Anyhow, I knew that if it hadn’t been Jim and Gary it would have been Jim and someone else. Sometime after Jim and I broke up I had admitted that during the time we were together, my feelings for Jim had gone beyond friendship. I’d guess my heart began to change around the time Emily was born and we were playing house. Like pieces of a complicated jigsaw puzzle coming together over that first year, I fell deeply in love with Jim. I couldn’t help it. We lived together in such an easy and natural way, sharing everything except a bed. It may have been a celibate marriage but it was not a loveless one.
It wasn’t hard to make Jim happy. I kept things quiet so he could study, kept the house as neat as a pin, and I never nagged. The nagging part was something I had learned from my mother, who was the quintessential whiner, only to be outdone by Old Violet. Our domestic routine became more broken in and comfortable, much like a pair of shoes you never wanted to give up. On several different occasions after mucho beeros, I made attempts to show my affection and he gently declined all advances, peeling my arms from around his neck and directing me to my bed, tucking me in. When that happened, the next morning I would feel completely terrible inside. I knew he loved me. He knew I loved him. We were married. Why not give it a chance? No one would have blamed me for trying.
It just wasn’t in the cards. Between his declining comfort level with my romantic overtures and my mushrooming frustration, he eventually zigzagged his way to Gary. After a while, all I had to do was light a scented candle and he would announce that he was going out for the evening. Those increasing late nights proved that the original terms of our agreement were how things were and always would be. Something in me defied his sexual orientation. The same kernel of stubborn will bamboozled me into believing that Jim might come around someday. But Jim had never deceived me; I had deceived myself.
“Would Madam care for another?”
The captain’s eyebrows were somewhere in between the ceiling and the moon.
“Yes, Madam would, thank you.” I wanted to say, Bug off, bubba. Madam is having some dark thoughts here and this is no time to piss her off. Who was this idiot?
By the time Jim returned I had drained the first glass, the captain had brought me a fresh drink, and I was well on the way to finishing it too. They were so good and my morbid veil was lifting, giving way to mild inebriation. I was calm.
“Okay, we have to talk about this,” I said when Jim sat down.
“There isn’t much to say.” He took two sips of his Gibson and fished out the onions. “Thank God for vodka.”
“Amen. At least I think it’s got vodka in it. This is my second one of these babies. We had better eat something or else you’re going to have to carry me out of here over your shoulder.” I remembered that I hadn’t eaten a single thing since breakfast. I broke my roll and ate a small piece. “So, talk to me. Did he move out or did you?”
“He did. I still have the apartment on Union Street. He’s moved back to Ohio to be with his mother and his family. Funny thing is, I thought I was his family. Actually, not funny. I mean, we lived together for all our adult lives.”
“Look, Jim, I’m no doctor or shrink but I think that when somebody is afraid and terribly ill, they want to be with their parents, if they’re still around. And, not that it matters, but how did he get sick in the first place?”
“In the usual way. We had been fighting and sort of sulking around for a long time. Years, in fact. We probably should’ve gone our separate ways but for a million reasons, we just continued to live together as friends. But he was sort of shopping the market, you know? Anyway, he must have picked up someone and been careless. It’s unbelievable to me that this could even happen to Gary. But you know how he is. The bars were his thing, not mine. For once in my life my laziness paid off.”
“You mean, you weren’t into going out anymore.”
“Lord, Anna, the bars are stuffed with fierce young talent and tired old queens. What’s more pathetic than an old queen cruising young boys with fake IDs who are looking for free drinks and a sugar daddy?”
“You’re not even forty.”
“I know that, but in my mind nearly forty-year-old men are supposed to be settled down or something. Hell, I’ve been in my own business for twelve years! And Gary’s been in my life for so long, I wouldn’t even know where to begin anyway.”
This meant that Jim was coming back to me the same way Gary had gone to Indiana. He was here to fortify himself and my mission was to be his good friend. He would have to go back to San Francisco at some point to see about work. Jim, as you would imagine, had a very cool job. Maximizing his business degree and his love of all good things, Jim had become an expert on wine and ran a consulting business, buying domestic wine and importing wine for restaurants and hotel chains all over the country.
