Close Your Eyes

9

I met the Hendrixes outside the main terminal at the airport. A tanned couple wearing bright fleece vests, they were moving from New England to Texas, Betty Hendrix had said in her emails. They were looking forward to warm weather!!! I’d polished off a grande latte and was still so tired I felt stoned.

“Whew!” cried Betty Hendrix as I held open the passenger door of the Neon for her. She had short brown hair and a ruddy complexion, as if she spent time outdoors, cross-country skiing or chopping wood. “It is sweltering!” she said gaily. “Nothing like Boston.” She spat out Boston as if saying poison.

“Can I help you with your bags?” I asked. I felt a headache beginning to bloom.

“Oh, Benny’s got them,” she said, dismissing her husband, a distinguished-looking man who had thick reddish hair, with a swipe of her hand. Amid the gaseous fumes from passing buses and idling cars, I could smell her fruity lotion.

Benjamin Hendrix slammed the trunk shut and joined us, holding out a pink hand. “Hello, hello,” he said. “You must be Lauren.” He smiled kindly, and I wondered if he had children, and if they knew how lucky they were.

“I am,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Hendrix.”

“Ben, please. Ben and Betty.”

“Okay, then,” I said. “Please, climb in. Let’s go find you two a house.”

“Let’s do,” said Betty. She slid into the backseat, and surprising me, Ben settled himself into the front passenger seat. We pulled out of the airport and promptly got embroiled in traffic on 71. “Feels just like home,” said Betty drily.

“Now, come on, dear,” said Ben, gesturing to a topless club along the highway. “We don’t have anything called the Landing Strip near Logan.”

“Hmph,” said Betty.

From my attaché case, I took the stack of stapled papers I had spent the previous afternoon preparing. “Take a look,” I said. “I’ve selected some wonderful homes for you to preview. I think you’ll be pleased.” In fact, the Hendrixes’ price range was well below the cost of fulfilling Betty’s dream of acquiring “a big Victorian-style home with at least an acre of land, four or five bedrooms, and a few fireplaces, but in the city, no gated communities, please.” For a half million, the Hendrixes were either going to be well into the ’burbs or giving up the land and the fireplaces; and they wouldn’t be getting four bedrooms unless they went for the utility-closet-as-bedroom, which I doubted they would.

Ben slipped his glasses down his nose and peered at my printouts, frowning. “Where are these places?” he asked. “Steiner Ranch? Circle C? Are these the suburbs?”

“Not officially,” I said.

“I’m confused,” said Ben. “I thought we were looking at condos. I want a downtown feel, an urban lifestyle.”

“I told her close in,” said Betty. “I told her, Benny. Oh, look at this one! Three fireplaces!”

Ben took the printout and squinted. “Where the hell is Round Rock?” he said.

“It’s close,” I murmured, “to many things.”

“I can just feel a warm fire with Yo-Yo Ma—our cat—curled in my lap,” said Betty.

“Mr. Hendrix,” I said. “Ben. What are you looking for, exactly? I’ll call my assistant and have him send some more listings immediately.” I didn’t have an assistant, but I knew Jonesey would help me out if the day was slow.

“Well,” said Ben, putting his glasses back on and folding his hands in his lap, “I want to walk or, worst case, ride a bus to work. I’ve been driving for thirty years, and I’m sick of my car.”

“Okay,” I said. Betty had told me her husband worked in finance and that his new office was on Third and Congress.

“Furthermore,” said Ben, “I’d like to try ethnic restaurants. I want to walk to various ethnic restaurants from my home.”

“No problem,” I said encouragingly. After all, the P. F. Chang’s in the Arboretum mall was—technically—ethnic, and you couldn’t throw a rock in Austin without hitting a burrito.

“I love the capitol building,” added Betty. “I’ve seen pictures. Let’s have a view of that, wouldn’t it be neat? And I’d like to walk to a park.”

“There’s Zilker Park,” I said. “Barton Springs is a great place to swim.”

“Okay, let’s be able to walk to the park, whatever,” said Ben. “And maybe something sleek, something modern, you know?”

I thought of the folder in his hand, which was filled with photos of sprawling limestone homes decorated with cowhide furniture.

“And at least two fireplaces,” said Betty. “A nice big garden, maybe a cozy extra bedroom for my sewing? A turret or a widow’s walk would be over the top, I know, but a gal can dream, right?”

“Tell me about your home in Boston,” I ventured.

“Big stuffy old place in Sudbury,” said Ben. “Terrible commute. The house is full of the kids’ crap.”

“It’s a charming Victorian,” said Betty. “It has four bedrooms, but now that the children are gone, it does feel large. Then again, the boys come home for holidays.” My palms grew sweaty with the realization that I was trapped on Highway 183 with a couple on the verge of divorce.

“We’re looking for a change,” said Ben. “That’s why I took the transfer. A new leaf.”

