You Think It, I'll Say It(32)

Back at the table, our drinks had arrived. There was a group discussion of Chicago real estate, then Ashley said, “Jason, I just realized I don’t even know what you do.”

“Immigration lawyer,” he said.

“Keeping them in or out?” Ed asked, and Jason said, “I work mostly on asylum cases.”

I wasn’t sure Ed or Ashley would know what this meant, but Ashley immediately said, “Oh, he’s your conscience!”

Even in my drunkenness, I stiffened. “If you’re referring to the Kendall case, it was decided by jurors, not lawyers,” I said, and under the table, I felt Jason set his hand on my knee.

“But everyone knows the dude was guilty. He’s a total thug!” The difference in the way Ashley said this and the way middle-aged feminists had said almost the same words was that Ashley’s tone was upbeat; apparently, she thought Billy Kendall had raped the cocktail waitress, and she also didn’t really care.

I said, “Kendall was acquitted because the prosecution didn’t have sufficient evidence against him. As for Jason being my conscience, I’d say it’s more like I’m his gravy train.”

Jason removed his hand—I didn’t look at him—and Ed said, “Dude, does she always bust your chops like that?”

I stood. “I’m walking back to the hotel. I need some air.”

“Don’t get mad just because I said Kendall’s a thug.” Ashley made a pouty face. “Jason, tell your wife she’s being a spoilsport.”

Without really making eye contact with me, Jason said, in an unfriendly tone, “You’re walking?”

I strongly wanted him to go with me; I also knew that if I were him, I wouldn’t. This was when I heard the beginning of “Vogue,” that part where Madonna says in an aggressive voice, “Strike a pose.”

Ashley exclaimed and jumped up from the table; she immediately began swaying her hips, her mouth open wide. Then she was tugging on my hand, dancing around me. I shook my head. She said, “But doesn’t it take you back?” She’d begun making the moves from the video, holding her hands sideways above and below her face.

I said—I had to speak loudly, over the music—“Dance with your husband.”

“Ed doesn’t dance.” She made a face. “You guys are lame.” She turned then, and very quickly—seamlessly—she grabbed Jason’s hands, and he let her pull him up and toward the jukebox. It wasn’t as if there was a dance floor, or as if anyone else was dancing, but he followed her lead. This is the thing: Jason is a good dancer. He’s a good dancer, and he likes dancing, and he ended up with a woman whose dancing is restricted to the electric slide at family weddings. I glanced at Ed and said, “I guess it’s clear who the introverts and extroverts are.”

Ed didn’t respond, and I wondered for the first time if he knew something I didn’t. For all I disdained her, I’d expended a lot of energy on Ashley in the past few days. But Ed didn’t seem to make an effort for anyone.

A minute passed, and although the smart thing to do would have been to follow Ed’s example and shut up, I couldn’t, for the same reason I couldn’t leave the bar while Ashley and Jason were still dancing. If one of them looked over, which they weren’t doing, I wanted them to see us talking.

“Ashley mentioned she’s starting her own business,” I said. “A PR company, right?”

He took a sip of scotch and said, “Not gonna happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“The economy’s about to crater. Nobody’ll be hiring an unproven quantity.” I’m embarrassed to admit that this was the first I’d heard of the cratering economy; I knew in 2008 that revenue at Corster, Lemp, Shreiberg, and Levine was down about 15 percent year-to-date, but I had no idea of the scope of the situation. Unfortunately, all this time later, it’s hard for me to see mentions of the Great Recession without having at least a fleeting memory of Ed Horsford.

“Ashley seems pretty determined.”

He shrugged. “She talks a good game.” Ed was watching our spouses as he added, “Say what you will about Ash—at least she knows who wears the pants in our marriage.”

I let several seconds pass, to make sure I wanted to say what I was about to say. Then I spoke as calmly as he had. “Say what you will about Jason, but at least he’d never unironically use the expression ‘who wears the pants in our marriage.’?”

As I left, I didn’t try to catch Ashley’s or Jason’s attention on my way out.

The three-quarters-of-a-mile walk to the resort seemed, of course, long and dark, despite the bright stars overhead. From a block out of town on, I didn’t see another person, and I wondered again about the animals that had to be all around, invisible. When the lights of the resort finally came into view, I began to run even though I was wearing a flimsy pair of flats, and I ran all the way around the main building and down the path to our cabin. I was panting as I let myself in.

After I’d brushed my teeth, I debated whether to leave the outside light on, whether Jason deserved this kindness, and decided he didn’t. Then I ate both chocolates that had been left on our pillows. I must have nodded off almost immediately, and I saw on the bedside clock that close to two hours had passed when I heard Jason come in. I didn’t say anything as he peed, brushed his teeth, came back out of the bathroom, and removed all his clothes except his boxers. He lifted the covers on the bed’s far side before saying in a sarcastic voice, as if he’d known all along I was awake, “That was a fun night.”