"The food is over there." I point to the far wall. "You're going the long way, don't you think?"
"I'm not bisecting any parallelograms tonight, if you know what I mean."
I take that to mean that he is indeed wasted. "I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry about your mom and everything," I say.
"I should be the one apologizing to you," he mumbles.
"You didn't do anything."
"I guess it was hard for my mom to get used to living on one income after my dad left." He stares down at the indoor-outdoor carpeting and traces an imaginary pattern with his toe. "Not that it's any excuse."
"Sure, I understand."
Brandt nods without looking up and then continues his tentative skulk along the perimeter of the wall.
After a few games of darts, a feeling of guilt about having fun starts to creep over me with every laugh and joyous shout. It's only been five days since the Judge passed away. And so I mention to Craig that I'm tired and about to head home.
"But Hallie, you have to stay until midnight," he pleads. "We're going to have tequila shots and light firecrackers out in the backyard. It's going to be a blast."
It's tempting. Craig looks awfully good in a white turtleneck and navy cable-knit sweater he probably received as Christmas presents from his mom and loose-fitting faded blue jeans; his butterscotch-colored hair has grown out of the brush cut he sported during football season.
"I'm sorry," I say. "But I just don't feel much like a party tonight. Maybe we can see a movie tomorrow."
I head upstairs to Jane's bedroom to dig my winter coat out from under the pile of down parkas and fleece pullovers on her bed.
Craig follows me. "I was really hoping you'd stay until midnight."
"What's the big deal about midnight? New Year's Eve is just a celebration that we're one year closer to our deaths." Gosh, I was starting to sound like Ms. Olivia.
"I'll walk you home." Craig proceeds to excavate his ski jacket from the bottom of the heap. "I just had this idea that I'd be standing next to you at midnight."
Now I comprehend the Cinderella-like significance of the witching hour. I suddenly feel a twinge of regret about ruining the moment by making an early exit. The party is reaching full throttle and the glass doors in the china cabinet rattle as kids dance to Elton John's "Crocodile Rock" in the basement directly below us.
We exit the Davenports' house into the clear, cold winter night. All the rooftops are coated with snow and the sky is crowded with stars. The rich aroma of burning firewood lingers in the air while smoke climbs lazily up from the chimneys and sketches fuzzy gray ribbons onto the black sky. No cars are coming down the street and no one else is out wandering around. By now everyone is where they're supposed to be. The only noises come from other houses, where the booze is flowing and the festivities are well under way.
Our breath makes gauzy clouds in the frozen air and I toy with the idea of saying, "We don't have to wait until midnight." But I can't bring myself to spit out the words. Craig threw his love life on the line back there by asking me to stay at the party, and that's encouraging. So technically the ball is in my court. And if I don't say or do something soon, it's not likely I'll ever see him again. I'd noticed that if you don't show guys you like them at the right moment, they have a way of suddenly pretending they never cared about you in the first place. In other words, there's a narrow window within which one needs to respond to an advance from a teenage guy.
As Craig and I stroll side by side down the middle of the street, I reach out my thickly gloved hand and grasp his. Only he's wearing waterproof ski mittens and holding on to one of them feels as if I'm squeezing a bag of marshmallows. It's not a particularly romantic moment.
"Hang on a second." Craig reaches over with his opposite hand, removes the offending mitten, and places his bare hand back into my gloved one. Only it's really cold out, below zero. Even inside the gloves my fingers have started to go numb. I recall reading how people in warmer climates become sexually active at a much earlier age, and it now becomes obvious why this is so.
"Your fingers must be getting cold," I say after a few minutes.
"No, no. I'm fine."
But I look down and his fingers have turned a corpselike yellowish-white. I come up with the idea of putting both of our hands in my coat pocket, and this seems to work well, only walking becomes somewhat awkward. I slip and lose my footing and automatically try to throw my palms out for balance, but I can't get the one that's entangled with Craig's out of my pocket and together we tumble forward into the snow-filled street, hands still intertwined.
We both laugh. Craig leans over and tries to kiss me, but our jackets are bulky and it's difficult to get close enough. It's more like the Pillsbury Doughboy trying to slow-dance with Mrs. Potato Head. Winter clothes are definitely an effective form of birth control.
