“I don’t remember how,” I lie. It’s so long since I’ve done it. Like, since Parker and I broke up.
There have been other boys since. I even did it with KK once. But none could do it with me like Parker could. And the KK time involved a lot of Jäger shots to get me into position.
Parker dumps the broken glass into the trash, then steps behind me and lightly gyrates his pelvis against my rear. “Of course you remember,” he whispers in my ear. The feel of his breath scorches my neck, and the rest of my body tingles. He places his arms around my waist, so boldly, and I don’t resist. For a moment, I clasp my hands over his to tie him around me. The old rhythm of desire and familiarity returns too easily. I want to believe this is right. I want to believe so badly that this could happen.
But I don’t trust. I remember how much I thought he loved me. I remember how much I knew I loved him.
I pull away from him and turn around. “Why now?”
“I think it’d be fun,” he says, turning the pleading tone up to its highest decibel of smooth sexiness.
“Don’t you have some other girl to do it with?”
“None who move like you. You know that.”
I do know that.
Light bulb! Ding ding ding! I can’t believe I’m even considering this, but I say, “It would have to involve the cats. It—”
“No,” he interrupts. “No cats. They ruin it for me every time.”
Got him.
“Cats,” I say. “Or no Ilsa.”
He exhales deeply. “Okay. Cats.”
“I’ll think about it.”
But I’m already imagining the new moves I’m going to amaze Parker with. Since we broke up, I’ve taken up barre classes, and snoozer yoga (mostly for the nap time at the end, which feels like the only time I ever rest), and even dabbled in some pole dancing classes. I now have bendy moves in my repertoire that Parker’s never dared dream his partner could do, because his subconscious doesn’t yet know they’re even possible.
“Don’t think about it. Go change now,” Parker suggests, knowing full well I stored my show dresses at Czarina’s and that once I make the change, there’s nothing to think about anymore. I’m totally in.
I will go change. But not for a few minutes yet. I want Parker to yearn and hope and wait. I want him to remember what that feels like. I won’t give him the satisfaction too quickly. Prolonging his wait, making him unsure if he’ll achieve the conquest he so ardently desires, was always my favorite dance with him. But oh, what glorious results.
I look down at my sad sack of a little silver, sparkly flapper dress. An hour ago it seemed so cute. But my dinner party invite was a call to arms for garish, and then the hostess herself didn’t live up to the invitation’s promise. An outfit this boring? It’s like I let Sam pick my attire. What was I thinking? I specified the party was a recess from the humdrum, and then I outfitted myself in humdrum. Obviously I needed Parker here to remind me to unlock the cats from the garment bag where they’ve been hiding in Czarina’s closet since Parker and I broke up. Of course! I get it now. GARISH. Let’s go, Ilsa! The cats are coming out of retirement. Meow for the wow.
Czarina is a great seamstress, and she created a fabulous A-line cocktail dress for me with fabric I found at a cheap fabric-bolt store in the Garment District. The pattern on the off-white fabric is called AccessorCat, and it features pastel-colored illustrations of various cats wearing various accessories: a gray-and-tan-striped tabby cat wearing bright blue eyeglasses, an orange marble cat wearing a debonair purple scarf, a black cat wearing an emerald green cowboy hat. “If Princess Grace Kelly was a crazy cat lady,” is how Czarina characterized the atrociously awesome dress. It was my favorite to wear when Parker and I competed in ballroom dancing competitions, until he forbade it, saying just the sight of it had made him allergic to animals. But if he’s bold enough to request that I come out of retirement and be his dance partner once again at some mystery dance-off on the Lower East Side later tonight, surely he’s man enough to handle the cat dress again.
So what if my initial reaction to his request was typically Ilsa knee-jerk rage. I’ll grow out of it at some point, Czarina promises. (We both secretly fear I won’t.) Now I’m seeing the potential. A midnight-hour dance-off downtown, one last spin with my once and never again true love.
YES.
I won’t commit just yet. I’ll let Parker know that I’m in later, after the appetizer course is served.
