by Allie Larkin
Under the coffee table were three whitewashed wicker baskets filled with back issues of my mom’s People magazine subscription. They weren’t our wicker baskets. Diane must have bought them. More magazines were fanned out on the coffee table we’d made out of an old whitewashed half door. The one on top had a headline about the sexiest man of the year and a picture of Hugh Jackman. I picked up the magazine and looked at the address. It was still addressed to Natalie Lion.
“Natalie Lion,” I’d yell to my mom when I brought the mail in. “Your magazine is here.”
“Grrrrroar!” she’d yell back, and grab it away from me.
Her issues of People were usually puckered up from getting wet while she read in the bathtub. And she always threw them out when we were done reading them.
In the kitchen, there were plastic oranges and bananas in the hanging fruit basket where our bruised bananas used to live.
“Geez, Diane!” I said out loud. “What’s up with all the fake fruit?” It was weird to hear my voice. I almost expected someone to come out of one of the bedrooms and say hello-a made- for-TV movie actress playing me, or maybe I expected to see my mom.
I walked over and opened up the fridge. Diane had indeed stocked it with our favorite junk foods. Potato salad and cannolis from Bueti’s Deli. A pizza box took up the second shelf. I slid it out and took a peek. It was a whole large black-olive pizza. I wondered if cold pizza still tasted good when it wasn’t left over. Who buys a whole pizza and just sticks it in the fridge? It was weird, the way she’d gone out of her way to make everything the way it used to be- like my mom was still alive, like nothing had ever happened, like cold pizza and cannolis could make everything okay again. Diane wasn’t usually one to be overly sentimental. I wondered what she was up to.
There were no toothpaste spit splatters on the mirror in the bathroom. The end of the toilet paper was folded in a triangle, and there was a stack of fluffy towels-bath towel, hand towel, face towel-waiting for me on the counter by the sink. They weren’t our towels. They were white and fluffy and didn’t have frayed strings tangled with hair hanging from the ends. There was a basket full of beauty products on the counter.
“What’s with all the baskets?” I said, out loud again, as I riffled through bottles of the hair spray I used to use, Love’s Baby Soft, and my mom’s Oil of Olay.
Toward the back of the basket was a bottle of 5th Avenue. I pulled the cap off and smelled the sprayer. I sprayed it into the air and everything smelled like her. I could almost feel her warm, bony hand on the side of my cheek. I could almost see the pinwheels in her blue eyes and the spot on her nose where two freckles overlapped. It was the only thing my mother ever splurged on. She used to buy it for me to give her every Christmas, because she felt guilty about spending that kind of money on herself.
She always found my hiding spot for Christmas presents, and she’d tuck the bottle in along with them. Every year, I’d wrap the long gold box in cheap paper and wait to see her fake surprise as she unwrapped it. It was my favorite Christmas tradition. “Van! You shouldn’t have,” she’d say, and wink at me. She’d make four ounces last all year. This bottle was only about a quarter gone. She died three months before my college graduation.
I heard someone fumbling with the front door. The knob turned and I could hear the bottom of the door brush up against the rug. The long eerie squeak my mom and I had gotten used to was gone.
“Diane, this is creepy,” I yelled from the bathroom.
“What?” It wasn’t Diane. The voice was deep and had grit.
“Peter?” I walked into the living room. He stood in front of the couch with his hair in every direction and his tie stuffed in his jacket pocket. His jacket and shirt were unbuttoned and a red wine stain bled down the front of his undershirt.
“Peter, what the fuck are you doing?”
He didn’t say anything. He just stared at me with his mouth open like I was a horror movie or a train wreck and he couldn’t look away.
Looking at him, I could picture in my head so clearly what it would be like to have him grab and kiss me and tell me that it was all a mistake and he really wanted me all along. I took a deep breath, promising myself that even if I was in the middle of that kind of bizarro reality, I wouldn’t allow anything of the sort to happen.
“You don’t have to look at me like that, Pete,” I said, grabbing at my orange satin. “I didn’t pick the color of this dress.”
