The Virginity of Famous Men Read online

  THE

  VIRGINITY

  of FAMOUS

  MEN

  For Melanie Brown

  and for Adam Tinkham

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Paris, He Said: A Novel

  Little Known Facts: A Novel

  Portraits of a Few of the People I’ve Made Cry: Stories

  CONTENTS

  Beach Vacation

  The First Wife

  The Prettiest Girls

  The Functionary

  Words That Once Shocked Us

  Five Rooms

  Roger Weber Would Like to Stay

  Whatshisname

  The Couplehood Jubilee

  Older Sister

  Clear Conscience

  The New, All-True CV

  The Virginity of Famous Men

  Acknowledgments

  Publication Information

  A Note On The Author

  Also Available by Christine Sneed

  BEACH VACATION

  The trip was her son’s reward for earning As in all of his classes the preceding year, and she and his father had told him that he could choose anywhere in the country. To their surprise, he did not pick Los Angeles or New York, Aspen or Maui. He wanted to go to Captiva, a tiny island off the Gulf coast of Florida that was nearly split in half during a hurricane a few years earlier. The island was the sort of place that families went to vacation with other families. She did not realize until a few hours after they arrived that he had chosen the island because a girl he liked planned to be there with her parents at the same time.

  But there were other problems, worse ones, that she would have to face, the first being her husband’s absence. At the last minute, he was informed by his boss that he could not go to Florida, despite having already been granted the week off. The day before they planned to leave, he was ordered to fly from their home in Chicago to Shreveport, Louisiana. A warehouse had burned down, one where his linens-manufacturer employer stored cotton for its looms. The fire had taken two adjacent warehouses with it, neither of which the manufacturer owned. Steven was apologetic and worried and told her and Tristan that he would try to join them after a couple of days. He hoped that it wouldn’t be as bad as it sounded in Louisiana and that they might let him go after the insurance adjusters visited the site and the police and firefighters were done poking around.

  They had not taken a vacation together as a family in two years, aside from a few tense weekends at a lake cottage in central Wisconsin, where Tristan had pouted over not being home with his friends and his computer. She was alternately enraged and morose that Steven would not be going, and she would have canceled the trip if he and Tristan had not argued so convincingly that they go ahead as planned. Why Tristan still wanted to go when it was only the two of them had perplexed her, but at the time she had been flattered: they did so little together outside of the house because he had turned seventeen in February and could rarely be bothered to have dinner out with her and his father, let alone travel with her to a beach resort more than a thousand miles away for one entire week.

  It was mid-March and crowded and seventy-eight degrees when they arrived at the resort, where they had booked two rooms with a view of the Gulf. She had held on to the second room because she hoped her husband would join them but didn’t really believe he would. She also knew that her son was too close to adulthood for them to share a room, his body more manly than boyish now, with whiskers and wiry leg and armpit hair that she tried not to see but it was aggressively there, as were his dirty clothes that smelled like his father’s after an hour of yard work or a visit to the gym. The previous fall, she’d made Steven talk to him about condoms and pretty, vulnerable girls, which they had already talked about when Tristan was twelve, but it seemed necessary to her that they have this talk a second time. He’d gotten his driver’s license the preceding spring and for a while was taking out the same girl, who then suddenly he wasn’t taking out anymore and Jan didn’t know what had happened because he would tell her and Steven only that it hadn’t worked out and what was the big deal?

  The resort had been badly damaged by the hurricane and many of the little villas and apartment buildings were still being repaired or completely rebuilt, though the hibiscus and oleander bushes had survived or else had been replanted and had grown again to a floral effusiveness that reminded her of bridesmaid dresses and frilly tuxedo shirts, but beautiful ones that people wouldn’t have cringed over.

  “This place is a dump,” Tristan announced as they drove from the front office to the square yellow building that housed their rooms.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “When was that storm? Four years ago?”

  “Two and a half.”

  “What’s taking them so long to fix things?”

  “Everything on the island probably needed to be repaired. There are only so many people nearby who can do this kind of work.”

  “This place charges enough that you’d think they’d be able to afford more construction guys.”

  “It probably doesn’t work that way.”

  “Well, it should,” he said dismissively.

  Before and during the plane ride from O’Hare to Fort Myers, they’d argued over his shoes and neither of them had recovered yet. Despite the freezing weather in Chicago, he’d insisted on wearing his Tevas without socks, and Jan hadn’t been able to deter him. Steven had already left for Shreveport and couldn’t gently bully Tristan into backing down. More than once during the three-hour flight, she had looked at his feet and sighed, and he had scowled back at her and barked, “What, Mom?” loud enough for the people in the row ahead to hear. Two of them had corkscrewed their necks to stare back at her and Tristan with a gleeful frown.

