“I’m not sure I trust you to drive,” I said as he turned me around and looked me up and down.
“Very nice,” he said. “Beautiful.”
My dress was forest green velvet, with a low neckline and a lower back. The color did nice things for my eyes, and the thick, clingy fabric did nice things for my body. It made me look older than sixteen. Jack had brought it home for me the week before.
“Thanks,” I said. “Not so bad yourself.”
And it was true. The tux suited him; it made the burning spark in his eyes and the angry tension in the set of his jaw dashing. He appraised himself in the mirror, pushed a lock of his gelled hair into place, and nodded. “Yeah. Not bad.” He held out an arm to me. I laced mine through it. I felt grand, female, beautiful. For once I didn’t mind that people would be looking at us.
We didn’t leave anything in the motel room and we didn’t bother to lock the door behind us.
The party was being held in the president’s mansion, which was the sort of place that our house on the Hill might have been, if anyone still cared about it. The walls of the library, where the bar was set up, were lined with books on handsome wooden shelves. Some of them were in languages and alphabets that I couldn’t read. Our house was full of books, too—some of them beautiful first editions that had come down to Raeburn from his father. Most of them, though, were college textbooks, and except for Jack’s science-fiction paperbacks and spy novels there was very little in the way of entertainment. But on one shelf of the president’s library, I found Dostoyevsky, Dashiell Hammett, and volume six of the 1933
Oxford English Dictionary.
It made me want to steal away and find a corner.
The rest of the house was full of carefully placed furniture, expensive rugs, and simple arrangements of fresh flowers. There was a huge heated tent over the lawn and garden, lit inside and out with strings of golden lights. Dozens of small candles floated on the reflecting pool. The year before, they’d had a string quartet; but even without live music it was a pretty good party.
We found Raeburn under the tent, talking to a stout man with wild hair and thick glasses. He taught physics, too, which I would have guessed even if I hadn’t recognized him. None of them, Raeburn included, could ever remember to comb their hair. I think they all liked to imagine themselves as Einstein, too preoccupied with matters of the universe to think about trivialities like combs.
We were an hour late. Raeburn’s eyes flickered dangerously when he saw us, but his smile was broad as he said, “The return of the prodigals,” and kissed me on the cheek. “Eugene,” he said to the fat man, “you remember my children, John and Josephine.”
“Of course,” Eugene said, shaking my brother’s hand. His eyes were fixed on me. “Lovely. I hadn’t remembered that you had such adult children, Joseph.” Raeburn assumed a modest expression, and Eugene continued: “You’re both very lucky. Not many fathers would take the time with their children’s education that your father has with yours. I certainly didn’t. You, John—”
“Jack.”
“Really?” Eugene blinked. “Jack for John. I thought that was outdated. Were you a Kennedy fan, Joseph?”
“Their mother’s brother was John,” Raeburn said shortly. “Called Jack.”
“Hmm, well,” Eugene said. From the uncomfortable look on his face, I guessed that he’d heard about Crazy Mary. “Jack, you’re what? Nineteen?”
“Eighteen.”
“And you, my dear?” Eugene’s small, watery eyes gazed at me from behind his glasses.
“I’m sixteen,” I said.
“Really?” Eugene did the blink again, pushing his glasses up for good measure. “Really? I’d have guessed much—but you really must meet my son Martin,” he said hastily, glancing at Raeburn. “He’s around somewhere. I suspect you two would get along famously.” He scanned the crowd.
“Actually, what I’d really like right now is a drink. I mean, I’d like something
to
drink,” I added quickly and pulled a grinning Jack away as Raeburn glared at me.
“One look and he could tell that you and Martin would get along famously,” Jack said. “You two must have a lot in common.”
“Maybe Martin has breasts, too.” I concentrated on following Jack as he forced his way through the crowd.
“I wouldn’t be surprised, after meeting the old man.”
At the bar, a stylishly dressed woman, her hair dyed the same artificial shade of ash blond as most of the other older women at the party, looked at us closely and said, “Why, you’re Joseph’s family, aren’t you?”
“Have we met?” Jack said.
She laughed. Old or not, she was still beautiful. She had amazing skin: clear and smooth and tanned, in a healthy time-in-the-garden sort of way. “Not that you’d remember. I’m Claire. My office is down the hall from your father’s. Chemistry. I saw your picture on his desk,” she said. “It was taken quite a while ago—but of course I recognized two such handsome kids. Your mother must have been quite a looker.”
