by Cathy Holton
Charles stood on the deck clutching the railing and looking morosely down at his guests who seemed to be multiplying like rabbits. A pale harvest moon rose slowly over the trees. “Love Shack” blared from the speakers. His mother never served anything other than wine and cocktails and the event always ended promptly at nine. But it was already seven-thirty and this party showed no sign of winding down anytime soon. The classical music Virginia provided encouraged the guests to be sedate and moderate in their drinking. The B-52’s did not have the same effect. At the edge of the lawn, two of the girls from word processing stood on chairs and danced like go-go dancers in a wire cage. Dillon Foster took his shirt off and swung it around his head like a man swatting bees. Under the influence of the music and the little silver machine that cranked out its endless stream of lime green poison, things were getting quickly out of hand. Lord let it rain, Charles prayed. And if you can’t let it rain, then at least let the margarita machine break down.
Virginia moved up beside her son at the railing, sipping her wine, and thinking how sweet revenge could be, how it gave shape and meaning to a life that might be otherwise drab and uneventful. Charles had made his bed, so to speak, and now he must wallow in it. She prayed he was conscious of his wallowing. She hoped, by now, he had realized that the firm party did not run itself, that it was a meticulously orchestrated event that must be carefully planned or run the risk of deteriorating into the train wreck they saw going on around them now. Virginia sipped her wine and tried not to gloat openly.
Looking down at a group of associates and their wives who sat at one of the tables whooping and hollering like cheerleaders at a pep rally, it occurred to Charles that perhaps they would drink past the point of remembering, perhaps they would fall victim to some sort of mass amnesia, perhaps there would be earthquakes, pestilence, flood, nuclear annihilation. Anything was possible. Hope, a rare and fragile thing, flared in his breast for the first time that evening.
Below them on the lawn Little Moses passed carrying a tray of blintzes over his head.
“Oh my,” Virginia said, her little hand fluttering against her chest like a deformed bird. “Are those the caterers?”
Hope flickered, and died. Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts opened up with “Baby Let Me Bang Your Box” and a crowd of younger guests whistled and stamped their feet and began to shag around the pool, followed soon enough by the older set who wanted to get in on the fun. On the far side of the pool, Grey Spradlin picked up his wife, threw out his back, and went down like a rhino felled by a tranquilizer dart. Mavis Creal bumped and ground her way across the yard like an overweight stripper. Charles sighed and pushed himself off the railing. He knew he’d have to stop them or they’d be gatoring before the evening was over, flopping around on their backs like morons until one of them got hurt, and then he’d be facing a lawsuit in addition to public humiliation.
“Excuse me, mother, I have to put a stop to this,” he said, lifting his hands, and it wasn’t clear whether he meant the dancing or the party itself. It occurred to him as he pushed his way through the crowd toward the stairs that maybe the Zibolsky woman was right, maybe his guests would take their cue from him. If he acted like nothing was wrong, if he acted as if the music, the margarita machine, and the caterers were intentional and not some kind of monstrous mistake, perhaps his guests would follow suit.
His mother’s loud voice followed him doggedly across the crowded deck. “Oh dear, hide the silver,” she said, watching Weasel slice through the crowd carrying a tray of drinks. “That one looks like a Puerto Rican.”
LAVONNE HURRIED TOWARD the cluster of dancers who were shagging dangerously close to the edge of the pool. She had heard of parties where someone drowned and the body wasn’t discovered until morning, and it occurred to her that this was quickly turning into one of those parties. Looking around her, she had to admit Eadie’s idea to use a disk jockey and a frozen margarita machine had been brilliant. This party was definitely changing from a function into a throw-down, and it was too bad Eadie couldn’t be here to see it for herself.
Still, from a containment standpoint, the margarita machine might not have been such a good idea. Lavonne hurried toward the shaggers, feeling like a lone fireman trying to put out multiple fires. So far this evening she had talked Braxton McCracken out of riding his electric scooter into the pool, had convinced Mavis Creal to dance the macarena without throwing her skirt over her head, and had tactfully tried to convince Leonard’s secretary she might want to go easy on the tequila for a while. In the process Lavonne had managed to drink a good number of frozen margaritas herself, trying to shake the feeling of calamity that clung to her like a bad odor, saturating her hair, her clothing, the pores of her skin, all to no avail. An hour into this party, she was still sober and she still had the disturbing feeling that, despite her best efforts, this evening was going to end badly.
