Ledge Walkers (9 page)

"Keys?"

"Yes. If you embark on this next part, you are stuck here. A cab or a call is your only means of escape. Now hand them over."

Reluctantly, they did so. I swirled the brandy snifter and thanked them.

"Oh my God,” Alison said, “I just saw something like this on that Frigid Detective show the other night!"

"Frigid Detective?"

"There's no such thing as a frigid detective. Trust me."

"Well, whatever. The one with the detective who cuts her hair with a weed whacker. You know the one.

Anyway—"

"Ah, Cold Cuts."

"Anything's better than Frigid Detective."

"Thereisn't such a thing as a frigid detective. Shut up!"

"Anyway!” Alison said loudly. “It was the 70s or something. Everybody was at a party, and they put their keys into a snifter. You grabbed a key, and whoever's keys you got you slept with. Swinging or something, and somebody got killed."

Everyone instinctively looked to the others in the room. Yes, we loved each other, but “Uh uh! No way!” raced from beginning to end.

"Alison,” Claudia said, “that is not what we're up to. Trust me. And anyway, what would happen if you picked out your own keys? That's just stupid.” She looked at Alison, and it became obvious that her sole intent was planting seeds of absurdity in Alison's mind to give her something ‘productive’ to do. They would eventually sprout, but it was never immediate.

"How many here partied when you were in school?” I asked.

Every hand shot up. “Did anyone ever teach you how?” Claudia asked.

The resounding “No!” came forth.

"We're just combining a little Sociology with a little Health,” I said. “All you have to do is have a good time, socializing with anyone except the porcelain goddess."

Claudia yelled, “Do we want to be strong, healthy women or lushes?"

"Strong, healthy women!” ran headfirst into “Strong, healthy lushes!"

We then explained that our helpers had been locked in the basement since we arrived home and that we needed to free them. Everyone moved toward the basement door, thanking Sam for a fabulous dinner.

"I get to come with you,” he said. He picked up his platter of extra servings and joined the charge.

I wasn't sure how many of them had ever been in our basement of broken dreams. We spent a considerable amount of time finishing it and installing a bar, lights, music—turning it into a real party room for two who rarely partied. Now, it was simply part of the path to the laundry room or a swanky place to crouch when tornado sirens blared.

As we entered this time, though, it proved to be everything we had dreamed—and it finally had a damn good reason to exist. Our helpers turned on the music when we hit the steps, and lights danced throughout the room.

From behind the bar, our bartender lamented, “I thought you guys forgot about us!"

"Never, lover!” Sam said and made his way to offer food and a kiss.

"I thought you said you were a gay guy, Sam!” Holly exclaimed. “I'm telling."

"And I thought you were a good girl, Holly,” the bartender countered.

Holly stopped dead in her tracks to do a double take. She twisted her brow in confusion and then wailed,

“Charles! Oh my God, Charles. You are so beautiful.” She turned to us, evidently assuming we were all intellectually challenged, and announced, “It's Charles! Oh my God, it's Charles!"

"That's Charlize. Thank you.” He beamed.

"Get out here and let me look at you!"

He obliged and did a little glamour girl twirl for us. He was indeed beautiful, not at all trashy like some queens who demeaned women at the same time they sought to join them. He was a knockout in a very respectable way and just genuinely seemed to feel good in his own skin: with makeup, a dark tailored suit with sparkly pants, and long black hair. Classy, indeed, and one of the sweetest men I had ever met.

They hugged like long lost friends, and Holly tried to take his earrings. We simply watched, not so much with interest, but more because they blocked our way.

"Why didn't you tell me you weren't a good girl?” he asked her, his hand on his hip, pretending to be seriously concerned.

"I am a good girl,” she professed, contorting her face again and tilting her head to the side. “What makes you think otherwise?"

"Because I've been locked in the basement for the past two hours with Janice,” he answered and pointed to the couch on the far side of the dimly lit room.

Holly looked but could not make the connection right away. Then her mouth dropped at the same time Laura said, “Oh Jesus."

Kris corrected, as any good professor would, “Actually, Laura, I think it's ‘Oh God.’”

