know everything about me and seemed to see everything and he was so Die a Little -- 65 --
limited, such a horribly limited person, but that night he seemed like he knew everything and I would take it. Who was I not to take it?
At just past midnight, Mike deposits me at my door and says good night to us all. My brother and Alice, arms around each other, walk into their room, and I walk into my adjoining one. A few minutes later, I stumble into the shared bathroom. Holding on to the sink, dizzy with drinks and dancing, I laugh at my own reflection, its frenzied gaiety. How has all this happened?
Alice comes in a few minutes later, dress half off, hanging in front of her like a silky bib. I resist the sudden flash before my eyes of her, laid bare, on the dirty playing card. Dizzy with drink, I literally shake my head to knock the image out.
Giggling and hiccuping, she walks toward me, arms out. "Help me, Lora. Bill's all thumbs." Five minutes of giggly fumbling, of her buttons going in and out of distended focus, and I undo her.
She tugs the top half of the dress down to her waist and shakes her arms free, facing the mirror. After a long look at herself, she reaches past me to my cold cream on the counter.
"I always wash the makeup off," she stresses, waving past my face.
"No matter how smashed I am. If I can barely stand--if I have to hang on to the sink with one hand to see the mirror-- I still do it."
I nod gravely and watch her scoop the cream with two fingers.
Suddenly, we both hear a knock from my adjoining room.
"Someone's at my door," I say. Alice's eyes widen. Then narrow.
"Honey, you'd better get it," she says in a whisper, turning back to her reflection with a faint grin.
"Is it Mike?" I ask as she covers her face in white.
"Go get it, darling," she says, her red lips still visible. "I won't tell."
Vaguely, I want to tell her she has the wrong idea, that I haven't invited Mike Standish back, that I don't know why he might be there, and that there is no secret to keep. Tell whom? But I can't form the sentences. It seems too exhausting. I manage only "Maybe it's the bellboy ... room service by mistake ..."
She keeps looking straight into the mirror, her face a big blank now. I walk back into my room, closing the bathroom door behind me. My left shoe dragging in the carpet, I make it to my room's front door and say, touching the blond wood lightly, "Who is it?"
"Little Jack Horner," Mike says.
I open the door partway.
"Is that the one with the thumb and the pie," I ask.
"Sure, baby." He reaches a hand from behind him and shows me a bottle of champagne. "Nightcap, room 411, five minutes or, if you'd like a personal escort, presently."
Die a Little -- 66 --
When he speaks, his eyebrows rise and his round shoulders tilt forward and I stare at him for a moment, leaning hard against the rough edge of the door, and then I extend my hand without thinking.
And I take his arm. And my hand doesn't even seem to make it halfway around its thickness. And his smile is so loose and so easy and only a half smile really, and I don't even stumble because, you see, he wouldn't stumble. He never stumbles at all. And as we walk along the red and tan diamonds on the carpet, the sconces releasing only a soft golden shadow for us, I think this might be all right.
Two hours later, staring up at the shadows of the banana leaves on the ceiling ... This is the end of everything. The phrase rings out and shoots through the air and quavers tightly, suspended, and does everything but dive into my chest. Could six words ever sound so ominous?
The following night, after a long day at the beach and the markets, we enjoy what becomes a nearly endless dinner on a commercial yacht anchored a few miles from shore. The service is so slow that it is two hours before the food arrives and, along with those at nearly every other occupied table, we become unintentionally fuzzy with drink.
I have never seen my brother drunk before, and he is
limited, such a horribly limited person, but that night he seemed like he knew everything and I would take it. Who was I not to take it?
At just past midnight, Mike deposits me at my door and says good night to us all. My brother and Alice, arms around each other, walk into their room, and I walk into my adjoining one. A few minutes later, I stumble into the shared bathroom. Holding on to the sink, dizzy with drinks and dancing, I laugh at my own reflection, its frenzied gaiety. How has all this happened?
Alice comes in a few minutes later, dress half off, hanging in front of her like a silky bib. I resist the sudden flash before my eyes of her, laid bare, on the dirty playing card. Dizzy with drink, I literally shake my head to knock the image out.
Giggling and hiccuping, she walks toward me, arms out. "Help me, Lora. Bill's all thumbs." Five minutes of giggly fumbling, of her buttons going in and out of distended focus, and I undo her.
She tugs the top half of the dress down to her waist and shakes her arms free, facing the mirror. After a long look at herself, she reaches past me to my cold cream on the counter.
"I always wash the makeup off," she stresses, waving past my face.
"No matter how smashed I am. If I can barely stand--if I have to hang on to the sink with one hand to see the mirror-- I still do it."
I nod gravely and watch her scoop the cream with two fingers.
Suddenly, we both hear a knock from my adjoining room.
"Someone's at my door," I say. Alice's eyes widen. Then narrow.
"Honey, you'd better get it," she says in a whisper, turning back to her reflection with a faint grin.
"Is it Mike?" I ask as she covers her face in white.
"Go get it, darling," she says, her red lips still visible. "I won't tell."
Vaguely, I want to tell her she has the wrong idea, that I haven't invited Mike Standish back, that I don't know why he might be there, and that there is no secret to keep. Tell whom? But I can't form the sentences. It seems too exhausting. I manage only "Maybe it's the bellboy ... room service by mistake ..."
She keeps looking straight into the mirror, her face a big blank now. I walk back into my room, closing the bathroom door behind me. My left shoe dragging in the carpet, I make it to my room's front door and say, touching the blond wood lightly, "Who is it?"
"Little Jack Horner," Mike says.
I open the door partway.
"Is that the one with the thumb and the pie," I ask.
"Sure, baby." He reaches a hand from behind him and shows me a bottle of champagne. "Nightcap, room 411, five minutes or, if you'd like a personal escort, presently."
Die a Little -- 66 --
When he speaks, his eyebrows rise and his round shoulders tilt forward and I stare at him for a moment, leaning hard against the rough edge of the door, and then I extend my hand without thinking.
And I take his arm. And my hand doesn't even seem to make it halfway around its thickness. And his smile is so loose and so easy and only a half smile really, and I don't even stumble because, you see, he wouldn't stumble. He never stumbles at all. And as we walk along the red and tan diamonds on the carpet, the sconces releasing only a soft golden shadow for us, I think this might be all right.
Two hours later, staring up at the shadows of the banana leaves on the ceiling ... This is the end of everything. The phrase rings out and shoots through the air and quavers tightly, suspended, and does everything but dive into my chest. Could six words ever sound so ominous?
The following night, after a long day at the beach and the markets, we enjoy what becomes a nearly endless dinner on a commercial yacht anchored a few miles from shore. The service is so slow that it is two hours before the food arrives and, along with those at nearly every other occupied table, we become unintentionally fuzzy with drink.
I have never seen my brother drunk before, and he is
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