Parker reaches to the kitchen counter and picks up the steel shaker that Sam had been using to sprinkle powdered sugar over the lemon tart. He shakes a dash of powdered sugar on my hair. “Change now,” Parker requests. “So I know you’re in. Pretty please?” He shakes an extra dash of sugar onto my head, and some of it lands on my eyelids and nose. He presses his index finger to my nose, lifts off some sugar, and then offers his finger to my lips, knowing full well how hungry I am.
I lick the sugar from Parker’s finger—delicious! (the sugar, and the finger)—a ruse to grab the shaker from his other hand at the same time. I dash sugar on top of his head as Parker wrestles me to grab the shaker back. We are laughing and fighting for supremacy of the shaker when we hear KK announce her arrival in the kitchen.
“Enough with the food fight!” KK bellows. “People are waiting on beers! Be a proper hostess, bitch!” Parker and I separate, giving KK and her French maid’s outfit a long stare. It’s not so much garish as full-on slutty. Classic lame-o Halloween, not classic Liberace. KK points at me. “There’s a pudgy girl in the living room also wearing the same outfit. Fix it.” She walks between Parker and me, giving him a cursory nudge. “You again. Ugh.” She reaches the fridge, pulls out a light beer, pops it open, takes a swig, then asks, “Is something burning in here?”
As if he heard her from the other room, Sam comes rushing into the kitchen and opens the oven. “Shit! Some cheese exploded onto the bottom of the oven.”
“Is that lasagna?” KK asks him.
“Yes,” Sam says as he pulls the tray from the oven.
“Obviously you forgot that I’m gluten- and dairy-free,” says KK.
“I didn’t,” says Sam. He looks toward me. “Help!” he pleads.
He means, Get everyone out of the kitchen. Dinner parties have a peculiar habit in which all the guests congregate in the kitchen while Sam is trying to coordinate food preparation, blocking his way and commenting on his concoctions before he’s ready for judgment. “We should just call them kitchen parties,” he’s often lamented.
“Everyone to the living room!” I declare as a faint smell of smoke wafts out from the burnt cheese at the bottom of the oven.
“The sock puppet has arrived,” Sam tells me.
“Huh?” I remember no such Wild Card. Sam must mean Jason Goldstein-Chung has arrived. Jason always has some weird trick up his sleeve—or sock, as the case must be.
“Go see,” Sam says. He pulls some beers from the fridge—a sure sign that he’s starting to stress, if he’s taking direct responsibility for alcohol consumption—and hands them to me. “Go forth and entertain your guests, Ilsa. All of them.”
I start to lead Parker and KK out of the kitchen when I hear a weird sound that’s somewhere between a belch and a puke. I look to Parker, then KK, then Sam, but none of them looks squeamish. The sound grows louder, and we all look around, trying to identify the sound, and then it identifies itself.
A small volcano of bilge erupts from the kitchen sink.
I’m no cook, but I’m pretty sure if our sink is backed up, that will make further food preparation difficult, if not impossible.
“Fuck!” Sam exclaims.
KK says, “Hallelujah! Tell your chef dad to come over and bring a proper meal to replace the one you’ve ruined. Gluten-free, please. We’re not savages!”
Sam says, “Sorry, KK. The folks are at the annual Gluten-Glee Carb Fest in Wheatland, North Dakota, this weekend. Sbarro and Papa John’s are headlining this year. Cap’n Crunch is the ope
ning act!”
KK throws her hands over her ears. “Stop it! I’m getting fatter just listening to the latest lie about your parents.” KK never quite believes our parents exist. They do. They just rarely come to the Stanwyck. Probably because it hurts too much knowing they’ll never inherit it. And it would be a compliment to say that KK is their least favorite of my friends. You’d never find my parents trolling opportunities for more KK time.
Sam pops open a beer and takes a hearty swig. He never drinks at our parties. “Stress,” he sighs.
I counter-sigh in support. And triumph.
This is bad.
But could also be excellent.
Finally, my brother may be ready to let loose.
six
SAM
Deep breaths.
I must.
Take.
Deep.
Breaths.
It’s only water. We don’t need water. I just have to pretend I’m in droughty Los Angeles.
