And, finally: Like the song, she knew someone whod been a poor correspondent & whod been 2…2…hard 2 find. She dreamd abt him.
And that made seven. She wished there’d been another installment of the story for her to read. But the flurry of messages had begun earlier in the night, and the last one was time-stamped over a half hour ago. David must’ve given up on getting a response back from her and gone to bed.
A bit reluctantly, she deleted the messages. She was about to turn off the phone completely again when she spotted Michael’s distinctive Bear costume across the room. Not having time to do more than shove the phone into her purse before he reached her, she did that first. “You found Bridget?” she asked, probably too brightly. She stuck her hand into the purse, sniffed loudly and pretended to root around for a tissue.
He nodded. “The kids are fine.” His underlying subtext, however, was No thanks to you. “Veronica is behaving herself. She and the boys watched some old Indiana Jones movie before they went to bed. Shelby and Cassandra are bonding over video games.”
She ignored his tone. “Good.” She sniffed again, snatched a tissue with one hand and, without pulling her phone out of her purse, nestled the phone in the padded pocket without looking, just so it wouldn’t bump up against any noisy keys or anything and make buzzing sounds if it vibrated again. She feigned blowing her nose. “Did you want to go outside at all? There’s a fire pit in the backyard. Some people are roasting marshmallows.”
“No.” He took a step backward and managed to bump into a woman dressed as the Little Mermaid. “Oh, sorry. Sorry,” he told her. He unzipped the part of his furry costume nearest his neck and inhaled. “This thing is so hot.” He fanned himself, and perhaps Jennifer was reading too much into it, but there seemed to be a sense of accusation toward her even in that simple gesture. She had, after all, chosen the costumes along with Tamara and Bridget. The Woodsman outfit was most austere, and the Prince outfit more attractive. However, both were “cooler”—in multiple senses of the word—than the Bear. Clearly, on top of all her other faults, she was culpable for bad costume judgment, too.
“I’m feeling a little warm myself,” she whispered, thinking about the suggestive fairy tale David had been texting to her. “Do you want me to get you some more beer?”
Michael made a face. “No.”
They fell silent for a few moments, although the room around them was alive with activity. Someone had turned up the volume on the spooky mix CD of questionable origin. A couple of woodland creatures were doing the Monster Mash around a leather sofa. And a clique nearby, consisting of Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and Rose Red, were having an inane discussion on the merits of Maybelline Crimson Crush lipstick for keeping their lips “extra red.”
Snow White brushed a strand of black-wig hair away from her very fair complexion and pursed her lips for her friends to examine. “See?” she said. “It’s the reddest of all.”
The Little Mermaid walked by again, rolled her eyes and mouthed, “Mirror, mirror,” at Jennifer, which made her laugh for the first time in over two hours.
Michael, apparently startled by the sound of her merriment, took a quick step to the side and banged his shin against a sharp-edged coffee table. “Dammit!”
“Are you okay?” she asked him.
He rubbed his fingers against his injured leg and shook his head. “I think I feel blood.”
She winced. “Maybe you should go to the bathroom and check it out. Take off the costume and, if there’s a scratch, clean it up. Here—” She dug into her purse again and retrieved a couple of Band-Aids. “Take these with you.”
“Fine,” he said, his irritation and self-involvement reminding her of a five-year-old who’d scraped his knee on the playground. He glanced at his watch again. “Thank God this is almost over.”
She exhaled as soon as he disappeared through the door and into some other part of the house. The crowd in the living room had begun to thin the closer it got to midnight. More of the guests congregated out back, and Leah, Kip and Kip’s police-chief brother busied themselves setting up a structure of some kind near the fire pit.
She pulled out her phone to check for new messages. One!
Jennifer hadn’t felt it vibrate, but it was David again. She grinned.
She glanced around her, taking in the scene and wondering how long she had before Michael returned this time. That she was annoyed with him by now was a given. That she was exasperated with his attitude and his klutziness was, likewise, undeniable. That his company bored her when he was in one of these moods was a reality of her married life. The thing she hadn’t anticipated, however, was that the mere reminder of David’s existence heightened her dissatisfaction. That her ex’s playfulness was too much of an emotional contrast in a situation that—with her husband—was stressful and frustrating just on its own.
