This Time Tomorrow(58)
“Hey,” she said. “Remember when we fucked at my sixteenth birthday?”
“Heh,” Tommy said. “Did you call the plumber back? There’s still a leak in the back of my office; it must be coming from the apartment upstairs.”
“Sure,” Alice said. She was standing in her underwear, which was very nice underwear, the kind that came in a box surrounded by tissue paper and that you were supposed to wash by hand. Alice was used to buying her underpants three at a time, and then wearing them until the cotton was too stained or ripped to be ignored, when she would throw them in the trash and buy more. She ran a hand over her lacy bra. “This is nice, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I see the credit card bills.” Tommy yanked his shirt off over his head. “How was your dad? Was Debbie there, too?”
“She was. She was really nice. My dad isn’t talking, but he made some noises. I think he knew I was there. He definitely knew I was there,” Alice said, though she wasn’t really sure. What was definite? What was real? She had been standing next to her father—she had touched his hand. None of the grief books she’d bought and hardly read had mentioned this scenario. Or maybe she just hadn’t read closely enough. Maybe there were secret chapters written just for people like her, like the handbook in Beetlejuice. You didn’t need the information before you needed it. Alice sat down on the bed and looked at the books teetering on her bedside table. Brené Brown, Cheryl Strayed, Elizabeth Gilbert. If Oprah had read and loved a book, Alice had bought it, apparently. There weren’t any books that she didn’t recognize. Tommy walked into the bathroom and she heard the shower turn on and begin to splash the tile walls. There was a small drawer in the table, and Alice slid it open. She put the letter from her father in and shut the drawer again quietly. Sesame Street was blasting in the living room. The letter of the day was L. Alice’s children screamed happily.
* * *
? ? ?
Sondra whisked Leo and Dorothy quickly through the party to say hello and curtsy sweetly at the guests. Alice found herself wanting to follow them into their bedrooms and curl up under the covers, their warm little bodies pressed against hers, but she had put on the flamingo dress, and it was her party, and she was not allowed to leave. Sam hadn’t called her back yet, and Alice was starting to panic. Leonard had said it was a chute, a ramp, a slide forward, and this was where she landed. Whatever she’d done, whatever decisions she’d made, they had led her here. Alice was making lists in her head, trying to piece together everything that had happened in between. The marriage, obviously, and the children. But Alice had still gone to art school—there were projects of hers hanging on the walls—and she still loved all the same things. The fridge was full of Fairway avgolemono and Zabar’s challah and lox from Murray’s, and her favorite books were still on the shelf, in the editions she’d always had. Alice smiled at everyone as they came into the apartment, feeling like a festive amnesiac. As long as no one asked her any direct, meaningful questions, she would be fine. Having been to many parties just like this one at the homes of Belvedere parents, Alice actually thought there was a good chance she could get through it talking about which of the catered snacks were the most delicious and asking people follow-up questions once they mentioned that they were in the middle of a home renovation.
The apartment filled promptly—coats were hung on proper hangers on a long metal rack in the large foyer, and caterers crisscrossed the living room carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres. The living room was full of well-dressed people, and music that Alice loved was playing from hidden speakers she didn’t know how to operate. The preppiest parents stayed in a tight knot, only as many as would fit on a sailboat. Same as it ever was.
Tommy was a good host—Alice watched him circulate around the room. He touched women gently on their backs, or on their shoulders, in a way that was neither lecherous nor patronizing. It seemed friendly, if impersonal, like someone running for office. Alice caught his eye from across the room, and he fluttered his eyelashes. Was this what she had wanted? It was something she had thought about, though Alice scarcely wanted to admit it to herself. She had been to these parties and watched the rich hosts swan around the room, full of confidence built on tennis courts and ski slopes, doing everything generously because they had so much to give. She had stared at these marriages, she had gossiped about these marriages, she had made fun of these marriages. But the way Tommy was looking at her wasn’t a joke, and the way Alice felt wasn’t a joke, either. It almost felt—to jump from time travel to fantasy, which were, after all, kissing cousins—like the part of a fairy tale where a princess finds herself falling under a magic spell and must compel herself to stay awake. Alice could see how easy it would be to sink in.
“This is a very nice party,” Alice said to one of the caterers, and plucked a glass of champagne off their tray. “Thank you.” The caterer nodded and turned to the next guest.
The jogger made eye contact with Alice from the doorway, and as soon as she’d shaken off her coat, she began to hustle across the room. Alice had chosen a spot near the window with the bookshelves behind her, which meant that she was somewhat difficult to approach, as you had to go around the sofa one way or the other, and if you chose the wrong direction, you would have to squeeze past people’s knees between the couch and the coffee table or shimmy around a side table and avoid knocking over a lamp.