The Chamber (Page 48)

"But you had a drink last night. Several drinks."

"I know. And the night before. And today I emptied all the bottles and threw away the beer. There’s not a drop in the apartment."

"That’s fine with me. I hope I’m not the reason."

"No. But I need your help, okay. You’ll be living with me for a couple of months, and we’ll have some bad times. Just help me."

"Sure, Lee. I wish you’d told me when I arrived. I don’t drink much. I can take it or leave it."

"Alcoholism is a strange animal. Sometimes I can watch people drink and it doesn’t bother me. Then I’ll see a beer commercial and break into a sweat. I’ll see an ad in a magazine for a wine I used to enjoy, and the craving is so intense I’ll become nauseated. It’s an awful struggle."

The drinks arrived and Adam was afraid to touch his mineral water. He poured it over the ice and stirred it with a spoon. "Does it run in the family?" he asked, almost certain that it did.

"I don’t think so. Sam would sneak around and drink a little when we were kids, but he kept it from us. My mother’s mother was an alcoholic, so my mother never touched the stuff. I never saw it in the house."

"How’d it happen to you?"

"Gradually. When I left home I couldn’t wait to give it a try because it was taboo when Eddie and I were growing up. Then. I met Phelps, and he comes from a family of heavy social drinkers. It became an escape, and then it became a crutch."

"I’ll do whatever I can. I’m sorry."

"Don’t be sorry. I’ve enjoyed having a drink with you, but it’s time to quit, okay. I’ve fallen off the wagon three times, and it all starts with the idea that I can have a drink or two and keep it under control. I went a month one time sipping wine and limiting myself to a glass a day. Then it was a glass and a half, then two, then three. Then rehab. I’m an alcoholic, and I’ll never get over it."

Adam lifted his glass and touched it to hers. "Here’s to the wagon. We’ll ride it together." They gulped their soft drinks.

The waiter was a student with a quick idea of what they should eat. He suggested the chef’s baked ravioli because it was simply the best in town and would be on the table in ten minutes. They agreed.

"I often wondered what you did with your time but I was afraid to ask," Adam said.

"I had a job once. After Walt was born and started school I got bored, so Phelps found me a job with one of his friend’s companies. Big salary, nice office. I had my own secretary who knew much more about my job than I did. I quit after a year. I married money, Adam, so I’m not supposed to work. Phelps’ mother was appalled that I would draw a salary."

"What do rich women do all day long?"

"Carry the burdens of the world. They must first make sure hubby is off to work, then they must plan the day. The servants have to be directed and supervised. The shopping is divided into at least two parts – morning and afternoon – with the morning usually consisting of several rigorous phone calls to Fifth Avenue for the necessities. The afternoon shopping is sometimes actually done in person, with the driver waiting in the parking lot, of course. Lunch takes up most of the day because it requires hours to plan and at least two hours to execute. It’s normally a small banquet attended by more of the same harried souls. Then there’s the social responsibility part of being a rich woman. At least three times a week she attends tea parties in the homes of her friends where they nibble on imported biscuits and whimper about the plight of abandoned babies or mothers on crack. Then, it’s back home in a hurry to freshen up for hubby’s return from the office wars. She’ll sip her first martini with him by the pool while four people prepare their dinner."

"What about sex?"

"He’s too tired. Plus, he probably has a mistress."

"This is what happened to Phelps?"

"I guess, although he couldn’t complain about the sex. I had a baby, I got older, and he’s always had a steady supply of young blondes from his banks. You wouldn’t believe his office. It’s filled with gorgeous women with impeccable teeth and nails, all with short skirts and long legs. They sit behind nice desks and talk on the phone, and wait for his beck and call. He has a small bedroom next to a conference room. The man’s an animal."

"So you gave up the hard life of a rich woman and moved out?"

"Yeah. I was not a very good rich woman, Adam. I hated it. It was fun for a very short while, but I didn’t fit in. Not the right blood type. Believe it or not, my family was not known in the social circles of Memphis."

"You must be kidding."

"I swear. And to be a proper rich woman with a future in this city you have to come from a family of rich fossils, preferably with a great-grandfather who made money in cotton. I just didn’t fit in."

"But you still play the social game."

"No. I still make appearances, but only for Phelps. It’s important for him to have a wife who’s his age but with a touch of gray, a mature wife who looks nice in an evening dress and diamonds and can hold her own while gabbing with his boring friends. We go out three times a year. I’m sort of an aging trophy wife."

"Seems to me like he’d want a real trophy wife, one of the slinky blondes."

"No. His family would be crushed, and there’s a lot of money in trust. Phelps walks on eggshells around his family. When his parents are gone, then he’ll be ready to come out of the closet."

"I thought his parents hated you."

"Of course they do. It’s ironic that they’re the reason we’re still married. A divorce would be scandalous."

Adam laughed and shook his head in bewilderment. "This is crazy."

"Yes, but it works. I’m happy. He’s happy. He has his little girls. I fool around with whomever I want. No questions are asked."

"What about Walt?"

She slowly sat her glass of tea on the table and looked away. "What about him?" she said, without looking.

"You never talk about him."

"I know," she said softly, still watching something across the room.

"Let me guess. More skeletons in the closet. More secrets."

She looked at him sadly, then gave a slight shrug as if to say, what the hell.

"He is, after all, my first cousin," Adam said. "And to my knowledge, and barring any further revelations, he’s the only first cousin I have."

"You wouldn’t like him."

"Of course not. He’s part Cayhall."

"No. He’s all Booth. Phelps wanted a son, why I don’t know. And so we had a son. Phelps, of course, had little time for him. Always too busy with the bank. He took him to the country club and tried to teach him golf, but it didn’t work. Walt never liked sports. They went to Canada once to hunt pheasants, and didn’t speak to each other for a week when they came home. He wasn’t a sissy, but he wasn’t athletic either. Phelps was a big prep school jock – football, rugby, boxing, all that. Walt tried to play, but the talent just wasn’t there. Phelps drove him even harder, and Walt rebelled. So, Phelps, with the typical heavy hand, sent him away to boarding school. My son left home at the age of fifteen."

"Where did he go to college?"

"He spent one year at Cornell, then dropped out."

"He dropped out?"

"Yes. He went to Europe after his freshman year, and he’s been there ever since."

Adam studied her face and waited for more.

He sipped his water, and was about to speak when the waiter appeared and rapidly placed a large bowl of green salad between them.