  Their rooms were connected by an interior door that locked on both sides. Jan had misgivings when she saw this, even though she had keys for the hallway doors of both rooms. Despite his gruff dismissal of the resort’s grounds, Tristan seemed to like his room, which was light-filled, smelled of lilacs and had two queen-size beds, along with pastel paintings of regional seashells. There were several large, fluffy taupe towels in the bathroom, seashell-shaped soaps, shampoo, a shower cap, a thick terry cloth robe. The minibar was locked and, she hoped, unbreachable. She had called from Chicago to request that the code be removed from the room before check-in. It appeared that it had been—no instructions sat on top of it or were taped to the minibar’s door.

  It had been a mistake to come. She could not ignore this fact anymore, but she said nothing to Tristan, who had flopped down on one of the beds and was now giving her a calculating look. “Don’t you want to get your stuff unpacked? Or are you going to hang out here and stare at me all day?”

  A fact she had been trying to ignore for the past year: she and Steven had witlessly, indulgently, allowed their son to cultivate the least appealing characteristics of a privileged teenage boy. At home it was easier to ignore his occasional snits, his snide comments and self-absorption. Hormones, Steven would sometimes say, shrugging off most of her complaints about their son’s irritable moods. He wasn’t getting arrested, was he? Driving drunk or crashing the car or doing drugs, was he? He wasn’t stealing or not coming home when he said he would. Most boys his age didn’t seem to be much different from him, she could admit, and she had tried to believe that this was only a temporary, unpleasant phase of their development—many of his friends were distant or smug too, prone to giving her benignly vacant smiles, then snickering as soon as she left the room at a remark one of them had made under his breath. Tristan’s good grades, his sudden striking looks and popularity with girls and other boys made his egotism understandable, if not forgivable, but she had hoped t
hat once he learned to see these gifts as conferred by the illogic of biological heritage and blind good luck, he would become more generous. There were also others with even more to offer than he had, which surely he would understand at some point?

  At present, this did not seem so likely. Her only child could just as easily, perhaps more easily, grow up to be selfish for as long as he would live, unless she and Steven drastically changed the way they responded to him. This week alone together, however, did not seem the ideal time for her to start behaving differently to his provocations. But if not now, when? she wondered wearily, her stomach tense with worry and self-contempt.

  “If you can’t speak to me politely, don’t say anything at all,” she said.

  “Fine,” he said. “No problem.” He closed his eyes and kept them closed until she left, unlocking the shared door on her way into her room, one that was the mirror image of his. She threw herself down onto one of her own beds and stared blankly at the glass doors that opened to a balcony overlooking the Gulf. It was a gorgeous view, on a gorgeous, beleaguered little island where only a day earlier she had imagined Tristan and herself being happy together.

  The sun was on its downward trajectory but still bright. The alarm clock by the bed read three thirty; she did not want to stay in her room for the rest of the afternoon but was reluctant to go to the pool or the beach if Tristan stayed behind. After a few minutes, she got up when she heard him stirring next door and put on her swimsuit, a modest one-piece, despite her trim figure, one she had kept by exercising and eating light, which, because of her sweet tooth, was hard to do. She knew she wasn’t old yet either, only forty-two, and despite how tired she sometimes felt when faced with the pretty young girls and boys who often draped themselves across her and Steven’s furniture, she believed that she was still attractive. Whether her son or her husband thought so too, she wasn’t sure. Steven was a nice man, even-tempered and sincere, but often preoccupied by the stressful responsibilities of his job. He had recently been promoted to vice president of sales and marketing and was rarely at ease anymore. He needed this vacation much more than she did, and then, hatefully, it was taken from him at the last minute.

  She got up and knocked on the connecting door. “Do you want to go down to the pool?”

  When there was no reply, she knocked again. “Tristan?”

  “I guess,” he finally said, his lack of enthusiasm obvious despite his muffled voice. “What the hell.”

  She turned the knob, realizing too late that he might not be dressed, but he was still lying on the bed in his clothes from the plane. He gave her an angry look. “I didn’t say you could come in.”

  “I’m sorry about your sandals,” she said.

  He blinked. “What?”

  “I’m sorry that we argued about your Tevas earlier.”

  He propped himself up on his elbows. “I’m used to it. Not a big deal.”

  “I was just worried that you’d catch a cold.”

  “I feel fine. We’re in the tropics.”

  “But Chicago isn’t the tropics.”

  “Let me get my suit on. Can you go back to your room?”

  She could feel her face reddening, her temper close to a rare flare-up. “I’ll see you down by the pool.” She went over to the glass doors. “That one right there,” she said, pointing to a kidney bean of turquoise water, white chairs arranged around its perimeter. Some of the chairs were empty, but most had people or bright towels covering them. There were three pools at the resort; the kidney-shaped one was only twenty yards from their building.

  “I might want to go to the beach.”

  “Okay, but if you do, please stop by the pool and let me know.”

  He was silent.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, I heard you,” he said, irritated.

  “Let’s try to have fun, okay?”

