Garden of Lies (16 page)

pink finger, hardening into a thing roughly the size and shape of a two-cent roll of Bazooka

bubble gum. Mason, beet red, had yanked on his trunks, and from then on he’d always changed in

the house.

She found herself wondering what Mason’s penis was like now, [85] then caught herself,

horrified. With Mason? God, what was she thinking?

“Hungry?” Mason asked, the dance ending. “Leave it to Pop. There’s enough food here for a

starving African nation.”

Rachel’s gaze swept over the long tables, laden with huge platters of smoked salmon, oysters

and shrimp nestled on beds of crushed ice, cold lobsters, mammoth silver bowls of glistening

black caviar. And there, in a centerpiece of artfully arranged melon slices and grape clusters, a

tall asparagus spear carved from ice—the Gold Star Frozen Vegetables logo.

Rachel’s eyes fastened on it, and the urge to giggle swept through her again. Then in her mind,

she was seeing Mason, not only undressed, but with a giant asparagus stalk sprouting between his

legs.

God, what was
wrong
with her? She ought to be on a psychiatrist’s couch.

“Did I say something funny?” Mason was smiling.

“Nothing, nothing.” Rachel took a deep breath, struggling to regain her self-control. “I could

use a drink, please, some soda. Ginger ale, if you have it.”

Mason, an arm slouched over her shoulders, guided her over to a bar. It was noisy, people

shouting, clapping Mason’s back, wishing him a happy birthday. Rachel couldn’t hear the

bartender, but saw him shake his head.

“Pepsi, Coke, orange, Seven-up, but no ginger ale,” she heard Mason through the din. “How

about champagne?”

She shook her head.

“Never could hold your liquor.” Mason was grinning.

She knew he was thinking about the time they’d sneaked a bottle of her father’s Château Petrús

down to the breakwater by their houses in Palm Beach. And gotten shit-faced, though only she

threw up. God, she’d puked so much she’d thought her stomach would turn inside out. And then

Mason had teased her for weeks afterwards.

“Stuff it,” she said sweetly.

“You know, my father’s booked a suite. I’ve got something better than champagne up there.

Ever try grass?”

Marijuana? God, Mama would die.
Then she remembered her [86] roommate Judy Denenburg

rhapsodizing about how fantastic sex was when you were stoned.

Rachel felt herself growing warm, her face hot, tight, as if she’d been lying in the sun too long.

Was he thinking the same thing she was? God.

“No,” she admitted. “But it’s your party. Wouldn’t you be missed?”

Mason shrugged, grinning at the crowd all caught up in their partying. “Like a firecracker on

the fifth of July.” His hand felt warm, moist as he took hers. “Come on, let’s split.”

“Wait. My purse.” She spotted it at the table where she’d dropped it, after they’d begun

dancing.

“You can come back for it later.”

“It’ll only take a second. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

Taking a deep breath as the elevator rose, Rachel clamped her bag tightly under her arm.

“What have you got in there that’s so important, anyway, the key to your safe deposit box?”

Mason teased.

Rachel smiled. “In a way.”

Yes, this was going to be it. Mason would do as well as anyone. Better. They were old friends,

after all, and they liked each other. Ironic, though. Mason no doubt thinking
he
was seducing her.

In the suite, decorated like a Parisian apartment—gilded fleur-de-lis wall medallions, gilt-

framed mirrors, ormolu-adorned furniture—Mason excused himself and disappeared. A minute

later, he returned holding aloft a dripping Baggie.

“I had it hidden in the toilet tank. Wouldn’t want my father to get busted if the maid happened

to see it lying around.”

“What if he comes up?”

“He won’t. You couldn’t tear him away from a party to save his life. He was born wearing a

lampshade.”

Rachel thought of her father, how he would have another heart attack if he knew, and felt

guilty.

Mason hunkered down in front of the cocktail table, and shook a small quantity of crumbled

brown leaves onto the flimsy cigarette paper. He rolled it slowly, carefully sealing the gummed

side, then twisting the ends.

Rachel watched him light it, take a deep drag, then hold in the smoke for the longest time.

