A breeze wafted through the open window, but that’s not what caused the chill in the air.
I tried warming things up. “Okay, I won’t get plastered at this party. I promise.”
“You mean it?”
“I mean it.” At least I thought I did.
Jane stared at me for a second. “I truly want this … us … to work out.”
“Me too.”
“Good.”
As if suddenly remembering something, she turned toward the clock on her bedside table. It said Tony was due back from his grandparents soon.
Jane gave me a chaste peck on the cheek. “You need to go now or you’ll be late to your parents.”
That was the least of my worries. Of much greater concern was the disquiet I felt after that conversation. I got out of bed, dressed and left in a funk.
Things never did warm up that day, despite the heat that was scorching the city.
#
I awoke on July 4th to the sounds of rain pounding on my bedroom window. At first I thought this cause for celebration, not of that long-ago declaration but of the party’s cancellation, for surely the rain, should it last, would doom an outdoor barbecue.
It lasted, but it didn’t doom anything. It merely added humidity to the heat and forced the party indoors. Jane informed me of the relocation in a midmorning phone call.
Oh happy day. Now I’d be cooped up with strangers in a much smaller space.
Jane sounded excited about this change of venue but I managed to contain my enthusiasm.
#
I was still suppressing my excitement when we arrived at the Rattigans’ home in Birmingham, a suburban way station that attracted corporate middle managers biding their time until they attained executive status and could afford a house in much posher Bloomfield Hills.
The Rattigans’ residence, well-groomed and uninspiring, was indistinct from its neighbors. On the plus side, it came with a front porch, for which I was grateful since it gave us shelter from the downpour. I collapsed our umbrella while Jane rang the doorbell, which summoned a plain-looking woman with pale brown hair who tried to smile prettily but fell way short. After discovering who we were, hoi-polloi guests of the host, she introduced herself as Nancy Rattigan and grimly appraised us both, especially the one resembling Miss Michigan.
Finished with her appraisal, she flashed the half-assed smile again and ushered us inside. Mrs. Rattigan took our raincoats and umbrella in the foyer and pointed toward a portable bar and food-laden table against the far wall of a vast parlor that nonetheless felt cramped and confining.
“Have a drink, grab something to eat, enjoy yourselves,” our hostess advised us, then took off.
I gazed longingly at the bar, where a reasonable facsimile of Uncle Sam was dispensing drinks. Attired in a blue tux, white shirt, red bowtie and star-spangled top hat, he and the bar—draped in red-white-and-blue crepe—were nicely coordinated. I edged Jane toward this oasis but a well-fed, broad-shouldered guy with salt-and-pepper hair and a jowly face bounded over, planted himself in our path and beamed at my date. I beamed at the drink in one of his big-knuckled hands.
“You came!” His voice was deep, managerial.
“I said I would.” Jane smiled, more warmly than I thought necessary, then performed the introductions.
Our host granted me a vacant stare before turning back to his more captivating guest. Clad in a low-cut summer dress, Jane Bartolo looked like an actress, and judging from her performance could easily have been one if she wanted. With consummate skill, she acted interested in Rattigan’s nonstop nattering about, among other things, his new BMW, his golf game and his imminent promotion to deputy vice putz or something.
Seeking relief from this drivel, I glanced around the room at the lacquered, well-dressed guests, eventually lighting on the patriotic bar.
No, I advised myself.
Why not? I asked.
Because you’re tighter than uptight, and you’ll wind up just tight, as in plowed. And you promised her.
But one drink, two at the most, will relax me, making me a better guest, a better date, a better all-around human being.
I found this argument unassailable so I broke into my host’s tiresome monologue. “My thirst needs quenching,” I said to Jane. “Can I get you something?”
She turned to me looking slightly annoyed, and yet her voice dripped honey. “Scotch and soda. Thanks, sweetie.”
Ever the actress.
