Cuts (7 page)

TWELVE

HAPPY HOUR

Done with work on Monday afternoon, Lester shut the high, oak door of the Doan Library at Blessed Virgin College and locked
it. Watching his feet, he descended the front steps and walked along the curving road. He was in no hurry. No big reason for
getting home. Helen would just be grading papers or preparing a test.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bryant.”

He recognized the voice and looked up. “Hello, Sister Eunice.” He tried to make himself sound cheerful.

“Don’t we have a lovely view today? So hazy and golden.” She laughed softly. “It’s the smog, of course, but isn’t it lovely?”

“It’s beautiful,” Lester said.

“I’ve always found it a trifle ironic that a filthy poison like smog can look so beautiful when the sun is just right. One
of God’s little compensations, I suppose. Well, you must be eager to get home. Have a nice evening. Tell your charming wife
hello for me.”

“I will, Sister. Good night.”

He walked down to his car and drove out of the park ing lot. The road down the steep hill was narrow. It curved tightly around
bends, so tightly that drivers trying to make good time often used both sides of the road. Not Lester, though. He never strayed
from his own lane and, to be extra safe, he beeped before each blind curve.

He knew the danger of the road. Three times during his year at Blessed Virgin, there had been head-on collisions.

No, only twice.

He honked and eased his foot off the gas pedal before rounding a bend.

The third accident hadn’t been a head-on. The downhill driver had swerved to avoid it—swerved off the road and dived two hundred
feet off the hillside. Flames from the wreck had started a brush fire that burned a house. One student had been in that car.

And Sister Joan.

Sister Joan with the clear, green eyes like Nikki.

Lester was picking up too much speed for the next turn.

Suppose I just
…

Why not? he thought. Why the hell not?

Serve the bitch right.

Which one? Helen or Nikki?

He pressed the brake pedal. The tires sighed against the pavement, holding.

“Both of you,” he muttered. “Both of you. Fucking bitches.”

Hell if I’ll kill myself over a couple of fucking bitches like them.

They aren’t the only women in the world.

World’s full of women.

Plenty of them would give anything for a guy like me.

Not for the first time, Lester wondered why he was wasting his life with a cold, condescending woman like Helen. She only
seemed to care about her career. She
certainly
didn’t care about him. He ought to divorce her, get himself free and find a woman who would love him.

I really oughta. Before it’s too late.

“Yeah,” he said.

And decided to have himself a drink. A margarita.

The Willow Inn had good ones. He remembered them from a visit to the restaurant last spring. They’d met some other couples
there for dinner: Ronald and Dale, Mary and her boyfriend…

Lester couldn’t remember the boyfriend’s name. And didn’t want to. The guy had been like
all
of Mary’s boyfriends: handsome as a fashion model, conceited and boring.

Helen, Ronald, Dale, and Mr. Charming.

The dinner would’ve been
painful
except for Mary and the margaritas.

Mary, a first-year teacher at Grand Beach High, might not have been the youngest member of the faculty, but she was sure the
most beautiful. To Lester, she also seemed a bit shallow for a teacher. (My God, look at the
guys
she dates!) But that night at the Willow Inn, she was stunning with her flowing dark hair, her flashing eyes and wild laughter
…and the dress she wore with its plunging neckline.

Lester would
never
forget that dress. Or the smooth, tanned tops of Mary’s breasts. Or how, now and then during the meal, he’d been able to see
all the way down her cleavage to the shadowy underside of one breast.

He’d caught Ronald stealing glances, too.

But not Mr. Charming. That creep probably figured he didn’t
have
to peek. Slick operator that he was, he’d be having those babies naked and rubbing his face before the night was over.

Why can’t I ever have something like that happen?

Gals like that don’t
look
at guys like me.

But I sometimes get to look at
them
, he thought. I saw plenty of Mary that night.

Probably as close as I’ll ever get.

Too bad she wasn’t on the social committee.

But I bet she’ll be at the Halloween party.

Last year, she’d shown up as a belly dancer.

Suddenly, Lester realized he was only a block away from the Willow Inn—and erect from his thoughts about Mary.