I was expecting a smile or at least a hint of amusement in his eyes, but there was none. He shut his mouth and pressed his lips together in a thin, hard line.
I walked over to him. As I got closer, I saw how glassy his eyes were, and realized he was fighting back tears.
“Peter! Sit.” I plunked down on the couch and leaned over so the place I patted for him to sit was far enough away from me. He stumbled over to the couch. He smelled like a communion chalice.
“You didn’t come back,” he said. “I thought you were going to come back, Van.” He looked at me, and I could see what he must have looked like as a seven-year-old. His eyes were big and sad, his dark eyebrows raised and wrinkled. “I didn’t get to say good-bye.”
“You can’t be here,” I said, thinking that Diane was probably in a limo on the way back from the wedding already. “Where’s Janie?”
“She’s at the Castle,” he said, running his hand across his chin like he was feeling for stubble.
“Why are you here, Pete?” I looked at his shoes, searching for scuffs. There weren’t any. “You have to go.”
“You didn’t come back,” he said. “You didn’t say good- bye. I’m leaving for two weeks and you didn’t even say good-bye.” He leaned over and put his arms out for me to hug him.
I wanted to lean across the couch and hug myself as close to him as possible, but I pressed my ribs into the arm of the couch to get as much distance as I could. It took everything I had not to dive into him. I could almost feel how it would be to hold him. I knew he would be warm, and his neck would still smell like aftershave. I knew if I rubbed my cheek against his, I would feel the beginnings of tomorrow’s stubble scratch my skin. And I knew, this time, if I let myself hug him it would be different from all the other times. It wouldn’t be a friendly hug.
“It took a long time,” I said, pulling at the fingers on my left hand, “all the rose petals and candles and everything.”
He leaned his elbows on his knees and dropped his face in his hands. He didn’t seem at all like Peter. His whole body vibrated. He let out big, hoarse sobs. “You’re my best friend and you didn’t even say good-bye.” He looked at me through the spaces between his fingers, and then closed his hands.
“Janie was there. I’m pretty sure that’s the important part, Pete.” I put my hand on his back, lightly, ready to pull it off should Diane come storming in, or lightning strike me.
He lunged over and buried his head in my lap.
“How drunk are you?” I asked, letting my hand stroke his hair, just once.
“Very, very,” he said into my leg. His breath was warm and damp.
Crap.
“You’re okay.” I let myself stroke his hair again. It was soft and fine, and bristled slightly at his neck. “You’ve got to get back to her,” I said, pulling my hand away. His tears soaked through my dress and made it stick to my thigh. It was too close.
My head was rushing around in this circle of wanting to know why he had come, and not wanting to know at all. If he told me he realized he loved me and wanted to be with me, what the hell could I do about it anyway? It’s not like I could say, “Hey, I feel the same way. Let’s ditch Janie and go on your honeymoon.”
I leaned forward, and pushed up on my toes to get Peter to move. He didn’t budge. I started thinking about how easy it would be to reach down and kiss him, and how once I started kissing him, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I shifted my weight, took a deep breath, and let it hiss out between my teeth. “You have to go back!”
I stood u
p, and he fell off the couch, knocking his head on the coffee table. He sat up on his knees and rubbed his head.
“Jesus, Van! What the hell-”
“I’m calling you a cab,” I said firmly. I walked into the kitchen and picked up the wall phone. Through the window, I could see the limo waiting outside. “You took the limo? What did you do, drop her off and leave?” Pete nodded. “Where does she think you are?”
“I told her I left something at the reception,” he said. “I needed to think. I couldn’t breathe.” He was crying, hard. His face crinkled up, and his shoulders slumped. I wanted to hold him and stroke his hair again. I wanted to tell him it was all going to be okay. I wanted to tell him I loved him, but I couldn’t stop thinking of Janie, alone in a roomful of rose petals, wearing that white satin nightgown, waiting for her husband.