They ran over to Janice and started oozing apologies until it was rather deep. I wished the lights were brighter so I could actually witness a McCallister blush, if there even was such a thing.

I kissed Sam and Charlize and thanked them for their help.

"I just want it stated for the record,” Charlize said. “Janice shot the champagne cork into the ceiling, not me."

"And who screamed?” the astute Claudia challenged.

"Um ... Can I get you girls drinks? That is what I'm here for. Who is the Margarita Queen anyway?"

"That would be Ginny here,” I answered, reeling her in. “Sheloves a good Margarita."

"Well, girl,” he said, “I made pitchers."

Ginny glared at me. I could deal with her grumpiness now—now that I knew it neared its end. At least, I prayed it did.

Most of us opted for Margaritas, and we spread out into the room with our salty swill.

I saw Alison become very animated as she made her way to Janice. They were both good souls, and I crossed my fingers that something might blossom. Lotuses in the lotus position.

Susan asked, “Are all your little helpers going to join us tonight? What about Phyllis and Molly?"

"We don't really know Phyllis. Plus, I think we scared her,” Claudia remarked.

"And Molly,” I said loud enough for Ginny to hear. “We asked her, but she had more important things to take care of, I guess."

Claudia held her glass high. “There are five levels of intoxication. What is the first level, ladies?” she shouted.

A few adjectives took laps around the room, but not one earned the victory lap.

"It's Gifted,” she clarified. “You know. Your wit becomes sharp, and everything you say is incredibly funny.

Your vision becomes more attuned, and suddenly every woman you see is absolutely gorgeous. Your insight deepens, and you suddenly have defensible opinions about everything under the sun."

"To Gifted!” I shouted, and everyone with a drink raised it in a toast.

Those without drinks scrambled to the bar, evidently worried about being giftless.

I found myself thankful that we knew and trusted them all—and vice versa. This was not intended to be a drunken farce. We wanted simply to loosen the inhibitions a wee bit.

Laura whizzed by at that point and asked Claudia, “Am I gorgeous yet?"

"No,” she answered. “But you're awfully funny."

"Keep drinking, then.” She clinked Claudia's glass with her own, slid her arm around Holly's waist, and pulled her further into the room.

See, with this borderline crew, we were talking tablespoons, not shots, fifths, or the now infamous vat of vodka.

Eventually, we all took places on the couches or on the floor in front of it. Charlize sailed through with the pitcher of Margaritas and topped off the glasses of the so inclined. He returned with other drinks for the nonconformists. The conversations swirled in all directions and encompassed all. There was a recap of the day's events; a brief overview of Sociology from Professor Kris; debate about 60s versus 70s music; a eulogy for what hair bands had slain; a few bad jokes; and a serious discussion about purple shirts. We were oblivious to the passage of time.

In due course, Claudia stood and held her glass high. “What's the second level of intoxication, ladies?” she asked above the din.

The lapping adjectives this time bordered on crude and bizarre, but again, no victor emerged.

"It's Guru,” she said, refusing to add the “duh!” that lurched on her lips. “At this level you begin to recognize thatyou are the most gorgeous one in the room and those of lesser gorgeousness all want you. Your opinions have now become facts, and it finally dawns on you that no one knows as much as you—it's up to you to educate them. You pity every fool around you, and you help them drown their sorrow by supplying rounds of drinks for them all."

"To Guru!” I yelled, and the ritual upraising followed.

"Well, at leastnow I know I'm gorgeous,” Laura quickly remarked.

"Thank God” Ginny added. “I've been waiting fifty some years to turn gorgeous. I thought I was always going to stay pumpkin."

Holly swung into Ginny from two seats over on the couch. “You are gorgeous, Ginny!"

"I always thought so,” Kris said. “Ginny, are you insinuating I've had bad taste all these years?"

"I'm notinsinuating anything!” Ginny snarled.

Claudia interrupted, “Uh, uh, uh! You are not allowed to be argumentative at level two!"

"How long have you too been together anyway?” Susan asked.Tread lightly, Susan!

There was no hesitation. Ginny declared, “Twenty-five years this Thursday."

Kris looked at her and smiled. “Twenty-five good years. I wouldn't trade them for anything."