Stop thinking about her, he told himself. Think about something unpleasant.

Think about Helen, that’ll take care of it.

He thought about Helen, and it did.

In spite of the dark interior, Lester felt conspicuous as he crossed the thick carpet to the bar. This was the first time
he’d ever entered a cocktail lounge alone.

It’s no big deal, he told himself. It’s not like a
real
bar, just part of the restaurant.

Relax. Nothing to be scared of.

Just everything.

What if somebody sees me in here?

So what? It isn’t against the law. And I’m not
with
anyone.

Feeling hot and nervous—but somewhat daring—he sat down on a bar stool. On the other side of the counter were lighted rows
of liquor bottles.

The bartender came over. “What can I get you?” he asked. Nothing gruff or pushy about him. Just a pleasant, regular guy like
a restaurant waiter.

“I’d like a margarita,” Lester said. “On the rocks.”

“Coming up.”

“Thanks.”

He watched the bartender make his drink.

Kind of exciting, he thought. I should come to these places more often.

When the martarita was ready, the bartender placed a cocktail napkin in front of Lester and set the drink on it. “Would you
like me to run a tab?”

“Huh?”

“Run a tab for you?”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess so.” Lester blushed. “Sure. Thanks.”

Nodding, the bartender turned away.

Probably thinks I’m a moron.

Big deal, he thought. So maybe I’m not an old hand at barroom stuff.

He started to pick up his drink.

“Why, that
is
you,” said a voice behind him. A woman’s voice. With a soft, Southern drawl. “I
thought
I recognized you, Mr. Bryant.”

Oh, my God.

He turned his stool and looked up at a shadowy, lined face. Its smile and sad eyes were framed by red hair. “Oh, hi,” he said.
“How are you, Emily Jean?”

“Well, I suppose I’m just fine.” She laughed lightly. “You know, Mr. Bryant, I hardly recognized you at all without Helen
by your side. Are you aware that we don’t recognize one another so much by facial features as by context? Did you know that,
Mr. Bryant?”

“I’d suspected it,” he said, though he wasn’t sure what she meant and didn’t care.

What if she tells Helen about finding me here?

Maybe she won’t even remember it, he thought. She
does
seem a little smashed.

“Are you here by yourself?” she asked.

“Yeah. Just thought I’d drop in for a quick one on my way home from work.”

“Would you care to join me at my table?” Emily Jean asked. “Afternoon libations are
so
much more delicious when imbibed in the company of friends.”

I’m a friend?

He felt himself blushing.

“You’re right,” he said.

“Splendid! Come with me, then. I have just the nicest little table over in that corner away from all the hustle and bustle.
I don’t care for hustle and bustle, do you?”

“I hate it,” Lester said, though there seemed to
be
no hustle or bustle. The cocktail lounge was very quiet, almost deserted.

As he climbed off the stool, he waved at the bartender. “I’ll be at a table,” he called.

“No problem,” the bartender said.

“Over in my special corner,” Emily Jean announced.

“Gotcha.”

She started walking toward her table, Lester close by her side.

“When I saw you come in,” she said, “I thought to myself, ‘My, but that does appear to be a familiar face.’ You were out of
your proper context, however, without Helen, so I had quite a problem placing you for a minute or two. Do you come here often?”

“No, not often.”

She sank onto a booth alongside her table, scooted over, and patted the cushion beside her. “Wouldn’t you like to sit right
here, Mr. Bryant?”

“Why don’t you call me Lester?” he suggested. “Or Les.” He sat beside her.

“I should much prefer to call you Mr. Bryant,” said Emily Jean. “It sounds so distinguished, don’t you think? And so few people
call one another by their proper names anymore. A great loss, Mr. Bryant, a terrible loss. Family names are so formal and
dignified. They carry the weight of our ancestors. Now tell me, how are your students this semester?”

Before answering, he took a sip of his margarita. It tasted good and strong. He used his thumb and forefinger to rub salt
crumbs off his lower lip. “I don’t have any students,” he explained. “I’m not a teacher.”

“Is that true?”

Didn’t she already know this?

