Do This For Me

by Eliza Kennedy

  He didn’t believe I could have met someone else. Slept with someone else. He found it unfathomable. I felt my anger rising.

  “There is a man, Aaron. There have been quite a few, in fact.”

  Jorge’s eyes met mine in the rearview, then darted away.

  “Quite a few. Really. Can we stop playing games and have an adult conversation now?”

  “You want to have an adult conversation?” I snapped. “You got it. I’ve been having sex with other people. A lot of sex. With a lot of other people.”

  “Raney, stop! I know you. You wouldn’t do that. You don’t even like sex that much.”

  At which point my anger exploded. My new life, my fantasia of happiness and pleasure, had curdled into a nightmare. In my rage and dismay, I could see only one source for all my troubles. The man sitting beside me.

  This—everything—was Aaron’s fault.

  He’d complained about me not giving him enough of myself? Of keeping it all in, not telling him how I feel?

  Fine. I’d tell him everything.

  I slid toward him along the seat. I got right in his face, and I said:

  “That’s the funny thing, Aaron. Turns out I do like sex. I like it a lot. I just don’t like it with you.”

  I waited. He thought he knew me? I knew him. How each feature telegraphed his feelings. There were his eyebrows, drawing together in confusion. Rising in disbelief. His dark eyes became wary, began to wonder…but no. His mouth drew down. He couldn’t believe it. And yet…his jaw twitched. Eyebrows, back to confusion. Is this real? No. Yes. This is real. This is happening. It’s not possible. It’s not. But it is…

  “Raney.” His face crumpled. “How could you?”

  As quickly as it came, my fury vanished, leaving me alone with Aaron. Who loved me. Whose heart I’d just broken.

  Had he done it to me first? Sure. Did that matter?

  At the moment, not at all.

  We were stuck at a red light. “I’m sorry,” I managed to say. “I’m so sorry.”

  I got out. I slammed the door.

  This time, he didn’t follow me.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I ran along Central Park West, slipping and tripping in my ridiculous heels. The driving snow obscured all the signs. I turned down a side street and made for the well-lighted avenue ahead. Snow pelted my face and soaked my dress.

  As I limped along, I reflected.

  Things were going really well.

  I had traumatized my daughters and devastated my husband. I had alienated my friends and mistreated a man I cared about. I had put my career in serious peril.

  In short, I’d ruined my life, as I’d tried to ruin Aaron’s months ago. With one small enhancement.

  Venereal disease.

  I stumbled blindly through the slush. At the corner, I waited as a cab crawled through the intersection. Something glowed redly above me. A neon sign.

  It said: BAR.

  I heaved the door open and went inside.

  The place was dark and nearly empty. On a television bolted to the ceiling, tiny men kicked a ball around an emerald field. I approached the bar and pulled out a stool. The bartender—young, bearded, wearing a checked vest—slid a square white napkin in front of me. “What can I get you?”

  I was cold, wet, drained and defeated. I was in a bar and out of ideas.

  More than anything, though? I was sad.

  What’s the number one thing people do when they’re sad?

  Right.

  “I would like,” I said carefully, “a venti martini.”

  “This isn’t Starbucks,” the bartender replied.

  “Just bring me the biggest one you have. Please.”

  I draped my coat on the stool beside me. I checked my phone. It was seven fifteen. The big shindig would have started by now. Marty must be relieved that I hadn’t shown up.

  The bartender set a large glass in front of me, full to the brim with clear liquid, a toothpick with two olives tipped jauntily along one side. I lifted it to my lips and took a sip.

  I spat it out. “That’s disgusting!”

  A flicker of hurt crossed his otherwise impassive face. “It’s a textbook martini.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Can you make me something that tastes good?”

  “What do you like?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had a drink in twenty years.”

  His eyes widened above his bushy beard. “Oh shit. You’re not an alcoholic, are you?”

  “No,” I said. “Just a lightweight with control issues. Right now I’d like to get extremely drunk. Can you help me with that?”

  He selected a glass from the rack above his head. “You’ve come to the right place.”

  I glanced at my phone again. Nothing from Aaron, or the girls, or my associates, or Singer.

  The world—my world—was going on without me.

  The bartender set another drink in front of me. The martini had been daunting, with its severe stemware, its icy transparency. This one was glowing and crimson, in a curvy glass, topped with a slice of orange.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  I picked it up and took a sip.

  I took another sip. And another. I stopped sipping and started slurping.

  I graduated from slurping to swigging.

  I swigged and swigged. Until it was all gone.

  I set the glass down. My mouth was tingling. I felt the loveliest sense of warmth and well-being, starting in my throat, melting down my chest, deep into my belly. It was as if I’d swallowed a space heater, or a snuggly blanket.

  I felt my lips twitch. I was smiling. Then I was grinning.

  “That was sensational!”

  The bartender swiped the counter with a white cloth, a smile peeking from under his mustache. “Glad you like it.”

  “I don’t like it. I love it! It’s…it’s…”

  I struggled for the right expression.

  “It’s fucking fantastic!”

