very charming.
We eat lobster tails and drink champagne, and Mike pays for it all by charging it to the studio. Bill is too softly intoxicated to notice.
Later that night, we end up at an old cantina with Wild West doors.
Their feet gliding along the sawdust-covered floors, Mike and Alice dance to a thrumming mariachi band, and Bill and I lean back in rickety chairs and recover from the flush of the dinner.
Somehow, although the music is roaring, we can hear each other perfectly and we recall--together and in impossibly great detail--a favorite Fourth of July from our youth, from the hornet bite on my throbbing leg to the splattery fireworks to the splinters Bill got from skimming along the boat dock as he ran, feet first, into the lake.
--I'm a little drunk, so don't listen to me.
--You're a little drunk, I smile and listen anyway.
--I'm a little drunk, Sis, and feeling like I want to tell you something.
--Anything, I say, chest suddenly, strangely pulsing, rippling.
--You know, right, even if I don't say it, that I'd do anything for you. Anything.
--I do know, I say slowly, solemnly, so he'll know I mean it.
We're each other's family and I feel
Die a Little -- 67 --
(His eyes luminous, severe, relentless: saying, Listen to me now because I may never be able to say this again, may never be able to tell you like this what I feel--what I feel and live every day and you do too.)
--I--I'm yours, Sis. You know that, right? I'm all yours and I m responsible for you and that's what I want.
--I'm glad, Bill
is all I can say, all I know how to say.
He tilts his head against mine, like when children swinging hammock, and gripping hands hard.
And it is there, and happening, and then it is over, gone. But it breaks my heart it is so beautiful.
I will never forget it.
Die a Little -- 68 --
[?]*[?]
It is in the middle of that same long, messy summer, before we even know she is pregnant. Amid all the fun, even with its dark edges, Charlie and Edie Beauvais slip unnoticeably off the dance card. We are all too busy to see, to stop for a second. And now, this: What could be sadder than seeing Edie Beauvais there, white fluffy cloud of hair against the pillow, eyes like two fresh wounds?
I take a long time arranging the lilacs in the vase, unsure what to say.
Her arms lay flat out in front of her, palms facing up, a tissue crumpled in one hand.
"I'm awfully sorry, Edie. I know how much you and Charlie ..."
"Hmm," she says noncommittally, staring out the window.
"If there's anything I can do ..."
"Thanks."
"Would you like me to get you a movie magazine? The new Photoplay?" I offer weakly.
She looks over at me without moving or even turning her head.
"Will they let you leave soon?"
"Day or two. I lost a lot of blood. You should have seen it. It was everywhere."
"I'm sure you'll be back to your old self in no time." I don't bring up what Charlie has told me, about her not being able to get pregnant again.
Such a little blond thing wasn't meant for this, like wet snow on the pillow, sinking fast and nearly disappearing.
But as I look at her, she all of twenty-three, I wonder what she will do for the next forty years of her life. I know she too is seeing her future spread out before her, years and years of Charlie working long hours and growing older and saggier, and she decorating and redecorating and gardening and going on long drives through the hills and fine lines etching in the corners of her bright eyes and watching other women with their baby carriages and their toddlers and long-lashed schoolchildren and awkward, shiny-faced teenagers and eventually downy, glassy-eyed children of their own. She will have none of this. It will not be hers. And her life feels over at twenty-three. How could one possibly fill those years, days, hours?
One sharp slash and her future shriveled up into itself. How could one fill one's life?
Die a Little -- 69 --
[?]*[?]
This from a man so impeccable. But there it is, in the
We eat lobster tails and drink champagne, and Mike pays for it all by charging it to the studio. Bill is too softly intoxicated to notice.
Later that night, we end up at an old cantina with Wild West doors.
Their feet gliding along the sawdust-covered floors, Mike and Alice dance to a thrumming mariachi band, and Bill and I lean back in rickety chairs and recover from the flush of the dinner.
Somehow, although the music is roaring, we can hear each other perfectly and we recall--together and in impossibly great detail--a favorite Fourth of July from our youth, from the hornet bite on my throbbing leg to the splattery fireworks to the splinters Bill got from skimming along the boat dock as he ran, feet first, into the lake.
--I'm a little drunk, so don't listen to me.
--You're a little drunk, I smile and listen anyway.
--I'm a little drunk, Sis, and feeling like I want to tell you something.
--Anything, I say, chest suddenly, strangely pulsing, rippling.
--You know, right, even if I don't say it, that I'd do anything for you. Anything.
--I do know, I say slowly, solemnly, so he'll know I mean it.
We're each other's family and I feel
Die a Little -- 67 --
(His eyes luminous, severe, relentless: saying, Listen to me now because I may never be able to say this again, may never be able to tell you like this what I feel--what I feel and live every day and you do too.)
--I--I'm yours, Sis. You know that, right? I'm all yours and I m responsible for you and that's what I want.
--I'm glad, Bill
is all I can say, all I know how to say.
He tilts his head against mine, like when children swinging hammock, and gripping hands hard.
And it is there, and happening, and then it is over, gone. But it breaks my heart it is so beautiful.
I will never forget it.
Die a Little -- 68 --
[?]*[?]
It is in the middle of that same long, messy summer, before we even know she is pregnant. Amid all the fun, even with its dark edges, Charlie and Edie Beauvais slip unnoticeably off the dance card. We are all too busy to see, to stop for a second. And now, this: What could be sadder than seeing Edie Beauvais there, white fluffy cloud of hair against the pillow, eyes like two fresh wounds?
I take a long time arranging the lilacs in the vase, unsure what to say.
Her arms lay flat out in front of her, palms facing up, a tissue crumpled in one hand.
"I'm awfully sorry, Edie. I know how much you and Charlie ..."
"Hmm," she says noncommittally, staring out the window.
"If there's anything I can do ..."
"Thanks."
"Would you like me to get you a movie magazine? The new Photoplay?" I offer weakly.
She looks over at me without moving or even turning her head.
"Will they let you leave soon?"
"Day or two. I lost a lot of blood. You should have seen it. It was everywhere."
"I'm sure you'll be back to your old self in no time." I don't bring up what Charlie has told me, about her not being able to get pregnant again.
Such a little blond thing wasn't meant for this, like wet snow on the pillow, sinking fast and nearly disappearing.
But as I look at her, she all of twenty-three, I wonder what she will do for the next forty years of her life. I know she too is seeing her future spread out before her, years and years of Charlie working long hours and growing older and saggier, and she decorating and redecorating and gardening and going on long drives through the hills and fine lines etching in the corners of her bright eyes and watching other women with their baby carriages and their toddlers and long-lashed schoolchildren and awkward, shiny-faced teenagers and eventually downy, glassy-eyed children of their own. She will have none of this. It will not be hers. And her life feels over at twenty-three. How could one possibly fill those years, days, hours?
One sharp slash and her future shriveled up into itself. How could one fill one's life?
Die a Little -- 69 --
[?]*[?]
This from a man so impeccable. But there it is, in the
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