by J D Ventura
“The mortician should have won some kind of award,” Claire had thought at the time. Where Jenny’s skull had fractured in four places, her just-brushed blonde hair fell and then curled into newly cut wisps of gold. Her shattered ribs and pelvis were shrouded in an angelic white dress, which featured a lace corsage above her right breast and long sleeves that covered both her broken arms. The only visual indication she was dead were her hands, which, despite being covered with makeup and thoughtfully arranged, one over another, across her stomach, were noticeably swollen. The undertaker had given Jenny’s rings back to her mother. “We had to cut them to get them off. Many family members want them as keepsakes.”
As the funeral director turned to answer a ringing phone down the hall in his office, Claire saw her mother discreetly place the rings in a tissue and toss them into a wastebasket near the watercooler.
Sam was still talking to her and she forced herself to pay attention. “…and, well, you know I am grateful and I just hope you guys have fun. Say hi to the Halls for me. But, you’re right, I need to just go to bed. Just, turn everything off for a while. And, if you do drink — and you really shouldn’t and we should sit down and talk more about that soon — don’t get shitfaced. Try for me, okay?” He stood to leave, and she met him at the foot of the staircase. His kind eyes looked heavy and full of worry, a sailor noticing storm clouds above swelling seas. He kissed her on the forehead and, for a moment, she felt connected to him again. “I love you, Sam. I won’t go to this thing. It’s stupid. I’ll make us some tea and we can watch some TV in bed.”
“No, I’m fine. It’ll be good for you to get out of the house. Go make some more neighborhood friends. We can talk about my deteriorating mind tomorrow.”
“And my staggering fall from grace?”
“Yes. Over coffee.” He ascended the staircase to the first landing and, without turning around, said, “I love you, too. Be careful, Claire.”
Her dress was a strapless, floor-length gray tulle ball gown that, in D.C., would have quickly been labeled a “prom dress.” But it was quite pretty, Claire thought, standing in front of the master bathroom’s full-length mirror, admiring the garment’s bust of fake pearl beading and subtle appliques of lace flowers and sequins. Stephanie had come back and dropped off her extra mask, which Claire now quietly retrieved from a box atop her dresser as Sam snored loudly in their nearby bed, totally spent.
The mask was fancier than she would have expected, adorned with handcrafted satin roses, lace trim and black feathers that fluttered upward from just above her right eye. Black satin ribbons fell from her ears to her shoulders. Her eyes were encircled by tiny glass pieces that busily shimmered, diamond-like. The anonymity the outfit afforded her in this outfit filled her with an odd sense of relief. Has anyone seen Claire Sturgis? She said she was coming. She smiled despite her newly depressed mood and gently closed the bedroom door behind her.
There was no mistaking where the Murray’s party was. The house’s position on the hill and size aside, two floodlights illuminated the clouds above it, crisscrossing the night sky as if searching for God himself. Tuxedoed ushers stood outside of the front gate, checking invitations and escorting guests across the expansive front yard, to a stone walkway that encircled the house to the right, terminating at a large caramel-colored stucco wall and a massive wooden gate, flanked by more ushers and two gas carriage lamps, flames roaring.
As her usher extended his arm toward Claire, she hesitated, taking in the splendor of the architecture. In viewing its enormity, she could only imagine the views the upper floors of the house offered. Its stucco exterior and surrounding gardens were tastefully illuminated, and the lighting revealing the gabled Spanish-tiled roof, the eaves of which were topped with gargoyle-like figures, and at least ten windows and balconies of various shapes and sizes. Claire imagined it had at least seven bedrooms, maybe more. Did the Murrays have kids? Had she ever, for that matter, seen a single kid in the Village?” Why on Earth do they need a house this big?
The drapes of every window were thrown open and it seemed as if every light in the house had been turned on. The interior, even from this distance, revealed rich-looking artwork, floor to ceiling bookcases, tapestries and a stunning constellation of flower arrangements and plants. “What is their electric bill?” she quipped. Her usher smiled but said nothing before handing her off to the two ushers stationed at the large door leading to the house’s backyard, where a maze of outdoor heat lamps kept guests warm from the chilly October air.
