The Rules of Attraction

PAUL “How was the flight?” I asked them.

“Oh lurid, lurid,” Mrs. Jared said. “Your mother met this absolutely gorgeous doctor from the North Shore in first class who was going to Parents’ Weekend at Brown and you know what your mother did?” Mrs. Jared was smiling now, like a naughty little girl.

“No.” Oh, I couldn’t wait.

“Oh Mimi,” my mother moaned, coming out of the bathroom.

“She told him that she was single,” Mrs. Jared exclaimed and got up and took my mother’s place in the bathroom and closed the door.

There mustn’t be any silence so my mother asked me, “Did I tell you about the car?”

“Yes.” I could hear Mrs. Jared urinating. Embarrassed, I spoke louder, “Yes. Yes, you did. I think you did tell me about the car.”

“Typical. It’s all so typical. I was seeing Dr. Vanderpool and the two of us were going to lunch at The 95th and—”

“Wait. Dr. Vanderpool? Your shrink?” I asked.

She started brushing her hair again and asked, “Shrink?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Doctor.”

“Yes. My doctor.” My mother gave me a strange look.

“Going out to lunch?” I reminded her.

“Yes,” she said. I had thrown her off balance. She stood there, stumped.

“I thought this happened at Neiman’s,” I said, amused, but, oh shit, who cares?

“No. Why?” she asked, still brushing her hair.

“Forget it.” I’ve forgotten I shouldn’t be amused by things like that anymore. I mean, I’ve only been away, what, three years, right? The toilet flushed and I flinched, looking back at the TV, pretending that Mrs. Jared didn’t even take a piss.

“Well…” My mother was looking at me like I was a real weirdo. A real KooKoo.

“Go on,” I urged. “Go on.”

“Well,” she continued. “I came out of his office and it was gone. Completely gone. Can you believe it?” she was asking me.

“Typical,” I told her. Just pretend she’s not crazy and things will go smoothly.

“Yes.” She stopped brushing her hair, but continued gazing into the mirror.

The bellboys brought the bags up-all eight of them. That’s right. Of course, a weekend in Boston, eight bags for two people, sure. There were eight pieces of luggage: four pieces of Louis Vuitton, my mother’s; and four pieces of Gucci, Mrs. Jared’s.

“How’s school?” my mother asked after she tipped the bellboys (who were not sexy, contrary to Mrs. Jared’s allusions that they were).

“Fine,” I said.

“Classes,” she reminded herself. “How are your classes?”

“All right.”

“What are you taking?” she asked.

I must have told her this, given her a list over the phone, at least five times. “Classes. Just classes. Acting. Improv. Scene Design. Classes. Drama.”

“How is that lovely friend of yours? Michael? Monty? What?” she asked, unzipping one of the bags and looking through it.

I couldn’t believe she did shit like that. She damn well knew his goddamn name but I couldn’t even get angry, so I laid back and sighed his name. “Mitchell. His name was Mitchell.”

“Yes. Mitchell. That’s it.”

“How is he?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Fine.” I started to worry about Sean again. Sean at the party. Sean fucking someone. Who? That girl leaving notes in his box? Or worse … what if he went home with Raymond or Harry or Donald? What am I doing here?

“When is Richard coming in?” I asked, changing the subject.

“I don’t know,” my mother whispered, suddenly concerned. “Mimi?”

“I’d say sixish,” Mrs. Jared said. “I told him that we had dinner reservations downstairs at nine, so he knows when to be here.”

What am I doing here? My mother wants to speak to me about nothing. It’s only a ploy to get me here so she can complain about the way I dress and eat and smoke and live and god only knows what else. My mother and Mrs. Jared move to the other room. “We’ll leave this room to you boys so you can talk and whatever….” It sounds ominous and suspicious and what am I doing here? I look over at the copy of The Fountainhead on top of the TV set, a reminder of Michael? Monty? I watch a cartoon. My mother and Mrs. Jared split a Seconal or whatever and start to worry about what they’re going to wear tonight. I watch more cartoons and curse Sean and order room service. I decide to get drunk early.