Then slowly he exhaled, [87] sweetish-pungent smoke drifting from his nostrils. He passed it to

her, holding the joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Slow,” he gently instructed. “Take it in slow, and hold it in as long as you can. You’ll get a

faster high that way.”

Despite the trembling in her hands, and a sudden shortness of breath, Rachel managed to hold

the joint to her lips and draw in some of the sweet thick smoke.

She felt a sudden sharp, hot ache deep in her lungs. A springy sensation of light-headedness.

She took another drag, and another. Then things began to change. Her face felt swollen, her head

huge and weightless like a balloon suspended on a string. Mason, as if she were viewing him

through a rotating camera lens, seemed to recede, while other things about the room grew razor

sharp and clear. The colors and motif of the Persian carpet, now bright and magical, shifting from

one shape to another as in a wondrous kaleidoscope. And the walls, the gold stripes in the

wallpaper seemed to jump out at her, like something in a funhouse.

“How do you feel?” Mason’s voice crashed into her head.

“I don’t know yet. I’ve never felt this way. It’s weird, like I’m someone else, but I’m still me.

And everything looks so strange. Like I never saw any of it before. I wonder if this is what it’s

like for babies just after they’re born.”

“You’re stoned.” Mason blew out a raspy chuckle on a stream of smoke.

Rachel took another hit, dragging deeply, feeling like an old pro. “Maybe. Among other

things.”

“What other things?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she hedged. “Lots of things.” Could she tell him what was on her mind?

No, that might be like throwing cold water over him. Or, worse, he might laugh, and make some

big joke out of it. “You know how my mother is. Well, she hates the idea of me becoming a

doctor.”

“Jesus. You’ve got it backwards.” He was squinting at her, eyes bloodshot, through a haze of

smoke. “Jewish princesses are supposed to
marry
doctors.”

She glared at him. “Okay, wise guy, it might sound corny, but I have this crazy idea about

helping people, making a difference in this world.”

“Sure, why not? You and Dr. Kildare.”

[88] She stared at him, fascinated by the green and gold specks swimming in his irises. “When

did you turn so cynical?”

Mason shrugged, a somber expression taking place of the wise-guy grin.

“A lot’s changed since we were kids. I’ve been hearing rumors, and the ROTC on campus is

out there in full force like Yale is West Point all of a sudden. Friend of Pop’s in the State

Department says they’re going to start drafting guys to fight in Indochina pretty soon. Jesus, I just

hope I’m not one of them.”

“You won’t be. Not if you’re in law school.”

His grin was back. “You remembered.”

“Sure. Me and Doctor Kildare. You and Perry Mason.”

“Yeah, that’s me, truth, justice, and the American way.”

“I think that was Superman.”

“Well, him too. Say, you ever wonder how come he and Lois Lane never did the trick? I mean,

come on, what were they waiting for?”

This was it, he was making the first move. Her heart began pounding, and she had to fight to

stay cool.

“Well, maybe Lois was frigid, or maybe it was true what they said about him. You know, faster

than a speeding bullet.” The words just popped out, and she sat back, both horrified and amused

at herself.
God, I am stoned.

Then she began to giggle, softly but helplessly, and she knew that if she didn’t get to the

bathroom fast she’d wet her pants.

Rachel kicked off her shoes and lurched to her feet, grabbing her purse as she stumbled toward

the bathroom.

Alone in the salmon-tiled bathroom, she fumbled for the diaphragm.
Now,
she thought,
got to

do it now, before I lose my nerve.
Through her stoned haze, she struggled to remember precisely

how she was supposed to insert it. First the sperm jelly. Yes, that was it. Enough to knock those

pesky little buggers out in the first round. Okay, now bend it in half. ...

She was holding it that way, folded over like a taco when it slipped from her grasp, and went

flying, bouncing against the shower door and landing on the floor with a wet plop. Staring down

at it, lying on the pink marble at her feet like some dead sea urchin, she felt as if she had lost all

touch with reality, as if any second now, [89] Rod Serling might step out from the shower and

announce, “Rachel Rosenthal is about to enter ... the Twilight Zone.”

