I Loved You Wednesday (6 page)

“Ugh!” says Maggie. “Look who’s up: Grumpy!”

Chris and I greet Douglas, who grunts hello to us and then mumbles something nasty about the lousy sleep he’s had, the racket we were making which woke him, the house being too cold, his displeasure at seeing the dogs again and why isn’t there a cup of coffee for him?

“Yes, Sahib,” says Maggie, groveling into the kitchen.

Douglas walks over to the floor-length glass door leading to his snow-covered terrace and watches the flurries falling over the freshly whitened fields that is his spectacular front yard.

“Would you just look at this shitty weather?” he growls.

“Snow
is shitty weather?!” barks Maggie back at him, from the kitchen. “On
Thanksgiving
—in the country, in a ski town, no less, you provincial putz!”

“Don’t try to cheer me up.”

Maggie returns to the living room with Doug’s coffee. She hands it to him, and he complains it’s not hot enough.

“Fine. You want it hotter; heat it up.”

“I remember when you were sweet and innocent.”

“How dare you! I was
never
sweet and innocent!”

Douglas switches hostile attentions from his wife to us. “And you two certainly took your fat time getting here. What the hell happened?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Forget it then. Long stories bore me. In fact, this whole day bores me. Fuck everybody; I’m going back to bed. Wake me when the turkey’s ready.” Douglas puts his coffee down, reiterating it’s not hot enough, then turns and walks back upstairs.

“You know, sleep doesn’t sound like such a bad idea,” I submit.

“Well, I’m not at all tired,” says a spritely Chris, who has now been up for twenty-four hours. “You go to bed. I’ll stayand gossip with Maggie, and we’ll stuff the turkey and have a good time without you, quitter.”

“Take the big guest room at the top of the stairs, Steve,” shouts Maggie. “And try not to wake the ogre. If he doesn’t have his solid fifteen hours, he’s impossible.” “Right.”

I get a solid six hours myself, waking in the early afternoon to good old-fashioned country-holiday smells: freshly crushed cranberries, pumpkin pie, sweet potato pudding.

Throwing on a pair of slacks and a sweater and going downstairs, I arrive just as the turkey is being carried out of the oven. Most of the dinner guests have arrived by now.

Five of them are new friends of Maggie and Douglas’ whom I meet for the first time. The other three are old skiing companions.

Chris, sitting near the fireplace, talking to some fellow in a multi-competition-striped ski sweater, spots me and rushes over.

“Isn’t he
fabulous
?” she whispers enthusiastically, planting a short kiss on my cheek.

“Who?” I whisper back, obtuse thing that I am.

“Who?”
Chris raises her voice before returning to gentle whisper. “The one with the stripes. He’s on the U.S. Ski team . . . second string. Douglas says he’s got the strongest thighs in the East!”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“If I work on him through hors d’oeuvres, he’ll be mine before pumpkin pie.”

“Good luck.”

“Don’t you just worship outdoorsy types?”

“Can’t get my fill.”

“Oh, Steve,” Chris bubbles, kissing me again, “I’m so glad we came. I just love the country!”

Glowing, she turns and heads back to the fireplace, continuing her barrage of charm on the unsuspecting skier. Poor rural fool’s so behind the times, though, he appears to be working on her even harder than she is on him.

A few minutes pass before the door opens, and in walks A1 Wright, which probably doesn’t mean much to you, but he just happens to be Hank’s best friend. And Hank, you will remember, just happens to be the guy over whom Chris tried to kill herself.

Chris takes one look at Hank’s best friend, Al, taking off his ski parka, and is immediately overwhelmed with an all-encompassing Proustian relapse of depression and exhaustion. Her face drops, color drains everywhere, her eyes go blank, and she breaks out in hives all over her forearms. Turning to the second-string skier, she quietly says, “I’m suddenly so tired. I don’t know what’s come over me. Can’t keep my eyes open. Will you excuse me?”

“Of course. No problem,” says the strongest thighs in the East, bewildered. Not understanding any of it, he’s probably trying to figure out where his surefire pitch backfired.

Chris, saddened and down, down, down, turns and walks over to Maggie, who’s standing in the kitchen doorway.

“I’m sorry, Maggie. But I guess that trip was more tiring than I thought. If you don’t mind, I’ll lie down for a while.”

“Sure. I understand,” says Maggie, who does.

“Don’t wake me. I’ll get up.”

“Okay.”

Chris turns around, and as she approaches the stairs, she passes Al and, without ever really looking at him, says quietly, “Hi, Al.. . how’ve you been?” But before he can tell her how he’s been, she’s up the stairs and into the guest room, where she falls soundly asleep, I am sure, within moments.

We all drink and chat for another hour before sitting down to dinner. The mood is relaxed, yet anything but jovial.

Chris surprises everyone but me and Maggie by sleeping through the meal. Knowing how upset she is by Al’s appearance puts me in a fairly lousy frame of mind, too. This in turn makes Maggie a good deal less than her usual bubbling hostess self. Al soon picks up the bad vibrations, and he too is down about it. Our generally subdued spirit becomes infectious and eventually spreads to the otherguests, and so we all spend a rather somber Thanksgiving dinner with our chins in our laps, Chris’ conspicuously empty chair at the table not helping matters any.

The only one who seems to be having anything resembling a good time at this wake, in fact, is of course Douglas, who announces, as he serves cognac and hands out cigars at the end of the meal, that it is the nicest, warmest Thanksgiving he can recall.

Later on, when everyone retires to the warmth of the living room, I go into the kitchen and prepare a Care package of leftovers. Putting it all on a tray with a tall candle and a glass of wine, I then go upstairs.

“What time is it?” asks Chris, sitting up in bed as I arrive.

“After nine.”

