Four Blondes

“It’s soooo charming,” Allison gushed. “It’s so hard to find these antique houses that haven’t been completely ruined.”

Janey was mystified. The shack couldn’t have been more than four hundred square feet (about the size of the master bedrooms in the houses she normally stayed in) and the roof looked like it was caving in. There was a broken window in the bedroom, which Redmon had taped over with a piece of newspaper from The New York Times—from August 1995. The galley kitchen contained stained appliances (the first time Janey opened the refrigerator, she had screamed), and the furnishings were sparse and uncomfortable—like the couch, which was one of those flat wooden-legged affairs that appeared to have been purchased at a tag sale. The bathroom was so tiny, there was no room for towels: When they came back from the beach, they had to throw their towels on the bushes outside the house to dry.

“Actually, Redmon,” Janey said. “I would have thought you could do better than this.”

“Better?” Redmon said. “I love this house. I’ve been renting it for fifteen years. This house is like my home. What’s wrong with this house?” he demanded.

“Are you insane?” Janey asked.

“Redmon is so cool,” Allison said when Redmon went back into the house. They were sitting in the tiny backyard at the picnic table; Redmon’s only other concession to lawn furniture was two moldy, ripped folding chairs.

“Please,” Janey said. She put her hand over her eyes. “All he talks about is how the Hamptons are filled with assholes and he wants to have a real life and be with real people. He doesn’t understand that those assholes are real people. I keep telling him if he doesn’t like it, he should move to Des Moines.”

That was the problem with Redmon. His perceptions about life were totally off. One evening, when he was cooking pasta (his specialties were pasta primavera and blackened redfish—he had learned to cook in the eighties and had never progressed), he said to her, “You know, Janey, I’m a millionaire.”

Janey was flipping through a fashion magazine. “That’s nice,” she said.

“Hell,” he said, pouring the pasta into a strainer that was missing one of its legs, causing the pasta to spill all over the sink, “I think it’s pretty amazing. How many writers do you know who are millionaires?”

“Well,” she said, “I actually know a lot of people who are billionaires.”

“Yeah, but they’re all . . . business people,” he said,

implying that business people were lower than cockroaches.

“So?” Janey said.

“So who gives a shit how much money you have if you don’t have a soul?”

The next day, on the beach, Redmon brought up his financial situation again.

“I figure that in another year or so, I’ll have two million dollars,” he said. “I’ll be able to retire. With two million, I could buy a seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar apartment in New York.”

Janey was rubbing herself was suntan lotion, and then, she couldn’t help it, she snorted. “You can’t buy an apartment in New York City for a million dollars,” she said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he said, opening a beer.

“Okay, you could buy an apartment, but it would be, like, a really small two-bedroom. Maybe with no doorman.”

“So?” Redmon said, taking a chug. “What the hell’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Janey said, “If you don’t mind being poor.”

For the rest of the afternoon, he would only give yes or no answers every time she tried to make conversation. Then, when they were back in the shack, making nachos, he slammed the oven door. “I’d hardly call two million dollars being poor,” he said.

I would, Janey thought, but she said nothing.

“I mean, Jesus Christ, Janey,” he said. “What the hell is your problem? Isn’t two million dollars good enough for you?”

“Oh, Redmon. It’s not that,” she said.

“Well, what the hell is it?” he asked, handing her a plate of nachos. “I mean, I don’t see you bringing in a lot of dough. What is it you want? You hardly work and you don’t take care of a husband and children . . . . Even Helen Westacott takes care of her kids, no matter what you might think about her . . . .”

Janey spread a tiny paper napkin on her lap. He was right. What was it she wanted? Why wasn’t he good enough? She took a bite of nacho and burned her mouth on the cheese. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, geez, Janey,” Redmon said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry I yelled. Come here,” he said. “Let me give you a hug.”

“I’m okay,” she said, wiping the tears away. She didn’t want Redmon to know that what she was crying about was the prospect of spending every summer for the rest of her life in this shack.