“You can’t just leave her waiting for you on your wedding night,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek to hold back tears. I shook my head at him, hoping that even if he wasn’t listening to my words, he’d still get it. “You can think later.” My tears started to overflow. I wiped them away quickly, hoping Peter was too drunk to notice. “It’s just wedding jitters. Too many drinks. It’ll pass.”
He stared at me, still on his knees. “Van- ” He stood up. “Savannah, I-”
“Shut up, Pete,” I yelled. “You shut the hell up.” I slapped my hand on the kitchen counter hard enough to make it sting.
Peter grabbed my hand and held it, his fingers squeezing mine hard. He leaned forward, so close that I could feel the heat of his cheek against mine. I knew I should pull my hand back and walk away, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move at all. I closed my eyes.
“Savannah,” he whispered. “I need to-”
The doorknob clicked. Peter dropped my hand. The door opened, and my heart took a flying leap. We stepped away from each other quickly.
Diane walked in. Had she seen us? Had there been anything to see? I opened one of the kitchen drawers like I was looking for something.
“Pete?” Diane said. “Wha- Where’s Jane?” She looked tired.
Pete looked at me like a lost kid in the grocery store. He sniffed and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Pete sent me to decorate the room,” I said, closing the drawer. “And he had this bracelet that I was supposed to leave- ” I waited, hoping Diane would just say something and I wouldn’t have to finish, but she didn’t. She stared at Peter with her eyebrows raised. “I was supposed to leave it in a champagne glass, but I- I forgot.”
“Oh,” Diane said, pulling her arms out of her coat, one sleeve and then the other. She draped it over the back of the armchair. I don’t know if she believed me. She always had a good poker face.
“So, it was in my purse, but now I can’t find it.” I walked over to the back of the couch like I was retracing my steps. “I threw my purse on the couch when I came in- ”
“Pete,” Diane said, “Janie won’t care about the bracelet.” She walked over behind Peter and put her hands on his shoulders. “It’s not worth getting upset over.” Her voice was hard and brisk.
Diane looked up at me. I made a face and gestured drinking with my hands. Diane smiled a sad, tired smile, patted Peter’s shoulders twice, and said, “Get up, buddy.”
Pete leaned on the coffee table to pull himself up.
“Okay,” Diane said. “You take that flat little tush of yours back to your wife.”
Peter looked at his shoes. Damnit, Pete, I thought, look at her. Don’t look so guilty.
“Van and I will look for this bracelet of yours,” Diane said, “and you can give it to Jane when you get back.”
I knew that tone. Shit, I thought. She knows there is no bracelet.
Pete nodded at Diane. He walked to the door, with his head hanging, mumbling, “Thanks.”
When the door clicked shut behind him, I expected Diane to start in on me, ranting or questioning or something. But she plopped on the couch, used the side of the coffee table to pull off her heels, and said, “Get me a drink, Van, will you?”
I grabbed a tumbler from the cabinet, plunked two pieces of ice in it, filled it with bourbon from the bottle under the sink, and walked it over to her. I set it on the coffee table, using one of the magazines as a coaster.
“Thanks, sweetie,” she said. She stirred the ice around with her pinkie for a minute and took a sip. She looked up at me, searching my face for a reaction; I looked straight into her eyes and tried not to flinch. When Janie and I were in high school, I got Janie drunk and tried to convince Diane it was food poisoning. She’d studied my face until I cracked.
She patted the couch next to her, and even though all I wanted to do was run out to my car and speed away, I sat down.
“They’ll be fine.” I said, hoping I sounded convincing. “I’m sure the bracelet will turn up.”
“We’ll all be fine,” Diane said. She stared into her drink like she was having a conversation with it.
“Okay, you know what, Diane? I don’t know why he was here. I don’t know what this was all about.”
Diane put her drink on the table and reached into one of the magazine baskets. Slowly and methodically, she pulled out a glass ashtray, a silver lighter, and a pack of unfiltered Camels. She lit two cigarettes at once and handed one to me. “Don’t you, though?” she said, smiling.