She pivoted back to the asshole while I headed for Uncle Sam. I’d taken only a few steps when I heard, “Nate?”
I about-faced.
“Remember your promise.”
“I will, don’t worry.”
She turned back to Rattigan and I continued on my way. I ordered two Scotch and sodas and watched Uncle Sam assemble them like a pro, which he obviously was. He slid the drinks toward me and grinned, while I slid two bucks toward him and tried not to appear over-eager. I moved away and sipped my Scotch, taking pains not to gulp it. Excellent, both the drink and my self-control.
I returned to Jane in time to see Rattigan galumphing off. I handed her the Scotch.
“Thanks, dear.” Her eyes followed our host’s receding figure. “He’s well-intentioned but a bit of a bore.”
A bit of a bore?
As for his intentions, they were plain to see, as were those of the other guys in the room openly gaping at my date. The women were also staring at her, only with something other than desire in their eyes.
Seemingly indifferent to all the scrutiny, Jane took a swallow of Scotch and inspected her surroundings. “Just think, we don’t know a soul here except the host. How exciting.”
If she’d said nerve-racking I might have agreed.
She grabbed my arm. “C’mon, let’s circulate, meet some people.”
I gently disengaged. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Jane looked irritated again, but said nothing before striding off. She glanced back once, then continued on her way.
Meanwhile I sipped my drink and waited for the liquor to do its job. One glass failed to put me at ease, so I returned to Uncle Sam for a refill, this time a double on the rocks.
Nothing.
Maybe the ice was diluting the alcohol, so I tried a double straight up.
Still nothing.
Perhaps a cigarette would succeed where alcohol had failed. I ordered another double, set it on the food table and fumbled out a Lucky. I lit up and inhaled deeply, then scanned the room. It hadn’t changed much since the last time I looked. Gaggles of men in light summer suits and women in light summer dresses still blabbed away, about the weather no doubt.
Dressed in a light-blue sports coat and tan slacks, I felt separate but unequal. To even things up, I drained my glass. But equality, to say nothing of equanimity, still eluded me so I returned to good old Sammy, whose popularity had surged since the last time I visited. While waiting in line I surveyed the room, trying to spot Jane. I found her holding the attention of two middle-aged blobs. I waved my empty glass at her, which she acknowledged with a halfhearted nod.
I was up to fourth in line when the guy in front of me turned and thrust out his paunch. “What about this heat? You’d think the rain’d cool things off, but that ain’t a-happenin’.”
I decided to take Jane’s advice and have a good time. “I for one love hot weather,” I said. “In fact, the hotter the weather the better, is the way I look at it.”
“You’re pulling my leg. Here, yank the other one, even ’em out.”
“Nope. I’m not kidding. Heat warms the cockles of my heart.”
He wiped his brow with a hanky drawn from his breast pocket, which gave me another opening. “I understand sweat is good for you,” I said. “Cleans outs the pores and keeps you healthy, maybe even wealthy and wise.”
His expression said I belonged in an institution, but his words were relatively courteous. “Well, you can have this weather, is all I can say.” Regrettably he co
uld say more and did. “The little woman, she likes the heat too. That’s ’cause she likes things hot … s’why she married me.” He smirked and chuckled at the same time.
I tried to smile but failed.
Upon reaching Uncle Sam, Paunchy ordered two martinis and walked off without a parting word or even a nod.
Was it something I said?
I requested another double, knocked it back without leaving the line, ordered another and then moved next door to get something to eat before I got drunk.
The Rattigans had substituted standard party fare for barbecued hot dogs, so I was looking at cold cuts, shrimp, pasta, potato salad and a vegetable concoction. The only food reflecting the holiday spirit was dessert: cookies shaped like liberty bells and cheesecake vaguely resembling the flag. All this seemed less than appealing, and in fact the ham and turkey were starting to turn green. Unless I was seeing things, which was entirely possible.