The food has all been made. There’s bottled water in the fridge and in the cupboards. We don’t have to clean up right away.
Everything.
Is.
Under.
Control.
Only.
My mind.
Is.
Not.
Under.
Control.
I take another swig of beer, grimacing as it goes down. I am only drinking it because I don’t like it. A punishment of hops. This way I’m not going to want more.
I call down to Bert, in the lobby, for help, but he can’t leave the door. He also tells me Jason is on his way up. I wonder if Bert remembers Jason’s name from back when Jason and I were dating, when he’d visit all the time. Or maybe it’s been long enough that Jason had to remind Bert who he was.
Even though the sink is sunk and my despair has definitely been tapped, I still manage to salvage the lasagna and get the rest of the food in order. I time Jason’s steps perfectly, and open the door just as he’s about to ring the bell.
He jumps a little. “You scared me,” he says.
I hear it as You scarred me and don’t know what to say.
He looks at me strangely. “But it’s okay. I’ve since recovered.”
My mind is suddenly static, made of the words THIS WAS A BAD IDEA laid over and over again until there’s no white space left.
I can’t see Jason without feeling bad about what I did to Jason. Even if it was the right-ish thing to do.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I told you I’ve recovered.” He holds out a shopping bag. “I didn’t know what to bring, because I was sure you had all the food taken care of. So I brought bubbles.”
He doesn’t mean champagne. When I look in the bag, I find a dozen plastic bottles of bubble-blowing liquid.
“Everybody loves bubbles, right?” he says.
My mind: Central Park. I blow bubbles in the air. He laughs. A kid on a nearby blanket runs after one that’s the size of a pocketbook. An orchestra plays on the Great Lawn.
I am happy.
I am trying to be happy.
I am showing signs of happiness, but I can feel all the effort that goes into that.
I want him to think I am happy.
I don’t know what he thinks.
I have no idea which version of the memory is true. The only thing I know for sure is that the little kid chasing after the bubble was definitely happy.
Although it was probably smaller than a pocketbook.
It was.
“Sam?”
Oh no. Concern.
I smile. Cover it all up with a smile. “Sorry. We’ve had a plumbing issue. It’s thrown me a little. Come in.”
“Want me to take a look?”
“Sure.”
We walk into the kitchen. Stare at the sink.
“I think your drain is clogged,” Jason diagnoses.
“Um…I know?”
“Do you have any Drano?”
“No. I drank it all.”
This is meant to be a joke. Funny. Ha-ha! And maybe if Jason didn’t know me, he’d laugh.
He is not laughing.
THIS WAS A BAD IDEA THIS WAS A BAD IDEA THIS WAS A BAD IDEA.
“Why don’t we go inside?” I say. “There are some people for you to meet.”
BAD IDEA.
Why would I want Jason and Subway Boy to be in the same room? My mind runs through the possible outcomes:
They end up together.
Subway Boy flirts with me and it makes me feel like more of a jerk about Jason.
Subway Boy sees what a bad boyfriend I was with Jason and decides he wants to have nothing to do with me.
They both end up hating me forever.
These are the only outcomes I can think of.
“Or we could stay in the kitchen! The whole night!” I add.
“No. I have a thing or two to say to your sister before the night is through.”
“What?”
Jason tries to give me one of those looks that locks from the inside. “I never had a chance with you because I never had a chance of getting your sister’s approval. And even though she won in the end, I’ve always regretted not putting up more of a fight. Your invitation seemed like the perfect opportunity. I mean, in two weeks I’ll be moving up to Boston for my internship, and then school. This is my farewell tour. Which means the gloves are off.”
Now I’m laughing. Completely bonkers nervous laughter.
“Really,” I say, “that’s not necessary. Guests are asked to keep their gloves on during a dinner party.”
“Everything you’ve ever done in your life, Sam, has been as an afterthought to what she’s done. If she’s the strong one, you get to be the weak one—and that, in your mind, absolves you of any responsibility over your own life. She gets away with it, and you get away with it, and the rest of us are just guilty bystanders.”
