The Last Book Party(53)
“I think it’s serious,” I whispered.
Before Jeremy or I could explain, the sound of Henry’s booming, drunken voice made us all turn. “Where is he? The lying piece of shit…”
Henry stormed across the lawn, his jacket unbuttoned, his tie askew, and his shirt untucked. His face was red. He wasn’t dapper anymore; he was drunk. He marched toward us, looking at Jeremy as if all his anger at what he’d seen on the dance floor was now being funneled furiously toward this new target.
Jeremy stood up and with his hands in front of him said, “Hey, hey, let me explain.”
I tapped Henry’s shoulder, but he ignored me. He pulled his arm back as if he were going to take a swing at Jeremy, but then lurched forward and fell into him. Stepping backward, Jeremy lost his balance and tumbled onto the grass. Henry managed to stay standing.
Behind me, I heard a man say, “Ouch, man down. Any idea who he is?”
“Neil Klugman, I think,” a woman answered. “At least that’s what I heard someone say.”
“Klugman? Is he local?”
I turned around to see them walking away, relieved we were far enough from the house that no one else had witnessed the scene.
Franny got up and tried to pull Henry toward the house.
“I’m fine,” Henry said, shaking him off. “Don’t trouble about me. I’m absolutely fine.”
I touched his shoulder again. This time he turned toward me, but he looked so disdainful and dismissive, as if he didn’t know why any of this concerned me, that I realized what a mistake it was to think that I might comfort him.
Henry staggered down the hill toward the tennis court and disappeared into the darkness. Franny ran his fingers through his long hair. He stretched out a hand toward Lil, who barely looked at him but let him pull her up. They walked together back to the side of the house. Jeremy, still on the ground, looked at me with disgust.
I wanted to bury my face in my hands, wipe away the entire night. Instead, I turned and walked quickly into the house. I pushed my way between the guests, through the kitchen, and into the front hall, where Alva grabbed my arm and asked, “What’s wrong?” Unable to speak, I shook my head and stepped away. I was almost at the door when I heard Malcolm’s West Virginia twang from the living room. “I know who you are, darlin’—I know my Edwardian finery—and my old paperbacks. You, honey pie, are Miss Zuleika Dobson!”
More than a little tipsy, Malcolm was perched on the edge of the living room couch, one arm draped over the shoulder of Eric Baxter, whose shirt was unbuttoned down to his navel, revealing a smooth, tan torso. Without answering Malcolm, I stepped outside and let the screen door slap behind me. Still holding Henry’s novella, I walked quickly down the long driveway, not breaking my stride as I hiked up my dress and stomped on one paper bag light after another, snuffing their candles one by one.
45
I didn’t start crying until I’d put the car in gear. By the time I turned onto Route 6, my vision was blurred. When I saw the turn-off to Longnook Beach, I made a quick right. Gripping the steering wheel so hard my hands cramped, I took the curves in the road too fast, desperate to get to the beach.
As I expected, the parking lot was empty. I left my shoes in the car and walked to the top of the path that went down to the ocean. The moon was nearly full, shining a tunnel of light on the water and illuminating the sand. But instead of descending, I turned and took the path that climbed higher up the dunes, through the beach grass, despite the KEEP OFF THE DUNES: EROSION sign. Bunching the skirt of my dress in my hands, I followed the sandy path up to one ledge and then another, higher and higher, until my calves were burning and my heart pounding. As I neared the top, I pushed harder and ran, until I was at the crest of the towering dune, more than one hundred feet above the ocean. The cool, moist wind whistled and whipped through my hair, lifting it behind me and in front of my face, brushing damp strands across my cheeks and into my mouth. My face was wet and salty, from tears and from the sea air.
With my back to the whole of Truro, I recalled Franny’s prophecy when he was pretending to read my palm, that I would find myself atop a tall sand dune at night with a handsome stranger. It seemed like a cruel joke. I screamed into the wind, and then felt stupid for doing so. I wanted to rage at everything and everyone—Henry and Tillie, Franny and Jeremy—and myself. I grabbed my dress by the hem and tried to rip it, cursing in frustration when I couldn’t. I bent down and picked up a rock as big as my fist and threw it down the dune, disappointed that I couldn’t throw it far enough to make it drop into the sea.
Standing in my long dress above the ocean, bedraggled, angry, and confused, I was at a loss as to how everything could have changed so suddenly, how I could have been so wrong about everyone. Had I been so consumed with Henry that I’d missed everything else? Jeremy was lying to himself—that much I knew. But was he right about me?
I looked at the slanted wall of sand stretching below to the dark beach. It was vast and steep, but I knew the way down. I had done this as a child every summer. I took a step, and a jump, and another, faster and farther, getting more air with every leap, careening down the dune, my feet landing and lifting off the sand and chunks of clay, flying down and finding myself pitching forward and running on the beach, almost falling, until I got close to the water’s edge and was able to slow myself down.