Part 6 (2/2)

Looking in Mike Standish's mirror at 2:00 A.M., my face, neck, shoulders still sharp pink, my legs still shaking, I see something used and dissolute and unflinching. How did this all happen so quickly? And it has nothing to do with him at all. It is as if this girl in the mirror has slipped down into some dark, wet place all alone and is coming up each time battle-worn but otherwise untouched.

A late dinner at Lido's by the Sea, all cracking seafood, clamoring jazz, squirts of lemon in the air, the clatter of dozens of docked party s.h.i.+ps on the water, long strings of lights stretched out into nothing.

Now, back at Mike's apartment, he uncharacteristically down for the count, dreaming heavily, stunned into sleep after a day-into-night of c.o.c.ktails and courses, a director's wedding, a premiere, a party, and finally dinner with me.

I decide to phone for a taxi.

Tiptoeing into the impeccably tailored dark green and tan tones of the living room, I sit down at the desk, on which rests only a phone, a pad of paper, and a set of fountain pens. I slide open the desk's sole drawer to find a phone book.

As I pull it out, I see that I have inadvertently picked up, along with the phone book, a tidy pack of playing cards. The pack falls soundlessly into the deep carpet. Reaching down, I accidentally knock the cards, and they slide out of the pocket into a near perfect cardsharp's fan.

I kneel on the floor. As I collect the cards wearily, a few flutter again to the carpet, flipping over from the standard navy blue pattern to their reverse sides.

There, instead of the mere jack or diamond, I see slightly grainy, hand-tinted black-and-white photographs.

I bite my lip and faintly recall Bill's army buddies joking about the decks they picked up in France, where, they'd laugh, ”women understand men.”

The cards are filled with naughty open-legged shots of women, and I avert my eyes, shoving them back into the box. As I do so, however, one catches my eye.

It is two women, wearing only garters, kneeling, hands cupping each other's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Unlike what I had seen in the flash of the other cards, these women are facing not a man just out of frame or their own plump forms. Instead, they look openly into the lens, heavily made-up eyes gazing out.

I stare for a hard thirty seconds before realizing I am looking at Lois Slattery and my sister-in-law.

Lois's unmistakable crooked face.

Alice's brooding eyes-eyes so intense that not even the thick layer of kohl could conceal them, a virtual fingerprint.

They are kneeling on what looks like a cheap Mexican serape.

Their fingernails are painted dark.

They look younger, with a little of the roundness that especially Alice now lacks.

Their mouths are open, Lois's lewdly, like a wound.

Though their bodies and faces are tinted a rosy shade, the photographer hasn't bothered to tint the insides of their mouths, so instead of red or pink, the mouths give way to a gray-blackness like something has crawled inside them and died there. Like their insides have rotted and the outside has yet to catch up.

Suddenly, I hear stirring in the bedroom. Before I know it, I've palmed the card, shoving the rest of the pack back in the drawer.

Mike Standish is standing in front of me, trousers pulled up, suspenders hanging rakishly.

I am still kneeling on the floor, fortunately holding the phone book by way of explanation.

”I'll take you home,” he says with a casual yawn. ”Sorry I fell asleep, King. Bad form.”

”All right,” I say, looking up, knees brus.h.i.+ng painfully into the carpet.

He holds his hand out, and I grab it, and as he lifts me to my feet, I feel like the sin could never be greater. Who is this man? And-his hand now casually curved around my lower hip, my b.u.t.tocks-what have I fallen into, eyes half open or more?

That night I think about the picture of Alice and Lois for a long time. I think about telling Bill. I think about asking Alice. Or Mike. But I know I will do none of these things. I know I will hold on to it, hold on to it tightly. The strangest thing of all is how unsurprising it is. It has a haunting logic. I suppose Alice had been desperate for money. Hadn't she always been desperate for money? How can I know what it was like? I don't know how bad things may have gotten before she had Bill to turn to. I don't even know if the photos were doctored. I don't know anything. But I know I will hold on to the card, tuck it in my drawer under three layers of handkerchiefs, just in case.

Within two weeks, I've banished the thought. After a few awkward encounters, I can finally see Alice again without the image shuddering before me, raw-boned, grimy black and a stark, sweaty white. But I don't forget it.

One weekend, Bill and Alice canceled plans with me at the last minute to go to Ensenada. They came back glowing, brown as cafe con leche and with a duffel bag filled to bursting with mangoes, melons, pa.s.sion fruit, ripe and fleshy. Bill pretended to be mad that Alice had snuck the fruit through customs while he, a member of law enforcement, no less, sat beside her. He spoke to her sternly and refused to melt at her lippy pout. But when she made her signature ambrosia dripping with honey and coconut, spelling his name with cherries on top, he ate heartily, pulling her onto his lap and kissing her with a sticky mouth.

A few weeks later, Alice suggests a weekend getaway to Baja, Bill and Alice and Mike Standish and myself.

”You know Bill hasn't quite warmed up to Mike, and I think this would be a good opportunity for everybody,” Alice says to me in a confiding tone.

”Bill doesn't like Mike?” I say plainly, wondering what she knows.

”I wouldn't say that. I'm sure it's hard for a brother. No man',s good enough for his sister, right?”

”It's not as though we're serious,” I say carefully. ”He's just someone I can go out with.”

”All the better.” Alice smiles. ”No pressure, then. Wouldn't it be divine? Swimming, dinner at the waterfront restaurants, dancing.”

”It sounds expensive.”

”Mike can afford it. He's got pockets full of dough.”

”What about Bill?” I say, purposely light.

”Oh, he needs to splurge more. He's too careful. His work is so stressful. It's important that he have fun.”

”I don't know if Mike ... we see each other during the week. I think he has more glamorous commitments during the weekend. I wouldn't feel comfortable asking him.”

”I've already asked him. He wants to go. And don't worry”- she grins at me sidelong-”I've booked separate rooms for you two, to keep up appearances.”

”Alice,” I say, with a feeling of dread. ”I don't think it's such a good idea.”

”Why not?”

”Many, many reasons. And you know.” Because, in truth, I know Bill doesn't like Mike Standish. I can tell by the careful way he speaks about him and to him, or the freighted tones with which he asks, ”How was your evening with the publicity man, Lora? Did he see you home after the party, Lora?” Once I heard him say to Charlie Beauvais, ”What kind of man wears a pink s.h.i.+rt, anyway?” And Charlie laughed, and Bill, rubbing his bristle cut, did not.

”What do I know, Lora?” Alice says blankly but with a faint glimmer in her eyes.

”You know. Let's not go through it all.”

”I don't know what the problem is. I'm suggesting a lovely weekend trip. You should be thanking me,” she says with no apparent guile, only a pretty Alice-smile.

”Bill will not want to do it, Alice.”

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