What kind of person uses the word “looker”? I thought, but Jack’s expression warmed considerably. “She was. She was beautiful.”
“I didn’t even know her,” I said, surprising myself.
“That’s so sad,” Claire said absently, without looking at me. “You must be John.”
“So people keep telling me. Jack.” He pointed to himself. “And Josie.”
Claire grinned an attractive gap-toothed grin. “Well, Jack and Josie, I’m afraid you’re the only two young people in a room full of old folks.”
“Eugene said something about a son,” I said.
She grimaced. “Dear God, is Eugene trying to set you up with Martin? That’s like him.” She rolled her eyes. “Poor, deluded Eugene. He does keep hoping.” She winked at me. “Let’s just say you’re not his type, dear, and let it go at that. And even barring that—but never mind.” She shook her head. “I’m still not sure that physicists should be allowed to breed. Although you two seem to have turned out all right,” she said, looking at Jack.
“We’re painfully average,” I said.
“I’m not sure about that,” she said, “but you’re identifiably human.”
“We have to go. Our father is waiting for us.” I pushed Jack into the crowd. When we were well away from her I said, “My God, is there anyone here who isn’t going to hit on us? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should try and land Searles.”
“It’s all about sex, Josie.”
“What is?”
“Everything.”
Raeburn was talking heatedly about something when we got back. Eugene was still standing next to him, and a small crowd of men had gathered around the two of them. “He is the personification of everything that’s wrong with modern theoretical physics,” Raeburn was saying. “What can possibly be left of quantum mechanics after it’s filtered through a brain raised on thirty-second promotional spots? A music video, that’s what. Lots of flashing lights and flashy clothes. A pseudorevolution led by pseudoscientists who study the laws of the universe because ‘black holes are sexy.’”
Jack nudged me.
“I’m not saying Ben’s a brilliant theorist,” Eugene said pla-catingly, “but he’s a wonderful teacher. Even you have to admit that, Joseph.”
“I have to admit nothing of the kind. He’s engaging. He’s popular. But does that make him a wonderful teacher? It might make him prom king, but—”
“You’re only jealous because you didn’t get to stand up onstage wearing the crown, Joseph.” Claire appeared at Raeburn’s elbow and put a consoling hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, darling. I promise I’ll ask you to the next Sadie Hawkins dance.”
Everybody laughed. Even Raeburn. I shifted awkwardly on my too-high heels and wondered if all of his colleagues were blind not to have seen the flash of rage on his face when Claire spoke. Jack was watching Claire with open admiration. I decided that I didn’t find her amusing.
“Really, though,” Claire continued. “You’re taking this all too seriously, Joseph. You’re still the acknowledged mad genius around here. Rest on your laurels, why don’t you, and leave poor Ben alone. He’s a nice kid.”
Raeburn smiled tolerantly. “Poor Claire, led through the nose by the ever-louder ticking of your biological clock.”
“Careful, Joseph,” Claire said. Her lips were tight. “Your desperation is showing.”
Eugene looked around nervously, seemed to see me, and coughed. “Well, then, Miss Josephine. Why don’t you tell us what grand plans you have for the future?”
“I haven’t really thought that much about it,” I said. “Maybe I’ll be a physicist.”
Jack stared at me.
“Like your father?” Claire said. “Oh, that’s sweet.”
Raeburn smiled and managed to look proudly at me. Well, at least now we’re both lying, I thought, and smiled back.
Later Jack and I smoked a joint behind the greenhouse, shivering and up to our ankles in snow but away from the lights and the people. I’d had quite a bit to drink by then, and the cold, fresh air was good after the heat and noise of the party. The store of sociability I kept in reserve for these occasions was exhausted. My nerves were jangling. I wanted to be stoned. I wanted to go home.
“What was that crap about wanting to be a physicist?” Jack said. “You’re no more a physicist than I am.”
“I don’t know. That Claire person was getting on my nerves.”
He half-laughed. “She’s a sharp one, all right. Think you’ll be that sharp when you’re fifty-two?”
“How do you know she’s fifty-two?”
