The Beekman Café was across from the elementary school and right next to St. Andrews, an old Episcopal church with a picturesque graveyard. The little square—made up of the school, the church, the café, and a run-down, two-pump gas station—was about two miles from downtown Beekman in an area otherwise occupied by graceful old houses with mature gardens tucked behind stone fences. Every few years, a shiny-eyed newcomer would come up with plans to turn the humble café into a swank wine bar or tapas restaurant, only to be harrumphed into silence at local planning-board meetings. And Lucy had to admit, part of what made Beekman appealing was that it was unlikely to appeal to the sort of people who couldn’t imagine living more than a five-minute walk from an overpriced glass of pinot noir.
Wyatt had missed the bus that morning—it was a sock-related meltdown, the specifics of which Lucy never did figure out, but the fifth pair he tried on were apparently okay—so Lucy had to drop him off at school. It was still raining hard but the air was strangely warm, and it made Lucy feel like she might have a fever. She’d decided to put off her plan to get the winter clothes down from the attic and grab a cup of coffee instead. She pulled her car into the gravel parking lot in front of the Beekman Café, soaked her left Merrell in a puddle, and hurried inside.
Susan, Claire, and Sunny Bang were sitting together at a small round table, and they waved her over the minute she walked through the door.
“Lucy! We’re doing a big thing at St. Andrews. The Blessing of the Animals. You guys have to come,” said Claire, a mug of cappuccino curdling in front of her.
“We don’t go to church,” said Lucy. “We’re not religious.”
“This is not going to be religious,” said Susan.
“It’s gonna be a little bit religious,” Claire corrected Susan. “It’s at a church, and they’re going to be blessed.”
“It’s an ecumenical blessing,” said Susan. “It’s like me saying, ‘Claire, I bless you.’ Is that religious?”
“If we were standing in front of the altar inside a church and you were a priest? Yes, that would be religious. I don’t care. I want Louisa and Blake to start going to church anyway. I just can’t get Edmund out of bed on Sundays to go.”
“We’re trying to raise awareness about the unresolved employment situation of Colleen Lowell,” Susan said. “The men are all going to wear skirts as a show of solidarity.”
“Let me grab a cup of coffee,” Lucy said. “Then you can tell me all about it.”
“The kids are going to walk down the aisle in a big procession, with their pets, and then Reverend Elsbith is going to bless them. The animals, and the kids too. Oh, and they’re all going to be wearing only white,” said Susan.
“The animals?” asked Lucy.
“The kids. We’re not dressing up the animals,” said Susan. “Although maybe we could put garlands around their necks or something.”
“I’m not making any fucking garlands,” said Sunny Bang.
“I’ll make them,” said Claire. “I like doing that sort of thing.”
“Jesus,” Sunny Bang said under her breath.
“Sunny, I’m not a moron because I like making garlands,” said Claire.
“I did not say you were a moron, Claire.”
“I think garlands would be nice,” said Susan. “I’m going to write that down. Claire, garlands.”
“Wyatt doesn’t have white clothes,” said Lucy. “At least, not any white pants. That much I know.”
“He can borrow Louisa’s white cords,” said Claire.
“No, he can’t,” said Sunny Bang. “Tobias is wearing those cords.”
“What about tights?” said Claire. “I’ve got a ton of Louisa’s old white tights from ballet. I’m sure they’d fit Wyatt.”
Lucy let herself imagine the scene, trying to get Wyatt to put on Louisa’s white tights. These women have no idea what I’m dealing with, Lucy thought. They have such small problems, they need to invent them.
Lucy made a semi-apologetic face and said, “I can’t really see Wyatt agreeing to put on tights.”
“Forget the white clothes,” Susan said. “Wyatt can wear whatever he’s comfortable in. We’re looking for participation, not perfection.”
Claire got a look on her face. Claire was generally looking for perfection.
“I think we might have to skip the whole thing, actually,” said Lucy. “Wyatt doesn’t have a pet and I don’t want him to feel left out.”
“You can borrow the Genslers’ turtle!” said Susan. “He doesn’t really walk, but Wyatt can pull him in a wagon or something.”
“Why aren’t the Genslers bringing their own turtle?” asked Sunny Bang.
“Because they’re Jewish,” Susan explained. “They’ll let the turtle participate for the good of the town, but they don’t want their kids to go to the church.”
“Do you have a wagon you could decorate?” Claire asked Lucy.
“Ah, no,” said Lucy.
“I’ll loan you ours,” said Claire. “I’ll drop it off this afternoon. And I’ll put in a pair of white tights, just in case you get inspired.”
“You’ll have to arrange with the Genslers to pick up the turtle. He weighs about fifty pounds, but apparently he’s very friendly,” Susan said. She grabbed her phone. “I’m sending you their contact info right now. There. Done and dusted.”
Lucy could feel the situation slipping away from her. She thought fast.
“You know what?” said Lucy. “I wasn’t thinking. Wyatt will want to bring his goldfish. Someone else can have the Genslers’ turtle.”
“Are you sure?” said Susan. “The turtle would be pretty fun.”
“Yeah, it sounds fun,” said Lucy. “But Wyatt will want his fish to get the blessing. He’s really into his fish.”
*
There was a bottle of Dom Pérignon on the Allens’ kitchen counter, gift-wrapped rather garishly in crispy green see-through plastic. Gordon glanced at the card. It was from a local property developer who was grateful he had taken care of the transvestite problem in the elementary school. Gordon had taken care of it. Gordon had arranged for the teacher to be placed on paid leave until another school could be coaxed into taking him. It had been several weeks, though, and the lady-man teacher still didn’t have a job, and before long the local taxpayers were going to feel the pinch.
Gordon rubbed the starched white bow between his thumb and index finger. It made a zippy, almost crunchy sound like, well, like nothing Gordon had ever heard before.
He touched the plastic wrap, oh so gently, with just the tips of his fingers. It was exceptionally, terrifically, unbelievably crinkly.
Simka would love this, Gordon thought. Simka would go nuts for this.
He tucked the bottle under his arm and headed up to his study.
Seventeen
The relatively large size of the human male’s testicles is often cited as proof that men are evolutionarily hard-wired for promiscuity. But it is perhaps more indicative of this: If prehistoric man, while off on a hunt, could trust his partner to keep her legs together, he wouldn’t have needed all of that excess sperm to do battle inside her when he got back.