Social Lives (18 page)

Doug Paulson had been in charge of the party favors, and he'd come through. His mother had been through not one, not two, not five, but six surgeries to become the beauty she was today. And with each surgery came a bottle of pills. Lucky for them, she was a hearty woman who recovered easily and, in spite of her addiction to being cut and pasted, did not even indulge in alcohol, save a few times each holiday season. The bottles were kept, because that's what people do, though so forgotten, they had accumulated dust in the back of the medicine cabinet.

“Wow,” Caitlin said, pressing her hands against her warm, flushed cheeks.

Amanda smiled knowingly and took another sip of vodka.

“Are we ready
now
?” Doug asked again, growing impatient.

Kyle nodded and called everyone to order. “Time for spin—the—bottle!” he said with a wide grin and the intonation of a talk show host.

Caitlin giggled. Honestly, wasn't that game for prepubescent middle-schoolers?

Kyle took the first turn. The pill bottle turned an awkward circle, then stopped with the cap facing Amanda.

“Amanda Jamison—you are the lucky winner of the first spin,” Kyle said, smiling from his own high, which had so changed his appearance that Caitlin couldn't stop staring. It was eerie. Gone completely was the smug, cool expression.

With a seductive look on her face, Amanda stood up. But instead of kissing Kyle, she pulled off one of her sandals to the cheers and clapping of her small audience. Again the bottle turned, and again a piece of clothing was removed.

It wasn't hard to do the math. Through the haze of the painkillers and vodka, Caitlin could still feel a functioning alarm system, and it was going off. The only problem was that she was too high to do anything about it.

How many minutes had passed, she wondered, sitting now with nothing on but her white cotton panties. Even through the relative darkness, and perhaps because of it, the sexuality in the room was stifling. The four girls were topless, with breasts of all sizes and shapes standing at full attention from the narcotics and general sense of anxiety that was not as easily hidden as they imagined. As for the boys, hiding was a bit easier, as they sat on the floor around the table, though Caitlin could see Doug's erection as he sat beside her. He was watching her now, in that seedy, porn-movie kind of way, and she fought against the impulse to cross her arms over her chest. Never had she felt this uncomfortable, this exposed. The air against her breasts was different somehow from the air she felt in her room as she dressed, or in the bathroom just before a shower. It was cold, and not even the oxycodone could mask the humiliation it brought to bear.

“Well, I think we're at the end of the road,” Kyle said. “We have a winner—Cait Barlow, congratulations!” He was at it again with the talk show thing, but all Caitlin heard was the dreadful sound of her name reminding her that she really was here, sitting around a table of naked teenagers.

She had won. Being the last one to keep her underpants, she imagined herself to be lucky. But lucky was not how she saw herself at that moment.

Watching one another and pretending not to be affected in the least, as
though they were so beyond the failings of human nature that their sexual feelings were under their total control, they began to dress. Caitlin was the first to finish, and she rushed out of the room with as much poise as she could muster, finding the same bathroom as before. She did not look in the mirror. She did not wash her hands or face, or even pee, for that matter. Instead, she paced back and forth and around in little circles, trying to outrun the sense of dread that was bearing down upon her. Dread at having exposed herself to strangers. Dread at feeling excited, then disgusted by her excitement. She felt like an animal, a dirty, filthy animal who had rolled in the mud and would never be clean again.

“Cait—hurry up if you want a ride.” She heard Amanda through the door and scurried to gather her things, to gather herself.

Suddenly, a burst of light.
Home—just get home!
To her house, her room, even her dreadful parents. The thought of Mellie's little face, the innocent pudgy cheeks, nearly brought her to tears.

She rushed into the hallway, but the house was empty. She saw the lights in the driveway, heard the cars pulling out from the back of the house where they had been hidden from the road.

“Wait!” she yelled, running outside. Then she heard the voice from inside the last car.

“Come on.” It was Doug, the budding pharmacist.

Caitlin approached the car and looked inside. He was alone. “Where's Amanda?” she asked.

“I don't know—she left. If you want a ride, you'd better get in.”

She scoured her brain for the choices. None came forward.

“Get in!” he said again, revving the engine.

Her body was moving before her mind could try to reason. And, in the end, Caitlin got in the car.

 

 

 

 

 

T
HE PARTY CARRIED ON
. And on, and on. Through the alcohol fog, they danced and ate, then danced again. They watched the show, drank some more, laughed and talked of outlandish things—things that were said only after reaching a certain threshold of inebriation. Places they'd done it, their most embarrassing moments, which celebrities they'd screw if given the chance. They were things they would regret tomorrow, things that would make them look at each other differently, until time passed and they slipped back in their roles of respectable, elite members of the upper class.

Rosalyn mingled effortlessly through her crowd of admirers, though her mind was in another place altogether.

“I think we're good,” Eva said, coming upon her from the back of the room.

Rosalyn nodded, though her mood remained unchanged, hovering somewhere between angry and vengeful.

“The costume looks good, right? I mean, we did the best we could under the circumstances.”

“It's fine. Thank you.”

Eva studied her friend's face as she dangled her fifth drink from her hand like a permanent accessory. “I think she feels better.”

Rosalyn nodded, her eyes now scouring the room for signs of Barlow. What was keeping him? The awards ceremony could not go on without the host, and it had already been put off for more than an hour.

Eva gave her friend a curious look. Rosalyn's world had taken an unusually dark turn, which Eva could not, at the moment, understand.

“Can you do one last thing for me while I get the staff ready?”