“Well, for the moment you don’t have to do anything except relax and bask in Emily’s youth, starting tomorrow. Have you called Gary?”
“Yeah, I called him. His mother thinks I’m evil incarnate and tries to monitor our phone calls.”
“Like that will change anything.”
The captain was returning to record and pass judgment on our culinary choices.
“Exactly. We’d better order.”
I decided on the salmon carpaccio with a citron wasabi drizzle to begin. Jim ordered She Crab soup, a Lowcountry specialty and a second appetizer of quail stuffed with foie gras.
“Hungry?” I said.
“Famished,” he said.
I didn’t have a freaking clue what carpaccio was or in what direction wasabi drizzled. To me, wasabi sounded like a performance of African folk dance. Remember, I was the girl who preferred her food fried, served in a basket. Not the one who regularly ordered food speaking in tongues.
Jim couldn’t decide between rack of lamb and the Chateaubriand so the captain stepped in.
“The seafood stew is very nice,” he said.
“Let’s have it, Anna, what do you say?”
I nodded my head and closed the menu, handing it to the captain. “Another executive decision made,” I said. I picked up my glass and finished off my drink.
Jim was reading the wine list with the glacier speed of someone savoring a good book.
“May I suggest a Cakebread Sauvignon Blanc? The 1999 is very popular and reasonably priced,” said the captain, with a repeat performance of high arch eyebrows, convinced that Jim didn’t know anything about wine.
He didn’t know Jim.
“No, I think not,” Jim said, scanning the list with a little frown. “Oh! I can’t believe you have this! Or do you?”
“Which one is that?”
“The ’97 Clos St-Théobold.”
“Would you kindly point out your selection?”
Warning! Eyebrows losing altitude and gaining speed. I suppressed major grinning by chewing my bottom lip. This was karma in action.
“It’s right here. The Domaine Schoffit, ’97, Rangen de Thann Vineyard, Grande Cru, Lot Number Ten. It has this residual sugar that’s perfect for the heat of wasabi or for foie gras. Perfect. Anna, you’re going to adore this wine.”
“I adore you!” Jim had taken the prissy waiter’s limbs apart by just being himself.
“I’ll be right back with your wine, sir.”
“Great! Bring a glass for yourself too!” he said and turned to me, flushed in excitement. “God, I was in Alsace last summer and found the Rangen de Thann Vineyard. It’s this speck of a town in Colmat-haut Rhin—oh, fine! Here I go rambling on! Sorry, Anna.”
“Please! I love it! I mean, it’s so great that you can work in something you enjoy and make money doing it! I can’t decide if I love you more for you or for squashing his grapes but good.”
“Doesn’t matter, as long as you love me.”
And there it was—the admission from the guy who could give but not take, that he needed me. No problem, I thought.
The attitude of our captain had been replaced by a sudden solicitousness. He un
corked the bottle with a sure hand and poured out a measure for Jim to taste, doing everything but presenting the cork on bended knee.
Jim drank, nodded his head, and said to him, “Pour yourself a glass. I think you’ll find this to be slightly better than the Cakebread.”
“I’m sure,” he said and smiled, revealing a mouthful of birdlike teeth.
The wine was delicious. I assumed it would be sickeningly sweet when Jim said it had a sugar residual but it wasn’t. We ate our first courses, neatly finished the bottle with the help of old Maurice the captain, who, practically salivating, had sidled up to Jim for another sample. Jim, generous soul, wound up pouring him two glasses and ordering another bottle for our entrées. This time it was another but very different Riesling, Domaine Trimbach, ’83, a Clos St. Hune. Yeah, boy, it wasn’t long before I was wondering how my fork was going to find my mouth. Must have been the Cosmos.