  “Uh huh,” he said. His green eyes were on her pale feet, her hot pink toenails garish in the natural light. His light brown hair was fetchingly disheveled, his face shadowed by a dark smear of whiskers along his jaw and upper lip. He had so many of the best advantages—a different bold girl calling almost every day, the car Steven and she let him use gone from the driveway until eight or nine o’clock most weeknights, midnight on weekends, but his grades held up. He was a fast study, naturally smart, and took this fact for granted. He wanted to go to Yale or Princeton or Stanford. She hadn’t told Steven, but she almost hoped that he wouldn’t get in to any of them. He could go to the University of Illinois or Michigan State and in time be just as happy there. It seemed possible that she had turned into a terrible mother.

  At the pool, she chose two chairs that faced the afternoon sun, hoping but not really believing that Tristan would join her. In her beach bag, she had a book and two magazines and a large bottle of water they had bought at the Publix before the causeway to the island. She rubbed sunscreen into her white arms and legs and adjusted her straw hat to keep the rays from her face. She glanced at the other people—a few silent couples, several shrieking children, two or three single women in bikinis. She had never cheated on Steven and did not think that he had ever cheated on her. Her impression had long been that it did not occur to him to cheat. At the few parties they went to each year, he rarely seemed to understand when a woman was flirting with him. She had often wondered if this obtuseness was an affectation, but whatever its source, it had held. Some of their friends, inevitably, had had affairs. Over the years, some had divorced, but she and Steven remained a fixture. The perfect family, she had once overheard someone say mockingly at a neighbor’s Fourth of July cookout. I wonder what it’s like to go through life without ever being miserable?

  Tristan came down after she had drained half of her water bottle and read one chapter. A girl was with him, a long-legged, curly-haired blonde in a red string bikini. Others turned to stare at them. Jan knew instantly that the girl was from home, that this had been Tristan’s plan all along. “Mom, this is Patty,” he announced.

  The girl smiled and offered a thin, suntanned hand. She wore a braided silver ring on each index finger.

  “Hi, Patty,” said Jan, trying to smile.

  “She’s here with her parents this week too,” said Tristan. “Can I have dinner with them tonight?”

  “Tonight?” she repeated.

  “Yeah.”

  The girl couldn’t look at her. Jan knew that she understood something complicated was happening. She kept her eyes firmly on her toes. Patty’s toenails had pink polish on them too but it was paler than Jan’s.

  “I thought it’d be nice if you and I had dinner since it’s our first night here,” Jan said quietly. “Why don’t you have dinner with your friend and her parents tomorrow?”

  Tristan gave her a stony look. “Because they invited me for tonight.”

  She thought that she might shout at him or cry. Steven would never understand how fraught things had become between her and their son, and she didn’t know if she would be able to forgive Steven for this. She looked up at the girl. They were both hiding behind sunglasses. Patty’s face looked almost iconic in her dark glasses. She most likely had many boys after her, something Tristan must have been aware of. “Do you think your parents would mind if he joined you tomorrow night instead?”

  The girl looked at Tristan. It was clear that she didn’t want to wait. “No, they probably wouldn’t,” she said reluctantly.

  “Mom,” said Tristan. “They asked me to go tonight. It’s rude to make them change their plans.”

  She hesitated, wondering for a second if the girl would come to her rescue and tell Tristan that he should stay and have dinner with his mother. It was only fair, she could almost hear the girl saying. But neither of them said a word.

  “Fine,” said Jan, resigned. “Go ahead.”

  Patty smiled nervously. Tristan said nothing. He stared down at her for several seconds and then mumbled that he was going to the beach. The girl said good-bye and followed him. She was
so thin and tall, only a couple of inches shorter than his long-limbed six feet. Jan watched them leave, their hands not yet touching, and thought unhappily of the room he had to himself. They might be going there now and if he got her pregnant and had to marry her and keep the child … No, no, she had to stop thinking like that. She was not the only woman in the world with a teenage son. Millions of other women had survived the same affliction. Just barely, she thought bitterly. She forced herself to sit by the pool for another hour, reading and rereading the same two pages in her library book, her mind a bubbling morass.

  When Steven called a little before six, after she had returned to her room and made sure Tristan wasn’t in his with the girl, she had trouble keeping her voice down. “You have to come. Tomorrow, at the latest. I mean it. Tristan is driving me crazy.”

  He didn’t speak for a long time. Finally, he said, “I can’t, Janet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because a little boy was playing in one of the other buildings that burned down. They found his remains this morning.”

  She felt panic flood her chest and then she was shivering. A little boy’s remains. There were few words on earth more terrifying.

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to leave for at least another three or four days,” he said when she didn’t reply. “At the earliest.”

  She still couldn’t speak.

  “Janet?”

  “What do they want you to do?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure, but Rick needs me to stay here for the time being.”

  “I don’t understand him. The day before you were supposed to leave for vacation and then guess what, you can’t go.”

  “You know this is serious,” he said. “More serious than we ever thought it would be.”

  “But why do they need you to stay? Is everyone else in sales and marketing down there? Unless you or someone you know started the fire, I don’t see—” She recognized that she was being selfish but could not stop herself. She wanted her husband in Florida with her and their son. He presumably wanted to be with them too.