The Loose Ends List(45)

Jeb two-steps behind me with a cute Brazilian girl while my guy is pulling me to the middle of the dance floor. We dance. We grind. He touches me. I touch him. It feels good. It also feels like I’m cheating on Enzo.

Janie’s chugging yet another caipirinha at the bar while Jeb sucks face with the girl in the corner.

“Janie’s puking.” Wes grabs me.

I look up at my guy. “My friend, blah, blah!” I make the universal puking sound. I think my new friend thinks I’m about to puke because he lets go pretty quickly. I run over to Janie who is vomiting an impressive volume of meat mixed with liquor, sugar, and lime. People clear a wide path as Wes and I push her out the front exit. Janie trips and lands sprawled on the sidewalk, flashing her thong to the people passing by. Wes wipes her mouth with a handful of cocktail napkins. Uncle Billy and Jeb come out all sweaty and help lift her drunken body. We drag her to the Copacabana Palace and straight up to bed.



I wake up way too early and go out for a walk around Copacabana. The streets are much quieter than they were a few hours ago. I find a cute café and order coffee and a sweet bun. I open the New York Times and scan the headlines until a frantic text from Uncle Billy disrupts my grown-up moment.

Wes got beaten up last night. Police involvement. Please bring us an ice pack or frozen peas or something.

I run to the concierge, who is probably ready to kick us out of the Copacabana Palace. He finds me an ice pack, and I race up to discover Wes with a blue-green face, puffed up like a dead jellyfish.

Uncle Billy is furious. Once Wes has the ice, Uncle Billy launches into the story of what happened after they dropped us off and went out for more drinks. “Wes got bombed and decided he wanted to go out and find poor people to help. We ended up in a deserted neighborhood in the bad part of Rio, where Wes saw a little kid pushing a shopping cart up the street. He tried to ask her if she needed help—as if she spoke English!—and out of nowhere, her grandmother started whaling on Wes.”

“Wait, Wes got beaten up by a grandmother?”

“Yes,” Uncle Billy says. “So then the grandma pulled out a knife, and I screamed for help. Building lights started going on, and somebody called the police. By the grace of God, the cop was relatively friendly and spoke a little English. Wes got out of it by giving the cop and the grandma five hundred US dollars each.”

“Why did you have a thousand dollars cash on you?” I ask. Poor Wes is holding the ice pack to his ravaged face.

“I thought we might go shopping.”

“Yes, he thought we might go shopping, and he thought we might help poor people, and he almost gets us killed!” Uncle Billy is livid and refuses to talk to Wes. He takes off to go hang gliding with the other daredevils—Jeb, Bob, and, wonder of all wonders, Dad. Dad is not a hang glider. I just hope he makes it back in one piece.

I’m stuck babysitting Uncle Babysitter.

Eventually, Rotten Plum Face gets into the shower. I text Janie: Beach? She texts back, No f’ing way. So sick. I can’t believe she’s pissing away her only beach day in Rio. Luckily, Wes rallies, plum face and all.

“What the hell happened to you?” are the first words out of Gram’s mouth when she meets us in the lobby. She takes off her sunglasses and studies Wes, who expects me to tell the outrageous story.

“Wes, you could be dead right now. There are safer ways to help poor children,” Gram scolds him.

“Assy, I was drunk. Do you think an old lady could beat me up if I weren’t inebriated?”

“Yes,” Gram and I both say.

“Can I not be the butt of jokes today? It’s bad enough that Billy’s not talking to me.”

We agree to try really hard not to make Wes the butt of jokes and stroll along the snake-shaped mosaic path. I squint to make out the outline of three surfers paddling out. They remind me of Mark. And Enzo.

Gram wants to set up our stuff on the beach. Mom wants to sit by the pool. Gram wins. Gram and Wes comment on each person passing by, while Mom takes out her knitting magazine. Who can think about wool in eighty-five degrees? Although technically it is winter here.

Wes peeks out from under the oversized hat he stole from Aunt Rose to hide his deformed face. “How about that one, Aunt Rose? Inappropriate enough for you?” A woman prances by with a black G-string threading her bulbous ass.

“I want to wear a bathing suit like that,” Aunt Rose announces.

“Okay, let’s do it,” Wes says.

“No, really.” Gram pops up in her chair. Her skirted swimsuit hangs on her shrinking frame. “Let’s do it. Let’s all buy thong bathing suits and wear them. We’ll just walk around a little. Come on, it’ll be so liberating.”

“I’ll do it,” I say.

“Me too,” Aunt Rose says. I think of the me toos on the Gathering Wall.

I assume Mom will be the one to kill the moment, but she shakes her head and says, “Well, when in Brazil…”

We gather our stuff and walk a few blocks to a tourist shop, where I find my perfect suit for the day. It’s a purple thong bikini with tiny seashells hanging off fringe on the top and bottom. I try it on in the changing room, which smells of mildew and feet. I look pretty good, all things considered.

I walk out to find Wes and Mom standing in front of the mirror. Mom’s in a black one-piece thong suit and Wes is wearing a purple sparkly banana hammock thong. I am simultaneously impressed and disturbed by the size of Wes’s banana. Mom doesn’t even seem to notice. She’s riffling through her bag looking for lipstick.