a privacy form at the doctor’s office?” Craning his neck to look across the table, he tries to get a glimpse of the documents.
“To be clear, you’re asking me why you would want to be involved with the most influential residents Berkshire?” Michelle notes this. Jamie can’t take it back. He’ll be revisiting the Glenlivit as soon as this meeting adjourns.
Bradley thinks. “What do we do here? Friendly bets between friends, that’s all. I suppose you didn’t get our “pool” metaphor. I thought it was pretty clear.” The other guests look at one another and nod. Surely he must have understood. Jamie’s relieved to finally be in on the pun. He relaxes the grip on his chair.
“While gambling may sound barbaric, we consider ourselves something of a pillar of the Berkshire Estates community. And no, you did not sign a privacy form.”
“I guess I’d just like to know why you’d choose me.” ”We hand-selected you for two reasons. First, Jamie, you have an impeccable health record. Quite frankly, yours is the cleanest personal and family health history of anyone in this room, including myself. Dr. Osgood ran a test that projected your potential lifespan to be over 110. That’s absurd. With this added information, we feel you’d be an invaluable asset to our efforts.”
Impressed with his virtual immortality, Jamie wonders what he’ll do with another 79 years. Will his savings last that long?
“Second, you have something to prove.”
What did he just say? Jamie narrows his eyes. He juts out his chin and clamps his teeth. Don’t say anything.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about Jamie. That fire is rare in most of Berkshire’s residents. You have a spine.”
He releases his jaw.
“The offer is now or never.”
“I accept.”
“Let the record show that Jamie McCloskey accepted membership at 7:08 PM. Congratulations, Jamie. We’ll skip the pomp and circumstance and get right to the marrow. You’ll have to stop or significantly cut down on your drinking, so you’ll want to surrender that bottle of scotch on your way out.”
Jamie didn’t think anyone noticed.
Bradley looks up from the medical records and sighs, exasperated. “Also, never take candy from strangers, especially the sugar-free variety. Do you know the kind of havoc artificial sweeteners can wreak on your digestive system? Colon cancer is not a pretty death.”
“Congratulations, Jamie. We’re really happy to have you.” Caroline reaches over and taps his hand excitedly.
He doesn’t even mind being publicly chastised for drinking scotch and eating candy. Scanning the porcelain statues sitting around the table with him, Jamie takes inventory of his shiny, new friends. Anesthesiologists, art dealers, brokers. He’ll have to work to win back the shipping heiress. The most influential group at the wealthiest gated community in North America. That will read nicely in his bio.
“Now, on to other business. I’d like to extend my deepest condolences to Mrs. Laudenslager for the all-too recent loss of her husband.” Michelle swiftly types as Bradley dictates. Deepest condolences. Jamie wonders why he didn’t remember to say that earlier. Dammit.
Bradley continues the eulogy. “Mr. Laudenslager was a dear friend to us all, and while he wasn’t part of our group, we miss him immensely. We regret this terrible tragedy, and perhaps also the choices that led up to his demise.” Isabella squeezes Evelyn’s hand. “That said, with your collective permission, I’d like to open the pool.”
Michelle starts a new paragraph, the group agrees, and Bradley opens the binder. Charts, graphs, and statistics fill the pages. Hand-written notes scrawl across the margins. He slides down the alphabetical tabs and opens to “L.”
Bradley scans down what appears to be a directory of names. “It looks like no one picked May 4.” That was the day of the jet crash. Jamie wonders if he should mention that this in poor taste, considering Isabella is in the room. She’s fighting back tears.
“Michelle, please note that the closest date we have on record is September 2, 2009, which was chosen by Clinton. That is followed by Evelyn’s pick, which is March 6, 2011.
Isabella snatches her hand from Evelyn. She redirects her scorn to Clinton as he rejoices in his triumph. She slams her fist on the table. “How could you do this? This is an outrage. His death was an accident!”
Jamie must be misunderstanding all of this.
“Isabella, I’m sorry. Forgive me, but your husband had a penchant for cocaine and prostitutes. Don’t act like you didn’t know. Everyone does.”
“Don’t you dare type that!” Isabella screams like a caged animal, jumping out of her chair and pointing a trembling finger at Michelle, who backspaces quietly.
“Her husband just died. Why would you say something like that?” Jamie comes to her rescue as calmly as he can. The table is stunned. His face is burning up.
Clinton provokes her further. “I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. But I’m glad it didn’t.” No one else seems to mind that this is happening. They all silently agree with Clinton.
Isabella pants to catch her breath, all her reserves of rage expelled. She sits, defeated, but not finished. “You people are animals. Thank you, Jamie, for being the only decent human being in the room.”
“Isabella, I’d like to remind you that you wanted to be part of these proceedings. Now if we all remain calm, Jamie, we can move on. Michelle, you can strike the ‘animal’ comment. Now, given the nature of this death,” Bradley flips another page in the binder and lands on a color-coded graph, “this will dramatically increase the pot.”
Jamie wonders if Isabella is right. Maybe he can politely ask Michelle to redact his acceptance from the record. Or he could send her sad little Netbook sailing across the room, knocking Bradley unconscious. Then he’d make a run for it. He’s furthest from the exit, so he’d have to run across the table. Could they grab his ankles? He stares at the door, carefully considering its weight, its ornate trim, and whether it’s pull or push. He can’t remember.
“Jamie, you look confused. I apologize for not explaining properly. Listen carefully. Along with the date, the manner of death plays a part in the pool. It raises the stakes. In the case of something like a jet crash, which is very unlikely, the prize will increase.” Bradley consults the graph. “In the case of Mr. Laudenslager-pardon me for not remembering, but we haven’t had one of these in a while-it will double the winnings. Then we factor in illicit drug use for another ten percent. Other elements that raise the awarded cash prize are things like suicide, murder-suicide, natural disaster, sky-diving accidents, etcetera.”
