Tiny Little Thing (14 page)

She whispered in his ear. “Are you still crazy about me?”

He closed his eyes. “Christ.”

Her laughter was golden, like the aging sunlight above them. He grabbed her with both arms and hauled her delicate form against his chest, while the last gentle chords of the opening movement dissolved into scratches.

T
he tuft of hair on the nearby pillow might belong to anyone.

Oh, you know how it is. You crack your eyes open into the dawn, and your senses are still so crusted with sleep, your brain is still so immersed in the Stygian netherworld of the unconscious, that you don’t even know your own name. You don’t know who you are, or where you are, or whose bed and whose life you now occupy. You don’t know if you’re four years old or a hundred and four. You don’t know if this is yesterday or tomorrow, America or Pangaea.

That tuft of hair, you know, represents some sort of clue. Tugs an association of some kind. Something to do with the day before, or the night before.

“Caspian?” I whisper. The first name that pops into my head.

The hair doesn’t move, not by a ripple.

But I’m on to something, I know it. If I keep on staring at the tuft, the idea will take shape. A glass of water and an aspirin. Hands adjusting me into the white sheets. Yes. Caspian’s hands. The light clicking off. The familiar voice, wishing me good night.

More.

Caspian standing next to me in the space just outside my hotel room door. I am opening my pocketbook to find the key.
What’s in that envelope,
he asks, and
Wouldn’t you like to know,
I say. This memory is astonishingly clear, in fact. Caspian is frowning in the dim overhead light of the elevator car. I am waggling my finger at him.
Just whom did you give those photographs to?
And he shakes his head.
We’ll talk when you’re sober, Tiny.

Sober, Tiny.

Sober.
Jesus. I was drunk, wasn’t I? That was what drunk was, waggling my flirtatious finger at my husband’s strapping cousin, hoping he might take me to bed with him.

I heave myself upward, to the displeasure of my head. Oh, my God. The champagne. The ballroom. The pretty faces, sliding past; the sympathetic knowingness of that
Globe
reporter. Caspian’s hand on mine, pinning me down against my satin pocketbook. Caspian’s hand on my bare shoulder.

There is movement from the bundle of masculine hair and limbs lying beside me. The owner flings out an arm, finds me, and makes a noise of possession. “Tiny,” he says.

Frank’s voice.

I sink back down under the weight of my husband’s arm. My eyes are wide open, staring at the far-away ceiling; I think my heart must be about to beat itself right out of my chest. The covers open, releasing the familiar warm smell of Frank’s skin, the scent of matrimony.

He rises a little, hovering over me.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. He pushes back my hair from my face.

“Sorry for what?”

“I meant to . . . last night . . .” He kisses my chin, my throat. “You’re such a good wife, Tiny, you’re perfect. You looked so beautiful. It was the drinks, I guess. The pressure. You can’t imagine the pressure right now. My dad—”

I lift my hands around his head and smooth his hair. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. Shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. Gone off in a huff like that. You don’t deserve that, you don’t deserve any of it. I promised myself I’d . . .” His mouth climbs on mine, soft and unwashed and comfortable. “That was the last time. Promise you.”

My heart is cold. My head pounds. I need another aspirin, another glass or two of water. A cigarette, a drink, anything.

“The last time
what,
Frank?”

“Nothing.”

In that instant, as Frank tugs down the straps of my slip and starts making love to me—good, warm, respectable married sex—I know exactly what Frank was doing last night.

Well, it isn’t as if I haven’t always known, haven’t I? The clues were all there. The history of infidelity was there, discreet maybe, but adding up and up into a number that couldn’t be dismissed.

And that word—
nothing
—confirms it.
Nothing
can only mean one thing.

I wonder where they did it, he and his latest girl, his campaign girl—her name escapes me right now—when they had sex last night. Did they do it in her room? In the stairwell? On the elevator, while the emergency alarm rang in the background? Did he use a rubber when he had sex with her, or did he release his reckless Hardcastle sperm directly into her pagina?

Or her mouth. It might have been her mouth. I remember the look in her eyes last night, the puppylike adoration, and I know she’d do anything to please him, anything he wanted. Girls like that, they didn’t play fair.

“You have the nicest breasts,” Frank says, kissing them. “I love those sweet little tits of yours.”

Now
, Tiny. This is the exact moment when I should kick him off the bed, headfirst (either head would do). God knows he deserves it. God knows I’m angry enough.