He shrugged. “She and I had a little chat while Raeburn was talking about what a firm grasp of string theory you have. Already knowing what an impressive junior physicist you are, I didn’t feel a need to listen.” The joint crackled as he drew on it. He passed it to me. “That old bastard deserves what he gets, all that pompous garbage about pseudoscientists, and black holes being sexy. What a fucking snob.”
I said nothing. Just took a long drag on the joint and waited for it to hit.
Jack kicked at the ground furiously. Then he looked at me and gave me a wan smile. “I could kill him, Jo. Trotting us out like show ponies whenever the mood strikes him,” he said. “I could kill him.”
“Well, don’t,” I said. “I don’t know how we’d get out of that.”
Jack didn’t answer.
Somebody was trying to get my attention. I was standing in a corner, trying to be furniture; I was thoroughly stoned and not a little drunk, and it took a moment before I understood that the voice was speaking to me. I turned around. A man with sandy hair tied back in a ponytail and wire-rimmed glasses stood at my shoulder. He was young, not that much older than Jack, and he didn’t look entirely comfortable in his tuxedo.
“Your hair is about to catch fire,” he said and pointed to a small table next to me. On the table was a short, fat candle with three wicks, all of which were burning simultaneously. My hair, free of its braid for the night, had drifted perilously close to the flames.
“Oh,” I said stupidly.
The man said, “Oh, indeed,” and moved the candle. The sober part of my brain sent up a signal flare and I realized who he was.
“You’re Ben Searles,” I said.
“I am. Have we met?”
“Last year.” I remembered to stick my hand out so that he could shake it. “I’m Josie Raeburn.”
“Joe Raeburn’s daughter.” He gave me a careful look. “I heard you and your brother were going to be here tonight. I should have recognized you.”
“How? It can’t be from the photo on the Christmas card. They aren’t even in the mail yet.”
He smiled. “There’s a family resemblance. But I’m glad to hear about the card. I was starting to think I was being snubbed.” He looked a little strained. “You know, your father is a brilliant scientist. I actually wrote a paper on some of his work when I was a student. Condensed matter theory. Terrible paper on an interesting subject. I hear you’re planning to go into the family business.”
“What? Oh,” I said. “No. That’s a rumor. I’m not sure how it got started.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I was thinking about cosmetology.”
“Ah. Fringe astrophysics,” he said. “Studying cosmets.”
I stared.
“Joke?” he said.
Then I got it and laughed—probably too hard. I was stoned, and what Raeburn had said was true: Searles really did have dreamboat eyes. When I could speak, I said, “I didn’t know you were funny. I’ve been hearing about you all night. Nobody said you were funny.”
Ben took a sip from his drink, which looked like Scotch on the rocks. “I’ve been hearing about you since I started teaching.”
“Not from my father.”
He gave me a curious look. “No. From everybody else on the faculty. Whenever his name comes up, somebody says wait until you meet his kids.”
“Wait until you meet us to do what?”
He shrugged. “Everyone says you’re—really something. Smart. Good-looking. All those things we like in people these days.”
Something about the way he said it made me think that smart and good-looking weren’t what he’d heard about us at all. “I imagine,” I said, “that the things that you’ve heard about us are the same things we’ve heard about you.”
Ben smiled crookedly. “Quite possibly.”
We sat in silence for a while. Across the room I could see my father talking to someone I didn’t recognize.
“Your father’s a brilliant scientist,” he said again.
“He’s a raging son of a bitch,” I answered.
A few glasses of wine later, I went looking for Jack and found him standing on the front porch, talking to a girl. She was young, wore her dark hair in a severe bob, and had thick glasses. I didn’t notice anything else about her before I pulled him back into the house.
“Please can we go home now?” I said.
Distracted, Jack ran a hand through his hair. “Wait a few minutes. I was talking to—”
“I saw. I want to go home. I want to go home now.”
“Just wait.”
“No.” It was hard to talk. Everything seemed to be happening at a great distance. “I’m stoned and I’m drunk and I’m starting to get paranoid. Please?”
“Five minutes,” he said and went back outside to the girl on the porch.
I waited by the door, growing more and more agitated. He didn’t come and he didn’t come and he didn’t come. Meanwhile, my stomach was increasingly unreliable and my feet increasingly unsteady. The room was full of people in elegant clothes, light chamber music was playing somewhere, and I was standing next to a burning candle that was filling the air with a nasty sweet smell.