Eva took a long sip of her champagne. “Why not?”

“Can you please find my husband? He went to the wine cellar hours ago.”

“I'm on it.”

Eva scurried off, somehow managing to steady her glass and maneuver her full skirt through the drunken crowd. Forging a path this way and that, she dodged champagne and martinis as they spilled from glasses, avoided acquaintances who tried to pull her into conversations, and finally stepped right over a woman who had fallen to the floor. Eva looked back to take in the spectacle, catching a glimpse of the woman, who was laughing so hard it was silent, as two men tried to get her to her feet. When Eva reached the edge of the room, she hurried through the double doors, past the bathroom where she and Jacks had transformed the young Sara Livingston, then toward the old section of the house. As she reached the kitchen, which now served as nothing more than storage for china, crystal stemware, and canned food that Eva could not imagine would ever be consumed by a Barlow, she heard the hushed voices coming from the basement stairs. Stepping to the back of the room, she pulled her drink to her chest and folded in behind an antique breakfront.

It was almost whispering, and she could not make out a single word. Still, sometimes words were immaterial. It was in the tone, the intonations, the long pauses between the words that came only when people were studying one another's faces, or perhaps embracing. It was the conversation of lovers. She smiled for a second, instinctively, at having finally encountered something at this party that was remotely interesting. Then it occurred to her. Barlow was in the basement—who else could it be? Who else even knew about the wine cellar? And whatever glee she had begun to feel vanished.
Not the Barlows
, she thought.
It can't be.

The door opened slowly, and a foot stepped out and into the kitchen. It was dark, but Eva could see. The foot was bare. The woman turned the corner too quickly to reveal her face. Still, there was only one person at this party
without shoes. It was Jacks. Barlow followed close behind, though with enough distance to give Jacks a head start. He walked to the sink and ran the water, taking some in his hands and splashing it onto his face. His sighs were deep, and Eva wondered if they would ever stop. She wondered what they said. Then she saw it—as he turned around and leaned against the sink's edge, his face appeared to her, at first despairing, then transforming with a quizzical expression and, finally, a broad smile. Whatever regret he had, it was subdued by bliss. The only kind of bliss that could bring that kind of smile.

Another moment passed before she watched him leave. She let out the breath she'd been holding and sat down at a small wooden table, which was piled high with crates from the rental company.
Barlow and Jacks.
How long? she wondered. How could she not have known? She had come to believe that nothing in this town could surprise her—flings with personal trainers (as common as white bread), drug addiction, vaginal reconstructions. The extreme behavior of her peers was no longer extreme; it was ordinary. But this, something about this, was all wrong. They were close friends, Jacks and Eva, Eva and the Barlows. And Ernest Barlow was hardly a playboy.

She chugged the remains of her drink and set the glass down on the table. It was done. She was now the holder of their secret, and all that remained was the dreadful decision of what to do with it.

 

Rosalyn and Barlow were standing together on the band platform in front of a mic. From the smiles on their faces, and the way Barlow draped his arm around his wife's waist, how could anyone doubt their unified front? They were the Barlows.

“Good evening. Thanks for coming!” Barlow was speaking, as was customary. His money. His house. His speech. “How about a hand for my wife for putting it all together!”

They were playing their roles to perfection. Rosalyn smiled lovingly and with great humility at her husband's words, as though somehow embarrassed by the attention. And Barlow gleamed with sincerity, as though his wife's hard work behind the scenes of their lives filled him with pride. The great woman behind the great man, and all that.

Barlow held up his hand to quiet the roaring crowd. “And now, without further ado, the nominees for best costume. Rosalyn . . .”

His wife smiled and took the mic. “As you all know from years past, the nominees are based on an informal poll of the guests. I would like to ask all these wonderful people to please come up on the stage.”

Sara was in midsip of her fourth glass of champagne as she listened to the names. She swallowed half of it down her windpipe when she heard her own.

Nick grabbed her, his face beaming. “Look at that! Go on!”

She had pulled herself together, gotten drunker than she'd been since college, and danced with her husband. She'd eaten pulled pork with her fingers, downed vodka shots, and listened to story after story of debauchery and bad behavior. But this?

“No . . . ,” she managed to get out between the violent coughs.

“What do you mean! You have to go.” Nick was also drunk, as much from his wife's seeming engagement in the night's pleasures as from the expensive alcohol.

Sara looked at him and gave one last cough as she weighed the consequences. To go or not to go? It wasn't really a question. Of course, she had no choice.

Walking gingerly in the size 9 shoes, Marie Antoinette just-before-beheading dragged herself to the stage, forcing a smile. She joined three other guests—two men and one woman—as they stood behind Rosalyn and Ernest Barlow. Rosalyn gave Sara a sweet smile and a wink when she turned back to acknowledge the contestants.
Christ
, Sara thought. Rosalyn Barlow winking at her could not be a sign that this would end quietly.

“Now, as the nominees step forward, please cast your vote with applause. The loudest applause will determine the winner. Ready?”

The crowd cheered. Rosalyn called the contestants' names, then pretended to gauge the collective volume of her guests. As though anyone was paying attention. Each nominee drew cheers and clapping, hooting, whistling. It was a crazy, inane display of human conduct.

“Okay,” Rosalyn said when the last nominee had stepped forward and been humiliated. “Barlow, what do you think? Do we have a winner?”

Rosalyn made a show of conferring with her husband. What she really said through the plastic smile was
Where the hell have you been, you son of a bitch?
But what was the difference? The winner had been decided hours before.