Chapter 5 #3
The entire conversation bewildered me. James wasn’t being self-deprecating, he was telling the truth.
Mrs. Hartley then told a very long story about some sandcastles that James and Isabelle built together.
She looked at me specifically, like it was important for me to know how gifted James was.
Obviously I knew James was gifted, I wanted to say, I was dating him.
But I realized I had no anecdote of my own to offer.
Mrs. Hartley explained that in the sixth grade, James read a book about twentieth-century architecture and spent all afternoon building a brutalist-style sandcastle.
Isabelle’s attempt to copy James ended in something more postmodern.
She said the word like it was a salacious offense.
“Although,” Mrs. Hartley added, shaking with laughter, “the way it collapsed when the tide came in was very twentieth century.” I didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about.
I wondered if I should bring up Rothko, but there was no opportunity for interruption.
James gesticulated vigorously, still speaking in that Mickey Mouse voice I couldn’t quite match to his face.
Isabelle nodded, even though she was the butt of all her mother’s jokes.
Mr. Hartley didn’t say anything at all, just beamed like he was experiencing a rare and private bliss.
I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound forced or flat.
I’d never gotten drunk with real adults before and found the experience dehumanizing, as if each sip made them more vivid and multifaceted while I only became more stupid.
I felt a ferocious longing to drift in the sea with Silver again, untouched by time or other people’s voices.
Beneath the table, the dog nudged my leg. Miserably I gave it a few pats. It whined when I withdrew my hand. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to touch you anymore,” I whispered. The dog growled. I steeled myself and resumed.
“But anyway,” said Mrs. Hartley, recovering from a fit of laughter. “Let’s get back down to Earth.”
The dog, sensing the diversion of my attention, shot me a plaintive look. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m still here.”
“I’m sorry, darling,” said Mrs. Hartley. “What did you say?”
James glanced my way, his cheeks still red from the conversation. Mrs. Hartley continued. “I’m sorry if you felt left out. We don’t get to see James very often.”
“Oh.” I registered what had happened. “I was talking to the dog.”
Isabelle let slip a loud laugh. I experienced a wave of love for her. “Is Bruno bothering you? He’s a stinker.”
Mrs. Hartley didn’t say anything to me for the rest of the evening, though she continued to stare at my eye.
Mr. Hartley broke at last from his silence, calling for more wine and oysters, then eventually switching to champagne and lobster.
The conversation shifted to work and world affairs.
Things got heated, but not seriously. For the first time I longed to be back inside a university classroom, where people did get heated seriously.
I didn’t think I could feel more out of place than in those seminars, but I was wrong—here was worse.
I was struck by the thought that this would be the rest of my life.
The sun set, and the dinner crowd trickled in.
As the room filled, I had the feeling that everybody was related in some way, like they all used the same laundry detergent or also knew the milkshake man.
The waiter refilled my flute. The way the bubbles rushed upward reminded me of raindrops racing down the car window when it stormed, the stuffy warmth of the backseat.
I felt sleepy, overfed. Mrs. Hartley raised her glass and we raised ours and I felt like I was cheating on my mother.
More oysters were ordered. More champagne was drunk.
The conversation continued to be loud and nonsensical.
Mr. Hartley put his arm around James, their faces both wrinkled with mirth.
I couldn’t recall ever making James this happy.
James always looked attentive, even slightly vigilant, around me, like he was prepared to whip out a map and explain where we should go.
“No-o-o,” he laughed into Mr. Hartley’s shoulder.
“That’s not right, you’re wrong, you’re actually completely wrong. ”
“What do you think, Katie?” asked Mrs. Hartley.
“About what,” I said flatly. I looked straight into her icy blue eyes. She blinked and I felt in my heart a bolt of hatred, outsize and pure.
“I think James is right,” Isabelle said. “I think Dad’s taking the metaphor too far. Like, evolution doesn’t—just because we were monkeys once…” Her opinion was not as strong as her impulse to free me from her mother’s attention.
“Isabelle, darling,” Mrs. Hartley said. “Don’t.”
“I think,” I said, my voice coming from somewhere above me, “you should be nicer to your daughter.”
Mrs. Hartley blinked. Isabelle looked down. James and Mr. Hartley rearranged their faces slowly. They might not have heard me, but the tension was solid in the air.
“What did you say?” Mrs. Hartley leaned forward. She looked surprised, almost hurt. Across the room, a party gained energy. Cheer smattered over the pop of a champagne cork. The sound diluted the purity of my rage, and at once I felt silly and afraid.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry.” And then I was in the bathroom with my knees on the floor, the oysters floating dreamily before me in the basin of the toilet, which smelled like it had just been cleaned.
—
We were home shortly afterward. I lingered a few steps behind as James fiddled with the lock.
In my drunken state, everything gained a sad significance.
A line of hollyhocks stood by the door with their shriveled heads hung like funeral-goers.
I thought of the graceless aging of flowers, the way they went from gorgeous to dead in just a few days, and reached out to pet them.
James put his hand over mine to stop me. “They’re delicate.”
Silver cried out when the door opened. I opened my arms, but she jumped into James’s instead. Her fur was sticky and she smelled delicious, like the buttery sauce from last night’s scallops.
“Hello, my baby,” said James. “What have you gotten up to? Where have you been?”
Silver looked at him blankly.
“Silver, you didn’t.” His voice was high-pitched and juvenile. He sniffed at her fur. “You—”
“Can you stop?”
James looked at me.
“Sorry. That voice. Can you tone it down?”
“Sure, okay.” James’s voice returned to its normal register. I was relieved; I missed his adult voice. Plus, baby speak disturbed me. It sounded to me like how a dead person would speak if they were trying to convince you they were alive.
“Did you forget about the dishwasher?” James asked.
“What?”
“She goes inside if it’s not closed all the way. That’s why she’s all buttery.” He sniffed her. “She loves a dirty plate.”
“I don’t remember you telling me that.”
“It’s my fault, I should’ve checked. You go shower, and I’ll give her a bath.”
“But I don’t want to shower. I want to give Silver her bath.” I knew I was acting petulant, but I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts. Mrs. Hartley winking at the waiter, getting whatever she wanted. My mother squinting at the computer, Black Friday.
“It’ll be quicker if I do it,” said James. “How about you wait for me in the bathroom, and then we can shower together, you and me.”
That sounded nice. On the nougat floor of the master shower, I sat and let the water pour over me, counting the tiles on the wall. James met me ten minutes later. He laughed. “You’re very cute, you know that? Here, I’ll wash your hair.”
I enjoyed the familiar pressure of James’s fingers rubbing into my scalp, as if checking for ticks or life-threatening protrusions.
The shampoo smelled even better than Lou’s.
Up close, I could see each individual dark dot on James’s skin where the hair had been shaved off.
I ran my fingers up and down the smooth expanse of his jaw.
“Stay put, will you?” he said. “You’re even squirmier than Silver. ”
“Your face is so slippery.”
“It’s a whole ordeal when I show up unshaven,” said James. “Julia’s always like, Oh James, you couldn’t have taken two minutes for me?”
James’s impression of Mrs. Hartley was very bad. We laughed. I relaxed.
Later, we lay in bed together, swaddled in blankets. Silver’s fur was the same eucalyptus and vanilla scent of my freshly washed hair.