-13-

Celia walks east on crowded Fifty-Seventh Street, where clusters of people rush out of office buildings and disperse in every direction. The ebb and flow of so much people traffic makes her feel vulnerable. It’s as if the density will somehow devour her.

Her short jacket, chosen carefully for tonight, does little to keep her warm. She eyed the long Indian scarf that Paul bought her but chose to go without it. Though it’s been a while, anything to do with Paul still hurts. For months before he took off, there were no gigs; he was at home and high most of the time. Did he even know she was watching?

Telling her sons about his departure was painful. She said his addiction was an illness and that he didn’t want to burden them with his care. Miles and Sam had nothing to say. Quince still hasn’t written back. With her sons off busy doing their thing, the house is empty most of the time. To be no longer needed by them in the same ways is an adjustment.

She hopes the bar Denise chose won’t be packed three deep. She could’ve decided to stay home comfortable, watch TV, read a book, or something. Instead, she let her friend convince her. For days, Denise has been pestering her to go out and have some fun. Insisting that it’s time, that if she doesn’t, she’ll end up as dry as a leaf in winter, that she’s young, that she’s ready. Though what ready is supposed to feel like is beyond her.

UUU

Denise waits inside the hotel bar dressed in a black sheath and high-heel pumps. She looks daring, inviting, and a bit scary.

The wood-paneled decor is elegant. Voices are low and laughter discreet, the barstools occupied by well-dressed men and women. Nothing here is anything like the dives she and Paul frequented.

They sit at a small round table. The waiter arrives and they order two Martinis with extra olives.

“It’s awfully quiet for a bar,” Denise says.

“It’s respectful. That’s nice too.”

“Maybe too polite for anyone to come over and say hello,” Denise says.

“You don’t know that.”

The waiter places the drinks on the table and leaves without a word.

“Bet you a second Martini. Look around. Most of the men are here with women.”

“It’s okay, Denise. We’ll get a little high, tell each other funny stories. What’s wrong with that?”

“Here’s a funny story. Adele’s husband, a man who comes and goes with the tides, arrived home drunk after another week away to no one knows where. He’s ashamed and becomes a doting husband. Does she throw him out? No. Why? She enjoys his guilt and is letting her girls get their fill of him. As soon as his shame evaporates, she’s telling him to get out for good.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You don’t have the proper sense of humor.”

“Which is what?”

“Who takes care of the house? Who takes care of the kids? Who worries about doctors’ visits, food in the fridge, children’s social lives? Not them, us. We think we can’t live without them, but actually we already do. That’s the joke. And here’s the funniest part: We aren’t aware of any of this when we’re really young, because we want love, children, and companionship. We get the children.”

“Stop, Denise. You’re making me cry.”

“Yeah, well, I always get my audience wrong.”

“Do you think Adele will really do it?”

“No. Do I think her husband will fuck around again? Yes. Will I say so? No. You know why? Because she’ll blame me—not him—for hurting her. How’s that for ridiculous?”

“Your cynicism is charming,” she says.

“Do you think I’ve been on an island since Sal left? Nine out of the ten men who ask me out are married.”

“How’s your daughter?” She doesn’t want to discuss men leaving.

“That’s one way to change the subject. Fine. She graduates high school in June. How does Miles like college?”

“He’s so involved with everything around the war I only pray he doesn’t fail his subjects and get drafted.”

“These young people dressed like winos, prancing around, drugged up, it’s disgusting.”

She flashes on Josie, who, like Miles, is entirely taken up with politics. “Not all of them. They hate the war. I don’t love it either.”

“What’s to love? But the way these hippie-dippie kids carry on, you’d think life was happening for the first time and only to them.”

“You’re jealous because the young women look good in those awful boots.”

“True. And the beards, on the men that is. I can’t even stand a day’s growth. Can you imagine ten inches around the chin? It would be like sleeping with an animal.”

She laughs. “Paul’s the only man I ever slept with.”

Denise raises her dark brows. “It’s time to break the spell. At first you won’t feel a thing, then it gets better, I promise.”

It won’t get better, she doesn’t say. Emptiness can’t be filled willy-nilly. But why argue?

“Let’s pool some cash, grab a cab to Tic Tack Inn. It’s close to home, and we can dance there. It’ll cheer you. I bet the men will fight to pay for our drinks. Get us out of this funeral parlor.”