The Last Time I Saw You

  “Tell you what, I’ll help you,” Einer says. “All right? I will help you. I’ll be right by your side! I’ll be the commander and you be the infantry, by God!”

  “Einer?” Mary Alice says.

  He turns to her, his face flushed. “Look here, Mary Alice. Have you heard this man’s story? Do you have any idea what he’s going through?”

  “Are you okay?”

  He stares at Mary Alice, and then leans back in his chair. “I have never been finer. I’ve got a mission. I and my friend Pete. Which we are going to run right after I have one more martini.”

  Mary Alice puts her hand on Einer’s arm and leans in close to him. “Einer, please don’t. You’ve had too much already. I know you’re having fun, but I’m afraid of what might happen if you drink another martini. Please don’t do that. I feel responsible for you.”

  “You’re not responsible for me! Rita’s responsible for me! That’s why I pay her, is to be responsible for me!”

  “Rita is out on a date tonight! I’m responsible for you until she comes home! And I don’t know when that’s going to be! She still hasn’t called!”

  Einer squints at her, and she knows he’s thinking about whether or not to fight her on this one. But finally he says, “Oh, all right. All right! Let me get back to my friend now, you don’t have to babysit me. I’m through drinking, all right?”

  “I’m not!” Pete says. “I’m going for a refill. Mary Alice?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Ben?”

  “Just another Coke, thanks.”

  Mary Alice leans back in her chair to let the server remove her dinner plate. “Still working on this?” he’d asked, and Mary Alice had, as usual, despaired of hearing that particular turn of phrase. Whatever happened to “Still enjoying this?” or “Have you finished?” or “May I remove this?” “Still working on this” always reminds her of pigs at a trough. Oh, but why fuss about such things? She supposes she’s getting old and cranky.

  She watches Pete as he talks to this person and that on the way to the bar. He glad-hands all the men, charms all the women. The man holds his liquor well, she has to give him that. Except for an overemphasis on certain words, he seems fine. He just showed everyone at their table photos of his children, of his wife and himself. Mary Alice, aware now of what’s going on, feels bad for Pete. It can’t be easy, sitting there in tacky golf clothes, across the room from a man who is dressed in a well-made suit and overtly courting your wife. She has switched from sneaking looks at Lester and Candy to sneaking looks at this Fred person. He has kept his arm around Nora the whole night, except when he cut his meat. And now she sees Pete go over to the table and say something to Fred and Nora. Whatever he said makes Nora look down and Fred leap up. Nora grabs Fred’s arm, and Fred flings her hand off angrily, then steps closer to Pete and punches him in the face. Someone screams and the room goes deathly quiet.

  Pete carefully puts the drinks he’s still holding down on the table. Before he can straighten up, Fred has punched him again, hard enough that Pete actually falls onto the floor. “Stop it!” Nora yells, she and several others, and now people are all standing, trying to see what’s happening. And then Einer takes off in his wheelchair.

  “Einer!” Mary Alice calls after him. “Come back here!”

  It’s useless; the man is hell-bent on rushing to the aid of his new friend. Mary Alice looks around for Lester. He’s not a doctor, but he’s a vet; if something happens, he’ll be better than nothing. But Lester is not at his table any longer, nor is Candy Sullivan. Mary Alice doesn’t see either of them anywhere. When did they leave?

  She looks back at Einer and sees him trying to stand, then giving up and instead trying to kick Fred. And then he suddenly slides out of his wheelchair.

  Mary Alice tries to push her way over to him. “Hey! Hey!” the DJ says. “Let’s everybody calm down, now. Just calm down.”

  People start talking; it gets louder and louder. Someone says, “What’s going on?” and someone else yells, “Is there a doctor in the house?”

  “I’m perfectly all right!” she hears Einer say, and then she finally reaches him. He’s resting on his elbows, his hair sticking straight up, and Pete is lying flat beside him. And then Pete slowly gets up and wipes the blood from his upper lip. He bends down to lift Einer back into his chair, and then wheels him toward their table, saying, “It’s okay, everybody, it’s all over. No problem. No problem.”

