FIVE #6
I couldn’t stand to look at them. I tried staring down at the table instead, but the streaks of raspberry ganache left on my dessert plate suddenly looked garish and obscene—pornographic, even—and made me feel more nauseous.
Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.
Across from me, Harold Rubinstein shifted uneasily in his seat.
Just outside the tent, Pamela Karnow and Dave Cavender appeared to be arguing, she gesticulating at the three men on the stage, Dave’s shoulders up in a permanent shrug, as if to say, I know, but what exactly do you want me to do?
The space around me was spinning, and a stifling hush fell over the crowd; I had the weird sensation that we were all underwater.
It felt almost like I was drowning. And every other sound underneath that tent was muffled to my ears except for those three clear voices—bright, drunk, gleeful, a little off-key—coming from the stage.
The song went on for another two verses. No one made a move to stop the performance.
When they had finished, and the throbbing bass beat finally faded out, I could still feel a hammering in my throat and in my chest and, seemingly, in the ground beneath our table.
An edgy silence fell over the tent, followed by some uneven applause.
About half the audience was clapping. How was that even happening?
A few partners actually seemed amused by the skit.
Most people looked baffled and uncomfortable.
Some were absolutely livid and were whispering and gesturing toward the stage.
I looked back around toward Tyler’s empty seat. I don’t blame you, I thought.
“Jesus H. Christ, doesn’t anyone ever vet these things before the outing?” I heard Harold Rubinstein grumble in a low voice, more to Gavin Dunlop than to anyone else at the table. “We’re gonna hear about that again, believe me.”
Gavin shrugged. “Come on, it’s called satire! No harm, no foul. Just a bunch of drunk guys having some fun. Tasteless, maybe, but no one’ll even remember this by Monday.”
Harold gave Gavin a disbelieving look. “I’m not so sure about that, Gavin.”
Gavin ignored this.
“Well,” he said brightly to the rest of us. It seemed like he was looking directly at me. “That was certainly—interesting, huh?”
“Interesting’s not quite the word,” said Murph.
I could not will myself to say anything.
I didn’t trust myself to sound as breezy and blasé as I felt I needed to at that moment.
I looked away and noticed a uniformed waiter calmly clearing dessert plates from a nearby table.
He was the only African American man underneath the whole tent, and, aside from me, the only person of color in sight. He was older than my father.
I picked up my wineglass, which had just been refilled, and downed the whole thing in a couple of swallows.
Murph leaned over and whispered, “Hey, whoa. Take it easy. What’s wrong with you?”
What was wrong with me? My head was swimming, my ears were pounding, and I just wanted the night to be over so I could get away from this crowd, as quickly as possible.
A few tables away, Marty Adler gestured toward Harold Rubinstein.
“Excuse me,” Harold said, pushing his chair away from the table.
He and Adler walked out of the tent and conferred quietly in the darkness.
Rubinstein was nodding his head and rubbing his temples while Adler appeared to be telling him something very serious.
Pam Karnow was back up onstage. She looked flustered and angry, but she grabbed the mike and said, “Okay, folks, we’re gonna keep things rolling here. Next up, we have . . .”
But the air had been sucked out of the place, the mood had irrevocably changed, and a few more senior partners from the Management Committee were walking over to join the huddle of partners talking quietly just outside the light of the tent.
“I don’t feel so good,” I suddenly leaned over and whispered to Murph. “It feels like the room’s kind of, um, spinning.”
Murph looked at me and quickly handed me his glass. “Here, have some water.” I took great big thirsty gulps. The water felt good and cool going down.
“Jesus, how many margaritas did you have by the pool today?” Murph said, in a low voice only I was close enough to hear.
“I don’t know.” I held up three fingers. “Four? Five? I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
“We need to get you home,” Murph said. He glanced at his watch. “Listen, the first buses back should be boarding pretty soon. I’ll walk you out of here. Do you think you can stand?”
I nodded, but my head felt light.
Murph and I quickly bade good night to the rest of the table. He discreetly kept a firm steadying hand on the small of my back as we made our way back up the terraced path to the clubhouse.
As soon as we got inside the cool, darkened hallway of the old stone building, our footsteps echoing on the polished floors, I started to feel better. It felt so good to be away from the din of the tent and that incredibly stupid song, and Hunter, Kyle, and Matt seemed very far away from here.
Also, it felt good to be alone with Murph.
As we walked down the corridor, Murph glanced out a window toward the long, winding driveway. “See? Looks like two of the coaches are already boarding. Come on, let’s go. You’ll feel better after you’ve gotten some sleep on the ride home.”
But I wasn’t ready to leave the cool stillness of the clubhouse, not yet.
“Can’t we just sit somewhere for a minute?” I said. “Please. Just for a minute.” I reached down and took hold of Murph’s hand.
Murph looked at my hand, then back up at me. “You okay, Yung? Do you still feel sick?”
“I’ll feel better if I just sit here for a minute.” I led him a few tentative steps out of the corridor and into an empty parlor room.
He didn’t argue.
I peered around in the semidarkness, spotted a plush, inviting divan in the corner, and steered us both toward it.
We sat.
Then—because it felt natural, and before I realized I was going to do it—I leaned my head against Murph’s shoulder, nestled myself against him, and closed my eyes.
He smelled nice—he had that scrubbed young bachelor smell of shaving cream and deodorant soap and laundry dryer sheets—and I took in a long, deep breath, trying to fill my lungs with it.
The room had stopped spinning, and I felt very close to sleep.
“This is nice,” I heard myself murmur.
Murph said nothing. But I could hear his calm, measured breathing, could feel the reassuring rise and fall of his chest beside me.
When I raised my head slightly to look at him, he had tilted his head back along the top of the couch, and his eyes were closed.
He had extremely long, sandy eyelashes. I had never noticed that before.
“Murph,” I said sleepily.
Pause.
“Huh.”
“Why were you so nice to that Caleb kid tonight?”
Murph didn’t answer, and for a moment I thought it was because he didn’t know what I was talking about, or maybe he’d fallen asleep. But then he said in a low voice, “Because I would hope that someone would do something like that for me.”
I thought about that for a moment. Then I looked up and said, “I don’t understand. Why would anyone need to do something like that for you?”
His eyes fluttered open. He looked at me. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s just that—well, you’re Murph.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know. You just fit in so perfectly.”
Murph laughed. “You think you know everything, don’t you?” he said softly. His eyes were closed again.
“No.” I shook my head and sat up. It suddenly seemed extremely important that I set the record straight.
“That’s just it, Murph. I don’t think I know everything.
When I first got here I didn’t think I knew anything!
I just mean that you know how to play the game so well, that’s all.
It doesn’t come naturally to me the way it does for you. ”
I couldn’t believe I was actually saying all of these things to Murph. I’d never said anything like this to anyone before except Tyler. And I knew Tyler would not approve of my telling all this to someone like Murph. One of them.
“And what makes you think it comes naturally to me?” Murph asked.
“Are you kidding? It’s obvious. It’s all about what you’re used to.”
“What I’m used to?”
“Yeah. I just mean that when you come from a place of privilege, this place is a lot easier to navigate.”
Now he turned his head and looked at me sideways. “A place of privilege?” he asked. I could hear his quotes around the phrase. “And what would I know about coming from a place of privilege?”
Murph was confusing me. I knew that rich white people didn’t like to talk about their money, but as long as I was being this honest with him, I felt he should be so with me. It seemed only fair.
“Huh?” he nudged. His voice was gentle. I could tell he wasn’t mad, just curious.
“Well, your family’s house on the Cape, for one,” I blurted. It was the first thing I could think of.
He laughed again.
“What?” I said.