It took her about two minutes to realize there was nothing she could do to prevent one of the shaggers from drowning him- or herself if they felt so inclined. She gave up the minute Charles Broadwell showed up, trying in his jovial pompous way to convince everyone to settle down. Just knowing she was on the same side of the fence as that asshole made Lavonne feel like a hypocrite, and she left the pool patio in disgust.
Crossing the yard, she waved at Mona Shapiro who gave her a motherly grin and a thumbs-up sign. Lavonne was glad for Mona’s sake that the crowd seemed to be genuinely enjoying the food. The Burning Bush boys kept bringing it out and the guests kept wolfing it down, jostling one another over platters of barbecued beef brisket, roast chicken with matzo farfel dressing, artichokes, and squash fritters. The barbecued beef brisket was especially good. Lavonne had already been back for two helpings. The secret was Grandma Ada’s Kosher Barbecue Sauce. Lavonne was pretty sure Mona could bottle the stuff and make a fortune.
She spotted Leonard fluttering among the guests like an obese hummingbird, stopping to clap one on the shoulder, leaning to kiss one on the cheek, his loud voice rising above the hum of the crowd. Mona Shapiro crossed the yard carrying a tray of vegetable latkes. Leonard, seeing her, tried to duck behind a camellia bush, but Mona didn’t notice him, and after a moment he slunk from behind the bush and stood watching her disappear into the buffet tent. Leonard acted like a man with something to hide and Lavonne reminded herself to ask him about the Redmon/Shapiro deal later. She reminded herself that there was much she and Leonard needed to discuss, and it wasn’t just Mona Shapiro and Leonard’s redneck client Redmon.
Leonard had his arm around his secretary and his head bent close, trying to hear her above the noise. Lavonne had not spoken to him since the party began and she wasn’t sure how he was handling the Burning Bush boys and the music and the margarita machine, but she was sure he had to be handling it better than Charles Broadwell. She waved at her husband, but he didn’t seem to notice her.
She had read somewhere that marriage was a series of stages. If this were so, she and Leonard were entering their Golden Phase, that long, sedate, financially secure period between grown children and death. Maybe they could travel. Maybe they could take up skydiving. Maybe they could sell the big house and move to the south of France.
Moths as big as dragonflies fluttered around the Japanese lanterns, and far off in the distance, old Buddy, the Redmons’ sad cocker spaniel, howled mournfully at the moon. Lavonne tried not to see Buddy’s sad howling as an omen. She drank her margarita and told herself that in only two more hours, one if she was lucky, it would all be over.
Then she could put this party behind her and move on with the rest of her life as if it had never even happened.
STANDING NEAR A camellia bush, Leonard ignored his wife as gracefully as he could given the fact his secretary had just made an extremely improper suggestion in his ear. At least he thought it was an improper suggestion. Christy was from Soddy-Daisy, Tennessee, and even after eighteen years in the South, Leonard still had trouble understanding her. Creesty, as she called hersel
f, followed the suggestion with a flicker of her tongue in his ear, leaving no doubt as to her intent. The suggestion, not to mention the swelling tightness in his groin, made it extremely difficult for Leonard to respond casually to his wife’s wave.
“I’ll be right back,” Christy said, handing him her drink. “Hold my beer, sweet cheeks.”
Leonard couldn’t remember the last time a woman had stuck her tongue in his ear. In his whole life no woman had ever called him “sweet cheeks.” Across the yard he could see his wife grinning and waving and wearing a dress two sizes too small. No doubt she was congratulating herself on pulling the wool over good old Leonard’s eyes. Hiring a Jewish caterer no one had ever heard of and her criminal assistants—he knew a parolee when he saw one, and that boy Johnny had parolee written all over him—making a fool of Leonard in front of his clients and law partners. And worse than that, bringing the Shapiro woman here, where she might see him and spill the beans about him and Redmon and their bid to buy her out. Leonard had to keep all that quiet. No one in town trusted Redmon anymore, so Leonard went in as his front man, lowballed the seller, closed the property, and then turned around and sold it at an agreed-upon profit to Redmon. The arrangement wasn’t illegal; it was just unethical. It wasn’t something Leonard wanted getting around town. Small Southern towns were hotbeds of gossip and innuendo; even a hint of scandal could ruin a person socially and economically, and Leonard knew this, even if his wife didn’t.