“I didn’t mean to sleep so long,” she lies.

“I know,” I lie back. “Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Well, if this modest offering doesn’t sustain madam, Fm sure cook can come up with something else.”

“Thank you, James. Just put it down, kick out the guests, lock up the house, wash the windows, and then get yourself some rest after you’ve readied tomorrow’s breakfast.”

“Whatever madam wishes.” I place the tray down in front of Chris, and there is a long time before either of us says anything. Chris very slowly opens her napkin and places it softly on her lap.

“Your eyes are swollen,” I tell her. “Been crying?”

“Can
you
believe it? I swear I thought I was over him. Last week I had trouble remembering his name. Then his cocky friend crashes the party, uninvited; I take one look and go to pieces. Hank, that bastard. Remember how his eyes lit up when he smiled?”

“No doubt about it. He was a beauty.”

“But such a prick.”

“The worst.”

“So why’d I fall for him?”

“He smiled well,” I say, flippantly, trying to cheer her up. Chris is not amused. I get serious. “I guess Hank had more of a lasting effect on you than you thought.”

“It’s not that.”

“No?”

“It’s just that it’s always the same bullshit.”

“What is?”

“Men!”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either.”

We each share another few uncomfortable moments of pregnant silence as Chris surveys the plate of food on her lap.

Then, ripping into a turkey leg, she says, mouth full, “I’ve been thinking.”

For openers, I don’t like her tone. “Yes?”

“I’m not having a good time.”

I think we may be in trouble. “No?”

“No. Vermont is bare and desolate.”

We’re in trouble. “Oh, come on. You’re kidding.”

“I hate it. It’s dreary and depressing.”

She’s not kidding. “Chris, that’s kind of a far cry from this morning’s verdict.”

“What was that?”

“That was when you thought it was peaceful, lovely, serene and inviting.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You changed your mind?”

“Yes. I want to go home.”

“Go home?” I am astounded. “Are you nuts? It took us a month to get here!”

“I don’t care. I want to leave.”

“Chris, think of what you’re saying.” Fat chance!

“I know what I’m saying. I came up here for Thanksgiving, had a lovely meal in my room and am now bored and ready to leave.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The only thing waiting for us back in the city are endless auditions and the usual no thank yous.”

“All right, Steve. I’ll tell you what. I’ll make the supreme sacrifice.
You
can do all the driving!” “You can’t seduce me with that. I’m sick of driving. I want to stay here until Monday, like we planned.”

“You sound as though you didn’t enjoy the trip up.”

“Chris, my great-grandparents had an easier time crossing the Atlantic in steerage!”

“But we had a good time, Steve, didn’t we?”

“In every twenty-hour period there are bound to be a few laughs.”

“Stop it, Steve. We roared the whole way.”

“That’s not the way I remember it.”

“That’s because you refuse to look on the bright side of life.”

“I refuse to look on the bright side of life? /REFUSE TO LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE OF LIFE? What about you?”

“ME!
One would be hard pressed to find as lighthearted and carefree a spirit as the girl who lies before you.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, the girl who lies before me is going to be put in a rubber room one of these days!”

“Don’t start on me, Steve. I’ll tear you apart.”

“Go ahead. I’d like to see you try.”

Poker-faced, Chris pushes aside her tray, gets up and moves toward me, slowly, gunfighter-style, a hand on each side, ready to shoot. “Pardon me, mister,” she drawls, chewin’ a big wad of tobaccy. “You’re new in this town, ain’t-cha?”

Hunching my shoulders, eyes glued straight ahead, I advance toward her with equal determination. “Yeah. What of it?”

We are nose to nose. Chris raises an eyebrow. “It’s like this, stranger. This town ain’t big enough for either of us.”

“Nonsense.” I snap my fingers. “There’s plenty space ‘round here for decent folk.”

“Well,” drawls Chris, shutting one eye tight for emphasis, “I’m giving you and me twelve hours to get out of town, see?”

“And if we don’t?” I slap the sides of my chaps menacingly.

“Then I’m a-comin’ lookin’ fer you, buster,” boasts Chris, vehemently jabbing a finger in my ribs. “You sleep with your gun?”

I grab her finger. “My gun
and
my horse.”

“Aha!” cackles Chris, squirming to free her finger. “Then them stories I hear tell ‘bout you and your horse are true, eh?”

I let go of her finger but then quickly clutch her wrist, emphatically. “There’s nothin’ to them rumors. We’re just good friends.”

Chris drops the drawl and the skit without warning and looks up into my eyes, quietly saying, “Just like us, huh?”

I drop the drawl too and repeat quietly, “Yeah. Just like us.”

We stand still a moment, carefully studying each other. I recognize that mischievous look in her eye. Pure invitation. So I slowly put my arm securely around her slim waist and gently draw her closer to me. “Ain’t we got fun?” I whisper. She smiles, and I lean forward, resting my lips against her forehead in the softest of kisses. My other hand reaches up to her chin in a gentle caress, as it slowly moves toward the back of her neck. Tilting her head very slowly up toward mine, I study the beauty in her face and soft smile for another moment and then bring my mouth down to meet hers.

Her lips part slightly, allowing my tongue to push its way past those perfect toothpaste-commercial teeth to the inside of her mouth.

Things start getting a little heavy at this point, particularly our breathing. I begin to wonder how excited I should allow myself to get, having no idea at what point she’ll decide to call proceedings to an abrupt halt. And I know that wondering when to call proceedings to an abrupt halt is exactly what’s going through her intricate little head right now also.

But it’s not as if I’ve got a total say in the matter. The top half of my body is not always in agreement with the bottom part. So although my head is sending messages south to keep cool, my lascivious lower half is growing rebellious, cutting off the wires of communication from the top.