Bonfire of the Vanderbilts

3. Her Birthday Morning

Chapter Three

Her Birthday Morning

Early Monday, September 6, 2010, Los Angeles

Grace Atwood had not yet laid eyes on The Baptism. When she awoke this bright morning, she thought her life was perfect. It was the last day she would ever, could ever, think such an innocent thing.

That night, she’d had the now-familiar dream — a cat licking her hands. Brushing her hair from her eyes, she got a whiff of the bad smell again. It was the scent of civet, but not strong, on her hands. Had a skunk gotten into her garden and Grace brushed against something that had captured its scent? Had a stray cat crept into the house and sprayed on her sheets? It had to be something like that. It always took some washing to get it off, but with a little soap and water, it was gone.

It didn’t surprise her that Alan’s side of the bed was empty. He liked to joke that his Saab sailed with the prevailing onshore wind in the morning. He had to get up early to beat the smog to Pasadena.

She yawned, groped for her glasses on the nightstand, and plodded to the bathroom. She delighted in her decision to ignore her slippers in favor of the luxuriant caress of plush carpet on her bare feet.

How long had this sensation been bothering her? A month? A year? The oddity of it had disturbed her at first. Had the smell persisted after she washed, she might have sought help, but these days it was simply a minor annoyance. When she’d first noticed it, she’d asked Alan to smell her hands at breakfast, before she washed them, and he said he couldn’t smell anything. Then, when it didn’t go away, she waited several hours to wash until her friend Maggie could come over, and Maggie said she didn’t notice it either.

Grace was somewhat oversensitive to smells of all kinds. She didn’t wear perfume, and she couldn’t bear to be in the same room with lilies. By now she’d rationalized that the cause must be something in her daily routine, probably some activity in late evening. Or, it could be the side-effect of some medication or vitamin oozing from her pores. But it was something subtle enough that she alone could detect it. The silly thing was embarrassing. She was sure she didn't imagine it, but she’d decided not to confide in anyone else — at least for the time being.

She was pleased with her new glasses — Paloma Picasso, vintage frames she’d special-ordered from Tiffany. She thought they made her look European. It annoyed her that the acrylic lenses seemed to get smudged a lot. But her prescription was so strong that glass lenses would be hopelessly heavy. She disliked glasses slipping down her nose. Pushing them back up made her look geeky. Which, of course, she was, by anyone’s definition. Geeky and pretty.

Alan wore glasses, too, but lately he’d been talking about getting contact lenses. Grace thought this was odd. He wasn’t even slightly vain. At least, not about his appearance.

Her nearsightedness had been getting progressively worse. The eye doctor said this was typical of old age, but it was somewhat remarkable in a young woman like herself. It was one more symptom she might mention the next time she saw her internist. She couldn’t see any detail without the glasses. The entire world looked like some Impressionist painting, composed of splotches and daubs. Often, it was a pleasant sensation.

With her glasses on, she could see every pore. There she was in the gilt-edged bathroom mirror. Peaches and cream. Rose-tipped breasts molded from two fine-china teacups. Makeup would not improve her, and she would not need a bra, not for years and years. All right, she saw some puffiness under the eyes, but that’s what you get for allowing yourself a second glass of Pinot Grigio with dinner. Of course, tonight she wouldn’t limit herself at all. Not tonight, on her thirtieth! She wasn’t the slightest bit sad. Alan was predictable as a clock, and she was sure he was giving her a surprise party, as he had every one of the eight uneventful years they’d been married.

Grace could rightly say her marriage was perfect, from all appearances. Alan was so attentive that he seemed needlessly possessive to people who didn’t know them. They had no children, but she told herself that had been a career decision for each of them. This also was a rationalization, but she didn’t dwell on it.

Besides, Sylvie was as close to her as a daughter, and Maggie didn’t seem to mind.

As she washed the odor from her hands, Grace remembered: Hadn’t Maggie called? Something about wanting to do the county museum today? What kind of ruse was that? If it’s going to be a big party, the caterers will need time to set up. Still, it was odd for her to call so early. Had it been four? Five? If Grace didn’t know better, if the coincidence of Maggie’s invitation and the birthday party weren’t so obvious, she’d think it was something else. Perhaps her friend had had a sleepless night, man trouble — excuse me — relationship issues?

It was a workday, but since when did Lucas care? Wear something silk with lots of color. They’d wander through the Impressionists, then take tea on the sunny patio at that old marble building somebody turned into a Marie Callender’s. Share a piece of chocolate truffle cheesecake and get the scoop. Man trouble, she was willing to bet. Maggie doesn’t usually tell her the details, but she would make her: It’s my birthday, sweetie, so give it up!