“What?” I took a drag and scrambled for something to say. “Diane, I-”
“Oh, Vannie.” She put her arm around me and passed me her drink. “Drink with me, okay? Let’s just get really drunk.”
Chapter Four
I woke up with my face smushed up against the arm of the couch and my head throbbing. Diane was passed out in the oversize chair, her head resting on one arm and her feet hanging off the other. With her head tipped back and her mouth wide open, she snored like she had an old man trapped in the back of her throat.
I slid off the couch onto the floor and leaned on the coffee table to stand up. My last glass of bourbon was still on the table, swimming in a puddle of condensation. It was full. Diane’s glass was empty. She’d been about three drinks ahead of me all night.
I tried to walk into the bathroom quietly, but I tripped over one of my shoes and steadied myself with a loud thunk. Diane didn’t budge.
I pushed the bathroom door closed behind me. It clicked softly, but I figured if my stumbling around didn’t wake Diane up, that wouldn’t either.
There was a red stripe down my cheek from the piping on the couch seam. My mascara had shifted and soaked into the creases under my eyes. I’d never finished taking my bridesmaid updo down, and there were half a million bobby pins sticking out of my head. I tried to pull one out, but it was hopelessly stuck. My hair had been sprayed and teased into the consistency of a Brillo pad.
I was still in my orange dress. I’d unzipped the back after my second drink. My strapless bra had slipped down almost to my waist. I unhooked it and pulled it out of my dress.
I used to be able to pass out drunk on a couch and wake up looking vampy and metropolitan. Somewhere around twenty-three it became necessary to wash and tone and moisturize so I didn’t look like a freak show when I woke up.
When Janie and I slept at the Castle, she fell asleep without even washing her face, and woke up looking like an angel and smelling like a flower garden. Her dark hair wasn’t knotted or tangled; it rippled in soft waves, and the tiny smudges of mascara under her eyes looked like they’d been drawn by a makeup artist.
It didn’t seem real that Peter had been stumbling around the living room the night before. Diane hadn’t said anything more about it. I waited all night, steeling myself for a big argument. She kept hinting that one was coming-tiny land mines she would set up but not detonate. And she would give me knowing looks between gulps of bourbon, while she chattered on and on about Janie and Peter touring through Europe for the next two weeks on their honeymoon. Diane had apparently played travel agent, planning every last detail down to restaurant r
eservations.
“And when they’re in the Loire Valley, I set them up in the best room at the Château de Coligny in the rue Condé,” she said, hitting the accents too hard, like a French whore in a bad movie. “That should put them in honeymoon mode for a very long time. They won’t have to lift a finger”- she took another gulp of her drink- “or get out of bed.” She snorted and stared at me, cold and hard, over her glass.
I ran the water in the sink; it got hot much quicker than it did in my condo. I washed my face with one of the fluffy washcloths and the milled French soap from the soap dish. It was Diane’s brand, not ours. It smelled like lemongrass. She’d always hated the smell of our pink Dove soap. It was funny the way she’d kept some things exactly the same but changed others. It was an inexact replica. Everything was just a little off. I dried my face on the hand towel. I used it to wipe under my eyes, leaving moon-shaped black streaks on the bright white towel. I slathered on some of my mom’s Oil of Olay from the toiletry basket.
Diane hadn’t always lived to push my buttons. We used to be friends, partners in crime, but now, since my mom died, we didn’t know how to act around each other.
When we were younger, Janie didn’t care about clothes or shoes or fancy restaurants, so Diane would take me with her to buy dresses for all of the fund-raising galas she had to go to. She hated going to galas, but events like those were par for the course. The Driscolls were a dusty old family with dusty old money. It was railroad money, originally, but the bulk of the business Charles Driscoll did involved using Driscoll money to make money. He took a car into the city every morning and came home to retreat to his study, where he yelled into the phone about things like futures, crude oil, and lean hogs. When he was done yelling about work, he yelled at Diane about how he didn’t like the way the hedges had been trimmed, and the new shirts she bought him were scratchy, and he wanted meat for dinner instead of that goddamned spa food the cook made.