Lavonne was the only woman he had ever seriously dated. He’d given her two children, a huge house, and a life of leisure, and all she’d ever given him was ingratitude and resentment. But all that was about to change. Now he had women like Christy sticking their tongues in his ear. He had women who knew how to appreciate the things he could give them, throwing themselves at him. All he had to do was be patient. All he had to do was set up his dominoes and watch them fall. Lavonne was smart about money and she’d know where to look, if he wasn’t careful. He’d already met with Dillon Foster, the associate who handled the firm’s divorce clients, and they’d come up with a game plan.
“You have to be like a commando behind enemy lines,” Dillon said, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the desk. “She can’t know a thing is wrong until you serve her with the papers. If she gets wind of what’s up, she’ll freeze your assets before you have time to move anything. Does she have any idea what you’re planning?”
“She doesn’t have a clue,” Leonard said.
“Good,” Dillon said. “Keep it that way.”
AROUND EIGHT O’CLOCK, Trevor Boone showed up wearing blue jeans and a white shirt rolled at the sleeves, looking tanned and fit and happy. Lavonne, who had spent the last five minutes trying to talk King Stanton out of doing a swan dive off the cabana roof into the pool, was disappointed to see that Trevor had brought his secretary with him. She decided to let King kill himself after all and started across the lawn toward Nita, who was sitting alone at a table looking up at the moon. Trevor saw Lavonne and gave her a big charming grin, but Lavonne just nodded and went on. She was glad Eadie wasn’t here. It was one thing to hear about your husband leaving you for another woman, but something else to witness the humiliation firsthand in front of the entire town. Still, watching Trevor move among the guests, Lavonne could see why Eadie was still crazy about him. She could see why every woman in the place had perked up when he arrived.
“Here,” she said to Nita, setting two glasses down on the table. “I brought you a margarita.”
Nita, who had been looking up at the moon and wondering if Jimmy Lee was sitting somewhere looking up at it, too, colored slightly and said, “Thanks.”
“As soon as this party’s over we’re going to have a talk, Nita, you and me, about what’s going on in your life.” Lavonne sat down. “I’m worried about you. You haven’t seemed yourself lately.”
Nita didn’t want to get into this conversation so she changed the subject. “I’m glad Eadie’s not here,” she said, looking at Trevor and Tonya as they moved slowly among the buffet tables. It didn’t seem right to her that a man who had stood up in front of an altar and made a promise to God to be faithful, could so easily break his marriage vows. She thought how wrong it was that a cheating husband could show up at a party with his girlfriend on his arm and no one thought much about it, but if a wife did the same thing she risked public condemnation and social exile.
“Oh shit,” Lavonne said, staring across the crowd and holding her margarita glass to her lips the way a priest holds the communion chalice. “Here comes your damn mother-in-law. “
Virginia walked across the yard like a tiny ballerina on point. She stopped and chatted with those few she knew who were still sober enough to carry on a conversation, and waved when she saw Trevor Boone. She couldn’t believe he had brought his slutty secretary, Sonya or Anya or whatever she was called. It was disgraceful behavior not befitting one of the founding families of Ithaca. Maureen Boone must be spinning in her grave. Actually, imagining Maureen spinning gave Virginia a little shudder of pleasure. Maureen had snubbed her on more than one occasion and it was pleasant to imagine her discomfort at seeing her only son with that bleach-haired trollop. Besides, it would give Virginia something else to gossip about tomorrow over lunch at the club, something besides the music and the margarita machine and the ridiculous caterers.