God, how can I go through with this? I feel about as sexy as this rubber thing I’m putting

inside me.

Stop carrying on,
she told herself.
Just
do
it, for God’s sake.

Emerging from the bathroom, Rachel felt the giggles bubble up inside her seeing Mason gape

at her. It was as if she
had
stepped out of the Twilight Zone.

“Rachel, my God. Is that
you
?

“Of course it’s me. Who do you think?”

“You’re ...”

“Naked. Right.”

She nodded sagely, her head, too large, bobbing weightlessly on the string of her neck. It did

feel a little funny, standing there without any clothes on, but she wasn’t embarrassed. She thought

of their going skinny-dipping as kids some of those hot evenings in Florida. It felt that way now,

the air swirling about her body, thick and warm as heated pool water.

Rachel went over, and sat down cross-legged beside him. “Listen, you don’t have to do

anything about it. I mean, I know you’re not in love with me or anything. I just thought it might

be a good idea.”

Mason continued to gape at her with a glassy expression, mouth drooping open. Then he

winced as if in pain, and Rachel saw that the joint had burned down to his fingers. He dropped it

into the ashtray, and brought his hand to his mouth, sucking his singed finger. He looked back up

at Rachel, his zombie expression gone. He was grinning now, foolishly, as if he still didn’t quite

believe it.

“Are you kidding? Because, Jesus H. Fucking Christ, this wouldn’t be very funny if you were.”

“Look, I’m perfectly serious. But if you’d rather just sit and talk about it, I’ll put my clothes

back on.”

“Jesus, Rachel. I’ve heard about grass having this effect on some people, but I never thought ...

oh Christ.” He was a tangle of movement now, throwing off his jacket, ripping at his tie,

fumbling with the tiny pearl studs on his tuxedo shirt, now bending over. “Damn, my shoelace is

all in knots. How does Clark Kent make this look so easy?”

[90] “Here, let me help.” She was conscious of her breast grazing his arm as she bent to help

unlace his shoe. An odd sensation, not necessarily sexy, but nice. “Okay. I got it. Hey, it’s still

there, that bump where you broke your toe waterskiing. Does it hurt?”

“Come here.” Tugging off his undershirt and shorts, he drew her down beside him on the

carpet and kissed her on the mouth. Wet, soft, that same skinny-dipping feeling, as if she were

diving underwater now. Deep warm water.

“Uh, Mason, I think there’s something you should know.” She pulled back a bit, and tried to

bring his blurred face into focus. “I’m a virgin.”

“A
what
?”

“A virgin. But I don’t see why that should make a difference, do you?”

“I don’t get it. Why me?” Mason looked at her, his face a damp flushed pink, both happy and

bewildered, as if he’d just realized he’d won a million dollar lottery, and didn’t quite believe it.

“I don’t know. Maybe because you didn’t expect anything.”

Now she felt something against her leg, a hot pressure. She looked down, and a small shock

rippled through her.

“It got bigger,” she said, staring down at his thing. It was no longer the size of a two-cent roll

of bubble gum. More like a Rocket Pop now.

Mason laughed, cupping a breast. “You too. I can’t call you Mosquito Bites anymore.”

Rachel snuggled closer as he drew her to him, shivering, trying not to think about the thick,

sour marijuana taste in her mouth. Or the itchy stubble of the carpet against her backside. Mason

seemed good at this, practiced, not clumsy or rough. He was gently, tenderly stroking her thigh,

her breasts, kissing her nipples. And now wasn’t she supposed to start feeling turned on? Even a

little bit? Everyone said you didn’t have to be in love for that, for heaven’s sake.

But the harder she tried to will herself to be excited, the worse it got. Like trying to start a car,

she thought, frantically pumping on the gas pedal after the engine’s been flooded. She began to

feel irritated, distracted by little things, the coldness of his fingers between her legs, his beard

rough against her breasts, little gobbling noises he was making in his throat.

[91]
A fine kickoff, folks, but wait ... the ball has been intercepted. ...