Leaning over she reached for Southern Comfort and then fell back on the bed. With her good hand, Kristina unscrewed the cap and lifted the bottle Comfort over her head. Closing her eyes, she poured the liquor over her face. Some of it got into her mouth, and some of it got into her nose. But some of it got on her cut, too. It stung then numbed her bruise, and that’s what she wanted. She poured the rest on her shoulder.
Kristina dragged her aching body from the bed and put on a track suit. The track suit’s biggest advantage was that it wasn’t the same jeans and sweatshirt in which she had faced the darkest unknown. Kristina had always believed one should be well rested and nude - as newborns - to face one’s darkest unknown, and she had been neither.
Her friends were waiting for her downstairs in the Hinman lounge. Albert was reading a textbook and taking notes. Jim was writing. Conni was biting her nails.
‘Hey,’ Kristina said weakly.
They looked up at her.
‘Krissy, what happened to you?’ Conni got up immediately and went to Kristina, peering up into her face. ‘Jim told me you were in an accident. I was so worried.’ But those were only words. Conni didn’t look worried. She looked bitter. She looked as if she was trying to contain anger with a fixed smile.
‘I’m all right,’ Kristina said. ‘Really. I’m fine now.’
‘Accident?’
‘Yeah,’ Kristina said. ‘I crashed the car.’ Kristina figured if she said that often enough, she soon wouldn’t want to cry.
She tried not to show she was unsteady on her feet. She felt herself moving with deliberate slowness toward the cake, as if in a fast-forward search on a cheap VCR, with all the horizontal lines on the screen. And soon maybe someone would say, ‘Geez, this is awful; I want a four-head model.’ And turn her in.
They all stood up, Aristotle barked, somebody lit the candles. Kristina didn’t count them, but it looked like a lot of candles. About twenty-two, she guessed. She noted that no one had baked her a cake. This cake had been bought at the Grand Union on Main Street. Pepperidge Farm German Chocolate Cake. So what if it was her favorite and everyone knew it. Nobody had baked her a cake.
Last September when it was Jim’s birthday, Kristina had knocked herself out to make his favorite lemon meringue pie. The egg whites took an hour and three attempts because she wanted to show Jim she cared.
Kristina stood in front of the lit candles, in front of the kind of cake she bought often for herself, and dimly heard someone say, ‘Make a wish, Kristina.’
She thought of her Mustang, and of Albert pressuring her to go to Canada and about to be three hundred miles away from her for Thanksgiving - about to be three hundred miles from her forever, really - and of Jim, wanting her all to himself and not wanting her at all, and of Howard in New York, and of her mother, lost, a million miles away, and of her dead father, and of herself nearly dead too, without a decent coat.
She thought of the pipe music from Edinburgh, and she closed her eyes, bent over the cake, and blew, thinking, I hope Donald and Patricia Moss let Evelyn keep her babies…
Then she sat down.
Aristotle nudged her in the calf. Kristina sluggishly cut the cake. She gave the first piece to Jim with a labor-camp forced smile. She gave the second piece to Conni without a smile. The third piece she gave to Albert without even looking at him.
Aristotle nudged her in the calf again. She smiled down at him under the table, cleaned the knife off with her thumb and index finger, and put the fingers under Aristotle’s nose to lick.
‘Krissy, aren’t you having any cake?’ Conni asked her.
The alcohol’s magic was wearing off. She wished she had some with her. Pursing her dry lips, she sat silently staring at the cake, feeling Aristotle’s tongue licking her fingers. After he was finished, she gave him some more. The dog liked store-bought German chocolate cake as much as the next Labrador. And Aristotle never got offended that someone hadn’t baked him a cake for his birthday or that he wasn’t going to Canada. Aristotle’s life was very simple. Three walks a day and a comfy bed to shed all over.
Kristina saw a card on the table but didn’t move toward it. Conni pushed the card across the table to Kristina.
‘This is from all of us,’ Conni said, smiling open-mouthed and happy. ‘Go ahead, go ahead, open it.’ Reaching under the table, she pulled out a bottle of Southern Comfort with a red bow taped to the side of it. ‘This is a little something from all of us, too,’ Conni said. ‘We thought you might like it.’
‘Conni’s idea,’ said Albert.