I saw tears well in Ginny eyes, but I knew that it wasn't because Kris had touched her heart. It was because we were cruel.

"You know what I hate the most about drinking?” I asked, as obnoxiously as could and unwilling to await an answer. “Nicotine fits. I need a smoke. Laura, that's your cue."

She was taken aback but played along with me.

"Ginny, you, too,” I ordered.

"I don't smoke."

"Well, there's something blowing out your ears. Move it!” I went to her, grabbed her hand, and helped her off the couch.

Kris stared at me with wide, questioning eyes, and I just shook my head at her. “Too far,” I mouthed.

The three of us made our way to the porch. The evening had cooled down considerably, bringing a chill that felt good. Laura and I each lit a cigarette, and then I asked Ginny if she had seen Claudia's irises in the backyard.

She was interested, as I knew she would be, and we left the porch to go have a look.

A large patch on the back of our lot boasted about two hundred purple and white irises. Claudia had planted them when we first moved in, and she hoped to successfully transplant them into the yard at her grandmother's house.

"She only planted a few initially,” I explained. “Every year they come back, stronger in stature and number."

"You're going to defecate pearls of wisdom, aren't you?” she asked, but at least she was laughing. I laughed, too, at what an English professor could create with a few synonyms.

"Do I need to? Because I will—until you're standing up to your eyeballs in them."

"I'm just pouting, Kate,” she admitted. “Like a two-year-old. Very unbecoming a woman my age, but my feelings are hurt."

"She loves you, Ginny. You know that. And you know she would never intentionally do anything to hurt you.

You know that!” I emphasized, just short of screaming. “So either you're looking at this all wrong or she's holding out on you."

She lost herself in thought for a moment, and then she turned abruptly to me. “Is she? Is she holding out on me?”

She looked desperate for something to hang onto before she slipped into despair.

I frustrated myself so badly sometimes. I put on the bravado of one so gung-ho to take people out in these silly games we played. When push came to shove, though, I invariably flinched.

"Let me say this and only this,” I began. I put my hands on her shoulders and looked her squarely in the eyes.

“She trying very hard make you happy. I know it doesn't seem like it, but just trust her a little while longer. If you can't, then trust me."

"You're holding out on me, too."

Damn!I heard my name being scratched onto her shit list.

"You're both playing me,” she said, and with nearly an audiblepoof, her brain cooked on all four again.

"Then trust her. Play right back at her! Don't take your frickin’ marbles and go home to pout."

"You're right,” she said.Yes! “She doesn't have that many marbles to begin with. This should be easy.” She quickly turned to head back into the house. Stopping briefly, she kissed me on the forehead and said, “Thanks, dear."

I headed back to Laura on the porch, shook my head, and took the last gulp of my Margarita. After we put our smokes out, we headed to the basement.

Charlize refilled our drinks, and I found Claudia and sat next to her. Ginny had returned to her spot next to Kris, who kept looking at me as though I should be able to telepathically communicate the entirety of the conversation I had just had. I smiled, I nodded—I did whatever I could inconspicuously do to reassure her.

Nothing seemed to work. When Ginny leaned to the coffee table to retrieve her drink, I gave a hearty thumbs-up to Kris. She seemed to breathe again.

The noise level in the room increased, laughter reached new heights, and voices now competed with each other.

Level two: achieved! I kissed Claudia on the neck and whispered, “Go for it."

She stood, not quite as gracefully as she had prior, and raised her glass yet again. “What is the third level of intoxication, ladies?"

This time, however, her words garnered no response. The activity continued unabated.

I grabbed her and pulled her onto my lap, and in the process, a shower of Margarita burst forth.

"Do you want me to whistle?"

"Don't you dare!"

"How about I clean you up then?” I suggested, kissing the lime and tequila from her fingers and face.

At first she let me. Then she pushed my head back, shoved her now empty glass into my hand, and stood determinedly.

"Yoooooo!” she bellowed until attention was had from one and all. Then she yelled her question again, “What is the third level of intoxication?"

The adjectives were a bit cruder and just as bizarre, and Claudia shook her head wildly, as they all sputtered and stalled.