David Gates - A Hand Reached Down to Guide Me

“Yes, we’re a nest of singing birds,” I said. “Andrea looks lovely.”

“Doesn’t she? You know, when we’re back from Hawaii, we should all have dinner. You still come down to the city, don’t you?”

“Not as often as we used to—but sure.”

“Superb. Sounds like a plan. We’ll get you back in circulation.”

At the reception, Andrea had seated me next to the groom’s son; luckily, he spent the dinner talking to her mother, on the other side of him, who showed him how to fold a dollar bill into a shirt with a collar. A couple across the table, apparently old friends of the groom, tried to include me in a conversation about The Sopranos —which I’d never seen, so I had to go into interviewer mode. After the cake, Andrea came over and pulled up an empty chair.

“I think you scored,” I told her. “He seems very nice.”

“Older men, right?” She pumped a fist. “Listen, we have to talk about that job of yours. What are you doing ?”

“What I can, apparently.”

“This cannot be allowed to continue,” she said. “I’ll be back in three weeks, and you are to call me.”

“I doubt there’s much you can do. I fucked myself living in the boonies.”

“What happened to your book?”

“You didn’t see the review in the Times ?”

“Somebody’s being difficult,” she said. “It’s so out of character.”

“This is your wedding,” I said. “Let’s get on to something upbeat. Where are you guys going to live?”

“No,” she said. “You call me.”

—

His daughter had phoned to apologize, to both of us, as soon as we were back—it had been a terrible week, which was no excuse, she fucked up everything , Madeleine was furious at her (which I doubted), she was furious at herself , she never got to see us and now we’d probably never want to see her , and now she was being all abject , which she realized was unattractive…

“What a performance,” he said after they’d hung up. “I hope Madeleine can keep her from rending her garments. Otherwise she’ll be hitting the thrift stores again.”

“Why do you have such contempt for her?”

“I wouldn’t call it that. Just fatherly skepticism. There is a history here. She’s basically a good girl.”

“She was humiliated.”

“And appropriately so, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think we should have her come here for a few days,” I said. “I mean when this has blown over a little. The two of you need to spend more time together.”

“Aren’t you a saint. Then again, you’ll be safe at work all day.”

“I think you’re afraid of her.”

“I’m just not sure I have the energy for it. Would you like some coffee?” He started for the kitchen, then turned around. “You’re right,” he said.

She only got a week’s vacation, but she agreed to come east over the Fourth of July, stay with us for two nights, then have a night with her mother before flying back. Her father drove to LaGuardia to get her; I’d made a big chicken-and-avocado salad, with goat cheese, olives and vinaigrette, and I was on the deck with my earphones, on my third drink, watching the sun go down, when I finally heard them coming up the driveway. She set her bag down and I hugged her; I could feel the clasp of her bra under her T-shirt and realized I was working my thumb under it. I moved the thumb away, she hugged me tighter, then let me go.

“And no welcome for me?” my husband said.

I kissed him on the lips, medium light. “You must’ve had a trek,” I said.

“I’d forgotten that every drudge in New York would be trying to escape tonight. Well, one shouldn’t call them drudges. Fellow Americans. How many drinks are you ahead of us?”

I held up two fingers. It depended on how you counted.

“We’ll be up with you in no time.”

“Dinner’s ready whenever you want it,” I said.

“First things first,” my husband said. “I think I speak for both of us.” He went over to the marble-topped iron table where I’d set glasses, bottles and the ice bucket.

“How was your flight?” I said.

“I never know the answer to that,” she said.

“Late,” my husband said.

“Well, you’re here,” I said. “Okay, I’m being inane. I’m glad you’re here. Your father’s glad too—he’s being grumpy.”

“I need to go put my shit away,” she said. “Am I down in whatever it is?”

“ Not yet ,” he said. “Old joke.”

After dinner, I noticed him nodding in his chair; he woke himself up by spilling his drink on his pants leg. “Christ Jesus,” he said, jumping to his feet. He took the empty glass off the cushion and set it on the floor. “I guess that’s all for the old man.” He ran his hand along his thigh and looked at it. “Hell. I’ll see you ladies in the morning.” We watched him go up the stairs, his hand on the banister.

“He’s tired,” I said.

“He’s old and drunk,” she said. “It kind of breaks my heart. I don’t know, I guess he’s seen me in worse shape. You too—I mean, you have too.”

“We all have our moments,” I said.

“Yeah, but that was a pretty sick display,” she said. “I mean back in Portland.” We arranged ourselves on the sofa, as we had that first time, cross-legged at opposite ends.

“Listen,” I said. “I’ve got some dope. Do you want any?”

She shook her head. “I stopped with that after—oh. You don’t mean dope dope. Yeah, I could.”

I went to the freezer and brought back my stash and my one-hitter, a metal tube made to look like a cigarette.

“This thing’s cold ,” she said.

“Here.” I took it and breathed onto it in my cupped hands, then loaded it for her. “You want to sit over closer?”

She came and sat cross-legged beside me, our knees touching. “This isn’t very comfortable,” she said.

“What if we did this?” I uncrossed my legs and stretched them out while I took her shoulders and moved her to sit with her back against my chest.

“God, how sketchy is this?” she said. “If he comes back down, he’s going to really think we’ve bonded.” I put the one-hitter between her lips and lit a match.

“Nice,” she said, after breathing out the smoke. I felt her head relax onto my breasts. I put my nose in her hair—it smelled of the drugstore shampoo I’d put in the downstairs bathroom—and she twisted her head up to look at me. “Aren’t you doing any?”

“It’s for you,” I said. “Sometimes it makes me a little paranoid.”

“Come on.” She put it between my lips. “I won’t let that happen.”

When I began to feel it, I straightened up and said, “Music?”

“I don’t need it,” she said. “If you want.”

“I’ll go put something on, okay?” But the movements involved in getting up seemed too complicated. “Maybe not,” I said after a while.

“Yeah, don’t.” She edged back, pushing her narrow hips between my thighs, and I spread them wider.

“Are you okay about this?” I said.

“Aren’t you?” she said. “We can be close. I mean without doing anything.”

“I think I am sort of doing something.” I could feel myself getting wet.

“Oh.” She breathed out. “Thank God . Can I just kiss you?”

She twisted herself around to be on top of me and my mouth was grinding into hers. “We need to go downstairs,” I said. “Can we?”

—

Afterward, she lay on her back with her hands over her eyes. “I just want you to know,” she said, “this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done. I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you.”