The Queen of Hearts(48)
In the wash of contentment that swept over me as I lay in his arms, it was easier to banish the bad thought. It retreated to the periphery of my conscience, trying to creep back into the daylight of my mind. I shut it down.
But it was still back there: earlier in the day, I had made a mistake that would kill someone.
Chapter Nineteen
THE SOBER KITCHEN
Early Autumn, 1999: Louisville, Kentucky
Zadie
“Do you know,” asked Rolfe, waving his glass around, “what Louisville was originally called?”
“No, but I have a bad feeling you’re about to tell us,” said Landley.
“Corn Island,” announced Rolfe, ignoring Landley. “Louisville started out as a forty-three-acre outpost by the falls of the Ohio River, where early settlers planted crops, presumably corn. Then in 1778, George Rogers Clark, a famous leader of the Revolutionary War, departed from the island with his militia to whup up on the English, leaving behind a band of hardy farmers. Over time, these predecessors of present-day Kentuckians relocated to the main banks of the Ohio, and the thriving metropolis of Louisville was born.”
“Please, God, make it stop,” mumbled Landley. He slumped forward with his hands over his ears.
Rolfe was undeterred. “Corn Island—the original Louisville—didn’t actually fare so well. It eroded and sank in 1895, after the Louisville Cement Company removed most of its trees.”
I was intrigued in spite of my bleak mood. “Really?” I asked. “That can happen?”
“Oh yes. And the history of corn itself is fascinating. It isn’t natural; it was genetically engineered by early humans from an inedible wild plant called teosinte. But that’s not the most interesting thing about corn.”
Rolfe paused dramatically.
“Without corn, there would be no bourbon.”
Landley perked up. “Oh, sweet nectar of the Gods!” he roared, holding up a small glass. “Sk?l!”
We couldn’t usually afford the really good bourbons. Landley was something of an aficionado, however, and following an excellent day at Churchill Downs, he had sprung for a 120-proof bottle of Woodford Reserve. He’d hit a trifecta on the fifth race of the day, which paid out more than a thousand dollars, all of which he vowed to spend that evening. (“Mi dinero, su dinero, amigos!”) We started with dinner for six. My friends—Rolfe, Landley, Graham, Emma, and Georgia—were in a rousing mood; I was more subdued than usual. As delighted as I’d been by X telling me he loved me, I’d suffered a return of the blues as soon as I’d gotten home. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened to Edict Trauma, the pregnant patient who had come in on my last call day.
I forced myself to listen to my ridiculous friends, who were engaged in a heated debate on the relative merits of Knob Creek versus Buffalo Trace. If anything could cheer me up, it was these turkeys. Despite my mood, I felt a fond smile cross my face.
“. . . and a smoother finish,” Landley puffed, his hair standing straight up in odd peaks. “I concede there is initially a slight burn. But it segues into a robust silkiness, a hint of tobacco and orange and possibly even mint.”
“My dear fellow,” bawled Rolfe. “You are so wrecked, your palate couldn’t distinguish a tobacco-orange-mint shot of bourbon from a bowl of horseshit.”
Emma turned to me. “Z,” she said. “I’ve been thinking. What do you suppose would happen to X if the hospital knew about you two?”
“Shh,” I hissed, but the bourbon debate had escalated and no one was listening. “He’d get his ass kicked. I’m not sure about the specifics. He did mention castration . . .”
“Hmm. How are things going with him?”
“Stellar,” I said.
Graham perked up on the other side of us. “How’s my harem holding up tonight?” he asked.
“Graham, I think you have misunderstood the nature of our recent cohabitation,” I said. “I tolerate you because you sing so well in the shower, and I’ve got this strange fondness for the smell of sweaty athletic clothes draped everywhere. But you’re really only shacking up with Emma.”
Graham smiled at my banter, but he reached across Emma to clasp my shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Zadie,” he said, his voice soft and serious. “Thanks for putting up with me.”
—
Outside, we conferred about transportation, abandoning the Caminator and walking to the corner of Bardstown and Cherokee, where the street traffic and the revelers coasted by in the last of the day’s light. Restaurants, bars, boutiques, galleries, head shops, music stores, every possible nonchain enterprise crammed both sides of Bardstown Road. This section of town, known as the Highlands, wanted you to get your freak on.
Hannah rolled up in the White Hog, her roommate’s retro Thunderbird, her round Muppet face smiley and pink. My friends crammed in, still arguing bourbons.
“If you say the word ‘palate’ one more time, Rolfe, I’m gonna kick you in the huevos,” Georgia threatened.
“Speaking of palates, mine is a bit dry,” Rolfe said.
“Yo, li’l dawg,” drawled Landley, contorting in the backseat to somehow produce a bottle of Woodford from his pants. “Who’s your daddy?”