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“I’m naked,” Kelly says aloud. She crosses her arms over her chest and covers her nipples with her hands. How is it that I’m naked? This she says only in her head. She is standing in the middle of the floor at the foot of the bed. She looks around her. She does not find her clothes. She turns. The French windows are open. But no one can see. There are only moonlit rooftops and, in the distance, a Marriott and a Sheraton floating near each other in red neon with a gold speckling of their room lights below. She lowers her hands. But she wants to be clothed now. She moves along the bed and she sees her dress crumpled before the night table, as if she has already taken her Scotch and her pills and she has simply vanished, a dark rapture that has carried off her body and left her clothes behind.
She goes to her dress and picks it up and lifts it and lets it fall over her. She is unaware of the lick of its silk going down her body. She is very aware of the bottle and the pills, but she goes up onto the bed on her knees and she turns and sits, her back against the iron headboard. The wrought-iron bars press hard at her and she leans forward and twists around and uprights a pillow there. She straightens and leans back again. She understands the irony. She’s protecting her body from this minor discomfort even as she intends to send that body to the grave. Tonight. Soon. But that will be just a larger-scale plumping of a pillow. Once she’s there, the grave is painless. And living isn’t. Living is full of pain now. More so now. Much more now. Now that she’s destroyed her family. Sam loved having a family. Sam needs a family. She’s let Sam down. Horribly. Forever. She’s put a poisonous thing inside herself that’s a far worse poison than a handful of pain pills because it preserves her consciousness, heightens her consciousness, keeps her awake forever to all that she’s lost.
These are words in Kelly’s head. She’s talking it out in there abstractly, and she realizes that it’s safer that way. She’s reasoning a thing out that in fact lives beyond words. It lives in her limbs and her chest and her face and her loins. That’s the terrible power of what she’s done. There are no words to fix it. No words to properly describe it. But it was words withheld, it was words not spoken, it was silence that led her to this. “No.” She says this aloud, into the room. Her voice is low but it feels as if she’s just yelled. No need to yell. The point is, she says to herself in her head, it’s never been about words. They’re just signifiers. And the absence of words signifies too. She has never been loved. She has never been worthy of that.
She needs a drink.
But she doesn’t take it yet.
The final afternoon when she and a man she hardly knew had sex in a cheap motel and she failed to measure up, when she failed to keep this man beside her no matter how often he said the words she always thought would fix her, that final afternoon they’d come to the motel separately. He’d suggested that. She didn’t realize it, but she had already failed to measure up. He said he loved her a number of times that afternoon but it was already not true. It had never been true. He had suggested they come separately because he didn’t want to have an awkward trip together afterwards. So she gets into her car and she drives out of the motel parking lot and onto I-10 and she heads east, back to Pensacola. Back to her house. And to what else? Back to what life? There are no words for that, either. She is rushing at 70 miles an hour along a highway toward nothing. And quite slowly, quite gently, she closes her eyes. She holds her eyes shut and looks at this darkness. She looks and she waits and she looks. She waits for what feels like a very long time, and then there is a vibration in her hands and a rough, deep pulsing sound fills the car, and she simply opens her eyes. She has drifted off the road — she expected that, surely — that’s what she was seeking, of course — but the turnpike wake-up grooves have opened her eyes by reflex, and by reflex, by weary inertia, she keeps them open, and she guides the car back onto the highway. And she knows how stupid she is, how self-absorbed, to have endangered others.
She needs a drink.
Kelly turns to the night table, and she pours herself some Scotch. A couple of fingers, more or less. She doesn’t want to lose her focus now from simple drunkenness and wake to another day when she has to start all this over again. It’s better at night. It’s better now. But she will begin with a little more Scotch. She lifts the glass from the table and sits back against the pillow — she is quite comfortable, actually — like those moments driving fast and smooth and blind, simply looking into the darkness within her own eyes.
She sips her Scotch. She closes her eyes. She touches her hair. She should have done her hair. Not long ago, when she was already as sad as this, she did her hair for herself, for her birthday. She sat like this with a Scotch, on the deck of their house. Of her house. He let the house go to her. He never said. He never said but she knew. She had defiled this place he’d built for them. He could have forced a sale to equally divide the asset, but he didn’t. He wanted her to have it but he never said why. She knew it was a rebuke. And she let other assets go to him in compensation. He made the money. That was his mistress. She endured the long whiling of silence spent in her house as he made the money. She didn’t want to move out of the house. She couldn’t face that. She puts her hair up in a French twist for her birthday, and she puts on her makeup. She sits down at twilight and lets the dark come upon her. She thinks she hears the beating of wings, the slow beating of the wings of an egret flying past in the darkness. Do egrets fly in the dark? She can’t imagine. And she thinks of the first hours she spent with her future husband. On the deck of her house and on the bed in Room 303, she thinks of the first hours of Kelly and Michael.
He rescued her. He took her to his room at the Olivier House. He did not hold her till she said he could and then it was to stop her trembling. To make her feel safe. She stopped trembling. She felt safe. And then they sat in the two chairs on either side of the French windows, and the last of the daylight was fading outside. They talked small and they laughed some and they kept the windows closed so they could hear each other, as the Mardi Gras din pressed into the room. And the small talk finally accumulated enough that they could feel they’d met properly, that they’d done enough to suggest doing a little bit more. In a mutual pause, Michael looks out the window and he says, “Do you think we should try again out there?”
“Yes,” Kelly says.
“You sure it’s okay? You’ve been through it.”
Kelly smiles at this sweetly solicitous man. She says, “The operative word is we.”
“Of course.”
And so they go out. They move along Toulouse and turn onto Bourbon, and for the rest of the evening neither of them even gets a drink. They simply drift together in the crowd, at the edge a little faster but also content to nudge and wedge and stand and float in the density of bodies in the middle of the street, watching, apart together even in the midst of all this, holding hands, and as midnight nears, they squeeze out of the mass, onto the sidewalk, and a blues band is playing somewhere nearby and the two of them find a small square of sidewalk, barely enough to flare their elbows but a space of their own nonetheless, and the music is something Kelly can no longer remember but it is a fast song, an old New Orleans blues song that suffers the blues with a fast tempo, and Michael puts his hand in the small of her back and he is turning her to face him and that hand on her back comes up higher and her first thought is that he is about to kiss her, and she is ready for that, she raises her face to him, but his other hand has taken her hand now and he lifts it and she realizes he wants to dance, and he presses her to him and they move in tiny steps on their small circle of pavement and they dance a slow dance, as if this is the Stylistics playing, as if this is a dance at the American Legion Hall and they are slow-dancing to “Betcha By Golly Wow.” Michael has taken her in his arms and is dancing with her and he is defying the crowd and the noise and the drunkenness and the band’s insistence on being fast and loud. He has his own ideas about the two of them. And Kelly is happy in that moment. Kelly is very happy. And how could she have known? How could she have ever known? She will never again in her life feel as loved as she does before she even knows for sure she is in love, before she has even kissed her future husband for the first time.