mine. He calls his people "Old South aristocrats," although how you can be aristocratic and stone broke at the same time, I'm not sure. The Lloyds have a kind of slow, brittle southern charm that freezes my New England blood. They smile and smile, but in their hearts 1 don't think there's anything but contempt.
And none of them talk, they all drawl. They remind me of fat brown lizards sunning themselves on hot rocks, too lazy to move a muscle. They drink all the time, and publicly, not in secret like my family-gin martinis, three fingers of bourbon, scotch from tarnished sterling flasks, beakers of warm, smoky brandy. They've refined drinking to a delicate, sensual, obscene art. When we go for visits, I watch them like a voyeur; I feel like I'm viewing erotica from behind a hedge of magnolia or honeysuckle, and everything is sweet and cloying, and I can almost hear that character from Tennessee Williams yelling, "Mendacity!" Well, I'm exaggerating, but not much. Curtis claims I hyperbolize his family's eccentricities in order to minimize mine. That's true.
The night before the wedding, Emma came home with me after the rehearsal dinner. The plan was for her to spend the night, then get up early and help me dress for the wedding. We were both starving, even though we'd supposedly just eaten, so we made Spanish omelettes and opened a bottle of wine. This was after about two dozen champagne toasts at the rehearsal dinner, but by then I wasn't counting. I know I drink too much, but on this particular night that was only part of the problem.
We couldn't make ourselves go to bed. Midnight came, but we kept drinking and talking, singing along to the stereo. Exchanging final confidences as single women, I guess. But we were careful not to say that. In fact, we were pretending just the opposite-that nothing would change, my marrying Curtis was only a technicality. I remember Emma was sprawled on the floor in the living room-this was in my old D Street house on Capitol Hill, a dark, skinny row house with six rooms on three floors-and I was on the couch, in my oldest, raggediest nightgown, because I'd packed the good ones for the honeymoon.
"Of course I knew she didn't like Curtis," I told Eric. "I'd known that since I introduced them to each other ten years ago, not long after Curtis and I moved to Washington. But until that night she'd never said so.
Well, not in words." "Nice timing," Eric said sympathetically.
"Yeah." It started out harmlessly. We were talking about Curtis's new job on the Hill, how much money he would make, how soon we could move to a bigger house. Emma said, "Yeah, that's great, but what I still don't get is the marriage part. I mean, why exactly do you have to tie the knot?" I was surprised by how riled she sounded, but I just said something about ritual and ceremony and public commitment-that standard answer.
It was June; hot; Emma had on a sleeveless football jersey and her underpants. She stuck her knees inside the jersey and wrapped her arms around her calves, shook her wild red hair out of her eyes. "Yes, but why not just keep living with him? Why bring the law into it?" And she made some joke about Mickey Rooney or Liz Taylor, how much trouble they'd have saved themselves by just shacking up. We laughed, but it wasn't real. I saw anger when she flicked her eyes away from me.
That scared me, of course, but I said, "This might come as a surprise to you, but Curtis makes me happy.
The problem is, Em, you've never known me without him. You don't know what I'm like when he's not around." I gave another false laugh. "I mean, if you think this is bad-" "That's not true. Why are you saying that? I see you with him and I see you without him. When he's around, you don't even talk, Rudy. Or-you look at him, you check with him to make sure what you said was okay. That makes me sick." The revulsion in her voice shocked both of us. I said, "That's a lie," without smiling, and we recoiled again. I got up and turned off the
And none of them talk, they all drawl. They remind me of fat brown lizards sunning themselves on hot rocks, too lazy to move a muscle. They drink all the time, and publicly, not in secret like my family-gin martinis, three fingers of bourbon, scotch from tarnished sterling flasks, beakers of warm, smoky brandy. They've refined drinking to a delicate, sensual, obscene art. When we go for visits, I watch them like a voyeur; I feel like I'm viewing erotica from behind a hedge of magnolia or honeysuckle, and everything is sweet and cloying, and I can almost hear that character from Tennessee Williams yelling, "Mendacity!" Well, I'm exaggerating, but not much. Curtis claims I hyperbolize his family's eccentricities in order to minimize mine. That's true.
The night before the wedding, Emma came home with me after the rehearsal dinner. The plan was for her to spend the night, then get up early and help me dress for the wedding. We were both starving, even though we'd supposedly just eaten, so we made Spanish omelettes and opened a bottle of wine. This was after about two dozen champagne toasts at the rehearsal dinner, but by then I wasn't counting. I know I drink too much, but on this particular night that was only part of the problem.
We couldn't make ourselves go to bed. Midnight came, but we kept drinking and talking, singing along to the stereo. Exchanging final confidences as single women, I guess. But we were careful not to say that. In fact, we were pretending just the opposite-that nothing would change, my marrying Curtis was only a technicality. I remember Emma was sprawled on the floor in the living room-this was in my old D Street house on Capitol Hill, a dark, skinny row house with six rooms on three floors-and I was on the couch, in my oldest, raggediest nightgown, because I'd packed the good ones for the honeymoon.
"Of course I knew she didn't like Curtis," I told Eric. "I'd known that since I introduced them to each other ten years ago, not long after Curtis and I moved to Washington. But until that night she'd never said so.
Well, not in words." "Nice timing," Eric said sympathetically.
"Yeah." It started out harmlessly. We were talking about Curtis's new job on the Hill, how much money he would make, how soon we could move to a bigger house. Emma said, "Yeah, that's great, but what I still don't get is the marriage part. I mean, why exactly do you have to tie the knot?" I was surprised by how riled she sounded, but I just said something about ritual and ceremony and public commitment-that standard answer.
It was June; hot; Emma had on a sleeveless football jersey and her underpants. She stuck her knees inside the jersey and wrapped her arms around her calves, shook her wild red hair out of her eyes. "Yes, but why not just keep living with him? Why bring the law into it?" And she made some joke about Mickey Rooney or Liz Taylor, how much trouble they'd have saved themselves by just shacking up. We laughed, but it wasn't real. I saw anger when she flicked her eyes away from me.
That scared me, of course, but I said, "This might come as a surprise to you, but Curtis makes me happy.
The problem is, Em, you've never known me without him. You don't know what I'm like when he's not around." I gave another false laugh. "I mean, if you think this is bad-" "That's not true. Why are you saying that? I see you with him and I see you without him. When he's around, you don't even talk, Rudy. Or-you look at him, you check with him to make sure what you said was okay. That makes me sick." The revulsion in her voice shocked both of us. I said, "That's a lie," without smiling, and we recoiled again. I got up and turned off the
Similar Books
