I rolled. Grass needled me and my wig ripped off. Stars catapulted between dull pauses of ground, and at the bottom, the quiet hit me. Jade was lying a few feet away, her face serious and blue. Staring at the stars naturally encouraged one’s face to appear serious and blue, and Dad had a variety of theories explaining this phenomenon, the majority of which centered on human insecurity and sobering realizations of absolute smallness when measured against such unfathomable things as the Spiral, the Barred Spiral, the Elliptical and the Irregular Galaxy.
But I remember, I couldn’t recall a single one of Dad’s theories at that moment. The black sky, pinpricked with light, couldn’t help but show off like Mozart at five. Voices scratched the air, words wobbly and unsure of themselves, and soon Milton was hurtling through the darkness, and Nigel’s loafers rocketed past my head, and Leulah fell right next to me with a teacup sound (“Ahh!”). The silk scarf escaped her hair and settled over my neck and chin. When I breathed, it bubbled like a pond when something drowns in it.
“You bastards!” screamed Charles. “By the time we get there, it’ll be over! We need to leave now!”
“Shut up, Nazi,” Jade said.
“Think Hannah will be mad?” asked Leulah.
“Probably.”
“She’ll kill us,” said Milton. He was only a few feet away. When he breathed it was dragon breaths.
“Hannah shmanna,” Jade said.
Somehow, we peeled ourselves off the ground and trekked up the hill to the Mercedes, where Charles was waiting in a bad mood wearing Jade’s eighth-grade clear plastic raincoat so he wouldn’t get A.1. Steak Sauce all over the driver’s seat. I was the smallest, and Jade said it was necessary to take one car, so I acted as the human seat belt across Nigel, Jade and Leulah, who was making babies’ feet with her fist in the fogged window. I concentrated on the car light, my big white high heels touching the door handle, the cloud of smoke loitering around Milton’s head in the front seat where he smoked one of his joints thick as lipstick.
“Gonna be messy,” he said, “showin’ up there unannounced. Not too late to change the plan, friends.”
“Stop being mind-numbing,” Jade said, plucking the joint from his fingers. “We see Evita, we hide. Make like rugs. It’ll be fun.”
“Perón won’t be there,” said Nigel.
“Why not?”
“Hannah didn’t really invite her. She was lying. She said it just to have a valid reason why we couldn’t come.”
“You’re paranoid.”
Nigel shrugged. “She showed the classic signs of lying. I’d bet my life Eva Brewster will not be at the party. And if anyone asks her about it on Monday, she wouldn’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“You are the spawn of Satan,” Jade pronounced, then accidentally bumped her head against the window. “Ow.”
“Want some?” asked Leulah, handing me the joint.
“Thanks,” I said.
At the risk of protesting too much, I’d become well acquainted with the crafty behavior of both ceilings and floors under the influence of nip, tipple, hooch, booze, jet fuel, grog, zip, ex, pippin, poison and snifter (the Tremble, the Swoop Out of Nowhere, the Apparently Sinking Ship, the Fraudulent Earthquake). Much of the time when I was with them, I was only pretending to take all those superhuman swigs from Milton’s silver M.E.B. flask full of his preferred liquid arsenic, Wild Turkey, passed around the Purple Room like a Native American Peace Pipe.
Unbeknownst to the others, midway through any given evening, I was not, as it appeared, throwing them back with the best of them. “Look. Hurl’s deep in thought,” Nigel once commented as I stared into space on the couch. I wasn’t deep in thought, I was trying to pin down a covert means via which I might dispose of Leulah’s latest potion, something she simply called “Claw,” a deceitfully clear concoction that charred one’s esophagus and entire digestive system. One of my preferred scenarios was walking outside unaccompanied for some “fresh air” and, with the porch light off, stealthily pouring whatever it was down one of Jeff’s bronze, open-mouthed lions, final gifts from Andy Warhol in January 1987, a month before he died from complications after a gallbladder operation. Obviously, I could have simply dumped it in the grass, but I found a certain woozy satisfaction in feeding it to the lions, who obediently held their giant mouths open and stared up at me as if hoping with this final batch I’d finish them off. I only prayed Jeff never decided the hulking beasts would look better by the front door; when she uprooted them, she’d drown in a tidal wave of nip, tipple, hooch, booze, jet fuel, poison and snifter.
Nearly an hour later, we turned down Hannah’s driveway. Charles expertly navigated the Mercedes through the corridor of empty cars parked along the road. Frankly, I was surprised he was able to drive so well given his state of impairment (see “Unidentified Fluid,” Chapter 4, “Engine Troubleshooting,” Automobile Mechanics, Pont, 1997).
“Don’t get a ding,” said Jade. “If you get a ding I’m in trouble.”
“She knows more people than we thought,” Leulah said.
“Shit,” said Milton.
“This is perfect,” said Jade, clapping her hands. “Absolutely ideal. We’ll blend. I just hope we don’t see Hannah.”
“You’re worried about seeing Hannah?” shouted Charles. “Then we need to go back, because let me give you the heads up, honey bunch! We’re going to see her!”
“Keep your eyes on the road. It’s fine.” Jade huffed. “It’s just…”
“What?” Charles slammed his foot on the brake. We all went forward and backward together like children on a bus.
“It’s just a party. And Hannah won’t really mind. We’re not doing anything terrible or anything. Right?”
Anxiety, Doubt and Uncertainty had unexpectedly stood up in Jade’s voice and now they were meandering through it making Helluva Good Time quite nervous.
“Kind of,” said Leulah.
“No,” said Nigel.
“Could go either way,” said Milton.
“Somebody make a fucking decision!” shouted Charles.
“Let Gag decide,” said Jade. “She’s the responsible one.”
To this day, I’m not sure how or why I said what I did. Perhaps it was one of those uncanny occasions when it really isn’t you speaking, but Fate, who intervenes every so often to make sure that, rather than your choosing the easy road, recently paved, with clearly labeled street signs and maple trees, she, with the cruelty of drill sergeants, dictators, and office personnel, makes certain you stick to the dark, thorny path she’s already laid out for you.
“We’re going in,” I said.
Hannah was a Snowy Egret, and when one heard she was planning a social affair, one couldn’t help but expect a Snowy Egret kind of party — flutes of champagne, cigarette holders and a string quartet, people asking each other to dance with delicate rests of cheeks against shoulders and very few clammy palms, adulterous intrigues behind laurel hedges and grandiflora roses — the sort of elegant, whispery affair the Larrabees could host with their eyes closed, the kind Sabrina observed from her tree.
As we approached the house, however, and saw the weird crowd of animal, vegetable and mineral dribbling through the front yard and across the driveway, Milton suggested we cut into the woods and head to the other side of the house, maybe sneak in the door off the patio where Hannah had a kidney-shaped swimming pool, which she never used.
“We can still leave if we want to,” said Jade.
We parked the car behind a van and sat in the dark, at the edge of pine trees, watching in the loose light of fourteen tiki torches some fifty or sixty people crowding Hannah’s patio. They all wore surprisingly complicated costumes (ghouls, alligators, devils, the entire crew of the USS Enterprise), those in masks sipping straws in blue and red plastic cups, others eating pretzels and crackers, trying to make themselves heard over the meat-cleaving music.