“Mrs. Claire Sturgis,” he said, sounding cool and official. Then, turning to a woman wearing a headset, softly, “Without her husband.” She turned to explain he wasn’t feeling well, but the usher was already making his way back to the main gate, his back to her.
As Claire walked through the archway, she was struck by not only the opulence of the backyard, but by the sheer size of the party. It was as if every resident of the Village, she guessed maybe 200 people – many of whom she had never seen before –were standing in either a tuxedo or full ball gown in the Murray’s “backyard,” which seemed far too flimsy a term for what Claire was witnessing. Pulling her dress up and stepping aside to let other arriving guests walk by her, she thought this was hardly a suburban barbecue. They were somewhere else. This was the French Riviera. This was Times Square. This was Santa Monica pier on a Saturday night. This was not a gated community in the sleepy foothills of West Virginia. “What the fuck?” she said aloud.
The back of the house featured a massive pool, which made the Halls’ look like a hot tub. The perfectly still heated water, which was steaming into the cold night, was covered in rose petals and at least one hundred floating candle-lit lanterns. Strings of miniature lights outlined the house’s stunning frame, which boasted outdoor spiral staircases to second and third floor verandas, massive archways, 15-foot high columns and several completely furnished outdoor rooms, their ceilings crisscrossed by oak and iron beams. Waiters with trays of shrimp, crab cakes, caviar, champagne flutes, mini-quiches, stuffed mushrooms and a rainbow of glitzy party drinks darted between the mingling guests like bees pollinating a field of wild flowers.
As she walked, she overheard bits and pieces of cocktail conversation, exaggerated and amplified, as tipsy partygoers shouted above the din:
“I, for one, think it’s the right choice, but there are things I’ll miss…”
“Shhhhh, remember, discretion. This is a going away party for the Murrays…”
“Do you think they’ll actually invite her…”
A burst of flowing yellow satin broke off from a circle of admiring tuxedos and floated toward her like a firefly through the delicate flickering air. She recognized the dress. “Well hello, mystery lady!” Stephanie Hall exclaimed from behind a gauzy silk mask decorated with layers of yellow rose petals, shaped like the exaggerated wings of a butterfly. A deejay, suspended fifty feet above the party in the basket of a fully inflated and illuminated hot air balloon, was tethered to the ground by cables wrapped in ivy. The air literally pulsated with waves of bass-heavy electronica.
“Holy shit,” said Claire, laughing at the spectacle before her.
“I know, right?” Stephanie said, looking around to survey the scene with Claire. “So over the top. I’ll give them credit; they know how to throw a goddamn going away party. For real.”
“Stephanie, I need a drink.”
Her friend raised a finger and a waiter gave Claire a choice of beverages from a mirrored serving tray. She chose what she imagined to be a Cosmopolitan. The first sip of alcohol felt warm and loving, like the embrace of a long-lost friend.
“This is beyond, beyond, beyond what I imagined,” she shouted above the music.
“Are you excited that Sam’s coming back tomorrow?” Stephanie yelled back.
“What? Oh, um, no, he’s back. But he couldn’t come. He’s not feeling well. He’s just exhausted. I acce
pted his rain check.”
“Oh, sweetie, I am sorry to hear that. Well, at least you are here. With me! That’s all that matters. Mine is here somewhere but I may never find him. All the men look alike. If I’m not careful I might kiss the wrong guy. Wouldn’t that be a naughty, naughty pity?”
“You’re bad,” Claire said, placing her suddenly empty martini glass on a passing tray before retrieving another.
“Can I ask you something personal, without seeming like a flaming opportunist and horrible…enabler.”
“Ugh, I hate that stupid word,” said Claire. The vernacular of rehabs always made her queasy. “But, by all means, enable away.”