“SO WHAT?” I yell. I yank open a drawer and put my hand inside. “If you want, why don’t you just slam this drawer closed? Why be so indirect with the pain you want to inflict—why not just make me feel it.”
I don’t know what I’m doing or saying. I don’t know if I want him to slam this drawer closed or if I am being as melodramatic as I always accuse Ilsa of being.
“Come on,” Jason says gently. He reaches over and takes my hand out of the drawer. Before it can actually feel like he’s holding my hand, I pull away.
“Don’t try to help,” I tell him. “Don’t try to fix things. Just be a guest. Be a polite, friendly guest. Parker’s here, and some other people. Go mingle.”
“Did your sister know you were inviting Parker?”
“Nope. Surprise!”
“This I gotta see.”
He doesn’t ask me if I’m going to leave the kitchen with him; he just assumes I will. Which is smart, because if he’d asked, I probably would have said no.
“Here,” I tell him. “Carry something in for me.”
“You mean the chopped vegetables over here?”
“Liberté. Fraternité. Crudité.”
“Well, at least we have one of the three in this apartment.”
We head into the living room, and I turn a blind eye to the fact that Parker is already at Czarina’s bar, acquainting himself with her vodka.
“Oh, wonderful,” KK moans. “Rabbit food, delivered by the Mad Hatter and his teapot.”
“Horrible to see you, too, KK,” Jason says, putting down the tray.
“Where’s Ilsa?” I ask.
“Changing,” Parker answers.
KK snorts. “That’ll be the day. That leopard has permanent spots.”
Subway Boy walks over to Jason, extends his hand, and introduces himself. Jason shakes the hand, introduces himself back. Before this can move on to a second sentence, I jump in and say, “Oh, and you have to meet Frederyk and Caspian.”
The two of them step forward, and Caspian extends a pinkie.
“Very funny,” Jason says
. Then he reaches over and shakes Caspian as if he were a hand.
Frederyk’s mouth remains closed, but Caspian screams: “Get off of me! You’re smothering me!”
KK roars with laughter. Li looks awkward, perhaps because her French maid outfit looks French Canadian next to KK’s. Parker holds a glass up to me in offering. Jason lets go of Caspian instantly.
“I’m so sorry,” Jason says.
“You just grabbed his face!” KK roars. “What kind of monster are you?”
Frederyk has to reach over and straighten Caspian so he is back in order. Both of them look aggrieved.
It’s only once his mouth is back in its proper place that Caspian says, “Apology accepted.”
Subway Boy smoothly steps in to change the subject. Unfortunately, he does this by turning to Jason and asking, “So how do you know Sam and Ilsa?”
“Oh, Sam broke my heart and Ilsa gave him the hammer to do it with. How about you?”
Subway Boy blinks. “We’ve traveled together.”
Li steps forward to get a celery stick.
“What did I tell you?” KK snaps. “Not within ten feet!”
KK, of course, lives just upstairs. It would be easy enough for her to change. She’s so rich she could probably text her closet to prepare a new outfit before she even gets there.
Li looks both miserable and murderous.
“This is going so well!” Parker chirps. “Aren’t parties at Sam and Ilsa’s such a blast? Especially when KK is around to spread good cheer!”
“Honey, it’s not me, it’s you!” KK shoots back.
“If you’re going to be a bitch, at least find some new material. Nobody loves an unclever bitch. You have to elevate your meanness with the creativity of your phrasing. Otherwise, you’re just bitter.”
“Yawn, yawn, yawn,” KK replies.
Save me, I think. And then I broadcast it. SAVE ME. SAVE ME. SAVE ME.
I’m aiming it at Parker, because that’s where my instinct leads me. But he’s offering to make Li a drink and complimenting her on her dress, deliberately calling it a dress, I’m sure, to make her feel better.
My SAVE ME veers then, and as it curves toward Jason, I pull it back a little, and it lands instead on Subway Boy. He recognizes it, and I can recognize him recognizing it. Instead of letting it fully connect, I turn away. I can’t ask him to save me. He isn’t under any obligation.
Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah Page 4
