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The living room: a large, open space dominated by a fat couch and a grand piano (Richard didn't play). Sarah was on the couch drinking wine. When she saw me, she stood, crossed the room with a quick, woozy stride and put her arms around me.
"Watch the wine," I said.
She stepped back from me, a wounded expression on her face. I took her glass and rested it on the piano. She put her arms around me again and said, "I get so excited when you come. I always do. It's so silly. I always am so excited to see you."
"It's good to see you too." We kissed, as we did whenever we saw each other; I'm not sure how this greeting got started, but our kisses were long and on the lips; she'd been dating Richard as long as I'd known her.
"Have you seen Richard yet?" she asked.
"I just got here."
"Can I?" She tapped the cigarette box in my breast pocket. She slipped her fingers into the pocket and smiled at me. "You always have the best cigarettes." As she lit up, she eyed the wrapped package under my arm.
"It's for you," I said.
She unwrapped my gift, dropped the brown paper to the floor. "You found a copy," she said. She opened the book, careful with the spine, a delicate touch on the yellow edge of each page she turned over. "You're the only one who ever gets me books." She tapped her necklace: an elegant, expensive silver knot. "Richard always buys me jewelry," she said, with a frown.
We caught up, a little; a little about Richard's preparations for leaving, though we skirted the issue of whether or not she'd be going. We would have that conversation later. I needed to drink a little more, to meet everyone. I looked past Sarah, at the women on the couch. Sarah said, "That one's Carmilla-she's a stu
Richard was in the yard, beer in hand, talking with someone I didn't know. Just behind him was the hot tub. The woman who'd answered the door was in the tub with a couple of guys. Before Richard spotted me, the woman said, "You should come in, it's perfect, cold outside, warm in here." She giggled. One of the guys leaned over and whispered to her. She pushed him away.
"David, you made it," Richard said.
"I wouldn't miss it."
"Well I'm glad, you know."
He introduced me to his friend, and to the guys in the tub. He didn't know the woman's name and she didn't supply it. "Come on and sit," he said to me.
I sat on a cooler. Richard and his friend were talking about Boston, where Richard was moving. I'd never been to Boston, I told them, though I'd heard it was like San Francisco. We talked about San Francisco, Seattle, Portland.
The woman in the hot tub interrupted us and asked me to get her a beer. I got up to get a beer from the cooler. She stood. She was very thin, no hips, but gifted with significant breasts. She leaned forward-bent at the waist without bending her knees-and brought her bosom to my face. Freckles swirled into the dark line of her cleavage. "Thank you so much," she said, and took the beer. The guys in the tub were happily gazing up at her tiny bottom-those men were nothing to her, made to carry her bags and perform rudimentary tasks while she gazed off in other, more interesting directions. I'd met women like her many times before. "My name's Prudence," she said.
"Of course it is," I said.
"You really ought to join."
"You know I'm not going to."
She did know, too, and smiled a wide, long smile.
"But I'll be here all night," I said.
She settled back into her pool.
I lit a cigarette; for a moment, a flame cupped in my hand; I drew my hand away, and looked up to the peak. A man, briefly illuminated by moonlight before the clouds closed up, appeared at the top, moved toward the house. I said to Richard, "Does someone live up there?" Richard told me he didn't think so. I tried to point out the man-who I could still see, as a dark shape on a dark background-but Richard couldn't find him. "I'm going to go in, get a real drink," I said. Richard said he'd be in shortly. I shrugged and walked around to the front of the house-an eye on the man walking down the mountain.
Most of the people at Richard's party weren't attractive. They might be fit and many were dressed in expensive clothes, but most of his friends looked average and, upon getting to know them, were. The exceptions were notable. Michael, a transplant from the coast, a man of style; Kat and Carmilla-just beautiful; Prudence-a manipulator I appreciated; and Sarah. Kat and Carmilla were seated on a small couch in the guest room, surrounded by four or five guys and one unfortunate looking girl (pasty, a large, flat nose and hair forced into a strange shade of red). They were all watching a movie-Kat spotted me in the doorway, shifted on the couch, shoved at one of the guys, and gestured for me to sit beside her. They were watching
The Man Who Fell To Earth, that beautiful David Bowie film-
I let myself get drawn into the movie. Kat ran her hand in a circle on my back. When the unfortunate girl sneezed, breaking my mood, I excused myself and walked down the hall to the bar. I passed the front door just as there was a knock; the door was answered and I heard, "What, you need a formal invitation? Sure come on in, you are welcome to come in." Sarah joined me at the bar and took my arm. We collected drinks and Michael and I went out onto the back patio. Mercifully, the three of us were there alone.
Sarah stole a cigarette and complained about Richard's friends-"Present company excluded."
Michael then brought up the subject Sarah and I had danced around once already: "What's in Boston for you? I mean, I know Richard has a great job, but what are you going to do?"
Sarah looked at the floor for a moment, took a drag and a drink and said, "That's just the thing, Michael."
I was eager to hear her explain to Michael just what that thing was-I thought I knew but I wanted her to say it-but instead she stared past Michael, back into the house. I turned and Michael turned and we all watched a very ugly man walk past the back patio door toward the bar.
"Who the hell was that?" I asked.
Sarah said, "I don't know, but-" then drifted past me into the hall. Michael and I looked at each other, then followed-I dropped my cigarette on the patio floor.
The ugly man wasn't at the bar by the time we stepped into the hall-no one was.
He was in the living room, behind the piano, playing the adagio from the
Moonlight Sonata on Richard's out-of-tune grand-the result was not lulling or melancholic, as the adagio is, but dissonant and eerie.
No one else seemed to share my evaluation of the music. Everyone-the whole party except Prudence and her men-were gathered around the piano watching the ugly man play, laughing when he made an exaggerated flourish over the keyboard, but rapt, totally caught up-so that they all jumped when he moved into the more upbeat allegretto. I wanted to jump too-each out-of-tune note grated on my nerves.
I stared at the ugly man as he played. He was bald. His head was long and boney, his eyes lost in shadow. His skin was a dark brown-not like Michael's, no, he didn't look African-the ugly man was black all right, but his skin was waxy and all over there was a patina of green-the green of rotten beef. I couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to touch his skin-my finger, I was sure, would sink in, as it would in a pool of congealed fat. His ears were large and pointed. His mouth was small-pursed as he played-and his teeth were too large for his tiny mouth. His two front teeth were the worst: jagged, yellow, buck-teeth.