‘Not!’ said Conni in a high-pitched voice, laughing. ‘Yours!’
‘Not!’ said Albert, smiling.
‘Totally yours,’ said Conni again.
Why are they squabbling over whose idea it was? thought Kristina as she stared at the bottle. ‘You guys got me a bottle of liquor?’ she said incredulously.
Albert said, ‘We thought you might like it.’
Shrugging, Kristina opened the card, wishing she hadn’t shrugged. Her left shoulder burned with pain.
‘Wow,’ Kristina said without enthusiasm. Yesterday she would have been grateful for a fifteen-dollar bottle of Southern Comfort that would keep her going through Thanksgiving. If it hadn’t been for Kristina’s turning twenty-one, if it hadn’t been for the fact that she and Albert couldn’t go to Canada, and if it weren’t for the fact that she had almost died, Kristina Kim would have been delighted to get Southern Comfort from her closest friends.
‘No, guys, really,’ she said, staring into three drawn, disappointed faces. ‘Wow. I’m sorry. It’s a great present. I’m just hurting, my body hurts, you know. I had a little to drink a while ago to dull the pain, and it’s made me seem ungrateful, but it’s fantastic, really.’
She leaned over to one side and kissed Conni on the cheek. Then she leaned over to the other side and kissed Jim on the mouth. Albert was sitting across from her at the table, and she wasn’t about to get up, and he did not move either, so she just said, ‘Thanks, Albert,’ and he said, ‘Don’t mention it. It’s our pleasure.’
Conni asked, ‘Krissy, how are you going to play basketball? Look at your arm. What are you going to do? I’d go to the hospital or the infirmary if I were you, really, something, you know? ‘Cause you don’t want to just collapse or something, I mean, I’m just trying to be helpful.’
Kristina waved dismissively with her good arm. ‘This is my dribbling arm. I don’t need the other arm.’
‘You need it to shoot the ball,’ said Albert.
‘I’ll shoot it with one hand,’ said Kristina. ‘UPenn needs a handicap.’
‘You’re not that good,’ said Jim. He had said little.
‘Oh, yes, I am,’ said Kristina, managing a small, genuine smile. She didn’t want to tell them how badly frightened she was about her injuries, about what they might mean for basketball.
Livening up a little, Kristina talked about the Christmas tree going up in the middle of the Dartmouth Green, though Jim was Jewish and didn’t care much about the tree, so they talked about Schindler’s List instead, and how they couldn’t wait to see it. They talked about Lorena Bobbitt’s unmanning her sleeping husband, and about the Menendez brothers levying their unique brand of justice on their parents in a home-style execution, ‘chunky-style,’ as Albert pointed out.
‘Well, you know,’ Conni said, ‘there’s speculation that one of the brothers was - is - gay, and he didn’t want the other brother to find out, and the father apparently was threatening to out him, so -’
‘Yeah, but even if it’s true, why did the other ungay brother need to participate?’ asked Albert. ‘It’s bullshit, if you ask me. Frankie is not going around killing one or both of his parents.’
‘Bad example,’ said Kristina. ‘Frankie is an only child.’
‘He’s just too busy at DAGLO to kill his parents,’ said Conni, referring to Dartmouth Affiliated Gay and Lesbian Organization.
They all smiled.
‘Don’t be so sure,’ said Jim. ‘Who knows what kind of secrets the family may have had? Nobody knows what’s inside a family.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Kristina quietly. She hurt all over.
‘That’s bullshit,’ said Albert. ‘It’s one thing if you’re burying the corpse of your sainted twin brother in the backyard, but you don’t just summarily execute two people in cold blood unless you’re after something.’
‘Unless you’re really sick, you mean?’ said Conni.
‘No, not sick,’ said Albert. ‘Just… detached. From themselves, from their parents. You have to forget a part of yourself to do murder.’
‘A part of yourself most people don’t forget,’ said Kristina.
‘I don’t know. Maybe,’ Albert allowed, staring at Kristina. ‘But who are we to judge other people, though? Are we so perfect?’
‘Yes,’ said Conni, smiling.
