Aftermirth (7 page)

“No,” I said, already laughing.

“They decapitated each other!”

Hilarity: shrieking, roaring, belly clutching.

“Okay, I've got another one,” George said. “There was this zookeeper in Germany tending a constipated elephant. He'd dosed it with laxatives and fed it a whole bunch of prunes, but nothing was working. He was trying to give it an enema when it finally let loose. The eruption knocked the zookeeper over. He struck his head, passed out and drowned in a sea of elephant shit.”

More uproar. My sides felt like someone was taking a machete to them. I couldn't remember ever laughing so hard in all my life. “Did you see the one about the stripper?” I gasped. Three head shakes. “She was working a bachelor party, and they put her inside one of those big fake cardboard cakes. The toasting went on for a long while, and then the best man finally cued the music.” I sang it: “
Da dum bum bum, da dum bum bum.
But she didn't appear. Thinking she might have fallen asleep, he knocked on the side of the cake, but still no stripper.”

“She'd suffocated in there, right?” said Elena in a small voice.

It was horrible; it wasn't the least bit funny. Suddenly no one was laughing anymore, and we were all looking anywhere but at each other. Catherine hiccuped and started crying again. “I'm a terrible human being,” she said. “We're all terrible.”

“No you're not,” I said. “You needed that. We all did.” Silence from the others. “Didn't we?” I asked, elbowing Elena.

“Yes, we did,” she said, and I could tell she meant it. George seconded her, then produced a handkerchief and passed it to Catherine. She wiped her face, blew her nose and crumpled the cloth in her fist.

“It's just so ridiculous,” she said. “I mean, for crying out loud. Butted to death?
Hic!
Kneaded to death? Immolated because you blew a bubble? Electrocuted by your bra?”

We sat there quietly for a moment, collecting ourselves, and then Catherine asked where the restroom was. George escorted her out, and Elena went with them. Izzy came over and jumped up without invitation onto George's immaculate white upholstery, and I let him settle his head in my lap. The pugs might be apoplectic when they smelled him later, but I didn't think our host would mind.

The three of them returned, George carrying a pitcher of fresh Bloodies. He filled all our glasses, then lifted his own.

“To Cal,” George said.

“And Santa,” Catherine said, lifting hers.

“And Jess,” Elena said.

“And Shane,” I said, full circle.

We drank and made awkward, sporadic small talk, like the kind you make with a stranger you had sex with the night before who ended up spending the night instead of leaving afterward like they were supposed to. I finished my drink in record time and looked inquiringly at Elena. She nodded and we stood.

“We're going to get going,” I said. “Catherine, can we give you a lift to the airport?”

“My flight's not till tomorrow,” she replied, “but you can drop me at my hotel. I made a reservation at a B and B on the Battery.”

“It's pronounced ‘BAT-tree', my dear,” said George, “and it's an overpriced tourist trap. I wouldn't dream of letting you stay there, or anywhere but here with me.” When she protested, he added, “Please, I'd be glad of the company.”

That settled, they walked us outside and we said our good-byes, promising to stay in touch. This time, somehow, the words didn't feel empty. Maybe because this time, neither did I.

“C
HUNKY MONKEY OR
Cherry Garcia?” I ask.

“Chunky Monkey,” Elena says. “Captain Picard or Captain Kirk?”

“Kirk.”

“
Ennhhh.
Wrong answer. Opera or ballet?”

“Baseball,” I say. “Mets or Yankees?

“Yankees. Thai or Indian?”

“Mexican,” I say.

“Ding ding ding!”

We're about halfway to New York, and Elena's driving. I'm just a passenger, zipping along toward God knows what fate—but then, so are you. You may think you know what's going to happen in my story or your own, but the truth is you don't have a clue. You're right here with me, off the map. Here, for all you know, there be dragons.

“Paris or Rome?” I ask.

“Haven't been to either.”

“So which one would you like to see first?”

Elena shoots me a look. I don't know her well enough yet to read it, though I know her a whole lot better after last night. Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm skipping the love scene, or should I say scenes. Suffice it to say the first one was a tearjerker, and the three that followed would have had to be severely edited to make NC-17.

“What did you say to George on the porch?” she asks, surprising me. I didn't think she'd been paying attention to us.

“That would be the
veraaandah.
And you haven't answered my question.”

“You first.”

I shrug, smile. “I just wished him luck, is all.”

Elena isn't fooled, but she lets it go for now. “Rome,” she says.

EXT. GEORGE'S VERANDAH - DAY

Elena and CATHERINE, 45, are hugging and saying tearful good-byes in Spanish. Michael and GEORGE, 50ish, are standing off to one side.

GEORGE

Thank you for coming, Michael.

MICHAEL

You can't imagine how much I didn't want to, but I'm glad I did.

They shake hands. Michael considers George, wrestling with something, and comes to a decision.

MICHAEL (CONT'D)

There's something I want to say to you, George, and you're not going to believe me and you might even be pissed at me for saying it. But you need to hear it and I need to say it, so here goes. You don't know that Shane was the love of your life.

George looks affronted and starts to speak, but Michael plows ahead.

MICHAEL (CONT'D)

You can't know that he was the love of your life, and do you know why? Because guess what, you aren't dead yet. You may feel dead right now, and believe me I've been there, but the fact is, until you're lying under a tombstone of your own you can't be sure about anything. You could prick your finger on one of your roses tomorrow, and as you're climbing the stairs to get a Band-Aid you trip over one of the pugs and tumble to your death. Or you could meet a man in the checkout line at the grocery store--hell, you could meet a woman even, and fall madly in love with her and end up with six kids and twenty grandkids.

Michael looks over at Elena, then back at George.

MICHAEL (CONT'D)

You just don't know, George. That's the thing. None of us does.

He reaches out and rests his hand for a moment on George's shoulder, then lets it fall.

INT. MICHAEL'S CAR - DAY

Elena and Michael driving down the highway with the top down. She's behind the wheel, and she's got her head thrown back, LAUGHING at something he just said. She stops, and he cocks his head.

MICHAEL

Do you hear that?

ELENA

What?

Faintly at first, and then gradually louder, we hear a woman's LAUGH: artless, weightless, utterly abandoned. A bright, rippling arpeggio from the most joyful aria ever sung. Michael smiles.

MICHAEL

Nothing.

The LAUGHTER continues as the car heads off into the unknown.

FADE OUT.

Also by
HILLARY JORDAN

When She Woke

Mudbound

MICHAEL EPSTEIN

Hillary Jordan
is the author of
Mudbound
and
When She Woke. Mudbound
was awarded the 2006 Bellwether Prize for Fiction, founded by Barbara Kingsolver, and a 2009 Alex Award from the American Library Association. It was the 2008 NAIBA Fiction Book of the Year, was longlisted for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Prize, and
was chosen as a Barnes & Noble Discover title and a Borders Original Voices selection.
It has been translated into French, Italian, Norwegian, Swedish, and Serbian. 
When She Woke
was a #1 Indie Next pick and a
Booklist
Editor's Choice for Best Books of 2011. It has been translated into French, Spanish, and Turkish; German, Brazilian, and Chinese editions are forthcoming. Jordan received her BA from Wellesley College in 1984 and her MFA from Columbia University in 2004. She lives in Brooklyn. Find her online at
www.hillaryjordan.com
.

Published by

Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill

Post Office Box 2225

Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225

a division of

Workman Publishing

225 Varick Street

New York, New York 10014

© 2012 by Hillary Jordan.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN 978-1-61620-303-0