Anyway, my drink would have to serve as nourishment so I disposed of it hungrily and returned to my buddy behind the bar. Such a good friend was he that a double Scotch without the trimmings awaited me. I guzzled it down and then realized another need had arisen.
I had to pee.
Badly.
Showing no visible signs of urgency, I hoped, I crossed the parlor and wandered up one hall and down another, entering a kitchen, a study and two bedrooms before wondering if this shitty place even had a bathroom? Finally I arrived back where I’d started, my teeth floating and panic setting in. I hadn’t peed my pants since first grade and I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience, especially not here. My classmates had merely snickered and pointed at the wet spot on my slacks. These asswipes would say things that I’d probably rather not hear. Frantic, I spun around, heart pounding and bladder pleading for relief. Still no restroom in sight.
None too soon, a solution occurred to me. I would ask for directions, thereby dispelling a myth about men while at the same time resolving my problem. I stumbled toward a nearby figure, who for some reason backed away. Now I was filled to overflowing. Verging on one of the greatest embarrassments in a lifetime fairly teeming with them, I spied a tall plant, a ficus or something, loitering in front of a wall only a few feet away. It seemed to need watering as much as I needed something to water.
Perfect.
#
The rain had stopped by the time we left the party and made our way to the Falcon. After arriving we stood facing each other. I don’t know what my face looked like but Jane’s bore an expression I hoped never to see again. Call it homicidal and you’d be close.
“Give me the keys,” she said in a tone that allowed little room for negotiation.
Certain the keys were somewhere on my person, I conducted a thorough search before discovering them in my pants pocket of all places.
Jane snatched them from me and pointed toward the passenger side. “Get in.”
I got in and she slid behind the wheel. After simmering a moment, she swung toward me with less than love in her eyes. “I’m so angry with you, Nate Rubin, I could … I could …”
I could only imagine.
I opened my mouth to say something—don’t ask me what—but Jane clamped a hand over it.
“Not a word. Not one peep out of you.”
I didn’t argue, though the drive home lasted a decade thanks to the absence of conversation. When at last Jane pulled into her driveway she shut off the engine and turned to me again. “You’re in no condition to drive home, and if you’re going to die tonight I’d prefer it to be at my hands rather than your own or someone else’s. So you’ll stay here and sleep on the couch.” She paused as if expecting a response. When I offered none, she continued. “We’ll talk in the morning. I’ll set the alarm so we can do it before Tony gets up.” Another pause. “Understood?”
Reeling from a surfeit of booze and the force of her words, I thought my head would fall off any minute now. But I chanced a nod.
“Good,” she said.
We exited the car and Jane led the way to the house. Once inside she relieved her mother of her babysitting duties and we both retired to our respective beds, mine being one in name only. But I wasn’t worried about my discomfort so much as my survival, since there was a high probability Jane would strangle me in the night.
With that prospect weighing on mind, I slept fitfully at best.
#
The next morning I felt someone shaking me awake, which meant I was still alive. On the other hand, I felt like a corpse. Maybe I’d be better off dead.
“I’ll make us breakfast,” Jane Bartolo said. “It won’t take much time, so do what you have to do and do it fast.”
Fast? Really?
Well, I tried. I got up, staggered into the bathroom, did what I had to do and got dressed, setting no land-speed records in the process. Fully assembled, I made my way to the kitchen, where my stomach objected to the smell of bacon, eggs, toast and coffee.
Jane pointed to a chair at the glass-topped table in a nook to my right. “Sit.”
I sat, and she served us both before seating herself. Milady wore a sky-blue bathrobe and, as usual, looked ravishing even at 5:45 in the morning. I could only imagine how I looked, since I’d carefully avoided even glancing in the mirror.
I pushed my eggs around while Jane disposed of hers as if she hadn’t eaten all year.
After finishing, she started in. “You promised, Nate. You agreed. You said you wouldn’t get stinking drunk. And yet …”
No need to finish the sentence, and I for one was glad she didn’t. She needn’t have continued either, but I suppose that was too much to ask for.
