“I’m never surprised by anything,” Matthew answered. “Of course, I can’t promise immediate results. I’m only going to London, you see.”
“Well, cheer up. Maybe they’ll send you to Italy, where the fighting is.”
“And the Italian girls.” He grinned. “But I don’t speak Italian.”
“I didn’t know it was necessary.”
“It helps, I’m told.”
“I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing, Major.”
“Amanda,” he answered, “we are talking about exactly the same thing.” He paused. “I remember, Amanda.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I remember your mouth and—”
“I said I—”
“—the feel of you. You’re the softest—”
“I’ll slap your goddamn face!” she said, the words surprising her, the strongest words she had ever used in her life. She twisted away from him violently and walked to the long table where the aspiring actor was waiting with her drink. She took the glass from his hand and almost drained it at a swallow. Behind her, she could feel the smiling presence of Matthew Anson Bridges.
“I want another one,” she said to the actor.
Rudy suddenly appeared at her elbow and said, “I’ll get it, Amanda.”
She did not remember how many drinks she had after that one, but she knew that everywhere she turned, the silly grinning face of Matthew Anson Bridges was there, his eyes following her, and she wondered why he had to be there to spoil what was one of the nicest Christmas Eves she’d ever known.
“I’m sorry,” Gillian explained. “I invited only Brian, but he brought his brother and Matthew. Believe me, Amanda, I didn’t know,” and of course Gillian hadn’t known, but the apology did not eradicate the grinning image of Matthew Anson Bridges, which floated everywhere around the room, no matter how much she drank. She was certain she had never drunk so much or talked so much or danced so much in her life, and she was equally certain that she was getting very very intoxicated, but not in the same way as before, not in that warm dreary way, but in a vengeful spiteful way as if she simply had to show Matthew Anson Bridges that she could erase his face from her field of vision. She knew she shouldn’t drink so much. She did not want a hangover on Christmas morning, especially with a long train ride to Minnesota ahead of her. But she continued to drink, and she continued to dance, and she recognized almost at once that Rudy was a dull clod with nothing much to say, but his voice kept droning in her ear, on and on. When even he began to sound interesting, she knew she was drunk beyond recall, and yet she didn’t feel at all sick, she felt only dizzy. She couldn’t remember when the room had begun to spin, but it was spinning now, the parakeet doing somersaults in his cage, the face of Matthew Anson Bridges whirling in a mustache-black pinwheel as he stood talking to a brunette in a green dress and watching Amanda over the girl’s shoulder, and Rudy’s voice droned on and on in her ear. Oh Lord, am I drunk, she thought.
“What we do is we send out this little ping, you see. That’s exactly what it sounds like. Piiiiiinnnnnnnnng. And it goes through the water, do you understand?”
“Mmm, yes, ver’ interesting,” Amanda said, her head on his shoulder as they danced. The floor was very crowded. He kept bumping against her and into people, and she wished he would stop doing that, but she was too dizzy to tell him to stop doing that.
“And when it hits an object like a submarine or something,” Rudy said, his voice close to her ear, “when it hits an object like that, it sends back an echo, and we can tell from the sound of the echo just what it is we’ve hit, a fish or a sub, or whatever, do you see? This sound wave goes out until it hits something, do you see? Like this, do you see?” and he bumped his mid-section against hers and she thought, Oh, stop that, but she didn’t voice the words. “Like that, do you see? Did you feel that?”
“Mmm,” she said, and she nodded. “Dizzy.”
“Did you feel that?” he asked, and he did it again. “Can you feel that?”
“Mmmm, ’m dizzy, Rudy.”
“That’s all right, honey, just hang onto me,” Rudy said. “Now you’re not gonna pass out on me, are you? What you need is a little drink, Amanda, that’s what you need.”
She grunted and shook her head. “Gilly,” she murmured. “Wh’s Gilly?”
“Oh, she’s making a batch of scrambled eggs, Amanda, in the kitchen. Now come on, let’s get you a little drink to clear your head, okay?”
“No, dowanna.”
“Yes, it’ll clear your head.”
“Dizzy.”
“Sure, I know. Come on, baby, we’re gonna fix you up. We’re gonna take care of you.”
She nodded exaggeratedly and felt his strong arm around her waist as he led her to the table, across the room, pushing his way through the crowd, bumping into her as they walked, his hip against her hip, the music of gurgling liquid. “Music,” she said. “Yes, baby,” he answered. “Here. Drink it straight this time. It’ll clear your head.”
She nodded and felt the small shot glass being put into her hand, and then her hand being guided to her mouth, the rim of the glass rapping sharply against her teeth, she winced and tilted her head, “Drink,” Rudy said. She felt some of the liquor trickling onto her jaw. “Born the king of a-en-gels,” someone was singing, and then she felt the whiskey burning its way down her throat, Oooooo strong, she thought, Clear my head, she thought, Rudy’s arm around her waist again, tight, the lights of the Christmas tree spinning, “Ooops,” she said, losing her balance, “Scuse me,” spinning, the couch was a revolving pillar of horizontal orange fire, “Come on, honey, you’d better lie down,” Rudy said, the crowd again, pressing in, Stop that, she thought, Your hand, she thought, I’ll scream, you know. She banged into the wall, they were in the corridor, “Ooops, scuse me,” she said to the wall and then banged into the opposite wall, something firm was cupping her breast, something hard and tight around her back and under her breast, My bra’s too tight, she thought. A door was opening, she saw Gillian’s big brass bed, covered with coats, not a brass bed really, only the headboard and the footboard, the door closed, the room was black, she felt herself stumbling forward, she could smell the coats, the pile of coats, feel the tweed, “There you are, honey, swing your legs up, that’s it. Lie down, put your head on the pillow, that’s the girl, go to sleep, go on, that’s it,” she closed her eyes, the room was very black, she took in a deep breath and dropped suddenly unconscious.
“Amanda?” Rudy whispered.
She did not answer. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open.
“Amanda?”
He kissed her suddenly on her open unresponsive mouth and then glanced over his shoulder toward the door. He walked swiftly in the darkness, finding the slip bolt with his hands, locking the door, and then walking back to the bed. He unbuttoned her blouse and pulled her dress up over her thighs, sudden shocking silken touch unmoving, he kissed her again, unmoving, unknowing, exploration crisp and tight, darkness cramped on winter coats unmoving, white and vulnerable. The sound at the door startled him. Someone was trying the knob. He turned in the darkness, eyes wide. Beside him, Amanda breathed heavily and evenly through her open mouth. He crouched over her protectively. The knob rattled again. A knock sounded on the door. He did not answer. He touched her again, reassuringly in the darkness. She lay still, breathing through open mouth, eyes closed. There was silence on the other side of the door, calculating, speculative silence, silence. He crouched.
There was a sudden splintering sound. The door snapped inward, the slip bolt ripping free from the jamb under the force of the kick. A wedge of harsh light opened into the room, almost touching the bed. A man was silhouetted in the doorway. His hand reached for the light switch. The overhead lights went on in awful suddenness, illuminating the brass bed and the unconscious girl and the sailor crouched over her.