But you know me. I do what I’m supposed to do, damn me to hell, damn my goddamned innate stupid nature, my guilt, my yearning to please. I do what a good wife should, even a betrayed one. I sublimate my anger into something more suitable. I take Frank on with a defiant passion instead, I clutch his head and call out, I thrash and rock and heave with the best of them, because maybe—just maybe—I, Tiny Schuyler Hardcastle, am no slouch either. Maybe I’m not Frank’s brand-new girl Friday, voluptuous and vibrant, desperately devoted. But beneath my porcelain exterior, I, too, am packed tight with sexual longing, with a craving for sexual release that my anger—pure, frustrated, helpless, perverse—only intensifies. I imagine Caspian’s dark head, Caspian’s looming shoulders, Caspian’s sure and rhythmic hips, and release—oh God,
release
!—ah, yes, gorgeous long-lived release is my revenge.

It’s only afterward, as the orgasm recedes and my husband slumps his panting body across mine, that the nausea climbs into my belly and the headache returns to throb between my ears.

Josephine.
Her name pops up like a cork into my hangover.

And I’m no better than Josephine, am I? I succumbed to the Hardcastle allure. I made my own bargain with the status and the promise of it all. The razzle-dazzle. Being Frank Hardcastle’s wife, being the chosen one of the chosen man. Pepper had me there.
Politicians are sexy, Tiny. It’s a fact.
The price of marrying the man everybody wants.

You don’t complain when the bill arrives. You rise above it all, pure and perfect.

I push Frank away and slide across the mattress to safety.

•   •   •

N
ow, when I say I’ve never been drunk before, I don’t mean to imply that I’ve never had a bit more than I should. Everyone does, don’t they, from time to time? I’ve gone to bed a little tipsy, I’ve woken up a bit hairy the next morning. But this is something else. I want to vomit.

I stagger around the bottom of the bed and find the bathroom, where I do just that. Vomit, into the elegant white porcelain toilet, just missing the elegant white marble floor. I kneel down carefully after the first heave or two, one tender patella and then the other, and I heave a little more, nothing too voluminous, until I reach a burning concentration of bile and call it a day.

How strange, that a body can feel so muddled and cloudy, and yet so exquisitely sensitized. The marble floor penetrates my kneecaps, cold and hard. A distant thumping from some other room knocks against my eardrums like an iron mallet. I can identify each individual follicle of hair on my skin, and they all hurt.

I grip the toilet seat and lever myself upward. I flush without looking and turn to the sink. A washcloth has been laid out on the counter, and a pair of toothbrushes on either side of a small untouched tube of Colgate. I run my furry tongue along my furry teeth and set to work, avoiding my reflection in the mirror, scrubbing my face with the dampened washcloth and scrubbing my teeth with a pungent excess of toothpaste.

I’m in the bathtub, taking a shower, curtain drawn tight, when Frank knocks on the door.

“Tiny? Is that you?” he asks, through the wood.

“Who else would it be?”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m perfectly fine, Frank.” It’s not my usual day to wash my hair, but I’m shampooing anyway, scrubbing away on my second
rinse, repeat
. As if I could just wash everything down the drain and leave myself unstained. Lily-white. Error free.

“Can I come in?”

“Suit yourself.”

The door squeaks. A pause of footsteps. The tinkle of rain on porcelain, and a deep Franklin sigh of relief.

I lean back my head, let the suds fall away, and reach for the cream rinse. Through the patter around me, I hear Frank open the faucet of the sink. The shower is hot and delicious. If I could fall asleep like this, standing here as the water sizzles down the corrupt channels of my body, I’d do it.

“Are you going to be out soon?” Frank asks, through a muddy foam of toothpaste.

“Not if I can help it.”

“Because the car arrives in half an hour.”

I lift my head out of the stream. “What car?”

The faucet goes off again.
Whoosh whoosh
. Frank spits into the sink.

“The car to Newbury Street,” he says, all clear now. “For the interview.”

•   •   •

T
he front door swings open as we climb up the steps of our house on Newbury Street, Frank and I, his hand at my back in case I should stumble.

Josephine pops into view. “Hello, there! Everything’s just about ready. Flowers everywhere, coffee’s brewing.”

“Thank you. I’ll have a cup right now, if you don’t mind.” I hand her my gloves and hat and keep my pocketbook tucked safely under my arm. “A teaspoon of sugar and just a splash of cream.”

She turns to my husband. “Can I get you anything, Frank? Coffee? I baked up a little cinnamon coffee cake, so the house smells welcoming.”

“Coffee cake! I’d love a slice.”

