Alison Lurie - The Truth About Lorin Jones

“Huh?”

“Cameron, I mean.”

“Mh.”

She waited, but he said no more. But the beat of the lowbrow music continued, they moved smoothly together. Polly felt herself blurring, loosening, becoming sensually addled, as if she’d been soaking too long in a hot bath. She gave herself a hard mental shake and tried again, speaking now in a sleepy murmur that matched the music. “So have you been in Key West a long time?”

“Yeah, I guess you’d say so.”

“Really — how long?”

“I d’know. Nineteen, twenty years, off and on.”

“Then you could have met Lorin Jones yourself.” Mac, swinging Polly deftly around, did not reply. “The artist I’m writing about.”

“Mh?”

“Did you ever know her?”

“Nope.” Mac was resting his head against Polly’s now; as he spoke his hot breath fluttered her hair. “Can’t say I did.”

Bad luck again, Polly thought; but another part of her, which was sick to death of Lorin Jones, breathed thank God. What it wanted now, what it needed, was to forget Jones for a while, to stop questioning and prying, to move to the simple thump and twang of the country band and murmur almost meaningless remarks.

“I always liked this old tune.”

“Yeah, it’s nice.”

But she could not disguise from herself that all the time, under their slow, banal exchange, another far more lively conversation was going on. Mac’s body and hers, like two good-looking oversexed morons, were speaking to each other; and she could hear clearly what they were saying, over and over again:

Hey, you want to?

Aw, sure.

When?

— Anytime.

I don’t do that anymore, she said to the moron that was her body; but it didn’t hear her.

The band repeated the last chorus and went into a crescendo. Holding her close, Mac did an expert dip, and came up again as the song ended.

“I like the way you dance,” he said, moving back but keeping one arm around her.

“Thanks.” Polly didn’t return the compliment. What she had to do now, she thought fuzzily as the music started up again, was get out of here before anything else could happen.

“Do you clog?”

“What?”

Mac gestured at the dance floor. Most of the couples had left, but those that remained were beginning to stamp and wheel and gallop around in tandem, like children playing horses.

“Oh, no.”

“It’s easier than it looks, y’know. I’ll teach you sometime.” He steered her back toward their table. “Like another beer?”

Polly nodded, then instantly regretted this. Well, you don’t have to drink it, she told herself as he held up two fingers to the waitress.

“Hey, Polly.” Mac leaned toward her and half shouted over the cantering dancers. “You married?”

Polly shook her head. “I was once.”

“Yeah? So was I.” He smiled. “Didn’t work out, hm?”

“No.”

“Me neither. It was a bust from the wedding night, only I got stubborn and stuck it out for three years.”

“With me it was all right for a while, but then my husband insisted on moving to Denver.”

“And what was wrong with Denver?”

“Nothing. Only I couldn’t get a job there.” Why am I telling him all this, Polly thought, listening to her own voice, which sounded like someone else’s. Because he doesn’t matter, that’s why, she answered. They were confiding in each other, yes, but only with the anonymous frankness of strangers who find themselves on the same bus or plane and know they won’t meet again.

“Uh-huh. Kids?”

“I’ve got a son, he’s fourteen. But he’s with his father now, for this school term. Till Christmas.”

“Rough, huh.”

“Yes,” Polly agreed, wondering how Mac knew this — it must have been her tone of voice. “Yes, I really miss him.”

“You’re lucky, though. What I miss, it’s the kids I never had.”

“You could still —”

Mac shook his head, looking away, then slowly turned back. “I can’t find the right woman,” he seemed to say, but since he didn’t raise his voice this time it was hard to tell. The music was louder, the couples stomped and tramped faster; it made Polly dizzy to look at them. What she ought to do, she ought to say she had to get back, as soon as he finished his beer, because she wasn’t going to drink hers — Except, she noticed, she already had.

The band paused for breath, then started another slow number, a wailing song about lost love.

“Let’s dance,” Mac said, rising.

This time Polly didn’t try to make conversation. She allowed herself to fall at once into a warm drifting blur, to lean against Mac, move with him. Because it didn’t matter, as soon as the music ended she’d go home. But now — now —

“Hey,” Mac whispered presently, his mouth against her face. “You know that place you’re staying? That Artemis Lodge.”

“Mm.”

“Artemis, you know who she was?”

“I think she was some kind of Greek goddess,” Polly said.

“Right. A jealous virgin. She turned her best friend into a bear on account of she’d slept with Zeus.”

“Really?”

“I’m not as illiterate as you might think.”

“Mm.” Polly recalled something Ron or Phil had said, that many of the permanent residents of Key West were middle-class dropouts, ex-hippies now managing restaurants or galleries, or running charter boats — or, why not, repairing houses for a living. “Nice people, most of them,” Phil, or Ron, had declared.

“Anyhow,” Mac said. “That place of yours. It’s a lesbian guest house; at least that’s what I hear.”

Polly swallowed; then, damning herself for her hesitation, said, “Yes, I know. I’m a lesbian.”

“Yeah?” Mac laughed. “You could have fooled me.” He circled with the music, holding her even closer. It was clear that he didn’t believe her; or if he did believe her, didn’t care.

“So how’s it going, your research?” he asked as they returned to the table.

“Oh, okay. Well, not all that great lately. Coming down here wasn’t much use.”

“Not much use, huh?” Mac said, with a grin. “Sorry to hear that.”

“I didn’t mean — It’s just —” What is the matter with me, the beer, Polly thought. “I mean, I came all the way to Key West, and spent all that money, and now I can’t locate Hugh Cameron or anybody who knew him or Lorin Jones, and I can’t even get into his house.”

“Get into the house? What good would that do, if he’s not there?”

“I want to see if he still has any of Lorin Jones’s paintings. The museum where I work put on a show a couple of years ago in New York, and I wrote to ask if he had anything we could borrow, but he never answered.”

“Ah.” Mac rotated his empty glass.

“Maybe you’ve noticed, if you’ve ever been in the house.”

“Noticed what?”

“If there were any pictures. Oil paintings, they’d be, or maybe watercolors.”

“Pictures.” Mac appeared to be thinking. “I don’t remember, really. I guess I never paid much attention. Like another beer?”

“Oh no, no thanks. I’ve got to get back.” Polly looked at her watch. “The manager at the guest house said she was going to call the police if I wasn’t home by twelve.”

“She did?”

“She’s afraid you might be a psychotic rapist,” Polly heard herself say, or rather lie.

“She never even saw me,” Mac protested.

“I know.”

“She probably thinks all men are rapists.” He laughed.

“I guess she might.” Polly mentally kicked herself for playing along, for misquoting and misrepresenting Lee.

“Personally, I’ve always liked cooperation when I make love.” Mac turned toward Polly. Something looked at her out of his eyes; she tried to look away, didn’t quite make it. “Okay, shall we go?”