“I’m a little nervous,” confessed Betty. “I’ve heard some Texans are … a bit gauche. Kind of nouveau riche. Big hair, right? But you’re a nice girl. So that’s a start!”

“I think I’m getting a better idea of what you’re looking for,” I said, deciding to show them homes way out of their budget so at least they could see the problem for themselves.

When I started out in real estate, I used to take people’s budgets seriously, showing clients only homes they could comfortably afford. But as the years passed, I realized that people were leaving me for Realtors who showed them their dream homes and then either figured out the financing or let them decide they had to look at less expensive homes. Clients wanted to dream. They didn’t seem to care if you respected their bank account.

“How about we start in Clarksville? That’s a beautiful historic area adjacent to downtown,” I said.

“Clarksville,” mused Ben. “I think I’ve heard of that one.”

“It has a nice ring to it,” said Betty. “Very classy.”

“Clarksville has a long, storied history,” I said, “and yet is one of the sleeker, more hip places to live in the city.”

Both Hendrixes leaned in, listening with rapt interest as I began talking about the former plantation of Governor Elisha M. Pease, historic Nau’s drugstore with the working soda fountain, and Jeffrey’s restaurant, which was rumored to be George W. Bush’s favorite. I wondered which Hendrix had had the affair. While Ben seemed a likely candidate—the sleek stuff sounded like it was parroted from some youthful secretary’s Facebook page—there was something squirrelly about Betty, all her talk of fireplaces and snuggling cats.

“Let’s pop into a local breakfast spot,” I suggested, thinking of Lucinda’s, an Austin institution, which was scheduled to be demolished soon to make room for a Marriott. “You can get the feel of downtown Austin, and I can call my assistant for some more central listings.”

“Okay,” agreed Ben.

“That sounds perfect,” said Betty. “I love it here already!” She reached forward and patted Ben’s hand, then had a second thought, unbuckled her seat belt, lunged, and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. He looked both stunned and pleased.

By the time we had eaten (egg-white omelet for Betty; migas with extra cheese for Ben; egg, papas, and cheese taco for me), Jonesey had sent a list of addresses to my phone. They ranged in price from one to two million.

As the Hendrixes sipped their coffee, I called Jonesey from a bathroom stall. I explained Ben’s sleek, modern desires and Betty’s fireplace fixation. Jonesey, an elegant gay man in his sixties, sized the Hendrixes up at once. “Oh Lord,” he said, “affair city.”

“Right-o,” I said. “So what do I show them?”

“The guy’s posturing,” said Jonesey. “Show them the condo first. It’s so modern that everyone on the hike-and-bike trail can watch you brushing your teeth. Floor-to-ceiling windows. An aquarium built into the kitchen, plasma screen in the bathroom.”

“Sounds awesome,” I said, thinking of my cluttered apartment, my fat TV with rabbit ears.

“Then hit the five-bedroom in Clarksville. It’s too ye olde colonial for its own good. Three fireplaces, needs work, but it’s a million, and she’ll go low. Lady’s desperate, wants to retire. Window units, for God’s sake.”

“Is she moving to Lakeway?” I asked, naming the town near Austin where many Texans moved after their children left home. Lakeway had golf courses and houses with fishing docks.

“Oh, no, honey,” said Jonesey. “She’s moving to the W downtown.”

“Glamorous,” I said.

“Haul them out to Lakeway before rush hour. Show them a few of the waterfront listings. Then drive back around four-thirty, five. That will give them an understanding of what they’re paying for, living central.”

“Right, Lakeway,” I said.

“What’s your take?” said Jonesey.

“Hmm?”

“What do you think they’ll buy?”

“My guess is a nice two-, three-bedroom close in. Traditional. He says he’s looking for something new and different, but I don’t know …”

“Okay. Drive through Tarrytown next, east of Exposition. The houses are smaller there, a bit cheaper, but still dripping with charm. Then bring them to my place.”

“What?” Jonesey was a notorious homebody who loved cooking every night for his husband, Gil. Gil came from big money, and they shared an amazing colonial in Pemberton Heights.

“Gil’s out of town. What the hell. Invite Gerry, too. We’ll have a little cocktail party. Seven sound good?”

It did. I put on some lipstick and straightened my blazer. I let myself imagine how fantastic a sale would feel. I hadn’t sold anything substantial in a while, just some student crumboxes. If I got a big commission, we could move, or at least buy a new couch. Maybe I could convince Alex to meet me and Gerry somewhere thrilling for a vacation.

I smiled at myself in the mirror and went back to the Hendrixes. We had a big day ahead. I approached the table and felt it immediately: there had been a fight. Ben was red-faced and bristling, and Betty looked gray and deflated. “Ready to go look at some homes?” I asked brightly.

Betty crossed her arms. Ben said, “I think we’ll go back to the hotel for a bit, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course,” I said. They were staying at the Quality Inn all the way back near the airport, but I wasn’t going to hold them captive.