  But when they get back to the table, Mary Alice sees that Einer is not all right. He’s pale, and she sees him putting his finger to his wrist, checking his pulse. She grabs her purse. “I’m taking Einer to the hospital,” she says, and Pete says, “I’m coming,” and Einer says, “I’m not going anywhere until this thing gets settled! Now, let’s re-strategize!”

  Mary Alice leans into his face and says, “Einer? We’re going to the hospital,” and he says, “Fine. Suit yourself,” and gingerly touches his cheek, where a bruise is already beginning to form.

  In the parking lot, Pete says, “I’m awfully sorry, Mary Alice,” and she shrugs. Then—who can account for why?—she starts laughing. And then Einer does. And then Pete does. “Well, that was a good time,” Einer says.

  They drive the short distance to the hospital, and the ER is empty, so Einer is brought into the examining room right away. Pete and Mary Alice sit quietly in the waiting room. Mary Alice points to a new stain on Pete’s shirt and says, “Is that blood?”

  Pete puts his hand to his nose and then looks at his shirt. “Guess so.”

  “I’ll bet Einer would lend you a shirt.”

  “I don’t think it would fit,” Pete says. And then, looking down at his chest again, he says, “Ah, what the hell. Badge of honor.”

  They sit quietly for another minute or two, and then Pete says, “Damn. We missed dessert.”

  Mary Alice smiles. “I know.”

  “It was red velvet cake with cream cheese icing, too.”

  “Yes.”

  Pete crosses his arms and bounces his knee, looks around the waiting room. Scratches the side of his neck. Then, his face brightening, he asks, “Would you like a candy bar? There’s a vending machine down the hall. I saw it when we came in.”

  Mary Alice smiles. “Why, yes, I would. I would like a Snickers with almonds. Or if they don’t have that, Oreos. Or if they don’t have that, Skittles. And also I would like you to help me get Einer home.”

  “Done,” Pete says, and heads off for the vending machine, and Mary Alice picks up Vogue magazine, which she has never in her life looked at. Never. But it’s good, quite interesting, not the superficial waste of paper she always thought it was.

  In a few minutes, here comes Pete back into the waiting room. He hands her a Snickers. Then Oreos. Then Skittles.

  SIXTEEN

  “BUT CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?” DOROTHY SAYS. “CAN YOU BELIEVE how he just made up that story about drinking beer with Walter? Who would ever think that in addition to everything else Pete Decker would turn out to be such a mensch! I wanted so much to tell him how wonderful it was, what he did. And now he’s gone! Everyone’s leaving, and I won’t have had a chance to say one word to him!”

  “Everyone is not leaving,” Linda says. “And I’m sure Pete will be back. Why don’t you just relax.”

  Well. Easy for Linda to say. She’s on her fourth drink. Judy has had more than that. Dorothy has not had one bit of alcohol because she has to pay attention to what she’s doing. If Pete does come back, he’s likely to be upset. She’ll need to have her wits about her. Oh, the nerve of that old man showing up and wrecking everything! Why in the world would Mary Alice Mayhew bring an old man to the reunion? Aren’t they all old enough? Do they really need to be reminded of the wizened old creatures they’ll become in fewer years than any of them wants to admit? An old man in a wheelchair, no less! Say, that’s a sexy thing to see! That’ll put you in a great mood! Maybe they should have decorated with anti-embolism stockings, with
colostomy bags!

  She checks the entrance and then looks around the room yet again, to see if Pete and stupid Mary Alice have slipped back in without her noticing them. No. Well, the DJ is supposed to play for another hour. She supposes there is still time.

  If Pete does come back tonight, Dorothy hopes Nora will be gone. Her date keeps yawning (without covering his mouth), and Nora has stopped chatting with everyone and is just sitting at the table stirring her drink with a swizzle stick, staring down into it as though it’s a crystal ball. Dorothy wishes it were a crystal ball, and Nora would be seeing some gypsy wearing big hoop earrings and saying, You will soon be leaving the room. Dorothy needs time to get Pete to focus only on her; she doesn’t need his eyeballs shifting around all over the place, trying to keep track of what Nora is doing. Can’t he see that they’re over? Dorothy can see it! Everyone can! Where is his pride? Spend a little time with Dorothy and he’ll get his pride back, no problem!