Finally we both thrust our faces forward like hungry ostriches and Craig manages to put his mouth on mine. His nose is an ice cube against my cheek. His breath has the faint scent of peppermint Life Savers and his lips feel cool and moist. He must have wet them first with his tongue. This is one of the advantages of dating a senior. They know such tricks. The downside is that they also have higher sexpectations.
Before venturing outside I had applied a generous coating of Blistex to my perpetually chapped lips. So I can't imagine that I taste very good. But we somehow manage to hold the kiss for over a minute so that it counts, like a wrestler pinning down his opponent until the referee declares it official.
Eventually the cold creeps in and we unsnarl ourselves and rise from the snow-packed tire tracks. Craig retrieves his mitten, which landed under a nearby parked car when we fell. Then I playfully grab his arm and we run the rest of the way to the Stocktons', through drifts of sequined snow that twinkle in the moonshine as if flecked with tiny clusters of diamonds. It's a relief to have that business of the first kiss out of the way. Now it's legitimate, we're "going out." Gwen can mark it on her electronic love bulletin board with a pink pushpin.
We arrive at the end of the driveway giggling and out of breath. With the back of my hand I surreptitiously wipe away the remaining layer of lip salve, just in case.
Craig kisses me for a long time while we are standing together on the front porch. It's nice, but he's so tall that my neck eventually starts to ache, and I'm relieved when we finally need to break in order to inhale and swallow and cough and wipe our noses.
"I'd invite you in, but Ms. Olivia's husband just died," I say.
"I know." Craig places a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. "My parents went to the funeral. Uh—they said that you were pretty upset."
"I made an absolute fool of myself is what I did. It will be a long time before I attend another funeral, unless it's my own."
Craig looks into my eyes with great sincerity. "My mother said that everyone felt your outpouring of grief was extremely moving, that older people keep their emotions inside too much, and it exemplified how the Judge had touched so many lives."
"Your mother is very kind," I tell him.
"She tends to see the best in people," says Craig.
He removes his hand from my shoulder. The moment of intimacy is over. But I determine that it works in my favor if he believes I'm still in mourning.
"Do you still want to see a movie tomorrow?" he asks.
However, the front door swings open and standing in front of us is Ms. Olivia, dazzling in a red angora sweater and a long black silk skirt that rustles as it settles around her calves. Her blue eyes are highlighted by brush strokes of gold shadow with coppery flecks in it.
Craig and I stand there startled and look at her as if she's the host of the Wheel of Fortune and we're waiting for the giant wheel to stop spinning.
Oh God, I think. Did she see us making out? First I'm falling into her husband's casket, and now I'm defiling her front porch not even a week after the funeral.
Chapter 45
Chances Are ...♠
"I thou
ght that I heard someone out on the porch," Ms. Olivia trills, joyfully clasping her hands together as if she's just captured an elusive butterfly. "I wondered if it was Mrs. Shondra from across the way coming to borrow some ice or vermouth."
Craig extends his hand to Ms. Olivia. Then he realizes that he's still wearing his mitten and glares down as if it's already caused him enough trouble for one night. He towers over Ms. Olivia and has to bend down slightly just to shake her hand. She warmly takes his big paw in both her hands. "Your parents were at the funeral. I believe your father worked with the Judge down at the courthouse."
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry to hear that he passed away."
"Thank you, dear. Though I prefer to think of him as recycled. It's less final sounding, wouldn't you say?"
Craig politely nods his head in agreement, even though it's obvious he hasn't made sense out of her remark. He probably thinks it's the grief talking.
"Well, it's much too frigid to be standing outside. Of course, we can't compete with the aroma of wood smoke, moonbeams, starlight, and privacy," she says with a knowing smile, "but there's soft music and mulled cider, peach schnapps, and Bertie's homemade Tokay wine."
We clump into the house and begin the ten-minute ritual of removing all our contraceptive outerwear.
"How delightful to have young people here for New Year's Eve," Ms. Olivia exclaims. Then she lowers her voice. "Hallie, I'm so pleased you came home early. Bertie is terribly downhearted. He's been lying on the chaise longue listening to the Broadway cast recording of Les Misérables all night, and it's driving Gil and me to madness."