Granted, David wasn’t actually at the party. In person, maybe he wouldn’t have been any fun. Maybe he, too, would’ve protested that the gathering was “so unrealistic,” like Michael had done earlier, despite the obviousness that it wasn’t supposed to be realistic. Maybe he would’ve been offended by the gruesomeness of the upcoming “beheading” and, like Michael, preferred the syrupy sweetness of the Disney versions of the fairy tales as opposed to the gritty violence of the Grimm Brothers’ originals.
But she doubted it.
David didn’t claim to have the “heart of a poet,” so sarcastic humor, earthiness and overt cynicism were natural fixtures in his social toolbox. And, certainly, David had unleashed his share of foul moods in her presence but, at the Hallowiener Party, she could’ve used a dash of jesting from her husband. The tiny measure of levity she got, she got only from her old boyfriend.
She clicked to read David’s text: The man in Goldilocks’s dream is real & he does unspeakably sexy things 2 her in Big Bear’s bed. Wanna know what they R?
Oh, boy.
She wished she had more of that green Witch’s Brew. She licked the rim of her glass for the last few droplets and was about to shut off her phone again when it vibrated in her hand.
Not a text this time. A phone call.
David.
Meanwhile, in the Wieners’ library loft, her Rapunzel skirt pushed up to her knees, Tamara sat languorously on the carpeted floor, leaned back against the smooth mahogany bookshelf and worked her way through yet another Poisoned Appletini. And while she had lost track (some two hours ago) of just how many she’d had to drink, she was pretty sure she hadn’t eaten anything since Bridget’s oatmeal-raisin cookie. Good thing she could hold her liquor so well, huh?
She slapped Aaron on his chest with the back of her outstretched palm. Whoa. Solid muscle. How freaky! She laughed at his surprise. “So, w-why’d you start getting into marathons and s-stuff?” she slurred. “Bored at home?”
“Triathlons,” Aaron corrected, sliding a couple of inches closer to her from his spot on the floor. “I can do all three events. Swim, bike and run. I’m talented that way.”
“You are,” Tamara agreed. “You surely are. I can just play tennis.”
Aaron guzzled his sixth (at least) inky black beer. “But I bet’cha you’re great at it. ’Cuz you’re, you know”—he studied her legs with obvious appreciation—“tall.”
“Exactly,” she said, impressed by Aaron’s perceptiveness. He was such a good friend to her. She didn’t have a lot of good guy friends. Just Aaron…and Al. And Al had been kind of avoiding her lately. Well, her phone calls. Sort of. She understood it, though. He wasn’t trying to be mean to her or anything. He even explained it. That his grief overwhelmed him when he dwelled on Aunt Eliza’s death, and he dwelled on it when he talked for too long with Tamara. So, for the sake of his old, aching heart and for the sake of his worried children and grandchildren, he was making an effort to lighten up a little. To get out a bit more. To start the process of moving on.
She sighed. This grief stuff was so exhausting. That was why it was good to just relax. In a quiet, c
omfortable place. With a friend and a drink…or seven.
Every so often, some couple or small group would climb the stairs to the library loft and talk to them for a few minutes. A few partygoers even nabbed extra drinks for them. People could be so nice sometimes. One couple even brought them a few Spider Sandwiches. Aaron had one, but Tamara couldn’t bring herself to eat it. Who knew what Leah put in there? Maybe they weren’t just shaped like spiders. It’d be just like Leah to stuff them with real black widows.
Aaron asked her about her favorite story as a child, which was funny because it involved spiders.
“Charlotte’s Web,” she told him.
He nodded. “I liked that one, too. It’s about the cycle of life, and how precious our friendships are.” He took another chug of beer. “How they give us meaning. And hope.”
This, she decided, was a really deep thing to say. But, before she could come up with an equally philosophical point for Aaron to ponder, too, Jon—to her astonishment—staggered into the room.