Kristina couldn’t smile at all. ‘We know what is right and what is wrong. Shooting your parents is wrong.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Albert, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Nietzsche says if there is one absolute truth it’s that there are no moral facts.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Kristina quietly. ‘I don’t buy it. There are. Moral truth is not an illusion, no matter what Nietzsche says. There are things that are categorically wrong. Killing your parents has to be one of them.’
Albert said, ‘The brothers maintain the parents abused them.’ When Kristina didn’t answer, he said, ‘See, there’s always another side.’
Mock-shivering, Conni said, ‘Brrrr, great conversation, guys. Myself, I love my parents. I couldn’t even imagine conspiring with Douglas to shoot them. Though I’m not so sure about Douglas.’
They all laughed. Conni glanced at Albert, rubbing his arm lovingly. ‘Must be hard for you, Albert,’ she said. ‘No parents.’
Albert said, ‘And no religion, too.’ They were all quiet. He shrugged. ‘It’s been too long. College has a way of making you forget the outside world. Life is just this and nothing else.’
Conni touched Albert’s upper arm and said affectionately, ‘Your tattoo, though. You’ll never forget your mom with that thing on you forever.’
Albert raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought you liked my tattoo, Conn,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it roguish and devilish?’
‘Oh, yes, oh, yes.’ She giggled and blushed and widened her blue eyes at him.
Jim went to get more beers, and Kristina fed Aristotle some more cake. Conni said, not looking at anyone in particular, T guess that’s why you guys seem so close,’ and, without missing a beat, without pausing, without inflection, ‘Both of you not having moms and all.’
‘I have a mother,’ said Kristina. ‘She’s just very sick.’ She saw them glance awkwardly away from her. Jim returned with beer.
‘Krissy, come with us, me and Albert,’ Conni offered, trying to sound chipper. ‘My parents will be so happy to see you again. Come on. It’ll be fun. If there’s snow, we’ll go sledding down to the Sound. We’ll build ice statues.’
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Albert. ‘No ice statues! Remember she built an ice penis?’
Conni laughed hysterically. ‘Yeah, wasn’t that great?’
‘Oh, yeah, your parents really thought so.’
‘Oh, never mind them, they love Kristina. Come, Krissy.’
Kristina shook her head. ‘I think I’m going to stay put.’
‘Stay put?’ said Jim.
Kristina explained about Evelyn Moss’s babies. ‘Plus I got a game on Saturday.’
‘With that arm?’ Jim scoffed. ‘Yeah, in your dreams.’
‘Just you watch,’ Kristina said defiantly.
‘Well, when were you going to tell me, Kristina?’ said Jim, tapping loudly on the table. ‘It’s Monday night already. I thought you were coming with me.’
‘I can’t Jimbo,’ said Kristina, her shoulder burning. ‘Evelyn is having her babies any minute. I promised her I’d be there.’
‘As you wish,’ Jim said irritably.
‘Go with Jim, Kristina,’ said Albert. ‘Evelyn’s got parents and siblings. She doesn’t need you.’
‘Yes, she does,’ Kristina answered, offended. And I need her.
Jim said without turning to look at Kristina, ‘Do you want me to take you to the infirmary? Maybe you’ve suffered brain damage.’
‘How could you tell?’ said Conni and laughed at her own joke. ‘But seriously, Kristina, you should go.’
Albert stayed quiet.
‘Says who?’ Kristina asked.
‘If I were you, I’d go,’ Conni said, opening another can of Bud for herself. ‘What if something horrible happened?’
‘Something horrible did happen,’ said Kristina. ‘An oncoming car hit me. My Mustang went off the embankment, turned over once, I think it was once, and landed. I’m still not sure if I’m alive or dead.’
Jim reached out and caressed her neck. ‘Go to the infirmary,’ he suggested. ‘They’ll tell you.’
‘They won’t tell me, they’ll arrest me for drunk driving.’
‘Were you?’ asked Conni, cautiously. ‘Were you… drinking?’
‘Of course not! But they’re not going to know that.’
‘So go tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow I’ll be all better.’
Leaning over the table with her elbows, Conni said, ‘Seriously, Krissy, weren’t you scared? Sounds like a nasty accident.’
‘Scared? Yes, I was scared. And it was nasty. I mean, think about it.’ Kristina could barely get the words out. ‘Somebody could be coming right now to tell you I was dead. The police. Dead. I mean, what would you do?’
