Alison Lurie - Last Resort

“No,” Molly agreed. She was reminded of a theory of her husband’s, that travelers were always drawn to landscapes that echoed the internal geography of their minds. Calm, even-tempered, slightly lazy people felt most comfortable in the plains or beside clear, placid lakes. Somewhat more active types were at home among rolling hills and sparkling streams; while the extremely adventurous and intense responded instinctively to alpine cliffs and crags and deep ravines and the pounding of towering cascades. Perhaps there were also people who preferred their scenery wet or, like Myra, dry.

While they ate Myra reverted to the topic of real estate. Once Molly would have joined in with interest, but she was past that now. Probably she would never rent, buy, or remodel a house again. She let her attention drift to the sun-bleached sky, the sea lit with sparks of light like bits of broken mirror, and the toasted triangles of her excellent turkey sandwich, each one pierced with a toothpick fizzed with red cellophane.

“... So when I heard about poor Perry’s condition, I realized I had to come,” Myra was saying when she refocused. “I was real relieved to find that he’d inherited such a substantial piece of property, praise the Lord. Barbie’s so vague, especially on the phone, and my baby sister was hysterical with anxiety. And God knows, when it comes to practical matters she’s totally out to lunch, poor dear.” Myra raised her glance to the underside of the canvas umbrella, as if calling upon the heavens to confirm this incapacity.

“Ah,” Molly murmured. It occurred to her that it was Myra who was literally out to lunch, and not her sister. Where was Dorrie, and what was she doing all day?

“Of course if Perry needed it I’d try to help him out somehow,” Myra continued. “Though frankly my resources are limited. My husband passed away very suddenly about ten years ago, and he wasn’t exactly a good provider.” A shadow passed over her face, and a corresponding shadow over Molly’s. She’s a widow like me, Molly thought. I’d forgotten that.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, hoping Myra would realize that her regret was for the loss, not the lack of provision.

“As soon as I saw Perry’s place, I knew I didn’t have to worry about him—financially speaking, that is. He’s sitting on a gold mine. There’s already three good condo units in the compound, and space for at least two more, even with the ridiculous zoning laws they have here. Luxury area, big pool, mature landscaping, off-street parking; it’s a natural. Of course the property needs some work, but I figure two million minimum at current prices.”

“Really.” Molly realized that she had never considered Jacko’s situation from this angle.

“Someone must be doing an appraisal, to settle the estate. But Perry doesn’t appear to know anything about it. Doesn’t have any idea how to look out for his interests, and his family’s interests too of course.”

“I guess he has other things on his mind,” said Molly.

“Oh, I know.” Myra swallowed; her face lengthened. “Naturally I’m very concerned about his health; that’s why I just dropped everything and came to Key West. And poor Sis is devastated. Well, it’s a tragedy.”

“Yes,” Molly agreed, warming further. Myra was vulgar and prejudiced; but she evidently had a good heart. Even though Jacko didn’t like her, when she heard that he was ill she had rushed to be with him. Maybe I could get a small drinks party together for her after all, Molly thought. I do owe a great many people, and there’s that new caterer Kenneth was talking about—

“When I think what Perry might have been,” Myra was saying now. “He had the name and the looks and the personality: there was nothing he couldn’t have accomplished in politics with the right kind of backing. I had big plans for him.” She sighed. “But then he came to Key West and was hypnotized by that disgusting old man, and quit law school, and decided he was a pansy. I wouldn’t have let him get away with that if he was my son, but Dorrie’s always been soft. Still, it about broke my heart.”

“Ah,” Molly murmured. An alternative Perry Jackson appeared in her mind: equally charming, equally loved, but heterosexual, and a successful lawyer and politician. He would be married to some really nice woman and have delightful children, and would live to a normal old age. Wouldn’t that have been better, after all?

“I don’t like to ask you this, but for Dorrie’s sake, I must,” Myra. continued, lowering her voice and at the same time leaning forward to block out the raucous yakety-yak of the people at the next table. “How much time does he have?”

“I don’t know,” Molly admitted. “I don’t think anyone does.” Maybe this is what Myra wanted, she thought, and tried to answer helpfully. “It could be ten years, if he’s lucky. And perhaps by then they’ll have found a cure.”

“God willing,” Myra said. “But has Perry had any of the symptoms yet? Those awful purple spots they get, or the pneumonia?”

“Not that I know of.” As she lied, Molly winced with distaste: she had been brought up to believe that nice people do not mention the details of illness at mealtimes—or if possible, at any other time. But after all, Myra was his aunt; she had a right to know. “He’s worried about something,” she admitted. “His T-cell count, it’s called.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of that. When the numbers start to go down, it’s a bad sign. Well, we’re all in the hand of the Lord.” Myra rummaged in a white lizard handbag framed in gold. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Uh, well, if you could wait—” Molly began. Ever since Howard had been diagnosed with lung cancer she hated to see people smoking—sucking in and breathing out death.

But Myra already had a cigarette between her shiny red-painted lips, and was flicking a gold lighter. Soon a thin gray ectoplasm, like the wispy dirty-white substance exuded by spirits in Victorian séances, rose and circled her head. Keep that up, and you could be dead before Jacko is, Molly thought—maybe even before I am.

“Lissen, when I order something, you goddamn bring it, okay?” At the next table, the loud voices that she had been trying to ignore for some time were raised further. She glanced round at the occupants: two middle-aged couples in bright resort wear, navy and acid yellow predominating. The larger and more red-faced man, the one who was shouting, was obviously drunk.

“Now, Al!” “Take it easy, Al,” cried the others.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I was just—” their waiter, Dennis, began.

“I don’t give a shit what you were.” The man’s voice rose over Dennis’s explanations and the remonstrances of his companions, attracting the attention of people at nearby tables. “I asked you for another beer fifteen minutes ago, it still isn’t here. And these goddamn fritters, whatever you call ’em, they look and taste like turds.”

“I’m very sorry, sir. If you’d like to order something else, I’ll bring you the menu—” Dennis began edging away.

“Hey, you come back here!” the man shouted, even louder. Dennis continued to retreat. “Damnit, I’m speaking to you, you dumb little Chink!”

Understandably, Dennis did not obey. Instead, breaking into tears, he stumbled toward the kitchen. Many customers were now gawking at the scene, and a chorus of voices rose at Al’s table, trying to subdue and reason with him.

Almost at once a tall, portly, well-dressed man, whom Molly recognized as the manager of Henry’s Beach House, bustled up to the table, followed by two other waiters. “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked smoothly.

The chorus turned toward him, attempting to explain, but Al’s voice drowned theirs.