Jim talked nonstop and I listened, eating and trying to remain sober enough to give comments and consolation worthy of his troubles. When it seemed that Jim had talked himself out about Gary, I thought I could use a bit of fresh air. I was getting very sleepy. Must have been the Cosmos and the wine combined. I was doing heavy listening, most of the drinking, and not much talking. In my mind, I seemed fine, but I knew it would probably be a good idea to go to the ladies’ room and pinch my cheeks to wake up.
“Jim? I’ll be rat back. Don’ge’up.”
Jim stood anyway, the consummate southern gentleman, and as I stood I realized I was unfortunately as drunk as a coot.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I said and pointed my finger toward him for assurance.
By the grace of heaven, I wobbled to the powder room and sat on the toilet, intending to use it. The last thing I remember thinking was that a short power nap of five minutes would clear my head.
“Miss Abbot? Miss Abbot? Are you in there?”
I woke up midsnore and nearly fell on the floor. I could even hear the noise from myself and was mortified that I was snoring like a three-hundred-pound hog.
It was the officious but concerned voice of the hostess who had been sent by Jim to rescue me. Apparently, I had indulged in a forty-five-minute session with the netherworld and Jim had been a little worried.
“Okay! Yeah, I’m good!” I called out to her. “I’m fine!” I added. “Fine!”
I could see her spike heels under the stall door. She wasn’t moving.
“Are you sure? Do you need anything?”
I sat up straight and pinched my face to get the blood moving to my cheeks. I needed an excuse quick.
“Um . . . you wouldn’t, um, havatampon, wouldja?” Good one!
“Sure. You poor thing! I get horrible cramps too! I know just how you feel.” I heard her rustling around, opening and closing a cabinet or something.
Her hand appeared under the door and I took it from her. “Thanks,” I said, “I’ll be rat out. Wouldja please tell ma husband I’m ’live?”
“Sure! Take your time,” she said. “Glad you’re okay.”
I heard the door open and close. She was gone. I left the stall and looked at my face in the mirror over the sink. Cosmetic salvage was desperately needed. I brushed my hair, wiped the mascara from under my eyes, reapplied lipstick, then stared myself down in the mirror to measure my sobriety and knew I was in big trouble. I washed my hands, cursed myself to hell and back for being so stupid, and began my return through the bar and back to the table. I thought I felt much better. Stupid, but better.
From ten feet away, I saw Arthur. He and Jim were chatting away like old friends.
Try to be alluring. Walk carefully. Try to slink a little. Think cat. Big cat. Think stealth. Throw back shoulders. Appear casually interested. Don’t trip over anything. For the love of God, don’t drink anything else. Okay. Here we are. Go for it.
“Don’ Ah know ya fra, fra somewher’?” That was a pretty funny opener, I hoped. I thought I had got that out of my mouth without slurring too much. Very good so far. I took my seat and the now charming and attentive Maurice snapped my refolded napkin, handing it to me to drape over my lap, pushing in my chair a little. I smiled serenely and tossed my hair. Why did I do that? I hate hair tossers!
“Thought we lost you there, Anna. You okay?” Jim said.
“Hello, Anna. Your husband and I were discussing our favorites in the world of blue cheeses.”
“Na ma husband. See?” I sort of turned my arm in midair to show him my ring finger and my body followed. I was heading for the carpet when the strong arm of Arthur scooped me up and plunked me back in my chair.
Arthur was smirking from ear to ear, as was Jim, and they both looked at each other, shaking their heads. Jim shot me a stern Get a hold of yourself grimace.
“Thanks,” I said, “sorry.” I struggled to regain some grace. I wasn’t doing as well as I had hoped.
“Anna?” Jim said in a voice that betrayed both his trepidation and his determination to carry on. “I said that I thought we might enjoy a piece of the Chiabro D’Henry. It’s a Sardinian sort of fruity cheese and maybe a slice of the French Fourme D’Ambert.”
“And I said,” Arthur said, “that I thought the Canadian Chaput Brique with the Rougerus from France were smoother and silkier.”
I stuck my leg out from under the tablecloth and Arthur had little choice but to give my flailing limb a hard stare. Jim, watching me dig my hole deeper, could do nothing but look to the heavens for guidance.