Her husband took in the sight of her sitting on the floor next to their neighbor, surrounded by their collection of empty martini glasses and empty beer cups. He looked confused and oddly displaced without his mayoral sidekick, but no less arrogant.
So Tamara said, “Hey, there you are. Where’d you hide Rumpelstiltskin?”
“Probably in a very small, windowless room,” Aaron suggested thoughtfully before Jon had a chance to answer. “Spinning straw into gold.”
Tamara giggled at Aaron’s extremely clever comment, and added, “That’s the only way he’ll get enough money to pass his stupid referendum.”
Aaron thought this was a hilarious response (because—c’mon—everyone knew Mayor West was a pain in the ass, always wanting to raise taxes for his pet projects), but Jon narrowed his eyes at both of them. “Lower your voice, Tamara.”
She shrugged and slurped a little more of her Appletini. “So are you having a good time? Getting in lots of n-networking?”
“I’ve talked with a few people, yeah,” Jon said, his Prince crown resting high on his head and his pose making him appear particularly regal. “Men who make things happen in our community.” The expression on his face indicated that Aaron wasn’t one of those men, and that Tamara—due to the inescapable fact that she was female—was incapable of “making things happen” in their community or, indeed, anywhere.
Huh. Well, fuck that.
Tamara eyed Aaron, whose Prince crown was tilted at a precarious angle and in danger of sliding right off. She was tempted to reach out and straighten it for him, but there was something odd about doing so while her husband was standing there. She couldn’t figure out why at the moment, though. She did glance from one guy to the other…the same sex and, yet, so different. “Look! Two Princes.” She rested her head against the bookshelf and sighed. “There are lots of you out there tonight,” she murmured, wondering vaguely how any woman was supposed to choose the right prince when there were so many masquerading as the real deal.
Aaron, who’d been handed an Appletini a half hour ago that he hadn’t yet gotten around to drinking, ignored both Jon’s insinuations and Tamara’s mutterings and took a taster sip. “Not bad,” he pronounced. Then he dumped about a quarter of his black beer into it and swirled the two beverages together with the apple slice. “This is a magical potion. A good-health elixir.”
“It looks disgusting,” Jon commented. And even Tamara couldn’t help but silently agree.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Aaron said, swigging half his potion. “I spend my life helping men improve their look, but really”—he shrugged—“really, it’s futile. Really, the truth is”—he leaned forward toward Jon in a sagacious, rumor-divulging mode—“there’s no special formula. There’s no big secret. A guy can dress up, slap on some expensive aftershave, work out with a trainer four times a week and gel the hell out of his hair, but it won’t matter because, in the end…All. Will. Be. Revealed. The kind of people who resent you when you’re successful will resent you even more if you look good doing it. The kind of people who are there for you when the stock portfolios are down will still be there for you no matter what you’re wearing. You can’t fool anyone worth fooling. Not for long.”
Jon squinted at him, trying to make sense of their neighbor’s alcohol-infused logic. Jon had been drinking, too, but not as much as either Aaron or Tamara, so maybe that was what prevented him from making the associate leap. Or, maybe, he just didn’t get it because he said with a sneer, “Who are you trying to fool?”
“No one!” Aaron laughed uproariously. “No one at all.”
Jon stood there and shook his head. “Whatever,” he told them just before Judge Rhinelander burst into the room, breathless from the climb up the stairs and flushed from too many surreptitious nips of brandy from his hidden trench coat flask.
“The beheading’s gonna start, Jon!” the judge exclaimed. “Wanna help?”
Jon suddenly looked excited, like a schoolboy asked to play at the arcade or something. “Of course.” Sparing Aaron and Tamara barely a parting glance, he stumbled out of the room even faster than he’d entered it, and took the palpable tension he’d created with him.
Tamara giggled—because what else could she do? This whole thing was ridiculous. What had she been thinking before? Giving marriage to the real man a try, not just the vision she’d created? What bullshit. Neither the real man nor her vision of him wanted to spend any time with her.
