J. Lennon - See You in Paradise

They park in a gravel lot the size of a tennis court. Theirs is the only car. It is Linda who comes to the door, looking awfully tall without Harlan. She leads them inside.

Harlan’s in front of the fire (as they’ve got the AC pumping pretty hard in here) with a drink in his hand. A mesquite smell fills the room. “Harlan, dear,” his wife calls out, and he theatrically snaps to attention and a grin spreads across his face, a wide face for such a thin guy. Edward notes a bear rug. Wow!

“Welcome, welcome!” says Harlan. He sets down the drink on a coffee table made of petrified wood and throws his arms wide.

“Howdy, pardner,” Edward says, and imagines he sees a flicker of irritation on the judge’s face. They shake hands. This time Harlan uses his free hand to seize Edward’s forearm, so Edward does the same. For a moment the two men are locked in a Boy Scout Death Grip. It is Harlan who lets go. Edward notices Linda and Alison attempting to greet one another. Al is a handshaker, and he just bets Linda is a kisser. The two stare nodding at one another from a distance of several feet.

“What’s your poison, Ed?”

“Does hizzoner drink tequila?” Edward says impulsively.

“Hell yes.”

Linda is talking about their failed foster-child experiment. Alison listens with alarm. It is a sermon, really, a testimonial, delivered with the strained alacrity of an introductory economics lecture. There is no room for question or comment.

“He was the sweetest little boy, a little black boy,” she says. “His momma was hooked on the drugs, and he never had no daddy to speak of. His daddy wasn’t ever around — well, I suppose it could have been anyone. His momma went to prison because of picking up drugs at somebody’s house with the little boy in the back seat. And well, Harlan and I saw him and we thought, He’s the one. He had the sweetest kinky hair and his skin was so smooth and dark. Well.

“We brought him back to the ranch and gave him all the advantages, don’t you know. He had a nanny of his own kind who was just as sweet as a biscuit, and we gave him riding lessons and Harlan took him out on the little golf course we used to have, just four holes. This was in the days before black boys played golf. And he went to a wonderful little school we found for him outside of Dallas, with children from all different races, they had the Mexicans and the Chinese and the Indians and all that. Well, we thought it would be just perfect. Except he had some trouble with reading, and they found out there was something wrong with his eyes, and also his ears, which explained why he didn’t seem to be listening to what we were saying to him sometimes. If you ask me, it was the drugs, the drugs his momma took when he was in her belly. And then poor Angeline, that’s the colored girl who was his nanny, she had to go back to Trinidad to take care of her momma, and the next one we got was a Mexican, name of Armada—”

“Amara,” Harlan says, staring hard into his tequila. Alison can’t help but notice that Edward’s glass is empty and that his eyes are casting about for the bottle. There it is, right in front of Harlan. She watches as Edward leans right past him and grabs it around the neck.

“Of course,” Linda goes on. It occurs to Alison that the Breeces cannot possibly have any friends here. She wonders why they left Texas at all, how Harlan managed to get appointed a judge in Lake County. Edward keeps drinking. She nudges him to let him know that she considers this unwise, and Harlan, raising his eyebrows in a flirtatious manner, seems to notice.

When the story peters out, they eat. It is DIY, black-bean-and-chicken fajitas. The salsa is out of a jar, a local store brand. The tortillas are cold and clammy and the chicken has had every last drop of moisture cooked out of it. It is a cursory dinner, clearly not the intended focus of the evening. Alison begins to wonder, with some concern, what the real focus is.

After dinner they drink some more, then Harlan gets up to take the plates to the kitchen. “A little thing I like to do for Linda,” he explains. “Be a man, Ed, give me a hand here.”

The two leave the room, balancing the plates in their arms. Edward is weaving dangerously. His shoulder bumps the kitchen doorway and Alison winces. She remembers the booze-soaked dinner parties they used to have, the giant vats of food, the shouted conversations during which not enough could ever seem to be said. And later, when the guests had gone, love. Their grad-student pals, with their retro eyeglasses and liter bottles of red wine, where are they now? Los Angeles, Costa Rica, Alaska. She and Edward were so smug about staying: real people stay put, they told themselves. And here they are, right where they wanted to be.

She turns back to Linda and has to stifle a gasp. The older woman has come to life: hands on her knees, she leans forward as if to impart a powerful secret. Her eyes glow orange in the firelight, her skin is flushed — and how did her neck get to be so long and muscled? She looks like … a cheetah.

Alison realizes that this is it. The moment. She is about to learn why they were asked here.

“Where is your bathroom?” she asks.

Startled, Linda coughs, licks her lips. A small smile arranges itself. She points to the stairs.

“Second door on the left.”

In the kitchen, Edward drops the plates on the counter. For a moment he is disoriented enough to mistake the sound for a flying object, and he ducks. His brain stays where it was, though, and the room doubles. He blinks hard. When his vision is restored, the face of Harlan looms.

“I got a lot of good friends,” Harlan says.

“Not me,” Edward replies. He’s trying to be funny, but suddenly this doesn’t seem funny at all. Perhaps because it is true.

“People in law enforcement, people in the courts,” the judge goes on, ignoring the interruption. “One particular friend of mine is located in Cambridge, Mass.”

“Never heard of it.” Harlan is very close, leaning right over him, giving off an odor. It’s the smell of mentholated salve. Has he got arthritis? Edward feels sorry for the older man, sorry for the life he’s leading here on the lake, in the house, with the wife. He’s sorry for having come to dinner. The fajitas are a bitter ball inside him.

“Sure you have. You’ve been there.”

“Have I?” says Edward.

“Yes, you have. You were there between the years of 1981 and 1987. You went to college there. Remember that?”

“Sheesh,” Edward tells him. “I sure don’t know. Do you think I could help myself to a glass of water?” Was it really that long ago? He still has dreams about college, in which important mail is waiting for him in his campus mailbox and he can’t remember the combination.

Incredibly, Harlan moves even closer. “You had yourself a little business there, didn’t you, Eddie?”

“I was an English major.”

“You were in sales and distribution.”

“Nah.”

“Unfortunately your little business came to the attention of the Harvard administration. You were spared prosecution in exchange for your permanent absence from the campus. After that you got yourself enrolled at Tufts and slunk outta there a couple years later. Is this refreshing your memory?”

“You bet it’s refreshing. I don’t even need that water anymore.”

Harlan attempts a grin, but the corners of his mouth don’t seem to be cooperating. “Keep cracking those jokes, pothead,” he whispers, and the whispers clatter around the gleaming disinfected kitchen. Behind Harlan, on the counter, Edward spies the takeout boxes from Taco Treat. Two of them, then four, then eight. Then just one. Oh dear. “Seems that your records with the agency lacked this important information. I took the liberty of updating them for you.”