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Chapter XL
The dinner had begun on a horrible note. Alex and Vivian were dining with Vernon and Sophia Pomerleau and the Smythe-Huntingtons. They’d rented a private house on a tiny island just off of Martha’s Vineyard and hired a caterer. It was meant to be a posh, yet intimate party. Liquor had started flowing before the food, and Alex and Allen Smythe-Huntington were already talking loudly as the salad arrived. Vivian, Sophia, Vernon and Allen’s wife Gloria, though not as inebriated as Alex and Allen, were nevertheless working on their second cocktail.
Raising his highball glass, Allen sputtered out a toast. “We need to get out of Iraq – so that we can get on with invading Iran and Syria. We look much better bombing and winning than we do pissing on guerrilla warfare.”
Right then Vivian lost her appetite. While the rest of the table cheered, she put down her glass and dropped her eyes towards the table.
Allen’s voice was rough. “What’s the matter, Sweetheart? Is the scary old conversation too rough for you?” Here everyone at the table burst into unchecked laughter.
Vivian just stared unsure what to say. The laughter died down and everyone at the table turned to watch her discomfort. “I can’t see toasting death,” she finally said.
“Your wife sweet on Muslims, Alex?” asked Allen.
“Sweetheart needs an attitude adjustment.” Vernon pointed at Vivian with his highball glass. The ice cubes clinked in emphasis. Alex laughed. He’d drunk enough liquor that anything seemed funny, especially his wife’s discomfort.
“You’re all disgusting when you’re drunk,” said Vivian.
“Hey, Alex can’t you handle your woman?” This came from Vernon. And again the table laughed. Alex had been sipping Wild Turkey neat. As the conversation turned on him, he downed the rest of his drink with one swallow and slammed the glass on the table.
“God damn it Vivian. Shut your foul mouth and behave yourself.” He smacked her cheek with his open hand in a display of bravado.
“You show her,” said Vernon.
“Now shut the fuck up, you understand! Just don’t say anything else for the rest of the evening or you’ll know what sorry means.” Alex picked up the empty glass and slammed it hard on the table. “Barkeep! Another drink over here! Customers are dying of thirst.”
From that point on the evening deteriorated. Their conversation became more vicious, dragging itself out until two in the morning.
As Alex drove home Vivian sat silent willing Alex to stay on the road as if her concentration were steadying Alex’s driving.
And out of the corner of his eye, he could see the tension in Vivian’s face. He sensed her fear and it fed his bravado. Suddenly Alex was amused. And he swerved the car, then righted it making the back wheels spin into fishtails.
Vivian gasped aloud, and Alex laughed. “When are you going to learn to trust me?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, and Alex jerked the wheel one more time chuckling as the tires squealed. “Let’s just get home,” Vivian said finally. “We’re both tired and angry and slightly drunk. We can talk tomorrow.”
“You self-righteous cow,” said Alex. “Do you know…do you...do you have any idea who those people are? Compared to them, the President is a…a…a slimy-toad lackey. These are the ones who really run the country. Hell, they just about run the whole damn world. And they can make me very rich and, and very suc…successful or they can have my ass on a sling if my dumb-ass wife offends them, and I’ll spend the rest of my life scrubbing toilets.”
Vivian laughed − a nervous laugh. “I scrubbed toilets back in college.” The wrong thing to say, but there were no right things, and silence wasn’t working either. Alex’s speech alarmed her. Usually Alex could hold his liquor, but on this night, he was shouting and slurring words.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He stomped hard on the brake, enjoying the high-pitched scraping and the car’s crazy jerk reaction to his foot. He turned off his headlights. The road was dark.
“I’m sorry. Please let’s just get going before someone rear-ends us.”
Chapter XL
The dinner had begun on a horrible note. Alex and Vivian were dining with Vernon and Sophia Pomerleau and the Smythe-Huntingtons. They’d rented a private house on a tiny island just off of Martha’s Vineyard and hired a caterer. It was meant to be a posh, yet intimate party. Liquor had started flowing before the food, and Alex and Allen Smythe-Huntington were already talking loudly as the salad arrived. Vivian, Sophia, Vernon and Allen’s wife Gloria, though not as inebriated as Alex and Allen, were nevertheless working on their second cocktail.
Raising his highball glass, Allen sputtered out a toast. “We need to get out of Iraq – so that we can get on with invading Iran and Syria. We look much better bombing and winning than we do pissing on guerrilla warfare.”
Right then Vivian lost her appetite. While the rest of the table cheered, she put down her glass and dropped her eyes towards the table.
Allen’s voice was rough. “What’s the matter, Sweetheart? Is the scary old conversation too rough for you?” Here everyone at the table burst into unchecked laughter.
Vivian just stared unsure what to say. The laughter died down and everyone at the table turned to watch her discomfort. “I can’t see toasting death,” she finally said.
“Your wife sweet on Muslims, Alex?” asked Allen.
“Sweetheart needs an attitude adjustment.” Vernon pointed at Vivian with his highball glass. The ice cubes clinked in emphasis. Alex laughed. He’d drunk enough liquor that anything seemed funny, especially his wife’s discomfort.
“You’re all disgusting when you’re drunk,” said Vivian.
“Hey, Alex can’t you handle your woman?” This came from Vernon. And again the table laughed. Alex had been sipping Wild Turkey neat. As the conversation turned on him, he downed the rest of his drink with one swallow and slammed the glass on the table.
“God damn it Vivian. Shut your foul mouth and behave yourself.” He smacked her cheek with his open hand in a display of bravado.
“You show her,” said Vernon.
“Now shut the fuck up, you understand! Just don’t say anything else for the rest of the evening or you’ll know what sorry means.” Alex picked up the empty glass and slammed it hard on the table. “Barkeep! Another drink over here! Customers are dying of thirst.”
From that point on the evening deteriorated. Their conversation became more vicious, dragging itself out until two in the morning.
As Alex drove home Vivian sat silent willing Alex to stay on the road as if her concentration were steadying Alex’s driving.
And out of the corner of his eye, he could see the tension in Vivian’s face. He sensed her fear and it fed his bravado. Suddenly Alex was amused. And he swerved the car, then righted it making the back wheels spin into fishtails.
Vivian gasped aloud, and Alex laughed. “When are you going to learn to trust me?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, and Alex jerked the wheel one more time chuckling as the tires squealed. “Let’s just get home,” Vivian said finally. “We’re both tired and angry and slightly drunk. We can talk tomorrow.”
“You self-righteous cow,” said Alex. “Do you know…do you...do you have any idea who those people are? Compared to them, the President is a…a…a slimy-toad lackey. These are the ones who really run the country. Hell, they just about run the whole damn world. And they can make me very rich and, and very suc…successful or they can have my ass on a sling if my dumb-ass wife offends them, and I’ll spend the rest of my life scrubbing toilets.”
Vivian laughed − a nervous laugh. “I scrubbed toilets back in college.” The wrong thing to say, but there were no right things, and silence wasn’t working either. Alex’s speech alarmed her. Usually Alex could hold his liquor, but on this night, he was shouting and slurring words.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He stomped hard on the brake, enjoying the high-pitched scraping and the car’s crazy jerk reaction to his foot. He turned off his headlights. The road was dark.
“I’m sorry. Please let’s just get going before someone rear-ends us.”
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