“Oh, I used to teach,” he explained, wondering if she had completely forgotten their conversation at Saturday night’s social
committee function. “That was a couple of years ago, though. In downtown Los Angeles.”

“A high school, am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“Wasn’t it a parochial school for girls?”

She
does
remember. Some of it, anyway.

“Right again,” Lester said.

In a low, conspiratorial voice, Emily Jean said, “Why
ever
did you leave such a position? Teaching at a girl’s school must have been a delight for a man of your good looks and charm.”
She placed her long, cool fingers on his forearm.

Blushing again, Lester shook his head. “I had big plans,” he explained. “Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to have my own bookstore.
A small, intimate kind of place, you know, with chairs and maybe a piano, and free coffee. I saw myself spending long nights
talking with enthusiastic customers about Joyce and Camus. And Miller,” he added, remembering Emily Jean’s interest in theater.

“Arthur or Henry?” she asked, and giggled.

“Both.”

“I
adore
Arthur Miller. Of course, he’s no Tennessee Williams. Tennessee Williams whispers in the chambers of my heart. Because I’m
a Southern girl, I imagine. But I didn’t mean to digress. Please go on.”

“Well, after a year at the high school, I quit my teaching job to open the bookstore of my dreams—my daydreams. Used all our
savings, including a couple of thousand dollars that Helen had earmarked for a vacation in Europe. Then I proceded to lose
my shirt. And hers, too.”

Emily Jean’s hand stayed on his arm. She patted him gently. “How dreadful,” she said. “I
am
sorry.”

“So is Helen. She said from the start that it was a crazy idea. I managed to prove her right—and cheat her out of that trip.
I don’t think she’s ever going to let me forget it, either.”

“I have a perfect solution for you, Mr. Bryant. Take her to Europe next summer.”

A harsh laugh escaped from Lester. Shaking his head, he explained, “She already has plans for that. She signed up to take
a group of students to England, France, Spain, the whole bit.” He frowned and drank.

Emily Jean’s martini was low.

“May I buy you another drink?” he asked.

“You surely may.”

The bartender was nowhere in sight, but a barmaid was wandering among the tables. He signaled for her to come over.

“We’d like another round,” he said. Feeling pleased with himself, he added, “The bartender’s already running a tab for me.”

“And what would you like?”

Emily Jean spoke up. “I’ll have a double martini, dear. Very light on the vermouth, please.”

“And I’ll have another margarita.”

When the barmaid was gone, Emily Jean squeezed Lester’s forearm. “You’re very kind,” she said.

“My pleasure.”

“Now, about your excursion to Europe. Will it be taking you to Wales? Such a lovely…”

“The excursion isn’t taking
me
anywhere. I’ll be staying right here in sunny—foggy—Grand Beach. I can’t go. I don’t have the summers off.”

“And you’re permitting Helen to go without you?”

He nodded.

“My ex-husband, Robert, would no more have permitted me to travel alone than he would have…paddled a raft to Peru.”

“Helen does what she pleases.”

“She
is
a headstrong woman.”

“She’s got balls.”

“Mr. Bryant!” Emily Jean giggled. “Such a horrid thing to say of one’s wife!”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them spoke while the barmaid set full glasses down on fresh cocktail napkins and cleared away the used ones.

Lester waited until she was gone, then said, “There must be at least one or two women left in the world who don’t pride themselves
on being self-reliant and obnoxious.”

“The world is overstocked with such women.” Softly, Emily Jean repeated, “Overstocked.”

“That’s very good to hear,” Lester said, watching her. “I’m not sure I believe it, though.”

“It is the simple truth. If Helen doesn’t appreciate…Most women, I should think, would feel honored to…” She quickly
turned her face away. “Will you please excuse me, Mr. Bryant?” She pulled a tissue from her purse and pressed it to her nose.
Then she scooted out of the booth.

Lester watched her move across the dimly lighted room. A couple of times, she lurched sideways and had to steady herself against
a table.

He had never seen a woman with such thin legs. A wonder she could stand up at all. Of course, he supposed it was the liquor
that made her stumble. Maybe he shouldn’t have offered her another martini. She must’ve had a couple before he even arrived.
A couple, at least.