  Something inside me loosened. I breathed deeply, filling my lungs.

  “Fuck!” I cried. “Fuck that’s good!”

  “Wow,” the bartender said. “Enthusiasm.”

  “What do you call this delightful beverage?”

  “Sex on the Beach.”

  “Sex on the Beach.” I pondered that. “Is it anything like sex in Ptuj?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” I held out my credit card. “Keep them coming.”

  * * *

  —

  An hour later, I’d had four more drinks and a bowl of strange-tasting popcorn.

  “I’ll have another,” I said, when the bartender passed by.

  “I think maybe you should slow down, Raney.”

  Horatio and I had become acquainted midway through drink two. We were old friends by now. Well, not really. I was a bedraggled woman in an eight-thousand-dollar evening gown. Horatio was an inscrutable bartender with a carnival-barker waistcoat and exceptionally thick facial hair. But I felt a connection. A spark. He made such delicious drinks.

  I was a little bit in love with him.

  “I’ll take this one slow,” I promised him.

  As he placed it in front of me, I patted his hand. “Thanks, Horatio. You’re a good pal.”

  “My name’s not Horatio,” he said. “But you’re welcome.”

  “Hey!” I leaned back on my stool, clutching at the brass rail to stop myself from falling off. “You’re a bartender! Aren’t you supposed to listen to people’s problems, and offer insights, and dispense sage yet practical advice?”

  “I try to avoid it. Most people’s problems are pretty boring. But what the hell? It’s a slow night.” He crossed his arms, waiting.

  “Ah, forget it.” I didn’t want to bo
re him. I wanted to sit here quietly and drink my drink. Speaking of which…

  I held up my empty glass. “May I have another?”

  Horatio looked mildly disappointed. “I thought you were going to take that one slow.”

  “I did,” I said. “Unfortunately, time sped up.”

  My phone pinged.

  —Hi there. Everybody’s asking where you are.

  It was Amanda, texting me from the party. I reread her message fondly. Then I responded.

  —What do you want, you filthy coward?

  On reflection, that seemed harsh. I sent a second text.

  —Oops! Autocorrect fail!

  Amanda wrote again:

  —There are some weird rumors flying around. Is everything ok?

  —on the contrary, my dear. The fan has most decidedly hit the shit

  There was a long pause. Then:

  —Do you need help?

  —Only help I need is hlep gettin on the outside of another one a these cokctails!

  —Tell me where you are.

  Horatio had wandered away to tend to another customer. “Horatio!” I shouted. “Horatio!” He moved toward me. The light was dim. It looked like he was swimming. Finally, he hove to.

  “Horatio! What’s the address of this fine eslab…estlab…establishment?”

  He told me. I tried typing it, but my phone had become slippery. I handed it to him. I hadn’t asked Amanda to come, I’d been positively indifferent. But now I was possessed of a burning desire to see her.

  “Write, ‘Make haste, young Amanda!’ at the end of it,” I instructed him. “I need her to know that. Make haste, young Amanda! Type—”

  “Yeah yeah.” He typed. “I got it.”

  “We’d better prepare for her arrival,” I said. “Nine more drinks, please.”

  He poured me a glass of water.

  “Horatio. I have to tell you something.” I reached for his arm. He stepped back. I stood up, balancing on the rung of my stool. I reached for him. I lost my balance and sprawled onto the bar. He grabbed my arms and helped me back down.

  “Relax, Raney, okay? Look.” He pushed my phone toward me. “Your friend is coming.”

  —On my way.

  “I have to finish my story!” This had become pressing, crucial. “The story of the night Aaron and I met. I didn’t tell you all of it.”

  “You didn’t tell me any of it. Who’s Aaron?”

  “He’s my husband. Was my husband. ’Scomplicated. Just listen. The night we met? I left out one very important detail.” I clutched the bartender’s large hand with both of mine. “I got drunk, Horatio. We went back inside the house, after he showed me the beetle? And I had too much to drink. I was giddy. I wanted him to like me. I wanted to seem sophlisticated. Aaron took care of me. He got me home and stayed with me all night. No funny stuff, though.” I shook my finger. “That was the last time I ever had a drink. Until now.”

  “He sounds like a nice guy.”

  “He’s an asshole!” I shouted. “He’s a fucking prick!”

  “Whoa. Can you—”

  “He’s a cunting prick, Horatio. He’s a sick sack of fucks!”

  I enjoyed swearing. I thought I was good at it, too.

  “He’s a pricking, sucking, cunting bag of fucks!”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to quiet down,” Horatio said.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to give me more of that ass-corn,” I said.

  He sighed. “It’s truffle flavored popcorn. But okay.”

  “It tastes like ass,” I said. “It’s asstastic.”

  That was funny! I slapped the bar. “I have to tell Cameron.” I sent him an e-mail.

  From: Raney Moore

  To: Cameron Utter

  Date: Thursday, April 12, 8:38 PM

  Subject:

  Dear Cameron,

  Asstastic!

  Love,

  Raney

  The door opened, and a cold gust blew in. It gave me a great idea. I texted Marty.

