“I’ll say it right now,” Stew said to me the night we arrived, “when I first found out that Lelia was dating you I didn’t like it one bit. I’m showing my cards here. Put yourself in my place. I’m saying, who in the hell were you? Sure, some bright Oriental kid. And then when she told us you were getting married, I nearly yanked the phone out of the wall. I said some things to her that night I now regret. Did she ever relate them to you?”
“I think she said you weren’t ‘thrilled.’”
He let out a shout, his booze spilling over the edge of his glass, now over the salt-bleached wood of the deck. I could see Lelia and Bimma (Stew’s companion at the time) through the small kitchen window, drying and putting away the dishes. He was leaning against the rail. “Typical of her. So I wasn’t so happy. I said some things about you. Heat-of-the-moment variety. But I didn’t know you then.”
“You hardly know me now.”
“Of course I do.” He jiggled his drink, as if to reset himself. “I can see you now, and that makes all the difference. Before that you were just a bad idea. I can see now why Lelia chose you. She’s always been a little too unsteady. I like to say she’s a Mack truck on Pinto tires. She needs someone like you. You’re ambitious and serious. You think before you speak. I can see that now. There’s so much that’s admirable in the Oriental culture and mind. You’ve been raised to be circumspect and careful. It’s no wonder we’re getting our heads handed to us. It’s a new world out there. Different players now. Different rules. Say, Lelia tells me your father is a fine businessman.”
“Absolute best,” I said, taking a long sip.
“He had to be,” he replied. “No one was going to help him if he failed. I wish I had spoken to him more at the wedding. I saw a man who didn’t have to make a display of himself. You knew he walked every inch to where he is. He owes no one, and he can’t conceive of being owed something. That’s the problem with us right now, it’s that we have a country here of people, both rich and poor, who think they’re entitled to everything good in life. I read a newspaper article about a young couple with two small children. You know the story. Hot-dog gumbo for dinner. Of course, neither of them is working. They’re on welfare and food stamps but they still somehow have enough money for cable and long distance. They tell the reporter they need them.”
“They probably do.”
“Balls! We’ve grown into a spoiled culture. Japan, thank God, is going the same way, the first signs are there. I go there a half dozen times a year and I can see things are on a downswing. You Koreans are really doing a number on them, in certain areas. You’re kicking some major butt around the world.”
“I’m not kicking anyone’s butt, Stew.”
“You’re young,” he said encouragingly, now sitting down next to me. He refilled my glass with two gurgling splashes from the bottle. “Listen. No more bullshit. I know what you do for a living. Wait, wait. Just hold on. Lelia never says anything, she refuses up and down, if you know what I mean, but I know. No shame necessary. I take one look at you and I know. A year ago we had to send a man into our Brussels R and D facility. Someone was leaking a new manufacturing process to a German competitor. The guy did a bang-up job. Deep deep throat. We were able to clean out the whole traitorous mess. Two shitheads are now in the cooler, including the manager of the lab. Even better, we’re still royally screwing the Germans over it. Icing pour moi.”
“Beaucoup icing ici,” I said. I was officially drunk.
“So here’s the moral of the story. The mole did the job, is what I’m saying. Truth? I love him. He exposed everyone’s ass. Now the facility is running cleaner and tighter than ever. I’ll tell you, we have plans to send a man into every single business we own.”
“Someone is always stealing something.”
“You read my mind,” Stew said, clinking my glass.
By the end of the evening he grew quiet. “So tell me, Henry, are you two thinking about kids?”
“We’re still thinking,” I answered. I realized Lelia hadn’t told him that she was already — unexpectedly — pregnant. It had happened almost immediately after the wedding. Our tiny not yet Mitt.
“If money’s the issue. You know. We don’t have to tell our little girl. Just say you got a big bonus.”
“Our money’s okay.”
“Fine then. You know, I’ll admit I’m looking forward to having grandchildren. You never think about it until the opportunity arises. Suddenly, the idea has a true appeal to me. My only child’s children. I’m going to retire in a few years. I don’t golf or fish. Has my ex-wife talked this way?”
“Not to me,” I told him. “I think we’re going to see her Labor Day weekend. I don’t know what she’s said to Lelia.”
“Right. Anyway, I don’t care what they look like. No offense. I thought about it and I don’t really give a damn if they look like a goddamn UNICEF poster, though I think they’ll probably be damn nice to look at. You two think about it. A little baby granddaughter, or grandson. Anyhow, just make some babies, for the old folks. Make some babies for us.”
* * *
It was late, past two in the morning, and Lelia and I lay down on the sofa bed. She left the reading light on. Although we weren’t avoiding it, we weren’t touching each other. I was still in my street clothes, on top of the blanket. Somehow she’d slipped beneath the covers. Molly finally called to say she wasn’t coming home, so it would just be us tonight.
I wasn’t consciously thinking it at the time, but I know that part of me was patiently waiting to get to this point in the evening. We were past the first full sprint of drink and talk and the pace was easing, settling in. Where the runners exchange positions. Hoagland would say that now was the time for playing certain finesses, that in the wake of the activity arose those moments that could be manipulated. Carefully you marked out the openings; then you took one boldly, as if it didn’t matter what people could see. For him even your wife could be a subject.
“Have you been writing since you’ve been back?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said.
“No poems?” I asked.
“Nothing besides letters.”
I had noticed a few blue airmail letters stuck between her books.
She went on, “Frankly, I’m on the brink of really quitting. I’m sick of it. No more poems, no more reviews, nothing. What do you think?”
“You’ve tried to do that before.”
“I’m more sure now,” she said, turning to me. “Believe me, I’ll live. It’s not dire. I decided that I’m not going to be one of those tortured anemic women who despite all signs believes in her micro-talent to the bitter end. It’s all too tacky and righteous, even for me. Is it possible to be resolved about not having much resolve?”