“You don’t have a stock portfolio. You barely have a couch.”
“I’ve still got half my bar mitzvah money in Nintendo stocks, and don’t insult the blue foldout! We bought that couch together, remember? And I’ve bumped more uglies on it than—”
William decided it probably wasn’t a good time to offer to take a look at Jacob’s portfolio, or to tell him that his own picks were still doing better than expected, despite the Dow being down about five thousand points since October. Actually he hoped to talk to Jacob about poetry — William had done his thesis on The Iliad—but the guy showed zero interest, and so William decided it was probably just as well that he take off. He moved away toward a waiter with a tray of duck meatballs smothered in bulgogi sauce. After he grabbed one and ate it, he realized the leftover toothpick was the perfect excuse to wander toward the kitchen, where Irene and Sara were whispering about something else. They didn’t notice him as he dumped the toothpick and began looking for a napkin to wipe his hands.
“So what did she say at the follow-up?” Sara was asking.
“I don’t know! She checked it out.” Irene refilled her champagne flute from the bottle William had brought, which she’d reappropriated from the bartender and was hiding behind an Estelle Danziger gigantic toy nutcracker with immodest genitalia.
Sara held her flute out for a refill. “I hope she did more than take pictures this time.”
“They — I don’t know — I think she stuck a needle in there.”
“Well, did she or didn’t she?”
“She scraped it or something. I didn’t look.”
“Sweetie, you are hopeless.”
Irene looked crushed and laid her head on Sara’s shoulder. Sara told her that it was all going to be fine.
William wished he had any idea what they were talking about, but before he could hear more, he noticed Jacob blazing a path across the party toward the girls, with George a step behind. William pretended to be only just coming upon them all again.
Jacob was in mid-rant. “I’m opposed to the whole institution! I’m pissed as hell they want to legalize it for us. Not having to get married was the only advantage we used to have over you people. That and our get-out-of-the-army-free cards… I swear, next they’re going to figure out how to get me pregnant.”
Sara shot George a quizzical look, and George shrugged.
William figured this was as good a time as any for him to make his exit, so he tapped Sara on her shoulder and, faking a yawn, said, “I should get going.” He reached in his pocket to grab a business card, but before he could get there, he found his hand intercepted by something else — by another hand, divinely smooth and soft.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” said Irene. “You’ve barely said a word to me yet.”
William felt his whole body choke up. “Hello,” he managed to say.
“Hey, Sara, could I see you on the balco—” George interrupted.
But Sara was busy. “Jacob, did you know William did his thesis on The Iliad?”
William nodded. “I worked with Professor Douglas. On the paradox of fatality and divinity… I mean, the idea that to some extent the mighty Olympian gods were restricted by the Three Fates, that they were some kind of independent panel—”
“Sure, sure,” Jacob interrupted. “So what translation do you like?”
“Lattimore.”
Jacob coughed. “Lattimore? Come on! Fagles or Lombardo, even, did it way better. Christ, I can’t believe they let you into Yale with Lattimore.”
Irene spoke mischievously, “Hey, don’t knock my man Lattimore. Besides, I heard Fagles and Lambada were total quacks. Hopped up on bennies, translating into the dead of night. A trail of broken hearts behind them.”
“Oh, you be quiet,” Jacob poked her in the side.
“Hey,” Irene pouted, “we’ve been here how long? How about a hello?”
Jacob bowed toward her. “My liege.”
William felt his face turn red. He’d never known people who ricocheted so swiftly between obnoxiousness and affection. He supposed they had had a lot of practice over the years.
He tried to return to familiar ground. “Well, Fagles makes it sound very nice, but—”
“Nice? Nice? This is Homer we’re talking about, not a Hallmark card! Nice? My God!”
As Jacob began a familiar tirade about society’s overuse of certain adjectives and their eventually being rendered meaningless, George excused himself to the bathroom. Nobody noticed him slip away. There was a bit of a wait, so he polished off another tasteless Wasteland while he stood in line. The drinks were blotting out the surrounding party but also having the unfortunate effect of amplifying his nervous thoughts. He thought splashing a little cold water on his face might do the trick. At last he got inside, where there was relative peace, and took three long deep breaths.
The bathroom was all white marble and great Greek arches. It was the only room in the suite that hadn’t been redecorated with contemporary art, and as he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face, he appreciated the refreshing, comfortable hotel art — the white cliffs overlooking a Minos seaside, a round bronze platter covered in faux verdigris, the cherubic statuary above the bath.
Alone at last, he let his expression fall and stared into his own eyes in the mirror. His hair was everywhere, and his suit jacket was too tight in the shoulders somehow. He wasn’t used to feeling nervous and self-conscious. He’d been perfectly fine until that stupid accident — but he didn’t want to think about that, tonight of all nights. Delicately, he took the engagement ring out of his pocket and placed it on the countertop in the light. He’d never understood before. Why diamonds? he’d always asked. Seems kind of arbitrary. But now that he was looking at the ring and trying to imagine putting it on Sara’s finger, anything less seemed unworthy, impermanent. What he’d said to Jacob was the truth. He couldn’t imagine any scenario in which Sara would say no. It had been such a foregone conclusion for so long that he was now worried only about doing justice to their decade together.
He nudged the ring with his fingertip. Would it fit? He’d measured her finger with a little piece of string one night while she’d been sleeping. But what if he’d done it wrong? The ring seemed too narrow. He nudged it again. The drain in the neighboring sink was wide open, and a deep chill ran up and down his spine. He hadn’t realized. Don’t knock it into the sink. Don’t bump it. Pick it up carefully… Jesus! He lowered his fingers like an arcade crane, from directly above. Even being careful, it slipped just a little. He thought his head would explode. His head or his heart. But he had it, and he was lifting it, and he would not drop it.
Still, some perverse imp inside his head was making him imagine it: his sweaty fingertips would loosen; he would try to grip it more firmly, but it would slip even more. Then he would hear it — the dread clink of the band against porcelain. He would look down into the basin just in time to see it clink again. He would reach in to snatch it, but he would only knock it closer. It would bounce around his groping hand like a glittering mosquito and then be gone. Gone. Down the drain. Lost forever.
He clenched the ring tightly in his fist, feeling the diamond pricking his palm. He thought about praying for some kind of reassurance, but someone was jiggling the knob. God, he couldn’t wait until it was over, and he could wake up tomorrow feeling good again. Gently he put the ring back in the box and the box back in his pocket. He felt as if he might vomit, but then the doorknob was going again. There were people waiting.