ease her burden in the days ahead, since he so much wanted her companionship, but once he’d mentioned her money troubles himself as a reason for her not to stay, what was she to do?
“We don’t care about finances, Pres,” she finally decided on. “We care about one another.”
“Oh, darling, Beryl,” he told her, “by last Monday morning at the latest you were e–mailing friends to find out everything you could about my finances.”
“How can you say such a thing?”
“Because you bimbos always do. But you don’t —”
“ Bimbos? ”
“But you don’t realize,” he went inexorably on, while discreetly moving his arms to protect his privates, just in case she turned out to be one of the physical ones, “that of course I’m doing the same thing. I know exactly how much you’re into Mr. Marcus Leominster for, darling Beryl, and I know you don’t otherwise have a single asset worth mentioning, other than your singular ass, of course, and I know that one week here husband–hunting is already a strain on —”
“ Husband–hunting! ”
“I’m afraid, Beryl,” he said, chortling by now, “I’ve wasted an entire week of your dwindling finances, your dwindling time, and if I may say so, your dwindling looks.”
“How can you — How can you —”
“Beryl,” he said, smiling at her face, which now looked like a wax museum piece in the middle of a major fire, “why on earth would you put up with a fat boor like me except that you wanted to get into my pants? For my wallet, of course.”
“You son —”
The phone rang. Beryl stared at it, as Preston rose for the last time from her bed and said, “Timing is everything.”
“Timing?” The phone rang again, but now Beryl was staring at Preston. “You know who that is? On the telephone?”
“Of course,” Preston said, reaching for his flame red bathing trunks. “It’s Alan Pinkleton. He’s calling to ask me to play Scrabble.”
“ Scrabble! ”
“Tell him, would you,” Preston said, as he moved toward the door, “I’m on my way?”
The phone continued to ring, fading with distance, as he strolled along the bougainvillea–scented wandering concrete path among the bungalows. Pathway lighting was dim and discreet; the air was soft and warm, the night a joy. The fading sound of the telephone made him think for some reason of the song “I Love a Parade,” so that’s what he whistled as he strolled back to his own little bungalow, where Alan had long since hung up the unanswered phone and where the Scrabble set was already laid out on the table on the veranda.
He was in such a good frame of mind, Preston was, that he didn’t even object when Alan, who wasn’t supposed to win, won handily.
Chapter 18
----
Raphael Medrick listened to “The Star–Spangled Banner” as he’d recorded it during last winter’s Super Bowl — MCXIV? — sung by a nervous girl pop singer with excessive tremolo, an unsteady grasp of key, and not much upper register; cool. His fingers moved on the control panel, adjusting the gains, and the middle range faded, taking with it much of the ambient crowd noise, leaving mainly the aggressive brass sounds, both high and low, like sturdy lines of cathedral columns, with that frightened little voice vaguely wandering among them, a little trapped bird. Nice.
Stop; set coordinates; save; set aside; move on to the Beatles’ “Hey, Jude.” Strip away high and low, leaving a broody midrange with tatters of a barely recognizable voice and an obsessive baritone rhythm section pulsing forward like a predator fish, eyes flicking left and right, tail flashing behind.
Reset “Jude”; sync with “Banner”; play both. “Jude” had to be speeded up just a bit to blend with the “Banner” tempo, which served to lift the notes of “Jude” just a fraction so that they became dissonant with any melodic line played anywhere in the history of the world. The two treated themes weaved
“We don’t care about finances, Pres,” she finally decided on. “We care about one another.”
“Oh, darling, Beryl,” he told her, “by last Monday morning at the latest you were e–mailing friends to find out everything you could about my finances.”
“How can you say such a thing?”
“Because you bimbos always do. But you don’t —”
“ Bimbos? ”
“But you don’t realize,” he went inexorably on, while discreetly moving his arms to protect his privates, just in case she turned out to be one of the physical ones, “that of course I’m doing the same thing. I know exactly how much you’re into Mr. Marcus Leominster for, darling Beryl, and I know you don’t otherwise have a single asset worth mentioning, other than your singular ass, of course, and I know that one week here husband–hunting is already a strain on —”
“ Husband–hunting! ”
“I’m afraid, Beryl,” he said, chortling by now, “I’ve wasted an entire week of your dwindling finances, your dwindling time, and if I may say so, your dwindling looks.”
“How can you — How can you —”
“Beryl,” he said, smiling at her face, which now looked like a wax museum piece in the middle of a major fire, “why on earth would you put up with a fat boor like me except that you wanted to get into my pants? For my wallet, of course.”
“You son —”
The phone rang. Beryl stared at it, as Preston rose for the last time from her bed and said, “Timing is everything.”
“Timing?” The phone rang again, but now Beryl was staring at Preston. “You know who that is? On the telephone?”
“Of course,” Preston said, reaching for his flame red bathing trunks. “It’s Alan Pinkleton. He’s calling to ask me to play Scrabble.”
“ Scrabble! ”
“Tell him, would you,” Preston said, as he moved toward the door, “I’m on my way?”
The phone continued to ring, fading with distance, as he strolled along the bougainvillea–scented wandering concrete path among the bungalows. Pathway lighting was dim and discreet; the air was soft and warm, the night a joy. The fading sound of the telephone made him think for some reason of the song “I Love a Parade,” so that’s what he whistled as he strolled back to his own little bungalow, where Alan had long since hung up the unanswered phone and where the Scrabble set was already laid out on the table on the veranda.
He was in such a good frame of mind, Preston was, that he didn’t even object when Alan, who wasn’t supposed to win, won handily.
Chapter 18
----
Raphael Medrick listened to “The Star–Spangled Banner” as he’d recorded it during last winter’s Super Bowl — MCXIV? — sung by a nervous girl pop singer with excessive tremolo, an unsteady grasp of key, and not much upper register; cool. His fingers moved on the control panel, adjusting the gains, and the middle range faded, taking with it much of the ambient crowd noise, leaving mainly the aggressive brass sounds, both high and low, like sturdy lines of cathedral columns, with that frightened little voice vaguely wandering among them, a little trapped bird. Nice.
Stop; set coordinates; save; set aside; move on to the Beatles’ “Hey, Jude.” Strip away high and low, leaving a broody midrange with tatters of a barely recognizable voice and an obsessive baritone rhythm section pulsing forward like a predator fish, eyes flicking left and right, tail flashing behind.
Reset “Jude”; sync with “Banner”; play both. “Jude” had to be speeded up just a bit to blend with the “Banner” tempo, which served to lift the notes of “Jude” just a fraction so that they became dissonant with any melodic line played anywhere in the history of the world. The two treated themes weaved
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