Jamie nods stoically to the beat of the speech. His facial expression fights between horror and approval. He’s not sure which is appropriate, so he opts for none.
Bradley continues rattling off the rules of engagement. “Traditionally, the two closest wagers split the pot, which means that Clinton and Evelyn will split it seventy-thirty. Of course, if the winner picks the exact date, he or she is awarded the full amount, but I suppose that goes without saying.”
“Don’t forget he was with a mistress. That increases the winnings, too.” Clinton adds, fidgeting excitedly with his cuff links. He isn’t about to be short-changed.
“Animal.” Isabella snaps.
“Bradley, would you be so kind as to announce to the group the date Mrs. Laudenslager chose?”
Bradley raises an eyebrow. “Clinton, I’ll grant the request, but there’s really no need to spike the ball.” The display of compassion shocks Jamie.
“I’m trying to make a point. Please. Tell us all the date. It’s on the record.”
“March 7, 2011.”
Jamie looks desperately in any direction but the widow’s.
Clinton leans over the table as if to take a bite of her forehead. “She’s just angry she didn’t pick March 5. Then she’d be splitting the pot with me.”
“How could you say that?!” Her eyes widen and her cheeks flush. She grabs Evelyn’s hand. Jamie knows that look. She’s about to vomit.
William comes to Clinton’s defense. “He was cheating on you, Isabella. You just want what’s yours. Admit it. No one here blames you. I’d want the same. It’s only right.” Caroline agrees.
They collectively hold their breath and wait for Isabella’s next scheduled explosion. She gulps heavily. “It’s just. . . not fair.” She contains herself only briefly. “I deserve to win, dammit! This is my reward for staying with my unfaithful husband? I don’t even get thirty percent of the pot?”
“Shh, honey.” Evelyn massages Isabella’s hand.
“I knew he was going out with her on the sixth. I knew they were going to Long Island. I should have known! This is outrageous!” She buries her head into Evelyn’s shoulder, and the tears come.
”It’s OK, Isabella. Would it make you feel better if I gave you forty percent of my share?”
Evelyn pats her friend’s head reassuringly.
“It would, a little.”
Bradley is taken aback. “Well, this is unprecedented. Michelle, are you getting this?” She is. “I guess it’s settled. Clinton, you take $52,500. Evelyn, you’ll be awarded $13,500. Isabella, from the kindness of Evelyn’s heart, you will receive $9,000.
Among many other things, Jamie can’t comprehend why the top four percent of the wealthiest people in the country are so concerned with winning more money.
Bradley goes to the combination-locked closet a second time and opens a safe. Jamie takes in the metallic smell as Michelle divides the cash among the winners. To date, Jamie’s only seen the bulk of his buyout money on ATM screens. He ogles the bills, with their corners squared in neatly banded stacks. All the faces are up, staring blankly in the same direction.
Bradley interrupts Jamie’s trance with his next announcement.
“I also want to take this opportunity to point out that it seems Caroline has picked December 21, 2012. Again. Caroline, if you believe the 2012 myth, then what is the point of all this, really?”
“One day, you’ll all wish you’d believed me. Imagine that pot. You’ll see.” Caroline, the former anesthesiologist, crosses her arms and smirks.
“Sure we will. For the last item on our agenda, would anyone like to make any adjustments to their standing bets? We’ll go around the table.”
Michael changes his wager on Kyle Erikson. His depression is becoming debilitating. Bethany thinks Anne Wolf’s drinking is about to take a turn for the worst, and her new Lexus was just delivered. She predicts a month from today. William gets in on that, too. Kristen gives Ruby two weeks.
“Is it the angina or the fact that she’s 87? I can always count on you to go for the low-hanging fruit. So predictable.” Kristen smiles and shrugs as Bradley notes the change.
Caroline stands her ground, cornering the market on The Rapture.
“Now that you see how it’s done, Jamie, it’s your turn to place a few bets. Since you’re just starting, and obviously we can’t go through all 376 residents right now, let’s start you off with three. For your sake, I hope you’re better at this than you are at playing darts.” Bradley carelessly points to a page. “Interesting. You’ll start with an easy one. Patton Tully: 72, chronic bronchitis. He uses an oxygen tank and smokes cigars when his nurse isn’t watching. He’s practically a time bomb in a wheel chair.”
Unable to process any more information, Jamie absently picks the first date that comes to mind. “June 19.” It’s his father’s birthday.
“Of this year?” ”Sure.” His stomach clenches. ”You’re not giving him very much time, are you? You’re an old pro already. Now, Elizabeth Montclair: 37 and a lifelong anorexic. Very nice woman.” Bradley looks at him expectantly.
“Um, August 14.” His mother’s birthday. “2009.” Man of the Year indeed.
“How about Mabel Hollingsworth: 45, fond of skiing, and her drink of choice is an absinthe martini. What does the grim reaper have to say? This year again?” Bradley is highly amused.
“December 20, 2012.” Caroline scowls at Jamie like he just made a one-dollar bid on The Price is Right.
“Excellent. You’ve done very well, Jamie, but you seem to have had enough for one evening.”
He nods and smiles. The room is slanting and spinning slightly to the right. Don’t these people have mothers?
“That should conclude these proceedings, unless anyone has anything else to add.” Bradley looks around the room. The only sound comes from Clinton flipping through his stacks of bills.
“Thank you all for coming. This meeting is adjourned, and we will reconvene the next time someone else has the common decency to buy the proverbial farm.”
1 Trackback(s)