seems shocked by this pronouncement. Ava’s roommate at Berklee College of Music was an opera singer, and when she became, in her words,
verklempt,
she would sing the highest note in her range. Ava hears the note now, in her head; it’s shrill enough to break glass or summon every dog in the neighborhood.
George clears his throat. “Back…?”
“To
sa chambre,
” Isabelle says. “His room? You do know where it is,
n’est-ce pas?
”
Despite the fact that English is her second language, there is unmistakable innuendo in Isabelle’s voice, and Ava feels a surge of admiration. Isabelle has just proven herself to be on
their
side, even though it was Mitzi who brought her into the fold.
“Yes,” George says, “I think so.” He tugs at the bottom of his flannel shirt and heads down the hallway. Ava, Scott, Isabelle, and Kevin watch him go.
“Tequila shot, anyone?” Kevin asks.
KELLEY
H e’s not entirely sober, and the room still reeks of smoke when George knocks, but this does not derail Kelley from his mission. As soon as the door opens, Kelley punches George in the mouth as hard as he can. The punch lands squarely, with the solid, satisfying noise of flesh on flesh.
When was the last time Kelley
hit
someone? He comes up with a party at the Alpha Chi Rho house at Gettysburg his junior year; a brawl broke out over the honor of someone’s date, who, it was later disclosed, wasn’t very honorable at all. Punching another man in the face, especially sucker punching someone who isn’t expecting it, isn’t exactly honorable either, but to Kelley it feels good, just, and right.
George’s head snaps back, and blood gushes everywhere. George moans and spits out a tooth. Kelley feels delighted, as if a stream of quarters were flying from his slot machine.
George makes no move to retaliate. “I guess I deserved that.”
“Oh God, yes,” Kelley says. “At least that.”
George pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes up the spittle and blood. His eyes are out of focus, which pleases Kelley further; he really walloped the guy.
Twelve years!
Kelley thinks.
“Can I come in and talk to you, please?” George asks.
Kelley steps out of the way, ushering George in and closing the door behind him.
If it’s awkward to have this conversation in the bedroom that Kelley and Mitzi shared for so many years, neither man acknowledges it. Kelley sits on the edge of the bed while George stands before him. Kelley is dizzy and has the beginnings of a hangover; all he wants is a drink to take the edge off his drinking binge.
“Do you have a flask?” Kelley asks George.
“Actually,” George says, “I do.” He pulls a leather flask—monogrammed, no less—out of the pocket of his parka and hands it to Kelley.
Kelley accepts it with glee and something that feels like love. For a fleeting instant, he understands what Mitzi sees in George. He takes a swig—Johnnie Walker Black. Brilliant! Kelley hands the flask to George, who takes a slug, and then George hands it back to Kelley. George is a good and generous man.
“I came to say I’m sorry,” George says.
“Sorry doesn’t begin to address it,” Kelley says. He takes another drink, savoring the burn down his throat. “You’ve been sleeping with my wife for twelve years. Is that true? Is that
true,
George?”
“Saying ‘twelve years’ makes it sound worse than it is,” George says. He dabs his handkerchief at his swollen lip. “It was a few times every year at Christmas. It was a holiday thing.”
“It was a
holiday thing?
” Kelley says. Did George reallyjust say that sleeping with Kelley’s wife was a
holiday thing
—like caroling or baking gingerbread?
“It just happened,” George says. “Do you remember twelve years ago, when the snowstorm hit and Bart was at a friend’s house, and you and the olders and your ex-wife got stranded at the Bar all night? That was the year my marriage had started falling apart. Mitzi and I were here
verklempt,
she would sing the highest note in her range. Ava hears the note now, in her head; it’s shrill enough to break glass or summon every dog in the neighborhood.
George clears his throat. “Back…?”
“To
sa chambre,
” Isabelle says. “His room? You do know where it is,
n’est-ce pas?
”
Despite the fact that English is her second language, there is unmistakable innuendo in Isabelle’s voice, and Ava feels a surge of admiration. Isabelle has just proven herself to be on
their
side, even though it was Mitzi who brought her into the fold.
“Yes,” George says, “I think so.” He tugs at the bottom of his flannel shirt and heads down the hallway. Ava, Scott, Isabelle, and Kevin watch him go.
“Tequila shot, anyone?” Kevin asks.
KELLEY
H e’s not entirely sober, and the room still reeks of smoke when George knocks, but this does not derail Kelley from his mission. As soon as the door opens, Kelley punches George in the mouth as hard as he can. The punch lands squarely, with the solid, satisfying noise of flesh on flesh.
When was the last time Kelley
hit
someone? He comes up with a party at the Alpha Chi Rho house at Gettysburg his junior year; a brawl broke out over the honor of someone’s date, who, it was later disclosed, wasn’t very honorable at all. Punching another man in the face, especially sucker punching someone who isn’t expecting it, isn’t exactly honorable either, but to Kelley it feels good, just, and right.
George’s head snaps back, and blood gushes everywhere. George moans and spits out a tooth. Kelley feels delighted, as if a stream of quarters were flying from his slot machine.
George makes no move to retaliate. “I guess I deserved that.”
“Oh God, yes,” Kelley says. “At least that.”
George pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes up the spittle and blood. His eyes are out of focus, which pleases Kelley further; he really walloped the guy.
Twelve years!
Kelley thinks.
“Can I come in and talk to you, please?” George asks.
Kelley steps out of the way, ushering George in and closing the door behind him.
If it’s awkward to have this conversation in the bedroom that Kelley and Mitzi shared for so many years, neither man acknowledges it. Kelley sits on the edge of the bed while George stands before him. Kelley is dizzy and has the beginnings of a hangover; all he wants is a drink to take the edge off his drinking binge.
“Do you have a flask?” Kelley asks George.
“Actually,” George says, “I do.” He pulls a leather flask—monogrammed, no less—out of the pocket of his parka and hands it to Kelley.
Kelley accepts it with glee and something that feels like love. For a fleeting instant, he understands what Mitzi sees in George. He takes a swig—Johnnie Walker Black. Brilliant! Kelley hands the flask to George, who takes a slug, and then George hands it back to Kelley. George is a good and generous man.
“I came to say I’m sorry,” George says.
“Sorry doesn’t begin to address it,” Kelley says. He takes another drink, savoring the burn down his throat. “You’ve been sleeping with my wife for twelve years. Is that true? Is that
true,
George?”
“Saying ‘twelve years’ makes it sound worse than it is,” George says. He dabs his handkerchief at his swollen lip. “It was a few times every year at Christmas. It was a holiday thing.”
“It was a
holiday thing?
” Kelley says. Did George reallyjust say that sleeping with Kelley’s wife was a
holiday thing
—like caroling or baking gingerbread?
“It just happened,” George says. “Do you remember twelve years ago, when the snowstorm hit and Bart was at a friend’s house, and you and the olders and your ex-wife got stranded at the Bar all night? That was the year my marriage had started falling apart. Mitzi and I were here
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