Pike's Folly by Mike Heppner

her lips to Pike’s cheek.
    Nathaniel patted her on the butt. “We’re hungry,” he said, indicating the others.
    Gregg blushed. “Oh, we’re okay,” he insisted.
    The woman broke away from Pike to shake Stuart’s hand. She looked in her mid-forties, with short, muscular legs that bulged in a pair of dark blue denims. She’d gathered her hair— black but white at the roots—into a wispy bun held in swirling disarray by a chopstick. “I’m Sarah,” she said. “You’ve got two more coming, I know. We’ll eat as soon as I get this ham out of the oven.”
    â€œNo hurry,” Gregg said. He’d been expecting someone younger than Sarah. In twenty years, he’d never known Pike to have a lady friend even remotely his own age.
    â€œI’m taking jackets,” she said, “and drink orders, if you’re interested. I know what
you
want, chief.” She nudged Pike, who’d put his arm around her waist. Gregg still didn’t know what to make of her, except that she looked like a lesbian, according to his limited conception of what a lesbian looked like. She wasn’t pretty; her face was apple shaped, with ruby dimples and a gently rolling double chin. Pike’s former girl-friends had all been of a type: fawning waffle heads with size-two figures. He simply didn’t associate with women who weren’t exceptionally beautiful. Sarah’s ordinary appearance was the most striking thing about her.
    â€œNathaniel was worried that we might be late,” Gregg said, handing her his jacket.
    She laughed. “He must still be on Rhode Island time. I keep telling him, the rules are different up here.”
    Allison and Heath joined them twenty minutes later in the dining room, where Sarah had laid the food out buffet-style on a sideboard. The ham smelled delicious, and it steamed in the center of the table. Sarah carved it with an electric knife, telling everyone to help themselves to wine and tossed salad. The knife tore into the meat with the razzing sound of a chainsaw, and she operated it manfully, peeling off thick deli-cut slices with one hand.
    Allison stood in front of Heath at the end of the buffet line. The others had got a head start on the booze, and she watched their rowdy jostlings with the detached amusement of a social anthropologist. “I think my dad’s drunk,” she whispered to Heath. She was happy for him; as she saw it, her father rarely allowed himself to have the fun in life that he deserved. The feeling was contagious, and she said, “God, I want a toke
so
bad.”
    Heath smiled gamely but said nothing. Ever since leaving Providence, he’d regretted coming along on the trip. He could’ve used the time more productively by staying at home. Solitude was healthy for an artist. There was so much that he wanted to do—write “God Only Knows,” produce
Pet Sounds,
learn to sing like Carl Wilson. What was he doing instead? Hanging out with his girlfriend.
    Sarah cut herself a piece of ham and told her guests to sit down and eat. Gregg continued to mellow as the dinner progressed, and at times Allison even thought he might be flirting with their host.
    â€œI can’t believe you two went to school together,” he said to Pike and Sarah, who were sitting next to each other at the head of the table. “You don’t strike me as a Rhode Islander,” he told Sarah.
    She smiled, her mouth full of red wine. They’d gone through two bottles already, with another unopened bottle of Bordeaux on the sideboard. The bottle still had the price tag on it, a green sticker from the state-line liquor store. “I’m not—not anymore,” she said. “There’s a whole world out there, you know. There’s Massachusetts, and Connecticut, and—”
    â€œDon’t forget Maine,” Pike said to the general amusement of all. Only Allison wasn’t