‘Finish the cake?’ offered Jim. Nobody laughed.
‘Jim!’ said Conni. ‘Krissy, it would be awful, just awful. But don’t think like that. Think positive. You’re okay, you’re not dead.’
‘But I could’ve been dead. Easily.’
‘It wasn’t your time to die,’ said Jim, tapping on his bottle of Miller.
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I didn’t just avoid an accident. I was in an accident. Remember the driver’s ed course? Head-on collisions result in the most fatalities of any type of car accident. Why aren’t I dead?’
‘Jim’s right,’ said Conni. ‘It wasn’t time yet.’
‘How do you know? Maybe I was meant to die.’
‘No.’ Jim tapped on his beer. ‘If it was time you’d die.’
Slowly, Kristina said, ‘How do you know - when… when it’s time?’
‘You don’t. You just die.’
Kristina shuddered. ‘See, that’s just awful. That’s the most awful thing. Never knowing. At any moment, you could die, and you just don’t know. And why? Why would you die? I mean, I know why old people die, but why would I die?’
‘You didn’t,’ said Jim, getting up and throwing his Miller away. ‘You didn’t because you’re too young to die, and it wasn’t time. You’ll now live till ninety telling all your great-grandkids about the time you almost bought the farm on your twenty-first birthday.’
‘Yeah, great, maybe a bedtime story,’ said Kristina.
The conversation wound down. They talked about the promised snow-storm - twenty to twenty-eight inches starting tomorrow afternoon and snowing well into the night and the following morning. Many people had already left to beat the snow. Others were leaving a day later to wait it out. Kristina asked Conni when they were leaving. Wednesday morning, Conni replied.
Kristina could barely get up, and when she did, she noticed Albert’s fists were clenched. Unclench your stupid fists, she wanted to tell him. Who is he so angry at? Jim? Conni, for believing everything, for buying everything? At her? For not going to Canada with him, as if going meant solving everything, instead of solving nothing?
They all cleaned up, except for Kristina, whose arm was starting to hurt with an intensity alien to her.
When they all got up to leave, Kristina bravely said, ‘I’ll walk the dog.?
??
‘I’ll walk him,’ Jim said quickly. Kristina had been hoping Albert would offer, but she guessed that was impossible after last night. Besides, she and Jim could use the time to make up or to fight; both were equally likely. Kristina wished that tonight she could be left alone to lick her wounds.
‘G’night, Kristina,’ said Albert. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘Happy birthday,’ Kristina repeated. Inside her was a welt of pain, a knot that tied her up and broke her and spilled what was left all over the floor.
She stumbled out of the kitchen with Jim close behind her.
She wished she could tell Jim what she was feeling. The confusion, the fear, the aching, and the sense of a short-lived life. Kristina didn’t want to be alone.
She wanted Albert.
She wanted to feel as she had always felt with him, that she wasn’t alone in the world, that there was someone who was with her, and that someone was the person she loved most. And that person was Albert.
Kristina wanted Albert. But Albert was with Conni.
‘Jim? Would you please walk Aristotle tonight?’ she asked. She looked down at her ragged old sneakers. ‘Please.’
Jim walked Aristotle, and Kristina didn’t come with him. She said she wasn’t feeling well, and that was true, but it was also true that she didn’t want to be out there in the dark. While he was gone, Kristina slowly took off her clothes and haphazardly changed the sheets.
When Jim returned he had to put on a clean pillowcase because Kristina couldn’t do it. He didn’t undress and they didn’t talk. He just sat on the bed and looked at Aristotle, while Kristina walked around the room. It was better to move around - she didn’t feel as stiff as when she was sitting. After ten minutes of circling around, she sat gingerly in the lounge chair. It still smelled like Albert.
Kristina sat mutely in her chair. Maybe I should go to the infirmary, she thought. My body, my body. It’s aching, it’s hurting bad.
Finally Jim looked at Kristina, coldly. ‘You’ve been drinking, Krissy.’
‘So have you.’ she replied, rubbing her rib, her leg, her head. ‘Three Millers.’ Even when he was upset with her he couldn’t stop calling her Krissy, not Kristina, not Kris, not honey, not pumpkin, but Krissy.