Grace turned the hot water tap, grabbed a fresh Egyptian linen washcloth, and waited for the steam to rise. Running water is white noise, as Alan would describe it, and white noise stimulates brain cells in random ways, stirring suppressed thoughts. You could try it anytime. Just turn on the tap and see what comes up. As she did, she almost caught a dream flitting by, but she couldn’t hold it. There were other images, not just the cat. She almost never remembered her dreams — a sign, she was sure, that she was happy and well adjusted. Whatever healing her brain did at night, it was done without her having to worry about it during the day. She was a self-repairing human miracle. Oh, there was the glimpse of a car skidding. But she remembered from freshman psych class that, contrary to popular belief in Bible stories, dreams have no supernatural predictive power. They simply translate subconscious feelings into images — and not very sensible translations, at that. She suspected quite reasonably that a skidding car meant lack of control, or, more precisely, the fear of losing control. Perhaps she was only afraid she’d misfiled something at work. No big deal, proof of how organized she was, to worry about something as minor as her filing. And that didn’t really deserve to be a significant problem at all.

If Lucas would just break down and get her an assistant, she wouldn’t have to deal with those annoying paper files anyway. She hated them. Each one had to have a label — you couldn’t just print directly on the tab. The label had to be neat. She didn’t want to do them on the computer because she didn’t want to waste a whole sheet of labels. She’d prefer to type them.

Imagine! Who uses a typewriter anymore? Try to even find one. All the other research associates scribble a mess right on the tab in pencil. The department was full of reused file folders, recycled as they should be, but with all those eraser-smudged tabs. What is the world coming to?

Lucas complained she was having trouble with the filing, both paper and electronic. She didn’t think her organizational skills had gotten any worse. She suspected he was becoming fussier in his old age, which at sixty-nine is hardly old, but apparently it comes with the right to be more opinionated.

There was sometimes another dream, not part of the same one because it felt different. It had a panic with it. A voice calling to her:

Who’s your friend, Grace?

The panic hovered momentarily as she walked to the window and caught her breath. She looked up to see old, stooped Norm Schlosser watering his roses, and the panic vanished. Freshman Psych again delivered a convenient answer: The brain doesn’t want to be roused, wants sleep to flow on like a surging river. Hear a noise or feel something on the skin, and the brain incorporates it into the dream imagery in an instant. Take, for example, the sensation of the cat licking her hands. Now, there’s some fast computing! Was there an actual physical sensation involved? A breeze or a wisp of fabric? In a moment, her brain incorporated the noise or itch or whatever into her dream instead of waking her.

The voice had to have been from Schlosser’s television. He can’t sleep, poor man. A widower, all alone for four years now. Stays up all hours watching the late movie. Loves the Fifties horror stuff. So, he’s got a window open, the audio on his home theater system cranked way up (because he can’t hear very well), and Grace’s inventive brain comes up with spooky voices speaking from her subconscious. Clever — Norm gets to watch his scary movie and Grace gets her beauty sleep.

Human beings are amazing creatures, aren’t they?

As she toweled off, Grace found her phone and called the office. She got the robot voice announcing the Celini Foundation and punched Lucas Milner’s extension. Ah, good, voice mail. He’s not in yet, or else he’s got a mouthful of croissant and soy latté. He’s reading the New York Review of Books and wondering whether anyone else in Los Angeles reads above the tenth-grade level. She waited for the beep and then told him she was taking a personal day, which was nothing but the truth. He wouldn’t be upset, she was sure. She’d been working like a demon all last week, running down reference items for computer-challenged art history students who were late with their term papers. And, after all, he’d be invited to the party tonight, wouldn’t he? She’d give him a big, wet kiss and tell him what a lovely day she’d spent with the Impressionists. Call it a refresher course, continuing education.

Alan was the scientist of the family. Was his need to explain things down to the minutest detail rubbing off on her?

Here she was, worrying about psychology and brain function on this bright, clear day, on her birthday. She wished she had more of Alan’s knack for organization. Maybe the two of them weren’t so different, this computer nerd and this art historian. He was logical, she was sensible. They had done it right. He wasn’t passionate, but he was sweet.

Later that day, Grace’s dream of perfection would evaporate in an instant. She would see something, an image, not different in character from a dream, but nonetheless a real image, and her life would change. More precisely, her view of life would change. The image would stir an involuntary feeling in her, without her taking thought, without putting the thing into words.

Her distress about that feeling and her obsession with it would shape all the days she had left.