“Honey,” said Betty, not to me.

“There is a condo right on this block,” I fudged. “Quite modern, if you’d like to check it out before we drive back.”

“Let’s do,” said Betty.

“Fine,” said Ben.

“Brunch is my treat!” I said. I left cash on the table, and we walked outside. Surreptitiously, I scanned my listings. There was indeed a condo on the block, but it was a studio, and I had no idea whether or not it was modern. I strode purposefully along Congress, the Hendrixes lagging behind and hissing at each other. The listing had a note: Call before showing. I punched in the phone number, and a man who sounded sleepy answered.

“Hello,” I said, “this is Lauren Mahdian from Sunshine City Realty. I’m hoping to—”

“Lauren?” said the man.

“Yes,” I said. “I was wondering—”

“That’s a great name,” said the man. “Underrated.”

“Uh,” I said, “I was wondering if I could show your condo now?”

“Oh, okay,” said the man. “Give me a sec to get dressed.”

“Great,” I said, cutting the call. I whirled around to face the Hendrixes. “Isn’t this a vibrant street?” I said, feeling like Vanna White. I waved my arm, almost hitting a bearded wino with my purse. “Watch it,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Glorious!” said Betty with some desperation.

“Is it much farther?” asked Ben, eyeing what appeared to be an antiwar rally heading our way.

“Here we are,” I said, pushing open a glass door. A chilly blast of air that smelled like Band-Aids greeted us. Behind an onyx-colored desk, a black man with platinum hair smiled. “Welcome to Le Dome,” he said. “What can I do to please you?”

I quickly checked the address: we were not in some sort of brothel but a new high-rise. “Hi there,” I said. “We’re visiting Unit 302, taking a look.”

“Bien sur,” said the concierge. “The elevator is on your left, past the lovebird cage.”

Betty looked charmed and Ben, nervous, as we boarded the elevator. “This unit does have a fireplace,” I said, and Betty said, “Do tell.” Ben studied his shoes.

When we reached the third floor, an attractive, balding man about my age was leaving Unit 302, a computer tucked under his arm. “Enjoy,” he said, brushing past us. Before he stepped into the elevator, he turned back and caught my eye. “I’m Arthur,” he said. Flustered, I did not answer.

We went inside the condo, and Betty said, “Whoa!” It was blindingly bright: a wall of windows showcased Congress all the way to the capitol. A kitchen filled with stainless steel ran against one wall, and a spiral wrought-iron staircase led to the second floor.

“Everyone can see me,” said Ben.

“Many of the more modern condominiums feature large windows or walls of glass,” I agreed. I felt myself morphing into enthused-Realtor mode. It was strange how this happened to me—I went from my normal low-key self to a sales dynamo. In a way, I liked this showy, confident side; it was heady to be a loudmouth instead of my usual shy self. And then I could finish with the Hendrixes and go home and put my feet up.

“Good thing we don’t have toddlers anymore,” said Betty, testing the staircase with her navy heel.

“Who cleans the windows?” asked Ben.

“Cleaning services are included in the monthly fees,” I said, reading from the listing. “As well as use of the pool, the entertainment pavilion, and the Armadillo Spa.”

“Armadillo Spa?” said Betty.

“The armadillo is the state animal of Texas,” I said dopily.

“Oh,” said Betty with an expression of distaste.

“The state mammal is the Mexican free-tailed bat,” I noted. “And the state reptile is the Texas horned lizard.”

“Aren’t you a fount of information,” said Betty, curling her lip in annoyance. I told myself to dial it back as she climbed the staircase gingerly. At the top, she exclaimed, “This is gorgeous! Benny, get up here this very minute!”

Ben dug his hands deeper into his pockets. His bluff, it seemed, had been called. He cleared his throat, then marched toward the staircase and tromped up slowly.

“I’ll be down here,” I said. “Take your time!”

The living room was furnished elegantly, with a soft gray couch and reclaimed-wood table. On the kitchen counter was an antique typewriter. I peered at the page, which read: Nobody could tell. Still, he felt he knew her, could see her heart through her silk blouse. Her heart, her ribs, her nipples.

My face grew flushed. From upstairs, I heard a laugh, then Betty saying warmly, “You old fuddy-duddy, you!”

When the Hendrixes came down, I went over a few more listings with them and relayed Jonesey’s cocktail invitation. The Hendrixes accepted. By the time we walked past the blond doorman again, something had warmed between them: they seemed to be enjoying themselves.

That night, after dropping the tipsy Hendrixes at their hotel, Gerry and I took Lamar Boulevard home. I drove, and Gerry rested his hand on my knee. I wondered if we would ever be as ill at ease around each other as the Hendrixes. I did feel often far away from Gerry, but I assumed this was normal. It was what I wanted. I had found a good man who wanted a simple sort of joy. Wasn’t this love?