Rick Moody - The Ice Storm

And what about Neil? Neil didn’t even seem to notice his mother’s grand exit. And still not a single adult had questioned his presence there. No one had told him to run along. Well, he was, what? Nineteen? Of majority, almost. Dot Halford was already on to the next couple. Her husband was standing off to one side rattling a drink with a sleepy smile on his face. They soldiered on, these pretenders to the Tribal Love Rock Event, like it was a civic duty.

Marie Earle herself went next and took up with Dan Fuller, whose wife then followed (a sort of order was elaborated in this way — the aggrieved party was next in line), taking up with the divorced Chuck Spofford, and this sent the narrative of adultery off on a digression, through the wilds of the divorced. After Chuck, June Devereaux picked Tommy Finletter, who thereafter tossed the baton to his neighbor of long standing, Elise Gorman, who took up with her husband’s old golfing partner, Pierce Sawyer. And Sawyer’s wife picked Tony Boyle, etc. One couple, the Gadds, managed to select each other, and rather than sporting the disappointment Elena might have suspected, they seemed greatly relieved.

The key party proceeded as flawlessly as a bank line. When Elena confronted again her own decision to participate, when she began to think of the practical issues — which house, how would she get a ride back, what if somebody’s children found out — the room was no more crowded than a small dinner party. Mark Boland, Neil Conrad, Janey and Jim Williams, Rob and Dot Halford, Sari Steele, and Benjamin.

Then, somehow, the order became confused. Because there were so many people there who had drunk too much. Because, in the end, it was not a game in which order had much place. So Janey Williams went next. For no good reason. She was simply ready to go and tired of waiting. Elena took note of Benjamin’s agitation. Even in his dull, inebriated state he could see that he would certainly be the selection. He may have wanted to go, or to give the appearance of wanting to go, but now here he was believing in the fates, in chance. The numbers favored him. The record player had turned itself off and the fire in the fireplace had gone out. It was Benjamin’s moment. Dot presented the bowl to Janey, whose delicate hands selected with all the care of a jeweler.

Janey knew their keys well enough. The Hoods’ key ring with the horse on it. Janey had looked after the house on a couple of occasions. She could have found their keys with ease. But Janey selected away from Benjamin Hood. She found the keys and purposefully shoved them to one side, Elena imagined, because she wound up instead with… Neil Conrad.

The teenager! Jim Williams seemed to peruse an old copy of National Geographic as his wife publicly embraced Maria Conrad’s underage son. Jim Williams, smiling mysteriously to himself. When had he arrived at the party, anyway? But the real drama of the moment was created by Elena’s own husband. In that tight circle, he lumbered forth as if to separate Janey and Neil. For a moment, fisticuffs seemed likely. For a moment, Benjamin threatened the teenager with the flat of his hand. Elena felt shame rise in her like adrenaline. Shouts of Hey, hey, Ben, hang on there a sec, and Benjamin gathered himself up, realizing, even in his drunkenness, the enormity of his foolishness. He backed off.

And in backing off he tripped over the coffee table. Here at last was a story with beginning, middle, and end, a story that local scandalmongers could repeat with relish. Benjamin went down heavily, as if it were natural for him to be prone on the Halfords’ shag rug. He settled there resolutely. Elena made no move to help him — she was chilled with dismay — and the Halfords didn’t hurry either. Jim Williams looked up casually from his magazine. Benjamin Hood lay on the floor, muttering. An indistinguishable whisper of complaints about Shackley and Schwimmer, about his past, about New Canaan. Elena paid no more attention than anyone else. Or she tried.

But when Benjamin gulped back the first salvo of some intestinal disturbance, Elena felt she had to do something.

— C’mon, darling, she said, and she crouched over his back — because he was now kneeling wobbily by the edge of the modular seating unit. Come on, you’ve got to go to the bathroom. Let’s go.

She could smell the vomit on his breath, and his eyes were like the bloody foam at the end of a bad shaving episode. She didn’t have time to feel humiliated. His face was raw with sadness.

— Dot? she said. May I install him in your bathroom? Won’t be a minute. I’m sorry, I really am.

— Not another word, Dot said. It wouldn’t be a party without him.

With a lavender cocktail napkin, Dot Halford crouched to wipe up the last of an Irish coffee that Benjamin had taken with him on the way down. Only a small, gluey clump of rug tentacles was left to betray Benjamin Hood’s fall.

Mark Boland helped Elena lift him to his feet, at which point Benjamin disdained — in incoherent, alcoholic grunts — any further help. He hurried himself to the bathroom coughing ominously. When Elena turned her attention back to the game, halfheartedly now, guiltily, but also angrily, Neil Conrad and Janey Williams were gone. In fact, Mark Boland seemed to be suddenly on his way out with Dot herself. They had managed to sanctify this bond quietly, on the margins of all the other activity. The game was accelerating, to accomplish its task without further mishap. People were pairing off without even consulting the bowl. Because there were only the four of them left now. Rob Halford and Sari Steele turned to Jim Williams and Elena, who found themselves alone standing together, and smiled.

— We didn’t actually put our keys in at all, Rob said. But you won’t spread it around? He guffawed loudly.

— It’s my party. And Dot isn’t…. Hey, we’re just going to slip upstairs for a little while. Would you guys like a cup of coffee or something before we go?

Jim looked at Elena. Elena was looking back.

They sized each other up. The decision, for Elena, was about like buying an expensive household item. A new hi-fi or a new dishwasher. She was valuing Jim strictly on the basis of design stylings.

— Rob, we’ll fix it for ourselves, she said. You two go on and get acquainted. We’ll let ourselves out the front door.

Then Elena and Jim Williams were alone in the Hal-fords’ living room. Real holiday carnage marred the earthy and arty look of the premises. There were half-empty beer bottles everywhere, and these were filled with the ends of cigarettes, Virginia Slims, Kents, Larks, Winstons. Disposable plastic cups had been stuffed with the lavender cocktail napkins and scraps of hors d’oeuvres. Elena was stunned by the number of empty liquor bottles at the bar. The cushions from the polyurethane modular-seating unit had been scattered on the floor, near where Benjamin had stretched himself out, and there was a trail of slush and grime leading in from the front door. Wood smoke and cigarettes and pot had gotten into the curtains and upholstery. The room had an outdoorsy stench to it. The last coals hissed and popped in the fireplace.

— Well, Jim Williams said, I have to say I don’t have much faith that my keys are still in that bowl. Doesn’t seem entirely safe, you know? Leaving your house keys around?

The salad bowl sat on the floor, next to one wall.

— Let me, Elena said.

Ceremoniously, she retrieved the bowl. As though the act had profound spiritual significance. She dipped her hand in. Two sets of keys remaining there. One set, of course, was her own. But she avoided these keys, just as Jim’s wife had. At first it was a simple act of generosity — she was getting his keys for him — but somewhere on her way across the room she was playing the game, the key party game. Wistfully, she was playing. Resignedly, but by the time Elena handed him the dull, leather key chain, she was also hoping.