“What do you do, Grace?” an overweight man in an ill-fitting striped button-up asked. Pockets of fat peeked through the gaping holes along the button line. He stuffed a triangular sandwich into his mouth and spit crumbs in my direction as he spoke.
I glanced to the door as a woman with intricately lined eyes and a sharp bobbed haircut entered. We were at the home of one of Jack’s colleagues for the annual party hosted by the Arts Bureau that aimed to connect artists with philanthropists. I always dreaded these events. They were filled with self-important people bragging about their menial accomplishments, sucking up to rich people, blabbering about why their particular type of genius was deserving of funding. It made me feel like a whore.
Jack said it was important we attend because he needed their money. He called them funders. I called them fuckers.
“It’s all part of the show, babe,” Jack reminded me before we went in. He lit a joint, took a puff, and handed it to me. “You need to play the part if you want the life.”
I remembered when I was a child, and William and I would venture through the stream up the road from our home. Making our way to the top, hopping from rock to rock with soaking wet feet, we would sit there for hours listening to the water gush, splashing on the rocks, shrieking with laughter.
“What do you want to be when you grow up, Gracie?” William asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied, letting the cold water flow over my bare feet, tickling and cooling my toes. “I just know I don’t want to be an artist.” At a young age, I’d learned that their lives were difficult. I saw my parents struggle and fight about money constantly. I saw the narcissistic people they surrounded themselves with, often drunk and spewing their own praises.
The stranger cleared his throat, and I was returned to the present moment.
“Sorry. What was the question?”
“What do you do?” he repeated, more intently.
“Oh, I’m in school right now.”
“Ah, university, the golden years. The years of nourishing the eager, young, malleable mind.” He gazed to the distance, perhaps remembering a time when his shirt actually fit him. “What I wouldn’t do to go back.”
I smiled before chugging the rest of my drink.
“What are you studying?”
“Joint major. Folklore and literature.”
“Hm,” the man leaned in eagerly. “What is folklore?”
I inhaled in preparation for my rehearsed response. “Folklorists are like historians, except they study the stories of everyday people. The ones who didn’t make it into the history books.”
“Interesting. I love history,” the man replied, picking something from his teeth with this thumbnail. “What’s your favourite part of folklore?”
He pulled a wet blob from his teeth and sucked it from his thumb.
I tried to hide my disgust, swallowing a nearly audible retch. “My area of specialization is supernatural folklore and superstitions. Ghost stories, urban legends, faerie lore, that sort of thing.”
“That sounds fascinating.”
I had drunk too many glasses of wine and was starting to feel lightheaded. I hadn’t seen Jack in ages, and this sweaty man was getting on my last nerve.
“Will you excuse me?” I scanned the room for the exit. “I need some fresh air.”
“Of course.” He stepped aside.
I pushed my way through the crowd to the back door, grabbing two shots of whiskey and sliding the patio door open using my shoulder. I stepped outside, downed one of the shots, and balanced both glasses on the rail. I dug in my purse for a cigarette.
“Ah-ha, there you are.” I pulled one from the pack and placed it in my mouth, sparking the lighter. I held the cigarette with my teeth and pulled a plastic baggie from my bra, dumping a line of powder onto the back of my hand. I brought my hand to my nose and snorted it up with one swift inhale.
The backyard was lit with floodlights, and beautifully landscaped with a nod to Parisian decor. Shrubbery was strategically planted on the outskirts of flowerbeds, all to draw attention to the focal point: a giant frog-shaped fountain with extended frog legs, as if it were about to launch into the air, water spouting from its mouth. I laughed at how ridiculous it all was, snatched the second whiskey shot from its perch, and tossed it back.
Through the still evening air I heard Jack’s voice, but I couldn’t see him. I took a long draw on my cigarette and licked the remaining coke from the back of my hand.
The patio wrapped all the way around the house, so I followed it. My high heels clacked on the wood as I headed for Jack. I carefully avoided the slats as I passed the window. Glancing at the group of people sipping from champagne flutes, standing too close together, flicking their heads back, their jaws unhinged, I thought, Idiots. I stepped forward without looking and my heel landed between the slat. I hollered and stumbled forward as the heads inside turned toward me. I straightened and waved. “I’m fine.” Yanking my leg to unstick my shoe, I continued on, rounding the corner.
There was Jack, standing alone with a woman. She had short red hair and was wearing a low-cut black cocktail dress.
Jack caught sight of me and froze for a second. “Hey, baby.” He extended his hand, pulling me in by the shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Oh, really?” I shrugged loose from his grip, glaring at the woman. “That’s funny. I was just inside speaking of academia with a most lovely gentleman.”
They both stared at me, then at the empty shot glass in my hand.
I tried to remember the man’s name. “Bob. Brian. Bill. Phil. Anyway, big guy. It was a real treat. What a gas, indeedy do.” I took a sloppy draw on my cigarette, and blew smoke up and down and to the left and the right. The redhead fanned the air in front of her face.
“That’s great.” Confused, Jack turned and motioned to the woman. “This is Jessica. Jessica, this is Grace.”
I extended my hand flatly, inviting her to kiss it. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
She took my fingers and shook them awkwardly.
Jack stepped alongside her and mouthed “money” to me, in an obvious attempt to get me to behave. I shook my head at him and examined Jessica’s face. Her eyes were large and brown, shiny and reflective, like those of a well-trained border collie.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Grace,” she said. “Jack has told me so much about you.”
“And it’s so nice to meet you, Jessica.” I let my head bounce from side to side as I repeated her name: Jesss-ick-ahhh.
Jack cleared his throat and I continued, “May I say, you are just lovely. You look like you’d make a great wife. Just great. Curled up on a Sunday morning with the newspaper. Freaking beautiful.”
Jessica glanced at Jack, who shrugged. “That’s so sweet.” She smiled, revealing her humongous teeth. “You, uh, look like you’d make a good wife, too.”
“And what large teeth you have,” I announced, stumbling forward, tossing my hands in the air and letting my empty glass fly free. It landed in the grass. “Oopsie daisy.”
Jack grabbed my arm and squeezed it tightly. “Are you high?” he whispered through clenched teeth.
“No, darling, I’m not high,” I replied at an audible level, rolling my eyes. A waiter passed carrying a tray of drinks. I waved, “Yoo-hoo, garçon, over here.”
The waiter stopped and I snatched one.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Sweetie, I think you’ve had enough.”
“I’ll know when I’ve had enough, trust me.” I took a large gulp. “Don’t be such a bassoon.”
Jessica sipped her glass of wine and stared past me.
I burst into laughter. “Did I say bassoon?” I couldn’t stop. I was roaring. “I meant bassoon.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack apologized, his eyes meeting Jessica’s. “I’m going to take her home.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” She looked me up and down before leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Yeah, talk soon.” Jack was still clutching my arm, as though I were a child who had misbehaved. We turned and began walking toward the balcony.
“The better to eat you with, my dear,” I shouted as Jack dragged me out of sight.