52. Bambi
Bambi
Bambi steadies her hand as she measures out the Macallan, aware of Martha’s instructions.
She makes a double, then fills the tumbler a third time.
Ice cubes clink against the crystal glass as she drops them in, splashing the liquor over the sides.
She leans over it and inhales, inspecting the fragrance for any trace.
The strong fumes of the whiskey are overpowering, but then again, Bambi never did have a nose for such things.
She swirls the cubes around in the glass, dissolving some of the frozen water.
She sniffs again just to be safe. Nothing.
Her heart racing, she flits to the kitchen drawer, checking the EpiPen is there one last time. She pulls it out, its weight comforting in her grasp, and sets it at the side of the stove as Jason comes in.
“What are you doing?”
She turns, attempting not to look startled. “Preparing a drink,” she says, trying to keep her voice even. “I figured you could use one.” Then, handing him the Macallan, she adds, “What did Graham say?”
“He says I’m fucked, that’s what Graham says.” He brings the glass to his lips and inhales. His eyebrow lifts, curious. “Is this the Macallan?”
Bambi nods. “Yes. Why?”
He sniffs it again. Bambi’s heart stops. Please, God—don’t sense anything. She smiles one of her smiles and goes to get the bottle from the liquor cabinet. “It’s a fresh bottle,” she says. “I just bought it.”
He glances at the bottle and then sets his glass down. “Well, my career could be over,” he says. “That little bitch has really fucked me over.”
Bambi looks down at her glass, full of sparkling water. The tiny bubbles pop and fizz, the effervescence providing a small, tactile comfort.
“And you,” he says, turning to her. “You made me look like a fucking moron. When were you going to tell me?”
“I just found out,” she says lightly. “I don’t know how the press found out.”
Jason eyes her. “Maybe your little friend Martha thought she’d make a quick buck or two by selling the information. Ever think of that?”
She stops. “Martha wouldn’t do that.”
“Huh,” Jason grunts. “Are you sure?”
Her throat tightens. “It doesn’t matter. It’s out now anyway. And besides, isn’t a baby what you wanted?”
Jason scrapes his hands through his unusually greasy hair, even for him. She can practically smell his unwashed body and the sweat from his row with the reporter from several feet away. Once upon a time, this scent enticed her. Now it sickens her to the core.
“Not anymore,” he says finally. “Not after all of this. How can I think of anything else except what is happening to me?” He sighs, eyeballing the drink, but not sipping. “I’m sick of this fucking town.”
“I thought you loved it here,” she says and takes a sip.
“No. I love New York. I’ve always hated LA. Full of sycophants and assholes.”
Bambi cringes openly, recognizing a line from one of his films. She nudges the glass toward him, heart racing. “Have a drink. You’ll feel better.”
He takes the glass and brings it up to his lips, then stops. “Since when do you like me to drink?” he asks. “Since when, in fact, have you ever pushed a drink at me?”
Jason sniffs again and goes to the sink to dump out the contents.
Silently, he goes to the cabinet and takes out the bottle of Macallan that Bambi had shown him. He gets a fresh glass from the cupboard and pours the amber liquid almost to the rim, no ice. “Jase?” she says, her voice panicked.
“The ice smells funny. Besides, I like it neat tonight,” he says.
He knocks it back, downing it all in several jerks and swallows. He steps back and leans against the counter, his eyes dark. He glares at her, hatred in his expression, then refills the glass.
Bambi counts the shots. Double what Martha had instructed. “Slow down,” she tells him, her heart racing.
“I thought this was what you wanted,” he says. “You want me to drink, so I’m drinking. Maybe shut up and let me enjoy it for once.”
Perhaps she should stop him. Perhaps she should run to him and knock the glass from his hands. But she can’t move. Her feet are glued to the floor, her body paralyzed, watching as he holds it to his lips and downs the tawny-colored liquid, draining the glass dry.
“Fuck, that’s good.” He blinks rapidly and lets out a tiny cough. A red pattern forms at the base of his throat. Bambi watches the color climb, his skin changing.
He coughs again, trying to clear his airways. A hand to his throat, he rasps, “I don’t remember it being so strong,” he says and laughs bitterly.
Another cough, this time more desperate. He paces and pounds his chest, as if something is lodged in his esophagus.
Bambi shivers, the crystal glass in her hand, frozen in place. Jason paces back and forth, coughing forcefully, his airways constricting. He pounds his chest, heaves in oxygen, then at once, looks up at her, his eyes fearsome with rage. “What did you do?”
She staggers back, aware that the shellfish powder is taking hold as his hands clutch at his throat.
From the other side of the kitchen, she can see his lips swelling, face reddening, the red rash climbing up his skin, ballooning the taut flesh beneath it.
He staggers toward her. His eyes bulge, the whites the same eggshell color of their walls—the same dulled hue.
“You fucking bitch,” he shouts, his voice hoarse and retching. “What the fuck did you do to me?”
She runs from him to grab the EpiPen, but he stops before her, yanking open drawer after drawer, hands fumbling.
The clang of silverware hitting marble, the burst of metal as it collides with their stone flooring.
Bambi watches in horror as he searches through the drawers until he sees the bright yellow box of the EpiPen on the counter.
He grabs for it, tears open the packet with his teeth, then dislodges the cap and jams the tip into his thigh. His breath steadies, and for a moment, he regains himself. Jason stills, but the redness on his neck climbs higher toward his chin, his cheeks.
“I always thought it would be handy to have an extra one lying around. Just in case.” He wheezes. His eyes water with pure ire. “Just didn’t think you’d make me use it so soon.”
He gets up and lunges for Bambi, unsteady on his feet, powered by the jolt of adrenaline inside him.
Bambi darts into the foyer, her eye on the garage door down the lit hallway.
Jason catches her hair in his fist and yanks her to the ground.
Her hand clips the edge of a crystal vase, and she pulls it down with her, smashing it to the ground.
Tiny fragments of crystal scatter over the floor, flying wildly in every direction as she falls.
They press into her flesh, one piercing her right knee when she lands, Jason above her, his hands around her neck, squeezing.