  —Additional agenda item for tomorrow’s bullshit sexist scapegoating meeting. Let’s buy naming rights to a blizzard! Winter Storm Calder, Tayfield and Hartwell.

  He didn’t respond. Probably too busy hobnobbing. Hobbing and nobbing. Schmoozing. That’s a funny word.

  “Schmooze,” I said. “Schmooze. Schmooooooooo—”

  It was time to call my daughters.

  I dialed Maisie.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re the only good things left in my life!” I howled.

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t abandon me!”

  “Mom?” It was Kate now, slightly echoey.

  “Something’s weird,” I heard Maisie say.

  “Am I on speakerphone?”

  “Yeah, Mom.”

  “You can do that on your phones?”

  “It’s kind of standard. What’s going on?”

  “My daughters,” I whispered. “My loves.”

  A long pause. “Are you…?”

  “She can’t be.”

  “I know, but listen to her. Mom, are you…drunk?”

  I looked up. “Horatio, am I drunk?”

  “Big time,” he said.

  I set the phone on the bar and bent close to it. “Big time,” I said. I said it again, low and deep. “Horatio says big time. So, big time. Biiiiiiiiig time. Big tiiiiii—”

  “Mom, where are you? Are you safe?”

  “Am I safe, Horatio?”

  “You’re fine,” he said.

  “I’m fine, girls! Horatio says so, and I believe him.”

  “Who’s Horatio?”

  “A wonderful man,” I said. “I’m going to marry him.”

  “Uh,” said Horatio.

  “You’ll love him. He makes the most wonderful alcoholic beverages.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “I lost him!” I burst into tears.

  “You lost him?”

  “I’m sorry, girls. I’ve been having a really hard time. Everything is fucked up.”

  I heard them both gasp. “What did you say?”

  “There’s no other word for it. Everything’s fucked. Everything’s totally fuckarooni.”

  “Okay, Mom? You need to call Jorge. He’ll bring you to the house. We’ll meet you there.”

  “I thought you hated me.”

  “We never hated you,” Maisie said. “We were just really upset. But we had a long talk with Audra’s mom. She told us what you’ve been going through makes a person kind of crazy. She was super helpful.”

  “She’s a beautiful woman,” I said. “Mrs. Audra.”

  “Mrs. Karnow.”

  “I’m going to send her a fruit basket.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”

  My daughters still loved me! Relief nearly knocked me off my stool.

  “Mom, give the phone to Horatio. We need to—”

  I hung up. There was someone else I needed to apologize to. I texted Sarah.

  —Whuzzup, homie?

  After a minute or two, she replied.

  —Who is this?

  —Your old pal Raney! Raney Moore! Moore the Whore!

  —Raney?

  —I have a diseased vagina. All of my chickens are coming home to roost.

  …

  —My sexy, bacterial chickens.

  My phone rang.

  “Phlaney Bloore speaking!” I said. “Snoredy Core of Moordy Floore!”

  “Raney? What’s going on?”

  “It’s the end of the universe!” I cried. “The end of time!”

  “Are you…have you been…”

  “Drinking? Like a fish! Like the little dipping bird. Like a rock rolling down a hill.”

&nb
sp; “Oh Jesus. Tell me where you are.”

  “I’m sorry for being such an asshole the other day.”

  “What did you say?”

  “On the phone, I mean. But also all the times I was an asshole in person. And via text. I don’t want to fight with you. I love you.”

  “Oh, honey,” she said. “I love you, too.”

  “But I was so nasty to you.”

  “A little bit. But we’ve been friends for twenty years. One little spat isn’t going to be the end of us.”

  “Thank you,” I sobbed. “You’re wonderful. I don’t deserve you.”

  “Probably not. Now, where are you?”

  Apologizing felt good! I didn’t apologize enough.

  I hung up on Sarah and texted Singer.

  —First I didn’t believe in fun, because I was all about the meaning. Then I finally understood the fun, but forgot about the meaning. You’re fun AND meaning.

  I sent it. Then I reread it. What the hell was I trying to say?

  —I like you. Like, really like you. Do I the other thing you? I don’t know. I got scared. I wasn’t ready to start a new narrative. Not before my old one had ended.

  I sent that one, too. I watched the phone for a long time. He didn’t respond.

  I put my head down on the bar.

  After a while I felt a touch on my shoulder. It was Amanda!

  I grabbed her arm. “It’s fucking amazing to see you!”

  “Oh my God,” she murmured.

  Under her heavy coat, she was wearing a sparkling blue gown. I held her away from me so I could admire her. “You look beautiful! Especially your boobs.”

  I tried to open her coat for a better look, but she took my hand. “Raney, what have you been drinking?”

  “Sexes on the Beaches!” I cried. “Thousands of ’em!”

  “She’s had seven,” Horatio said. “But I stopped adding alcohol after the fourth one.”

  I drew back. “Horatio. Thou hast betrayed me.”

  “My name’s not Horatio,” he told her. “Just for the record.”

  “I love you,” I told Amanda.