Ben Greenman - The Slippage

“Or not,” she said, frowning. “Who am I to complain? People are who they are. You either take them as they come or you don’t take them at all.” She had a look on her face like a lifeguard about to go into a churning sea. “Okay, then,” she said, coming to her feet, “let’s go find the boy.”

The afternoon light was draining, and with it the specifics distinguishing one guest from another. William found Tom by height. He had no drink in his hand, but it was shaped like he was holding one. Fitch, beside him, was laughing so hard he was bent over.

“What’s so funny?” Annika said.

“Milady,” Tom said. “Allow me.” He pulled out a chair with a flourish and then sat in it himself.

Annika got a chair for herself and pushed it alongside Tom’s. William took a spot on a built-in bench across from Tom. “Did you have a nice talk?” Tom said. Annika slid out another cigarette, turned it over consequentially, returned it to the pack. Lines of strategy were visible between all of them, which made the whole thing beautiful, if unbearable. It was like a card game without cards.

One of the young women who’d been talking to Gloria Fitch wandered over. Sour-faced, eyes drenched in blue makeup, hitching a skirt that was already too short, she leaned on the deck rail. “Tamara,” she said, blurrily enough that it was unclear whether she was calling out or identifying herself.

Tom stood and bowed at the waist. “Good evening,” he said. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

“I’m Paul’s niece,” she said.

“I don’t know Paul,” Tom said.

Her eyes skittered from side to side. “I’m also a student at the college,” she said. “I came to one of your summer lectures.”

“Of course, of course,” Tom said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.” He gestured to his chair. “Sit, sit. A lady should not be kept on her feet.”

Tamara waved him off. “Thanks, but I’m okay,” she said. William slid over and made room for her.

“We were just talking about art,” Tom said. “But if you came to my summer lecture, there’s no reason to rehash it.”

“Oh,” she said.

“And yet,” Tom said, “I’m interested in what an intelligent young woman has to say about the matter. Do you remember the distinction drawn between urban and rural art forms?”

“Well,” she said. She ran a hand through her hair. “I was auditing.”

Tom leaned toward her as if he was about to release a secret. Instead his head drooped forward until it was nearly in her lap. He brushed a fingertip across her knee and then, grasping that same knee, pulled himself in closer and looked up her skirt. “Ah, for the views of the countryside,” he said.

“Come on, man,” Tamara said. “Don’t be a snake.” She was smiling as if he had said something kind.

“I think I’ll take a refill on that wine,” Annika said, standing.

Tom had a hand on each of the girl’s knees now, delicately, as if he were measuring tremors. He whistled faintly.

“You were drinking white?” William said.

“Anything.” She wasn’t looking at Tom or the girl.

“I’ll get it,” William said.

They walked briskly together, saying nothing. Annika stopped at the crackers and started to turn them like she was looking for the perfect one. William, affecting purpose, continued on into the kitchen, where he found a bottle of white wine in the refrigerator.

On the freezer door was a picture of him and Louisa, a Post-it note stuck just beneath it. “Family vacation?” it said. The question mark tripped William up. He marched to the junk room. Where knuckle had gone before, fist now went, a bass note against the door. “Louisa,” William said. “This is ridiculous. I’m done entertaining your brother. He’s however many sheets to the wind a person can be. I’m going to have to drive him home.”

“I thought there was a girlfriend,” he heard her say. “Can’t she do that?” She sounded far away, though the room was small.

“The mummy speaks,” William said.

“I’m in here,” she said.

“You should be out here.” She didn’t answer. “I’m losing my patience,” William said, pretty sure it didn’t matter. Just then he heard a noise, a pollen of alarm filtering in from outside.

Tamara, the young woman in the skirt, was pointing into the yard, and William followed her finger to find Annika sitting cross-legged on the grass, about five feet to the right of the rightmost tub, the tiger. She had grown tired of waiting for William to bring her wine and had switched to the orange punch. Tom was on the grass, too, though without his shirt, which lay crumpled at the foot of the stairs. He tottered toward the eagle tub, went slowly around it, and then shook his head, an unsatisfied customer. He did the same with the lion and arrived at the tiger, where he stood silent for a moment and then lowered himself into the tub. “Uh oh,” Eddie Fitch called to William. “I think that’s your cue.”

William went down into the yard. The grass crackled under his shoes. He stood next to the tiger tub.

“Are you my father?” Tom said.

“No,” William said.

“My father’s dead,” Tom said. He made a noise like a sob. His legs were up and he had kicked off his shoes. He took an airline bottle of single malt out of his pocket and emptied it into his mouth. “You know,” he said, “it seems at last that things are looking up.” He lifted the bottle as if to toast and then threw it as hard as he could toward the eagle tub. “Shatter,” he said, but it merely bounced once in the grass and settled.

William extended his hand to Tom and pulled, aware as he did that Tom was coming to his feet voluntarily; he was too thick for William to move if unwilling. His belt was undone, buckle dangling, and his belly hung out over his pants. “It’s come to this,” he said.

Everyone else at the party was lined up along the edge of the patio now. Their mouths were parted slightly, as if they were tasting the air. William looked toward the bedroom window. The curtain was pulled aside now and he could clearly see Louisa. William wondered if she could hear Tom. “I require the protection of a truly moral man. Are you that man?”

William sensed that the question was in earnest. “I might be,” he said. “Though not by design. It just kind of happened that way.”

“A good man designs,” Tom said. “A great man submits to design.” He sat down hard, belt buckle clanging on the side of the tub. William felt something slide across the back of his legs and stepped free. It was Blondie, sniffing the whiskey in the grass. William turned back toward the house and saw Louisa there, at the edge of the deck, tasting the air with the rest of them. Tom spotted her too. “Lou,” he cried. “It’s good to see you! There’s nothing more important than family, is there?”

At this, Annika burst into tears. Her crying was arrhythmic and harsh and sounded, finally, foreign. Tom shouted at her from the tub. “Goddamn you,” he said. “You’re so beautiful.” He stepped out of the tub, grabbed for her dress, got a bunch into his fist, and pulled. She reached for William to steady her, but he was no match for Tom’s power. William pitched forward, a side of a tent collapsing. Annika’s leg buckled. The punch, still orange in the dusk, splashed across the front of her dress.

Louisa sprang into action as if this were the moment she had been waiting for. She sped down into the yard, seized Tom by the arm, hustled him back up onto the deck; she located paper towels and club soda for Annika; she loaded Tom into Annika’s car and waved as the car grumbled off down the gravel driveway; she returned to the deck, triumphantly smoking one of Annika’s cigarettes and regaling the group with the story of what they had just seen. She grew animated in the retelling; a thin strip of perspiration appeared on her upper lip. “I don’t know how, but I knew just what to do,” she said, a note of surprise carbonating her tone.