  Candy Sullivan has disappeared. And with Lester Hessenpfeffer! “Who’d a thunk it?” Judy said, when Dorothy remarked on their absence.

  “Well, he is good-looking,” Linda said. “And he’s a vet. He probably makes a pile of dough.”

  Judy’s nose wrinkled. “I know, but he’s still…”

  Linda shrugged and looked back toward where Candy and Lester had been sitting. “I don’t know,” she said, kind of sadly. And then, “I’m going to fix my face. You guys want to come?”

  Judy did, but Dorothy stayed put, even though she could have used a little pee. It was important not to miss Pete if he came back. She needed to be the first one up to him so he wouldn’t encounter any other distractions. She hoped the old man got admitted to the hospital and Mary Alice went home. Though even if she came back, she’d be no problem.

  Dorothy had done a beautiful job of ignoring Pete when she first saw him, but he saw her, all right. Saw her. He couldn’t help but see how nice she looked. No one could help but see that. Oh, that makeup person should win an Academy Award. At first, she was being all listless and kind of snotty, but then Dorothy confided in her about how this was her night to try to recapture an old flame, and boom! the girl went into high gear. She was a very young blond woman with three-inch-long black roots, wearing no makeup at all, which certainly gave Dorothy pause, you can just imagine. But it turned out she knew her stuff. Boy, did she. And she made Dorothy look like a million bucks, both Judy and Linda agreed.

  “You look twenty years younger!” Judy had said, which was not true, of course. Maybe five years younger, though, especially if she remembered to keep her head held high.

  And then hadn’t Judy and Linda done just what she’d thought they’d do, and gotten made up themselves. But they hadn’t looked as good as Dorothy. The makeup girl had to rush because she had other appointments coming: there was a formal that night at their old high school. Oh, the poignancy! Dorothy had wanted to take those young girls aside and give them a little talking-to. “Girls, don’t do what I did. Listen to me. I was you once, going to dances at this very same school, full of hope and happiness, and then my life went straight to hell. Just watch out, girls. Just be careful. Think about things before you do them, will you promise me that?” She’d seen it just like in a movie, the girls all quiet and dewy-eyed, staring up at her, so grateful to her for taking the time. Though that probably wouldn’t have happened. Probably what would have happened if they’d listened to her at all was that they’d have told her to fuck herself. Or sat there texting each other the whole time she was talking, saying things like Gag me w spn. Cn u belv ths fat cow?

  But anyway, because of those bratty girls, Judy and Linda hadn’t gotten the full treatment, which included partial false lashes, and that was a pity, because what a difference they made. When Dorothy had gone up to her room to get ready, she’d hardly taken her eyes off herself, and she wasn’t being vain, no she wasn’t, she was just admiring craftsmanship, or art, or something. She’d decided not to wash the makeup off that night; she wanted to have the same face at the breakfast. She’d asked the makeup girl if there was something like hair spray for the face and the girl had said, “Oh, don’t worry, unless you use a ton of cold cream, this stuff isn’t going anywhere. It could even last a couple of days. I mean, don’t rub it real hard or anything.” Then Dorothy had gotten a little nervous, thinking of Pete and how he might inadvertently do that, he might even give her whisker burn. But he’d seemed clean-shaven, and anyway, he wouldn’t be spending that much time on her face, Dorothy isn’t that crazy about kissing, if the truth be told. She’s never admitted it to anyone, but she could do without it. All that parrying and thrusting and saliva. Just get to it, is Dorothy’s policy. She likes her nipples to be kissed first, that’s what she likes, she’ll show him. And then a straight shot to the nether regions. And she’ll give back, of course. You don’t get to be this old and not know a thing or two about a thing or two. As far as she’s concerned, they can skip the old in-and-out. She never did care for that so much, either, and besides, now it kind of hurts. From what she can recall. If her long-term memory serves her well.

  The DJ puts on Wilson Pickett’s “In the Midnight Hour,” and Dorothy’s hips start undulating in her chair in spite of herself, moving back and forth in the time-honored rhythm. Oh, was she a sexy young thing the last time she danced to that! She feels a tapping on her shoulder and turns to sees Ben Small.