“Trevor!” she called gaily, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. Trevor was blond and blue-eyed and stood about six foot one. He was just about the best-looking man Virginia had ever seen and she always got a little thrill of excitement just being in his presence. “Hello, Virginia,” he said. The minute his back was turned Virginia gave the girl a withering glance. She at least had the decency to blush and look at her feet. Virginia turned and strolled across the lawn toward Nita and Lavonne.
“Shouldn’t you two be seeing to your guests?” Virginia said briskly, sitting down at the table.
“We’re taking a break,” Lavonne said, scowling into her drink.
It hadn’t taken Virginia long to get the word out that she’d had nothing to do with this tragic party. A well-placed word here, a raised eyebrow there, a shrug here and her disclaimer was complete; she had no doubt it would be all over town tomorrow. She could relax now and enjoy the spectacle going on around her. She leaned across the table and put her hand on Lavonne’s arm for effect. “Where did you find those caterers?” she said.
“Help yourself to the brisket,” Lavonne said, moving her arm. “It’s good.”
Virginia said, “Brisket?” and laughed, showing her sharp little teeth. Her steely eyes rolled in her head like ball bearings.
Lavonne sipped her drink and tried to pretend she was somewhere else. Stars littered the sky like shards of broken glass. Billy Idol belted out “Rebel Yell.” Leonard’s secretary, Christy, stumbled past the table, listing to one side like a sailboat on stormy seas.
“Good Lord, is that one of the office staff?” Virginia said, frowning at the woman who, inebriated past the point of decency, sported a short skirt and stiletto heels.
“That’s Leonard’s secretary,” Lavonne said grimly.
“Well no wonder everyone is sleeping with the secretaries,” Virginia said. “Whoever is doing the hiring over at the firm needs to be fired.”
Lavonne was suddenly, undeniably, sober. She realized she needed to get this party closed down, get rid of Virginia, and drink another pitcher of margaritas, and not necessarily in that order.
Sunny Hawkins lurched over and putting both hands on the table, she leaned over and said loudly to Nita, “Oh my God, this food is fucking wonderful.” Her eyes were bloodshot. Mascara ran down one cheek. She was having trouble getting the words out but she was determined. “I love the music, not like that boring shit you usually play, and I absolutely love the margaritas. This is the best party you ever had, Nita. I’ve been coming to these parties for fifteen years and I can honestly tell you this is the best one ever. Ever, ever, ever—” S
he noticed Virginia then, noticed her expression and her gray eyes glittering like bayonet points. She thrust herself off the table, giggled, and, giving Nita a little wave, stumbled off into the darkness.
No one said anything. Nita went back to staring at the moon and wondering what Jimmy Lee was doing right now. Lavonne, feeling optimistic for the first time all evening, thought that with any luck this party would be over in an hour with no more lasting repercussions than a few scattered hangovers. Virginia decided there was nothing worse than ingratitude and thought gloomily that if something terrible didn’t happen soon, this party might actually wind up a success.
Over by the pool house, Dillon Foster kicked over one of the concrete garden urns and began to roll it across the lawn like a happy lumberjack.
Charles hurried past the table where his mother and the Zibolsky woman sat enjoying themselves while Nita picked obliviously at a plate of brisket. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about trying to contain this damn party, it was obvious there was something wrong with his wife. Nita hadn’t been herself lately. He had to give her instructions over and over again to get her to do them. Simple but important instructions, like picking up his shirts at the cleaners or rolling a tube of toothpaste the right way or making chicken for dinner when he had specifically told her he wanted beef.
Ed Trotter, one of his prep school comrades, passed him and shouted, “Great party, Broadwell.” Charles thought, Fuck you, buddy. Charles said, “Thanks, Ed,” and clapped him on the shoulder. So far, six people had told him what a great party it was, but Charles knew sarcasm when he heard it. Charles was an expert on sarcasm.
Sure everyone was having a good time now, laughing and whooping it up like a bunch of rowdy teenagers while a blood-red moon rose over the yard like a brushfire. But he knew that tomorrow, when they sobered up, they would remember the kugel and the matzo balls and the dreadlocked freaks and they would call one another on the phone and giggle and whisper and roll their eyes while they recounted the entire night. Charles’s ears burned and his palms sweated, just thinking about it.