“Namarried,” I said, with what I was sure was the irresistible smile of a temptress.
Jim jumped out of his chair and grabbed Arthur by the arm. “We’ll be right back, Anna. You just sit here like a good girl.”
They hurried away and I couldn’t have cared less why they did or where they were going. Arthur liked my leg. I was sure of it.
Maurice had cleared away the dishes and the space in front of me was empty. It seemed to me there was no reason why I shouldn’t just rest my poor heavy head on the table for a minute or two. Hell, my hair was clean. Surely no one would mind.
Sixteen
Hair of the Dog
HEARD something piercing and offensive. Was there a hatchet in my forehead? Ring! Ring! A telephone. Instinct kicked in. Kill the intruder. I was buried deep in sleep, and still I reached out from the tangle of sheets and grabbed the receiver.
“Sleep well?” said the male voice with a hint of humor.
“Who is this calling at this ungodly hour?” The hatchet had moved. It was in the back of my head.
“It’s Arthur, your wake-up service. You asked me to call you this morning and make sure you got out of bed early because you have things to do. Remember?”
Okay. I had no memory of that. In fact, the last thing I did remember was coming back from the bathroom at the restaurant. After that—black hole. Jim must have brought me home. I had been severely over served. I wondered how many apologies I needed to make.
“Oh, God, I am so sorry. You must think I’m a total drunk.” Now was that the way to win a guy’s heart or what? Give him something to tell his momma about the nice girl he just met. Remind him about your alcohol blood levels.
“No. I think you’re single. Am I right?”
“Oh, God!” I buried my head under the covers and bit the back of my hand, remembering what a jerk I had been. It was hot under the covers.
“And, I think you’re not accustomed to drinking wine.”
“I’m not.”
He had a great phone voice. It was breathy. Musky.
“And, I think you have great legs.”
“Thanks, but that’s small compensation for my shame and humiliation. Just tell me, did I have to be carried out on a stretcher?”
“Oh, Anna. No! You left willingly and in a very buoyant state. I mean, you were sleepy and waving around a little, but overall your performance of ‘New York, New York’ was relatively on key. The patrons loved it!”
“Tell me you’re lying
. . .”
“ ‘These little town blues ...’” He was singing.
“Shoot me, okay? Just shoot me and put me out of my misery.”
“I thought you were pretty wonderful. And this Jim fellow is a decent guy. I mean, he told me how he had basically given you a brain dump of some major bad news and all. That’s enough to make me drink. You were married to him?”
I knew he was asking the obvious. “It’s a long story. Jim’s great.”
“Yeah, he seems like it. Okay, so I’ve done my job. You’re up, I take it?”
“Yeah, I’m up. Thanks. Really.”
“Okay. Say listen, if you ever want to go to, I don’t know, an AA meeting or a movie or something . . .”
“Very funny. AA indeed. A movie? Maybe.”
“Sunday?”
“Well, my daughter’s coming home from school and I haven’t seen her in six months, but . . .”
“Oh, okay, no problem.”
He was going to hang up. He thought I wasn’t interested.
“No! I was going to say, why don’t you come over on Sunday afternoon around five and we can barbecue something or cook some shrimp.”
“Great! Sounds good!”
“Great! Do you need my address?”
“Hardly. May I just say how fetching you look in your Carolina T-shirt?”
I looked down and sure enough the rag was bunched up on my body. “I want to die.”
“I’m just teasing you—Jim was the one who helped you undress. I had the good manners to leave and go back to work.”
“Arthur?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. I’ll see you Sunday.”
I hung up, crawled out of bed, and staggered to the shower, checking my living room. No sign of Jim but the couch was a wreck. He must’ve gone out to get a newspaper.
While the water ran hot, I took three aspirins and drank two glasses of water. I looked in the mirror over the sink and stuck out my tongue, which I was positive had been replaced by a sweat sock. I brushed my teeth to a fare-thee-well, said a good Act of Contrition to assuage my guilt, and got in the shower, letting the water run over my head. What an idiot I was! Never in my life had I done anything so asinine! Never again!
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