In the direction of the living room Ms. Olivia announces with exaggerated volume, "Turn that off this instant and put on some nice party music, Bertie! Hallie has brought her beau along, and I don't want them thinking we're running a mausoleum."
Mr. Gil emerges and shakes hands with Craig. "Thank heavens you've arrived. The Prince of Chintz has been playing 'On My Own' over and over for the last four hours. It's driving me to the Bailey's Irish Cream."
"I know," says Ms. Olivia cheerily. "Let's have a dance."
"Yes indeed," agrees Mr. Gil. "What kind of music do you like, Craig?"
"Chumbawamba," replies Craig. "Rancid. And Fine Young Cannibals."
Mr. Gil and Ms. Olivia look at each other quizzically.
"Of course," Ms. Olivia replies enthusiastically. "We'll check and see if we have any of that. Bernard is in charge of all the cooking and cleaning." Then she calls into the living room, "Bertie, Hallie has arrived home with her gentleman caller. We're going to have a soiree."
Mr. Bernard suddenly appears in the archway. "A gentleman caller?" he says excitedly as he comes face to chin with Craig and shakes hands. "It's delightful to see you again. Please come in and make yourself at home."
"Bertie, we're going to have a dance," announces Ms. Olivia as she excavates a box of votive candles from the sideboard in the dining room. "Gil, go put on some swing music and get Rocky off the Etch-A-Sketch. Have him help you fetch all those paper lanterns from last year's production of A Streetcar Named Desire. They're in the Wellington chest at the top of the stairs. I'll make some snacks."
"Don't go near that kitchen, Mother," threatens Mr. Bernard. "I have some prawns in the freezer. It'll just take me a moment to whip up some cocktail sauce."
With that Mr. Bernard charges off like a steam engine preparing to go uphill. Mr. Gil and Ms. Olivia look at each other with obvious enjoyment, then she ushers us into the living room.
I can tell that Mr. Bernard is searching for something in the kitchen, because I hear all the cupboard doors slamming.
"What?" I call out in the direction of the clatter.
"My kingdom for the horseradish." He pokes his head around the corner and looks at me hopefully.
"Refrigerator," I say. "Top shelf in the side door on the far left. Next to the relish."
"Pickle relish is one of the French people's favorite American words. Isn't that odd?" remarks Ms. Olivia. "Pickle relish, windowsill, and elbow. They love the sound of those three words."
If Craig thinks I live in an insane asylum, he doesn't let on. Within twenty minutes he's drinking beer from a chilled stoneware tankard and the rest of us are having wine or mulled cider. I help Mr. Bernard serve his homemade porcino mushroom spread, imported water crackers, two kinds of goat cheese, and a large bowl of shrimp cocktail. Mr. Bernard makes the best shrimp cocktail, because he boils the shrimp in Perfect Addition brand fish stock mixed with one cup of white wine instead of just plain old water. He says that shrimp boiled in plain water is for "philistines."
Next Mr. Bernard offers to make us both a plate from the dinner leftovers or else some roast beef sandwiches. I can tell that he's getting back into the swing of things when he starts explaining to Craig that the Earl of Sandwich, the inventor of the sandwich, was inspired by his propensity for gambling. Mr. Bernard claims that the Earl was looking for a way to eat without having to leave the gaming tables.
Meanwhile, along with the decorations, Mr. Gil has found Rocky a top hat and bow tie from his costume rack. Together they string the pastel paper lanterns throughout the room and build a roaring fire. Ms. Olivia has dotted the tables and mantel with twenty or so of her aromatherapy candles. The room, awash in this delirious glow and slowly filling with the scent of jasmine, appears to waver, while in the background Duke Ellington plays "C Jam Blues" and the fire crackles with warmth. Alongside the front windows the tall plush-velvet burgundy drapes are pulled back so that they look like women curtsying to each other before a dance.
"Now push the furniture to the sides and roll back the Savonnerie," Ms. Olivia instructs us. "You know, the pagans observed death with a celebration. I think this is much closer to what the Judge would have wanted than that maudlin service and those old gasbag legal cronies of his."
"I believe the pagans also sacrificed a virgin to the moon gods," retorts Mr. Bernard. Craig shoots me a quick look to make sure that he's kidding, and I shake my head and roll my eyes to indicate that they always say crazy stuff like this.