  “Dorothy Shauman,” he says.

  “Ben Small.” She smiles in what she hopes won’t appear to be an artificial way, even though it is.

  “May I have this dance?”

  She starts to refuse, but what the heck. Ben wasn’t so bad. She’ll dance a bit, and still be able to watch for the whole reason she even came to this reunion.

  She and Ben walk out to the dance floor and when Wilson sings, “and do allll the things I told you,” she and Ben sing along. He’s not so bad. You’d never know he’d had such acne. He asks her something, and she stops dancing and steps up closer so she can hear him. She thinks he’s asked her if she’s married, and she looks at him more carefully. She decides she’ll go out to dinner or a show with him, if he lives anywhere nearby. No sex, no. Not interested.

  But what he asks is if Judy is married.

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so interested?” Dorothy says, and walks off the dance floor.

  She gets her purse and goes out into the hallway, blinking back tears. She stands there for a minute, trying to calm down, and then calls her daughter. “Nothing is working out!” she tells Hilly. “Pete isn’t even here and no one is interested in me at all!”

  “Oh, come on, Ma,” her daughter says.

  “No, it’s terrible, Hilly! I shouldn’t have come. This was such a waste of time and money!”

  “Have you had a drink?” Hilly asks, and Dorothy says, “No! I have to stay sober!”

  “Why?”

  Dorothy stares out the large plate-glass window of the hotel into the darkness. “I don’t know.”

  “I think you’re just nervous,” Hilly says. “Just get a drink and sit down and relax. You don’t have to control everything, you know. You can’t, anyway! Just sit down and have a drink and see what happens. And try to enjoy what happens, even if it’s not exactly what you planned. If you would just stop trying to control everything, I think you would find that your life is much easier.”

  “I guess.”

  “It’s true, Ma. I had to learn that myself. You know what I did the other day? I told Mark he could pick out the cake totally without me. ‘Surprise me,’ I told him. And I was a nervous wreck because the cake is such a symbol, you know. Such a centerpiece! But he picked out the loveliest cake I ever saw. It’s very simple and understated, botanic-inspired accents in the frosting, and groups of nasturtiums here and there. And you know what flavor it is? Orange! I would never have picked that, but I tasted it, and it’s the most delicate, delicious thing! Now I’m thinking about letting him pick the bridesmaids’ gifts. Yo
u see? Sometimes you just have to step back and get out of your own way, and things start coming to you.”

  “Orange cake?” Dorothy says.

  “It’s delicious,” Hilly says. “And Ma? See? My cake is not your decision. Your job will be to eat it and enjoy it. Or not.”

  “Okay,” Dorothy says.

  “I’m just trying to help you.”

  “You did help, Hilly. Thank you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Dorothy snaps her phone shut and heads back to the ballroom. She walks quickly over to the bar. Hilly is right. Enough is enough. What if Pete doesn’t come until the breakfast tomorrow? She tells the bartender she wants vodka, straight up and cold. When he hands her the glass and tells her that will be seven dollars, her perfectly colored and arched eyebrows go up.

  “Seven dollars?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She holds up the glass to eye level. “Tell you what,” she says. “You put some vodka in this glass, and I might give you seven dollars.”

  He hesitates, then adds a tiny bit more vodka to the glass. And she gives him seven dollars exactly. Some people tip no matter what. Not Dorothy. She tips according to how well she was served. Which is what tips are for. Which everyone seems to forget.

  Back at her table, she takes out the mirror from her purse and inspects her face to see if tearing up smeared her eye makeup. No, thank God. She sees Linda on the other side of the room, blabbing away, apparently having a bang-up time. She crosses her legs, swings the top one in time to the music, drinks her vodka. She forces herself to keep a little smile on her face though she does not feel like smiling. She watches Ben Small and Judy dancing. For an artsy-fartsy type he certainly has no sense of style on the dance floor. Judy throws back her head and laughs, and Dorothy throws back her drink and then, teeth clenched, goes up to the bar for another.