She looked out of the floor-to-ceiling windows to either side. The library loft was ideally situated to expose extensive second-floor views of both the front and back yards. So, even from the floor, if she glanced left, she could see the walkway leading up to the front door, lit with Halloween horrors. If she glanced right, she could spy the fire pit out back, some weird platform or something next to it (complete with a chopping block and a glistening ax, like from one of those atrocious English period dramas they always showed on PBS) and an ever-growing crowd of people gathering around the hosts.
“D’ya wanna see it?” Aaron asked her, pointing toward the right window. “You don’t have to stay in here with me or anything. You can go watch Jon, uh, help murder someone.”
She giggled again. “I don’t think so. But”—she rested her hands on her queasy abdomen—“I think maybe I should eat something.”
Aaron nodded, scanned the room and, with some effort, pushed himself to standing. His gaze fixed on a number of foil-wrapped items taped to the wall. He grabbed a couple of them, peeled away the colorful wrapper on a chocolate ghoul and offered it to her. “Start with this,” he said, popping it into her mouth. Then he unwrapped one for himself and sank to the floor again.
“Thanks,” she whispered, strangely happy to be right there, on the carpet, eating chocolate with him. She had a bad habit of not taking time to appreciate her blessings—maybe everyone was that way—but it was easier to see this flaw in herself when she was drunk, and she wasn’t going to make the same mistake that night. “Thanks,” she said again, “for being such good company. You’ve made the evening a lot more fun for me.”
“For me, too,” he said, but she wasn’t sure if he meant it or if he was just being polite.
“And, um, sorry about Jon,” she said, finding it was always easier to smooth over her husband’s gaffes when he was no longer in the room. “He probably seemed kind of rude. He’s not really acquainted with people in creative professions, so—”
“S’okay.” Aaron waved off her attempt at an explanation. “I’ve heard all the insinuations before, Tamara. From raised eyebrows to more overt criticisms. One of Isabelle’s work pals said I had a stay-at-home-mom life and another informed me that he knew I was really just eating pizza and watching ESPN all day. So, I’ve dealt with sneers from men besides your husband. Anyway, I meant what I said. I’m not trying to fool anyone. You can’t impress people by being some glossed-over version of yourself. The truth comes out. The inner slob is always exposed.”
&n
bsp; “Or the vain workaholic,” Tamara muttered, thinking of her husband.
Aaron exhaled and gazed steadily at her. He didn’t comment.
Finally, he broke eye contact and nodded toward the right window. “Can you see what bizarre thing they’re doing outside now?”
From what Tamara could tell, Kip and Leah were the reigning King and Queen (though still in their Cinderella story Goth-wear), and they were presiding over the ritualistic killing of the Big Bad Wolf, an honorary sacrificial reenactment, featuring Kip’s brother the Wolf/Chief as the symbolic victim. Bizarre didn’t begin to describe it.
“It’s like the worst of the original fairy tales pimped out with Halloween macabre,” she said. “I’m not going out there.”
Aaron shrugged. “Fine with me. Guess we’d better eat more chocolate then.” He nabbed another candy from the wall, ripped off the foil and fed it to her.
Back by the refreshments table, Candy and her husband left the room to find a good spot for the show in the backyard, and Graham, not willing to head out of doors without another black beer for sustenance, slid away from Bridget’s side.
“I’m just gonna get a refill,” Graham said, holding up his cup, “and say hi to Nick over there.”
Bridget said, “All right,” and watched as he strode over to another of his construction pals and slapped his back.
She stood by the edge of the table, still within hearing distance of her husband, but choosing to zone out a little now that it was so close to midnight. She’d been appropriately social and pleasant all night, but she realized too late that she hadn’t explored any room beyond this one and, in fact, hadn’t been out of Graham’s eyesight for the whole evening. Not that she would have done anything more devious than poke around the Wieners’ house (and, okay, maybe take a quick peek in their pantry—not in their medicine cabinet, though!), but it kind of bothered her that she had been so predictable. That she had let herself get harassed by the ballet instructors, hadn’t gossiped about anything worth the effort and basically acted like a surrogate hostess whenever someone had a question about the party food.
Friday Mornings at Nine Page 23