“How off the wagon are you? Would you say you’ve just left the trail for a moment, like, to pee, and then you’re going to jump right back on, or are you waving goodbye as the wagon fades from sight?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked, holding up her drink. “In my present state of mind, I have no immediate plans to find said wagon,” Claire replied, and tossed back the rest of the drink.
Stephanie opened her sequined gold clutch and pulled out a glass compact full of blue tablets with tiny smiley faces carved into them, holding it up for Claire like a butcher showing a customer a cut of meat.
“Molly. I’m a bad friend, right? And, a bad human being, too, I guess.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe I’m a bad human being or maybe you want something that will make you just a little bit happier than those silly Xanax you keep popping?”
“When in Wonderland, I guess,” Claire said, motioning at the revelry around them. “I haven’t had ecstasy in a very long time.”
“Well, Alice, tonight I’ve got quite a rabbit hole to show you.” She grabbed Claire by the arm and led her through the crowd, bumping up against groups of laughing party-goers, some engaged in loud, animated conversations, some dancing, some in romantic entwinement. They crossed through one of the exterior rooms and then into a large central hallway that led straight through the main house. A tremendously large grandfather clock chimed loudly in the enormous living room just as a waiter burst through a swinging door further down the hall, revealing a hotel-sized kitchen full of cooks. A few doors down from the kitchen, they went through a door that led to a large bathroom, full of illuminated oil paintings and vases of flowers. The smell of lilies made Claire’s stomach roll.
“I hate the smell of lilies.” Claire said, feeling suddenly claustrophobic, their billowing gowns filling the space between them.
“Well, I have the solution for that,” Stephanie said, spreading the pills on a cherry wood Demilune table set against the bathroom’s back wall. She then removed from her purse a small red plastic tube, capped at the top. She removed the cap and dropped two of the pills into the tube. She replaced the tube’s top and then twisted it back and forth, before removing it again and dumping a small pile of blue powder onto the table. With the back and forth of a quickly produced credit card, she formed two neat lines. She then took a small straw from her bra and handed it to Claire.
“Bon appetite,” she said to Claire.
“What about you? You’re not doing any?”
“I’m way ahead of you, dear,” Stephanie said, pointing at her own face. “You can’t see it under this mask, but my nose is bluer than a Smurf’s ass.”
The cloying stench of the lilies hung in the air. In that instance, she saw her sister’s face. Her oddly-styled hair across a white satin pillow, her head slightly misshapen. They hadn’t gotten it quite right. She saw the imperfection. Beneath the makeup, the reconstruction faltered. Her sister’s face was a mask. She saw her rings unclaimed in the trash can. Pick them up. Something to remember her by.
In that moment, she envied Sam, envied the bliss in unfettered forgetfulness. She longed for oblivion, as she snorted the first line. “One more,” she said to Stephanie, barely hiding her sad resignation.
The two left the bathroom and made their way down to the pool. Everything now was electric for Claire. This was way better than the MDMA she had in college. The strings of lights seemed to throb with energy, seemed to interconnect the main house with the nearby gazebo with the wall encircling the property. She felt oneness with these men and women, an intense sense of belonging. It was the pills, no doubt, but it was something else, too. She briefly wondered what they were even celebrating.“It is my way of giving back to a community that has, time and time again, stood by Marcus and me.” What had Lu meant by that? Stood by them through what? And why was everyone so excited the Murrays were leaving?
She wasn’t all that interested in the particulars, when she really thought about it. There was something fresh and new and interesting about this place and she wanted to understand it, wanted to be a part of it, wanted so desperately to lose herself to this feeling, this sense of unjustified debauchery. She and Stephanie snaked through the crowd and she felt their eyes on her. She felt bare and exposed, but it was not a feeling of vulnerability. It was belonging. And as if the crowd was suddenly very aware of her presence, it parted for her and then closed in her wake. She stared up at the night sky and a million eyes stared back.