"Now, can you two do the Lindy?" Ms. Olivia asks us.
Craig and I look at each other and then back at her and shake our heads to indicate that not only can't we do it but that we don't even know what it is.
"Put on Glenn Miller's 'In the Mood,' " Ms. Olivia says and then she and Mr. Bernard begin to dance together in the center of the room, where the coffee table had been. And oh, can they dance! Mr. Bernard twirls her and dips her and they spin around separately and then together, the shimmer of a dozen candles pinwheeling across their faces. He is surefooted and graceful while Ms. Olivia floats in his arms, light as a silk scarf. The candles flicker in the rectangular mirror above the couch, causing their every movement to dance in shadow against the walls. On the long Spanish baroque library table off to the side sit two lamps with black onyx centers from which chandelier prisms dangle and dance like jeweled icicles.
Halfway through the song Ms. Olivia comes over and takes Craig's hand and shows him the steps while Mr. Bernard instructs me. I notice that he doesn't attempt any of the fancy double spins and dips that he performed with his mother. But it's fun, and I don't step on his toes too much. Then Mr. Gil cuts in and gets me to bring my knees together and quickly swings me between his legs and then back up on my feet again. I have no idea how he made that happen, but Craig thinks it's hilarious. And Rocky jumps up and down on the sofa clapping his hands, occasionally doing a somersault or a handstand.
Mr. Gil, the resident rock and roll fan, manages to sneak in Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Freebird." And after that Mr. Bernard declares us ready for Fred Astaire and plays an old song from the '30s called "Beginner's Luck." At any gambling casino, from Monte Carlo to Reno, They tell you that a beginner, comes out a winner. . .
When the song ends it's midnight and the grandfather clock chimes and we all kiss and cheer and clink our glasses. "That was a delightful party," Ms. Olivia says. "But I'm afraid I must take my le
ave of you."
"How come the redoubtable Ottavio didn't call to wish you a Happy New Year?" Mr. Bernard curiously inquires.
"He's in Sorrento. It was New Year's there six hours ago. We chatted online before dinner while you were preoccupied with Les Miz."
Craig turns to me and quietly asks, "Uh, where did you say you met these people?"
"Through an ad at the Star-Mart."
"Oh, right."
We all take turns kissing Ms. Olivia good night.
"I hope you'll join us for dinner one evening this week," Ms. Olivia says to Craig.
As she waves to us once more from the top of the staircase, Mr. Bernard says, "I pray she's not preparing to do a Barbara Stanwyck in The Thorn Birds and go up and off herself while the band plays on."
"Bertie, your mother is not suicidal," Mr. Gil replies firmly. "It was her idea to have a party."
"You heard what she said—that the pagans love a good jamboree. She just failed to mention that they concluded by sacrificing and vivisecting one another," Mr. Bernard replies skeptically. He turns to Rocky, who is pretending to play chess at the table in the corner, mimicking the way Mr. Bernard and Mr. Gil move the pieces around the board. "Rocky, go up and keep an eye on her." The chimp obediently scoots up the stairs after Ms. Olivia.
"Okay, last dance," announces Mr. Gil.
Since Ms. Olivia has gone upstairs, I wonder if he means that he's going to dance with me. He goes to the stereo and puts on a duet called "Baby, It's Cold Outside." As the syncopated jazz beat drifts through the room he and Mr. Bernard begin to waltz across the hardwood floor together. They are both graceful dancers, and it's exotic to watch these two attractive men hold each other close while swaying to the strains of a saxophone, backlit by the otherworldly glow of a dying fire.
Craig has a look on his face that must resemble Alice's right after she crashed down the rabbit hole. But I take his hand and together we rock back and forth to the music, while every so often Mr. Bernard and Mr. Gil glide elegantly past us. Craig and I don't try anything more daring than the universal high school slow-dance position where you embrace and keep turning a few steps to the right. But I enjoy the feel of his arms around me, and so what if we're not going to win any contests. The sultry music is accompanied by smoky-voiced lyrics: I really can't stay (baby it's cold outside). I've got to go 'way (baby it's cold outside). The evening has been so very nice. . .
Beginner's Luck Page 26