In the late afternoon the group assembled for cocktails. Without consorting about it they’d all dressed up, and the women’s perfumes fought for supremacy in the living room. The sun set, candles were lit; Mme Reynard found an English dictionary among the cookbooks and proposed they play the game called Dictionary, whereby a player assigns an incorrect definition to an unknown word in hopes of fooling the other players.
She claimed the secateur was the saboteur’s assistant, Malcolm that costalgia was a shared reminiscence, Susan that a remotion was a lateral promotion, Frances that polonaise was an outmoded British condiment fabricated from a horse’s bone marrow, Madeleine that a puncheon was a contentious luncheon, and Joan that a syrt was a Syrian breath mint. Julius, whose English was not fully matured, said that unbearing was the act of “removing a bear from a peopled premises.” Tom proposed that a raptorial was a lesson on forcible intercourse and was so roundly berated for this that he quit the game and sat to the side of the group in a sulk, muttering bitterly that language was for communication, not obfuscation. “I feel uneasy when things don’t make sense,” he admitted.
The game wound down and dinner was served, a roast, and a salad of watercress, rocket, and Roquefort, then dessert, a charlotte Malakoff au chocolat much admired by the partygoers, which brought Mme Reynard a flush of pleasure. “Say what you want about Julia. I know some will drag her through the mud, but in the end, what are they actually accomplishing with this? Defining their own limitations, defending a sparse arsenal. I give credit where it’s due, and I’ll thank you to do the same.”
“Who is Julia?” Tom whispered to Joan.
“Child.”
Tom misunderstood. He turned to Susan and asked, “Who is Julia?”
Frances surprised the group and herself by volunteering to wash the dishes. She had performed the chore perhaps six times in her life and so the movements were both familiar and faraway. It was such a simple action, yet it felt almost religious, a gesture acknowledging something larger, more enduring than oneself. Malcolm dried and stacked, working efficiently but without his mother’s enthusiasm. Actually he was bothered by Frances’s taking up the task. It was so far from her typical behavior as to indicate the approach of peril.
In leaving and then returning to the party, Frances and Malcolm sensed a shift in the air. All were drunk, as were they; all were continuing to drink with no thought to stop. Tom and Julius were quietly, earnestly arm wrestling at the dining room table. On the couch, Susan and Madeleine were trying to explain to Mme Reynard that there was no bad blood between them, a concept Mme Reynard couldn’t seem to grasp. “I can’t claim to know either of you well, or at all, but I can see you’re above such petty jealousies. Ugliness begets ugliness. I volunteer we strive for grace.”
“Neither of us is bothered, Mme Reynard,” Susan said.
“You say that, but you obviously don’t mean it.”
“But I’m not in love with Malcolm,” Madeleine said. “To be honest, I don’t even like him very much.”
“I’m comfortable not talking about it,” Malcolm said, pulling up a chair.
“Oh, why can’t we all be friends?” Mme Reynard asked. Her lips began to quiver and she burst into tears.
“We’ve upset Mme Reynard,” Susan told Madeleine.
Madeleine patted Mme Reynard on the back. “Please don’t cry. Your makeup’s going to run—and there’s so much of it.”
There came a thud in the background as Tom defeated Julius. Now he challenged Malcolm, who had had enough to drink that it seemed a sound idea. He moved to sit at the dining room table; Julius declared himself officiator: “Ready? Steady? Go!” he said, and Tom slammed Malcolm’s hand down on the tabletop. Malcolm had offered not the slightest resistance. “You win,” he said.
“Come on,” said Tom. “Do it right.”
Malcolm nodded and they clasped hands. Julius set them off, and again Tom won effortlessly. “You’re the big winner,” Malcolm told him.
“It’s not winning if you win like that,” Tom complained. “He’s not even trying.”
The women drifted over. Joan and Frances walked side by side, linked at the arm; Mme Reynard was dabbing her eyes and giving thanks for Madeleine and Susan’s heartening encouragements. Malcolm looked up at Susan’s pretty, drunk face. He felt he loved her very much and told Tom, “If I win, you take your bag and leave—alone.” Tom’s expression grew steely, and for the third time the men joined hands. Julius set them off and Tom let out a war cry as he brought Malcolm’s hand crashing down on the tabletop. Malcolm hadn’t tried at all; Tom, panting, asked, “Wait a minute. What do I win?”
“Nothing,” said Malcolm. “Everything is exactly the same as before.”
Mme Reynard said, “This reminds me of the performance artist I saw on the television. She walked the length of the Great Wall of China, then broke up with her boyfriend, then everyone paid good money to watch her go to the bathroom in a bucket in a museum.”
Malcolm was absently rubbing his smarting knuckles. Susan knelt beside him and took up his hand in hers. She drew his hand to her mouth and kissed it. Tom stood apart from the group and said, “I don’t like you people.” He turned to Susan. “I don’t like these people. They’re not normal people.”
Mme Reynard took hold of Tom by his shoulders. “Tom, I speak for the group when I say that I’ve enjoyed, so very much, meeting and talking with you. Couldn’t you please find it in your heart to like us just a little bit?”
“No.”
Mme Reynard sat on the sofa. “I tried and failed—but tried.”
Now Julius faced Tom. Swaying, he opened, then closed his mouth. He stood breathing from his nose awhile. “I’m not used to drinking this much,” he said, and also sat down on the sofa.
Malcolm stood before Tom. “Tom,” he said, and Tom drew back and punched him in the nose. Malcolm fell-sat back down, hand covering his face and nodding, as though the violence against him was just, even commonsensible.
Frances slapped Tom in the face, then sat down herself.
Tom stood there looking woebegone. “I’m leaving,” he told Susan. “Are you coming with me or not?”
“I’m not,” she said, smiling at Malcolm, who wore a jaunty mustache of blood.
“This is your last chance.”
“I’m not coming.”
“It’s now or never, Susan.”
“Never, please, thank you.”
Tom collected his baggage and left the apartment in a state of mortification and bafflement. Mme Reynard took this as a cue to refresh everyone’s drinks. “Well,” she said, “we’re down a man; one of our group has defected. But perhaps the lack will bring those remaining nearer together?” They raised their glasses and drank to the thought.
Malcolm led Susan away from the group and to his bedroom, closing the door behind them. He drew back his sleeve to remove his watch, which Susan recognized as her father’s, and which she hadn’t known he still possessed. He put it on her wrist and began tightening the band for her. “I asked you to come and you came,” he said. He was attentive to the act of putting on the watch. Susan laid her free hand on his face. “You’re dripping blood on my sweater, honey.”