All the chirpy talk is jangling the interior of my skull. I skim through the hallway to the front parlor, which I left in spotless condition six weeks ago, lemon scented and beeswax polished, and everything remains exactly so, like fruit preserved in a jar, except for the fresh bouquets of yellow roses in my every available vase. A miasma of warm cinnamon invades the air, conquering the flowers.

The Hardcastles presented us with the town house on Newbury Street right after our honeymoon. A little gift, they said, to start out married life on the right foot, which is to say well shod. The joint came complete with Mrs. Crane, who had worked for Granny Hardcastle for years and was probably a spy. Or at least, she started out that way; she’s surely given it up long since. I’m just too dull.

Was
too dull.

I arrange my pocketbook on the table under the garden window, right in front of the wedding photos in their silver frames, and admire the geometry. The juxtaposition: innocent tulle against sultry leather.

Tiny Hardcastle has a secret.

Frank’s voice appears over my shoulder. “Are you okay, Tiny? You seem a little funny this morning.”

“I’m fine.”

He clears his throat. “Were you all right about . . . you know . . .”

“Making love?”

“I know it wasn’t very gentlemanly of me, but—”

I pick up the pocketbook again and tuck it back under my arm. “Can I ask you a question, Frank?”

“Sure.” He looks wary.

“What time
did
you get to bed last night?”

He shrugs his gray shoulders—he’s wearing a smart suit of light summer wool, the same color as a sky full of snow, above a pristine collared shirt and no tie—and shifts his vision to the window behind me. “I don’t know. Two o’clock, three maybe. You know how it is.”

“Yes, I know.”

His eyes return to mine, all blue and boyish, a bit bruised underneath the lower lashes. “But it won’t happen again. Never. I promise. This morning, when I looked over and saw you lying next to me—”

“You
promise
, do you?”

He holds up a hand. “Promise. You’re the most important thing, Tiny. We’re a team, aren’t we? The greatest team in the world.”

“I don’t know, Frank. Are we?”

“Don’t be sore. If you knew how sorry I am. I’m ashamed, if you want to know the truth. I acted like a spoiled kid instead of a husband.” He touches the pearls at my neck, smooths the skin of my collarbone. “Did you get back to your room all right without me?”

“Yes. Fine. Your father sent Caspian to make sure I behaved myself. I’d had a bit too much champagne, apparently. Caspian made me drink some water and take an aspirin.”

“Good old Cap.” Frank smiles the old smile and puts his hand on my shoulder. “So that’s what the problem is? A bit hungover?”

“Oopsy-daisy.”

“Poor Tiny.”

“Poor little me.”

His fingertips rub the back of my neck. Tender itty-bitty circles. “Well, try not to let it happen again, okay? You don’t want to get a reputation.”

“Oh, my goodness, no. God forbid
that
. If you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to freshen up before the reporter gets here.”

“Good idea.” Frank leans forward to kiss my forehead. As I turn to head down the hallway, he delivers my bottom a friendly conjugal pat.

The bathroom is clean and white and free of cinnamon, thank God. The door must have been closed while Josephine was baking her coffee cake in my oven. A bowl of yellow roses sits on the windowsill, quietly perfuming the room. I lean against the wall and draw deep gusts of air into my lungs. The pocketbook is clutched to my stomach. There are no cigarettes inside, just a manila envelope, still unopened, with my name on it.

You know how it is in families. Vivian was the smart daughter, Pepper was the beautiful daughter. I was the good daughter. Not that Vivian isn’t gorgeous, and Pepper isn’t terribly clever; not that I’m a dunce or a plain Jane. It’s just the division of labor. On the other hand, Vivian, the
soi-disant
smarty-pants, got Bs and Cs all the time, and once a horrifying D (it horrified
me,
anyway) which she taped to the wall of her bedroom in a place of pride:
I hated that teacher, I would have gone ahead and flunked, except I’d have had to take the damned class again
.

Me, though. My report cards were perfect, perfect, an uninterrupted column of A A A A into the distance. Except one quarter. My junior year at Nightingale-Bamford. I wrote an essay on a nice safe subject, Jane Austen and the marriage of convenience, boilerplate and elegant, not a word out of place, and the teacher returned it with a red letter C disfiguring the top margin.
Not original
, she wrote beneath, as if originality were the only thing that mattered. She wasn’t particularly impressed with my insights into Thackeray and Trollope, either, and when I returned home from school on the last day before the Christmas recess and saw my report card in its envelope (unopened, of course, since Mums couldn’t care less about things like grades, though I brought her my flawless reports every quarter, with a freshly shaken martini on the side) I knew that uninterrupted column of As would contain a most unwelcome intruder. Maybe a B, if I were lucky. More likely a C.