“Claire!” Stephanie yelled, grabbing her arm. “Slow your roll, sister. Pun intended. You almost walked right into the pool. Hey, there’s Marc.” Stephanie began waving at her husband, who said his goodbyes to a group of fellow tuxedos congregating near the pool’s diving board. “Honey, over here!” Marc approached them, beer bottle in hand, and stopped short, leaning backward as he looked Claire up and down. “Hey, Stephanie, who is your mysterious and incredibly alluring friend?”
“Hi, Marc,” Claire said, waving him toward her before giving him a hug. “You look very handsome. Even though you look like every man here. I have to start memorizing people’s masks, I guess.”
“Where’s Sam?” Marc asked, taking a long swig of his beer. “Did he smartly avoid this craziness?”
“He’s just tired. He was supposed to be out of town, actually. But he came back early. He’s way wiped out.”
“Well, that’s too bad. Guess it’s just the three of us,” Marc said, sounding somewhat pleased. Claire noticed his dilated pupils and imagined he also had partaken in the party favors. He was staring unapologetically at her breasts, so to avoid his stare, Claire surveyed the partygoers on the various patios and verandas ascending to the house’s roofline. Stephanie was saying something but Claire squinted and then held her hand, visor-like, over her eyebrows, not understanding what she was seeing: a cat-shaped gargoyle slowly walking along the eaves overhanging the third floor.
“…don’t you think, Claire, that would be fun?” Stephanie asked. “Claire? Hello? Earth to Claire.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question.” Claire took another look upward, but the gargoyle was stationary now, as immovable and solid as stone. Stephanie playfully frowned, as if her feelings had been hurt by Claire’s inattention.
Marc injected, “She asked you if you maybe wanted to have a cigarette.”
“Ooooo, that would be perfect,” Claire cooed. “Just not menthol. Those gross me out.”
“A pack of non-menthols coming up. I noticed the bar has some freebies. I’ll be right back,” Stephanie said, kissing Marc on the cheek before walking backwards into the crowd. She gave Claire a playful wink and finger-wave goodbye.
And with that, Stephanie’s yellow gown flowed effortlessly into the crowd of masked revelers before disappearing into a large gathering near the main bar. Suddenly the dance music abruptly changed to a haunting slow song. She had heard the tune once before, one week after Sam’s initial diagnosis.
The entire week after the doctors had told them, essentially, that Sam was destined to fade away, his personality and memories left to slowly erode like a dune exposed to a cruel, relentless sea, she had taken comfort in routine. She’d cleaned out all their junk drawers, dry-cleaned winter sweaters,
steam-cleaned the rugs and taken five garbage bags of old clothes to the Salvation Army. Then, on the first Saturday following that ill-fated doctor’s appointment, she’d found herself sitting alone in her car in the parking lot of an IKEA. She’d taken her first Xanax, and washed it down with the beginnings of her second bottle of wine since relapsing, sitting in her car in an Ikea parking lot, overwhelmed by a once-tamed sense. The tune came on the car’s satellite radio, the lyrics dreamy and sorrowful.
She allowed herself to weep then, allowed herself to imagine, for the first time, the true meaning of what they faced. Dreams would have to be edited. Expectations adjusted. The road before them was no longer boundless. It had never been, this she knew. But the impertinence of this doctor to tell her so, to neatly surmise, in the most clinical of terms, that their journey would come to an end, and she would be left with and without him. She cried, allowing the lyrics to pry open the steel box in which she had hid her pain.
The bright party lights dimmed to a delicate purple hue and, as if rescuing her from her painful daydream, Marc gently grabbed her arm and pulled her to the dance floor. Maybe it was the pills, but she didn’t resist and instead leaned against his strong frame, letting him lead her away from her melancholic thoughts, spinning her out of her unwanted recollections.
As they spun slowly, she caught the glimpses of others. Hundreds of eyes, peering through masks, some, Claire thought, revealing sympathy, and others, it frightened her to realize, unveiling suspicion and disdain. The fear jolted her from the gauzy remembrance and she pushed away from him. “I’m sorry, Marc, I have to use the ladies room. I’ll find you guys.”