The Last Romantics(50)

The entire episode lasted no longer than five minutes, but it changed the tenor of the room. The party now felt unsettled, on edge, as though the chanting had contained a message that everyone but Joe had understood.

And then it was my turn. Kyle offered a brief introduction. There was a moment of ruffled silence as heads turned to look for me in the crowd and I made my way to the small stage. I delighted in the weight of all those eyes on me, the attention of Joe’s friends and colleagues, the looks of surprise from his old fraternity brothers: Here was Fiona, no longer tagging behind athletic, smart Renee and dreamy, beloved Caroline. No longer chubby and awkward, now a full-grown woman. You look fantastic, Ace had said.

“This is called ‘He and She,’” I announced, and pushed a curl away from my face.

I began to read. I didn’t think about the crowd, or Man #23, or Joe, or Sandrine, or Noni, or the poem as a whole, its meaning, or the feelings I wanted it to evoke (longing and hope and lust and pride), but only about the sound of each indivisible word, the musicality of each, the rhythm. I leaned into the pa-pa-pa of the poem in the way I’d seen other poets, powerful amazing poets, read their work.

I was nearly halfway through when the noise began. It came from the very back of the room, a ripple of conversation, not loud but loud enough for me to hear a distinct word—boring—said with a laugh. I looked up, and there at the back was a tall, handsome man: my brother, Joe. His body was only half turned toward the stage. Another man stood with him, the two of them swaying, bending slightly, then straightening again as they talked and laughed. Joe’s cheeks were shaded a startling red, and he threw back his head and uttered a loud, sharp Ha! in response to something the other man had said.

I resumed reading. I ignored Joe and put my mouth closer to the microphone, spoke louder and faster. But a general rustling began. The noise moved forward from the back of the room, slowly at first, a tickling, nervous kind of sound, and then in an instant a switch flipped, an organic process was triggered, and the entire crowd erupted into conversation. I looked up again, and people were turning into groups, chatting and drinking. I saw a hand rise from the crowd to summon one of the waiters who hovered at the edge of the room.

I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t finished with the poem. I tried to speak louder into the microphone, but my voice fell beneath the din. I paused in the middle of a line. I looked for Joe, but I didn’t see him. The only person I recognized was my mother, charging toward me through the crowd. She stepped onto the stage with her glass and a spoon and tapped violently.

“Quiet! Quiet, please!” Noni said. “Fiona hasn’t finished yet. She’s still reading.”

No one noticed her. No one paused in his or her conversation.

“Be respectful!” Noni called, her voice shrill, her face red. “This is Joe’s sister!”

A few people looked up at Noni then. Their faces showed a tinge of guilt and embarrassment as they turned their backs to the stage. I was nearly as surprised by Noni charging onstage as I’d been by her handholding earlier in the evening. Perhaps the emotion of Joe’s impending marriage had affected her. Perhaps she’d had too much wine. Either way, Noni coming to my rescue was the last thing I expected. But here she was, standing beside me.

“I’m so sorry, Fiona,” Noni said. “It’s a lovely poem. May I read it?”

Dumbly I nodded and handed her the page.

As Noni read the rest of my poem silently to herself, I scanned the crowd. Only one face was still turned toward the stage. It was Man #23, Will. He looked at me quizzically, a half smile on his face that was amused but not ungenerous.

“Fiona,” he said, enunciating carefully. “I liked your poem.” I couldn’t hear his voice, but I made out the shape of the words.

A waiter obscured my view of Will, and my sight line shifted. Now I noticed, standing far at the back of the room, Joe and Kyle. Kyle was talking very fast, his hands moving emphatically, but I couldn’t make out Joe’s face, only his stance, which was one of resistance. He leaned away to exit the conversation, but Kyle grabbed Joe’s arm above the elbow and held it, the two men locked in some private struggle. Only a few seconds passed, and then Kyle released Joe and turned abruptly away, as though in anger or dismissal. For a beat, Joe remained by himself. He let his head hang toward the ground. Still he didn’t look at the stage. He didn’t seem aware of what had happened, that he had started the avalanche of noise and disregard that drowned out the poem he’d asked me to write.

Noni pulled gently on my arm. “It’s a wonderful poem,” she said to me. “Joe will appreciate it eventually.”

Together we stepped off the stage. It was time to leave. I moved steadily through the crowd, head down, to retrieve my coat, my bag. I pressed the elevator button and waited as the tuxedos circulated around me: more champagne, more shrimp.

At last the elevator pinged, the doors opened, and there was Renee.

We looked at each other in surprise.

“Am I too late?” she asked. “Is everyone leaving?”

“Not everyone,” I said. “Just me.”

“So I missed the reading,” she said with dismay.

“Everyone missed it. Don’t worry, it’s okay.”

“Did Joe love it?”

I didn’t know how to answer. I didn’t want to cry, not here. She watched my face. She must have seen something, my disappointment and anger and embarrassment, because she leaned forward and grabbed my hand.