Every Little Thing. Pamela Klaffke

Mason—I don’t mean to stare.”

      “No, it’s fine—I mean, I didn’t even notice.”

      “You’re so full of shit,” Edgar says this to me in a whisper. I can’t help but laugh, but am horrified when it comes out as more of a high-pitched giggle. Candice and Amanda stop yammering for a second while they whip their heads around to see what is so funny. Edgar ignores them and continues talking with me. “It’s just so good to see you after all this time. Surreal, isn’t it?” I nod again and this time turn to fully face him. He’s not wearing a suit today, but jeans and a soft sweater. I notice the black Doc Martens on his feet. He notices me noticing and brushes his leg up against mine until our feet are touching. I’m wearing my clunky Doc ankle boots which I now realize I should have polished or at least wiped down with a cloth. “Great minds think alike,” he says, again in a whisper, like we’re co-conspirators or in on the same joke. It’s a cheesy thing to say, but I let it go and simply grin.

      It takes me a moment to realize that Aaron is standing there, hovering, waiting for his brother to move and relinquish his seat. He’s clasping the stems of two more champagne glasses between the fingers of one hand and balancing a fruit plate with the other. He must know Edgar has people to do those sorts of things—there are two flight attendants for the six of us.

      “Sorry, mate,” Edgar says, as he stands.

      The men swap places and I snatch a glass of champagne from Aaron before he can even get settled. I raise the glass to Edgar before taking a sip. He winks. “I’m glad you’re here, Mason. It’s going to be a stellar weekend.”

      “He can be such a prick sometimes,” Aaron says under his breath, obviously irritated. If he dislikes his brother so much, why are we here? He’d better hope he didn’t drag me out to Montana to spend the weekend watching some ridiculous male pissing contest. I take a deep breath that when I exhale escapes as laughter. Edgar and Aaron did used to have bona fide pissing contests when we were little, on the long, paved driveway leading up to the Sonoma house—I’d draw a line in chalk and they’d take turns standing behind it and peeing out as far as they could. Then I’d measure the distance and record it in the notebook we kept as a diary of their various and frequent competitions. I can’t believe I used to measure their piss.

      “What’s so funny?” Aaron asks.

      “It’s just—never mind.” I decide to keep that particular memory to myself.

      Still, I can’t erase the image right away—especially that look Aaron would get on his face when Edgar inevitably beat him. Edgar was older and he always won the pissing contest, but that never kept Aaron from trying and he never once cried when he lost.

      * * *

      After dropping our bags at Edgar’s place, Aaron and I borrow one of his vehicles and head into town. We visit a few art galleries that are surprisingly good. We chat with gallery owners who seem to be from anywhere but here and when Aaron gives them his card they know who he is. We lunch at a busy place on Callender Street that could easily be mistaken for one of the many fusion tapas places you find in Los Angeles. I scan the room. Aaron says the restaurant is owned by the brother of a famous writer I’ve heard of but whose work I don’t know. Patrons are outfitted in casually chic clothing: jeans, sweaters, leather jackets. It’s that subtly expensive look; no big logos or blaring designer names, but it’s the details—the cut, the perfect topstitching and pure cashmere sweaters that don’t pill—that give the price tags away. Who are these people?

      “A lot of writers and producers from L.A. have places here—and novelists. Edgar told me that guy—what’s his name? The guy who writes those satirical novels? He lives near here.”

      I nod. “Oh, that guy, yeah.” I have no idea who he’s talking about.

      “Yeah, yeah. And that other guy—Edgar says he writes really ‘male’ books, but he’s really famous—he lives around here, too.”

      Again, I nod. “People love his stuff.” Just because I work in a bookstore doesn’t mean I read the books or have any clue which writers Aaron is referring to. But he has answered my question about the restaurant’s clientele without me having to ask. We must be in one of those weird hybrid towns I’ve heard about—the ones where a bunch of L.A. people buy up half the property and live there on weekends, the kind of place you’d find in a “Stars Without Makeup” issue of one of those trashy supermarket tabloids I sometimes secretly buy.

      LADIES

      I’m grateful for the two drinks we had before coming back to Edgar’s ranch. Candice and Amanda are insufferable and tedious and I’ve been abandoned by Aaron: he’s outside somewhere with Edgar and Joseph, at the stables, petting horses, being one of the guys. I’m stuck with The Ladies in the kitchen with its faux weather-beaten woodwork, gathered around the island that sits in the middle of the room, vintage-style pots with copper bottoms dangling above us. The only thing keeping me from reaching up and grabbing one of the pots with which to knock myself unconscious is the bottle of vodka between us—and that’s rapidly disappearing. I thought this weekend was supposed to be fun. I want to be numb.

      The Ladies have finally exhausted their discussion of Bay Area private preschools and have moved on to hair and fashion talk. I have, so far, learned that “Grace” and “Gail” were telling Candice about the most fabulous shoe shop in Hayes Valley. I learn that it’s a little bohemian, but they are the exclusive source in Northern California for some French brands I can’t remember, or pronounce. Really? one asks. Really, the other responds. Their voices are quiet—hushed. I want to laugh. This is the way these people talk. I roll my eyes and the reflection of the sun hitting the pans burns my pupils. When I look away, everywhere I turn I see big black spots. I hope Aaron gets back soon.

      I eat my way around the platter of hors d’oeuvres in a spiral pattern and do my best to drown out the endless talk of shoes and handbags and hair, but the more I try, the louder The Ladies’ voices seem to get. Their Really? Really tones are no longer hushed. Instead of being numb and deaf—and potentially blind if I keep staring at the sun’s ref lection in the copper pots—I have developed some kind of hyperhearing abilities and every word that comes out of The Ladies’ mouths sounds like a scream.

      Their screaming goes on for what seems like forever, but is eventually silenced with one word: Janet.

      They’re talking about clothes, expensive clothes I can’t afford and probably wouldn’t want even if I could. This designer and that one, the pros and cons of navy blue, how high a dress hemline can climb before becoming vulgar. They are such ridiculous, stupid women. And then: Janet—my Janet.

      “You have to see the dress she whipped up for me for the Grossman benefit,” Candice says.

      Janet does not whip things up.

      “Lally is always using her—gorgeous clothes,” Amanda says. What kind of a name is Lally? I bite my tongue and suck back more vodka. And by the way, Ladies, this Lally person doesn’t use Janet. She’s not a slave or a dish towel.

      “I couldn’t make it to her show last night, but I have an appointment next week at her studio—you should come. I’m sure she won’t mind,” says Candice.

      Janet may very well mind. These people have no respect for anyone.

      Amanda nods. “That would be fabulous—it’s always so much better to meet directly with the designer than buying off the rack.”

      “Absolutely—it’s worth every extra penny,” says Candice.

      “Isn’t she involved with Victor Durrell?”

      “Oh, yes—for a while now. I hear it’s rather serious.”

      “It is,” I say. Both women stare at me.

      “Really?” asks Candice.

      “Really,” I say.

      “Really?