How many gatherings like this had I attended, where the point was to blend in, not to call attention to myself because I stood out too much? My father would have loved this, me at the party of Alicia Houghton, with all the sons and daughters of the establishment. He would have said that I had made it.
Fran waded right in, addressing a brawny man wearing shorts printed with coconuts and clusters of grapes, paired with a formal red linen suit jacket. She introduced him to me as Alicia’s cousin, and to my relief he seemed to be the conversational type, probably due to the fact that the glass in his hand was nearly down to jackass level. I concentrated on smiling in what I thought were the correct places, and soon we were having a perfectly civilized conversation about a recent exhibition of Persian miniatures at the Met. The cousin actually looked interested in what I had to say, although it might have been just a facade. There was something so fatal about that WASP politeness—you never knew where you stood—although I had had enough practice with my in-laws to have begun to be able to decipher it. I was suddenly and sadly reminded of those vacations with Fran in the city when we’d gone out with those boys who consistently froze me out. The cousin might have been one, for all I knew, because I didn’t remember any of their faces. He tilted his glass and drained it heartily. I watched the action of that white Adam’s apple and thought, He has no idea how ridiculous that getup he’s wearing is, how few places in the world would find it even remotely acceptable.
Fran got collared by a couple in matching white duck trousers, who both turned out to be lawyers and wanted to know what Harvard was like these days. I studied my friend as she stood poised there in her blue and green abstract-patterned cocktail dress, hair conservatively pulled back in barrettes. There was nothing the least bit dykey about Fran, unless you counted her intensity, or the way she walked into a room as if she owned it.
“So, can I get you another drink?” the cousin was asking me. Then, seeing that I wasn’t quite finished—“Or freshen that one?” I handed him my glass.
“Thanks.”
This was what I dreaded most, being alone at a party, it was the stuff of nightmares. Although I wasn’t drunk yet, that familiar unsteadiness came over me. I imagined, not for the first time, that what I’d been feeling since I’d gotten back from St. Pete must be like the malaise people go through when they move to a new country, that continuing seasickness of immigrants. The sickness that, according to Aunty Mabel, my father had never gotten over. Longing for a cigarette, I sat down on the pink-and-white-striped window seat. There was a little marble-topped table in front of me displaying a collection of Limoges boxes shaped liked different kinds of fruit. Fruit was certainly the theme of the afternoon. I picked up a tiny clump of raspberries to examine it.
Alicia’s breathy voice was in my ear: “Aren’t they beautiful? That was my grandmother’s collection. I gave her those raspberries the Christmas before she died.”
I thought of Nai-nai’s Limoges gathering dust in my mother’s attic.
“Here’s Charlie with a drink for someone. Oh, for you, Sally. I’m glad you two are getting to know each other.”
“So you knew Lish at prep school.” The cousin plunked himself down next to me. I marveled at the way he’d managed to make my drink—lime, ice, and all—with the level exactly at the monkey line. Obviously an expert.
Before I could answer there was a commotion at the door. Alicia excused herself and went over. I saw the copper flash of Fran’s hair as she turned from her conversation with the lawyers to look toward the foyer. The new guest was a woman alone, an ice-blonde in an orange sheath. She looked vaguely familiar. Fran raised her eyebrows at me, tilting her head to the kitchen.
“What’s up?” I asked her a few minutes later.
“I just wanted to make sure you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That woman who just came in. It’s Carey’s new girlfriend.”
I felt sick. “Is Carey here?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
I said: “I think I need another drink.”
“Sally. What a surprise.”
“Carey.” It was much, much later in the party. I didn’t know where Charlie had gotten himself to, he was probably off with someone more his speed, someone who could hold their liquor. Astonishingly, Carey looked exactly the same, substantial, like a husband. He was wearing a tropical-print shirt and the khaki trousers we’d shopped for together at Brooks Brothers. He was so familiar I could almost believe that we were still married, that we would leave this party together and go back to our apartment on Riverside Drive. He had new glasses, I noticed, wire-framed instead of hornrimmed.
“You look terrific,” he said.
“So do you.” Had my husband always had that pretentious accent?
“You here alone?”
“No,” I said, trying not to slur my words, “I’m with Fran.” I reached up and touched his shoulder in what I thought was a friendly way. “Where’d you get that shirt? I don’t remember it. Is it from Hawaii or something?”
There was something in his look I couldn’t read. He bent toward me and said into my ear, “Listen, I think it’s time for you to go home. I’ll take you if you want. We can get a cabdownstairs. Let me just tell Sukey.”
“Sukey? What kind of name is that?”
“Go wait in the foyer, Sally. I’ll be right there.”
“No,” I said. “You’re not my husband anymore.”
He straightened up and squared his shoulders. “Where is Fran?”
“I don’t know.”
“I see her. Over there.” Carey took me by the elbow and steered me through the crowd. I didn’t resist. The room was swimming.
In the elevator the two of them discussed how lucky it was that the Memorial Day parade had been over hours earlier, so we wouldn’t have any problems with traffic. Carey had his arm around me and I thought this wasn’t appropriate but didn’t say anything. Out on the street he hailed a taxi and kissed me on the cheek. “You take care of yourself.” By then I was concentrating on not throwing up. At about Twenty-third Street I thought I was going to lose the battle. Fran reached across me and rolled down the window but it turned out to be a false alarm.
“Franny, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve never done this before.” It was true. I never let myself get too drunk or stoned, even during our summer on the Cape. I was too afraid of losing control.
“Forget about it,” she said.
Miraculously, we managed to get into my apartment before I puked. In the bathroom I kept saying, “I’m sorry I’m so fucked up. I’m sorry you have to take care of me.”
“I’m not mad at you, Sally,” Fran said. “Why do you keep on acting like I’m mad at you?”
“I did this once for my sister. When she was twelve.”
“That figures.”
“Do you think Alicia will ever talk to me again?”
“You got sick here, not in her apartment. Besides, I happen to know that old Charlie was blowing lunch before we left. Sorry about that.” Her hand stayed on my nape as I aimed my head over the toilet again.
The phone was ringing. I knew it was early from the angle of sun through the half-opened curtain, and I was afraid to get up to answer it, afraid to alter the equilibrium of my body. It couldn’t be Fran, she’d left only a few hours ago, arranging the fans so they were blowing a cross-draft over me, a wastebasket by my head. The machine clicked on.
“Sa, pick up, pick up, I know you’re there.”
I slid out of bed, dragging the wastebasket with me, and practically crawled to the kitchen, where the phone was. “Marty?” I said into the receiver.
“You sound awful,” my sister said cheerfully.