“It’s a little early, isn’t it, Jason?” I said, smiling.
“I just want to keep up my strength,” Jason answered. “It’s going to be a long night,” and he continued to pile ham and turkey into a sandwich and then bit into it hungrily and smacked his lips and said, “Mmm, that’s good,” while Norman watched him from the other side of the room with a tight little smile on his mouth.
I don’t think Norman or Alice budged from their chairs all night long. They sat opposite the table piled with food, and they made their keen displeasure felt by their presence, sitting like a pair of shocked chaperones witnessing an orgy. I didn’t go near the table, and neither did a lot of other people, simply because Norman kept watching it with that small smile on his face, his eyes getting more and more glazed as he drank more and more Scotch. Jason, on the other hand, kept visiting the table as if it were a free lunch counter, eating like a glutton and smacking his lips with each bite he took, urging Mary to eat, pressing food on anyone who danced by, and then finally picking up the tray with the turkey on it and carrying it across the room to where Norman and Alice sat, getting quietly and angrily drunk.
“Won’t you have some turkey, Norman?” he asked sweetly. “Alice?”
“Thank you, I’m not hungry,” Norman said.
“It’s eleven forty-five,” Jason answered. “Come on, have a bite.”
“Thank you,” Alice said sweetly, “we had a late dinner.”
“Why, Norman,” Jason said, “you’re not wearing a party hat. This is New Year’s Eve. Mary, bring Norman a party hat.”
“I don’t need a party hat,” Norman said.
“Everybody needs a party hat,” Jason said.
“Not me,” Norman answered firmly.
“Then have a balloon,” Jason said, and he put the turkey tray down on a chair and reached up for a balloon and then suddenly pushed the balloon against the lighted end of Norman’s cigarette. The balloon exploded, and Norman pulled back with a start and then leaped out of his chair, reached up for a balloon himself, held it close to Jason’s face, and then touched it with his cigarette, exploding it. Jason laughed and reached for another balloon. Someone on the other side of the room, caught up in the excitement, pulled a balloon from the ceiling, dropped it to the floor, and stepped on it. And then someone else reached for a balloon, and before any of the dancers realized quite what was happening, the room was resounding with the noise of exploding balloons, and Jason and Norman were laughing hilariously.
“Oh, get me one, please,” Joan said, “before they break them all. I want to give it to Timmy in the morning.”
I reached up for a balloon and pulled it free and handed it to Joan, who began walking toward the bedroom with it, to put it on the bed for safekeeping. But Jason suddenly stepped into her path with a lighted cigarette and he thrust it at the balloon. Joan backed away from him, whirling so that the balloon was out of his reach.
“No!” she said, smiling. “I want this for my son.”
But Jason lunged at the balloon again, and Norman came at her from the other side, as if all this explosive action had somehow washed away whatever ill feelings they were harboring, as if they were now united once more in having fun, the thing Jason knew how to lead best, the thing Norman knew how to follow.
“Stop it!” Joan said, holding the balloon high above her head, the smile no longer on her face. I started across the room toward her just as someone turned off the record player and turned on the radio. It was getting close to midnight, and the noise from Times Square was deafening, the announcer shouting over it in an attempt to describe the scene. Joan whirled again, but she was caught by Norman and Jason, who poked at the balloon with their cigarettes as I reached her side.
“Come on...” I started to say, and suddenly Jason’s cigarette touched the balloon and it exploded in Joan’s face, and she said in a small, incredulous voice, “Oh, why’d you do that? I wanted it for my son,” and then Jason and Norman danced away from her, reaching up with their cigarettes to burst every balloon in the room, and suddenly the announcer was counting backward, “... nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one...” and there was a pause, and he yelled, “Happy New Year! Happy New Year, everybody! It’s a new year, everybody!” and the room went silent as we heard the words and turned to our wives.
I took Joan in my arms. I was surprised to feel tears on her face. I kissed her gently, and then I kissed her again, and then I simply held her in my arms and looked around the room where everyone was kissing his wife, and Joan whispered blankly, “I wanted it for Timmy,” and suddenly Jason began laughing again and shouting, “Happy New Year! Happy New Year! Happ—”
His voice stopped abruptly. I turned to look at him and saw the grin starting on his face and then followed his gaze to where Herbie, lipstick-smeared, was moving away from Shirley. I smiled because I knew what Herbie was about to do. He was reaching for Mary’s hand, and I knew he would kiss her for the new year, a custom we had always followed in my boyhood home, a custom we had followed at adolescent parties, and college parties, a custom that so far as I knew was followed everywhere in the world on New Year’s Eve, even among young marrieds on North Brother Island. Grinning, Herbie reached over to kiss Mary on the cheek, and she pulled away from him.
I don’t think he realized she was ducking his kiss at first. He thought, perhaps, that she didn’t understand what he was trying to do, so he reached for her cheek with his lips again, and this time Mary giggled and definitely pulled away from him and said, “Oh, Herbie, no!” and I saw the puzzled look cross Herbie’s face because he couldn’t understand what was quite so objectionable. I had begun to shake my head, ready to tell Mary that all he wanted to do was kiss her for the new year, when suddenly I heard Jason’s voice yelling, “Herbie wants to kiss the ladies!” and then Norman shouted, “Go ahead, Herbie, kiss all the ladies!”
Herbie stopped dead in the center of the room.
“Isn’t...” He shrugged helplessly. “Back home, we...” He shrugged again.
“Sure, Herbie,” Jason said, “go ahead, kiss them! Kiss them all! Mary, Herbie wants to kiss you!”
“No, that’s all right,” Herbie said. “You see, back home, it’s what we...”
“Kiss him!” Jason said angrily, and he shoved Mary across the room and into Herbie’s arms. Herbie was blushing now, a deep blush that started on his thick neck and worked its way over his face. He kissed Mary on the cheek quickly and then turned with one hand outstretched, embarrassed, reaching for the reassurance of his wife. But Jason yelled again, “That was fun! Kiss them all, Herbie!” and he grabbed Herbie’s outstretched hand and dragged him across the room.
The room was silent now. Jason clung to Herbie’s hand and led him from woman to woman as if he were forcing him to run a gantlet. With each kiss Herbie blushed more furiously. His eyes behind the thick glasses were blinking in confusion, as if he wondered how such a simple thing had suddenly become so monstrous. Beside me, I could feel Joan trembling. I watched in fascinated horror as Jason led Herbie around the room, holding his wrist tightly, shouting, “That was fun! Now the next one!” after each kiss. There were fourteen women besides Shirley in that room. The silence persisted as Herbie kissed each one of them. He turned away from the last woman in a blind sort of panic, searching for Shirley, seeing her, and then rushing across the room as Jason shouted, “How’d you like that, Herbie? You like kissing the girls, huh?”