“You’re a good man in so many ways,” she said. “Gentle, sensitive, wonderful with Tony, and … I don’t know … just plain lovable.”
I felt jazzed hearing a woman like her saying all that about me, even though none of it was true, and even though I sensed a but winging my way. Jane delayed the inevitable by taking a bite of toast, chewing slowly and swallowing.
Deferral over, the b-word arrived, followed by, “The thing is, I can no longer tolerate your drinking. And I can’t trust you not to overdo it when you say you won’t.”
She paused, probably to let me say something on my behalf, but how could you defend the indefensible? Seeing that I couldn’t, she went on. “Last night was the final straw. I mean, what you pulled in front of the Rattigans and all their guests was humiliating to everyone because it was so uncivilized. You understand what I’m saying?”
I understood all too well and didn’t disagree. “I’m sorry for breaking my promise and for doing what I did. I never want to hurt you or embarrass you. I love—”
“And I love you too, you little shit.”
I couldn’t be certain, but there may have been a smile playing at her lips. What I knew for sure was this marked the first time we’d professed our love for each other.
Good timing.
“However,” Jane continued, “I can’t abide that kind of … that vulgar behavior. You know what I mean?”
Of course I did. I knew someone else who couldn’t abide my getting drunk and doing something gross, like puking in her car, which I suppose ran a close second to pissing on a ficus plant.
“And then there’s Tony” Jane said. “What if you got drunk in front of him and did … I don’t know what?”
I didn’t know what either, and tried not to guess. Instead, I took a bite of toast, which tasted like charcoal. I couldn’t think of anything to say but said something anyway since Jane seemed to expect it of me.
“Again, I’m sorry for … you know. Things just got out of hand. So no more rowdy behavior from now on. I promise, really promise, not to drink so much in the future.”
Jane remained unconvinced, as I knew might be the case. “First of all, calling your behavior rowdy shows you still don’t get it. You didn’t just pull some fraternity prank, Nate. You pulled out your dick and urinated in front of me, God and all the guests at that party. Your b
ehavior wasn’t rowdy … it was fucking insane.”
Well, when you described it that way.
“Second of all, you’ll promise not to drink so much? You’ve already made that promise and broken it. But okay, this time you really promise. The thing is, I don’t believe you can … keep your promise, I mean.”
She sipped her coffee while I wondered when she’d turned so cynical.
“Look, I’m no expert on the subject,” Jane said, “but I know a drinking problem when I see one. I work in a bar, for chrissake. Each drunk is different, and each one is the same. They all need alcohol. They’re always greedy for the next drink.”
These words sounded vaguely familiar, but where had I heard them, or something similar, before?
Rachel Solomon. I recalled her accusing me of drinking “greedily.”
Women.
They were always on my case.
“So I think you need help,” said this particular woman.
“What kind of help?” I asked, mainly out of respect for her.
“I don’t know. Like I told you, I’m no expert. What I do know is you can’t go on like this or your drinking will only get worse. I see it happen all the time.” After a pause, “Maybe you should try AA or something.”
Alcoholics Anonymous? And all that God shit? From what I’d heard, an AA meeting was worse than a church service.
Suddenly I felt so tired I couldn’t keep my head up, so I let it flop. Gazing back at me from the glass tabletop was this pitifully mournful face. Quickly, or as quickly as possible, I lifted my head up.
“Where were you?” Jane asked. “Have you heard a thing I’ve said?”
“I’ve heard every word.”
I had a question too, but wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. I breathed deeply and asked, “So where does that leave us?”
“Where does that leave us,” Jane repeated, minus the question mark. She placed a hand on mine, and I wanted to take it and kiss it and make everything better. Instead I waited.
“You gonna get help?” Jane asked.
In response, I walked that narrow line between yes and no.
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 35
