Joanna Rakoff - A Fortunate Age

Caitlin’s husband had departed, thankfully, and been replaced by a troupe of sideburned men in black, chunky glasses discussing a new restaurant on Clinton Street. “The menu is market-driven,” said one. Market-driven , she thought, is an economic term . Sighing heavily, she wiggled her toes in her sandals, and pulled a cigarette from a bowl on Lil’s little end table, and lit it with a kitchen match. She only smoked in desperate social situations, which this seemed to be turning into. Without Tal, she felt strangely lost, and she’d been waiting for Beth for quite some time now. The band was testing their amps or whatever, which meant it had to be getting late. “Check, check,” echoed through the room, followed by a long squawk. The guests, as one, put their hands to their ears and folded their heads into their necks, like turtles. Time to go , thought Sadie, and began picking her way to the back of the loft, where she found Beth half crushed against the bedroom door, a panicked expression wrinkling her round face.

“My bags are in there,” she whispered.

Sadie looked at her uncomprehendingly. “Is the door locked?” she asked.

Beth shook her head and pointed at the door. “Listen,” she said, and Sadie held her ear to the door, feeling, really, a bit ridiculous.

“I don’t hear anything,” she said.

“They must have just stopped,” Beth said, shrugging. “There are people in there. Arguing.”

“Are you serious?” asked Sadie, rolling her eyes. Sadie herself never brought a bag to parties, in part to avoid situations like these. She carried money and a MetroCard in the pocket of her dress. On the train over she’d read a manuscript, which she’d stowed on the bookshelf above the couch. “Let’s just go in.” She was beginning to feel queasy with drink—and, she supposed, cigarette—and almost desperate for food. Perhaps, she thought, they should go somewhere closer than Bean. That Thai place on Metropolitan. Or the old red sauce joint over on Devoe.

But Beth gave her a pleading look. “I feel weird.”

“Okay,” sighed Sadie, dropping her cigarette into a beer can. “I’ll go in. Is it your black bag? With the scalloped edge?”

Beth nodded. “And two shopping bags. One from Daffy’s. One from, um, Barneys.” Sadie raised her eyebrows.

“Barneys? What did you get at Barney’s?”

Beth flushed. “Nothing,” she said. “I’ll tell you after. Something for the wedding.”

The wedding? thought Sadie. They’ve been engaged for like five minutes .

“All right,” she told Beth, in a more gentle tone. “I’ll be right back.”

She opened the door a crack, stuck her face in, and glanced around. The room was lit only by rows of candles in long glass jars, which lined the room’s two window ledges, a beautiful effect, really. On the floor lay a jumble of belongings: messenger bags, paperback books, thin summer sweaters, large leather satchels propped up against the baseboard, spilling books, lipsticks, pens and pencils, errant tissues made ghostly in the flickering light. In the far corner, she spotted Beth’s bag, its lacy edges outlined against the white wall. Closing the door behind her, she made her way across the room, grabbed the thing and its companions, then headed back out. Midway through the room, she saw them—the lovers or fighters or whoever they were—out of the corner of her eye. They were staring at her, frozen, backed up against the closet doors on the other side of the room, liked trapped animals. Slowly the faces swam into focus: a woman with wide, sleep-starved eyes and long dark hair. Caitlin Green and her awful husband. Of course, Sadie thought sourly, they’re just the sort of people to take over a room at a party, without regard for anyone else’s needs, and cause some sort of scene. She nodded in their direction, then turned her eyes back to the door. The hesitant glow of the candles suited Caitlin’s husband. He looked almost handsome, his hair mussed and falling over his face, the bones and hollows of his cheeks exaggerated by shadows, the sweatshirt no longer hiding his chest, which appeared broader without the heavy folds of cloth covering it. Sadie felt vaguely disappointed. How could a normal man have married the odious Caitlin Green?

“Mission accomplished,” she told Beth, grinning, when she emerged into the brightness of the loft’s main room.

“Oh my God, thank you,” said Beth, with an embarrassed smile. “I was thinking I should just leave it and pick it up tomorrow, but my keys are in there.”

“Let’s go find Lil and make our excuses,” said Sadie. “I’m starving.”

“Where’s Emily?” Beth shouted as they made their way back through the throng, which was growing by the minute. “Do you think she wants to come along?” But the crowd was so thick now they could barely make their way through it. These were strangers, surely, Sadie thought, for they were treating the loft as if it were a club: throwing cigarettes and beer bottles on the floor, saying “Where’s the booze in this place?” and “Whose crib is this?” Sadie grabbed Beth’s hand, so as not to lose her, for she could see Lil now, toward the front of the loft, sitting on the back of a sofa, blowing cigarette smoke through the bars of the front window—but she was blocked on all sides by the broad, T-shirted backs of sweaty men, laughing and gesticulating. “Excuse me,” Sadie said ineffectually. Behind her Beth murmured, “I hate this.”

And then, like a gift, a hand reached out from her left and pulled her through the wall of men. “Hey, hey, Sophie,” called the voice attached to the hand. And she turned, uncomfortably, to face it. “Sophie, hey.” She found herself peering into a pair of bloodshot eyes, framed by the black hood of a zip-up sweatshirt. Caitlin’s husband, holding a cigar—no, no, a giant joint, which he would probably call a “spliff”—in the hand not attached to her arm. Sadie’s mind raced. She whipped her head around so as not to lose sight of Beth.

“ Sadie ,” she said, her throat closing in on her. She did not want to speak to this person. “I’m afraid my name is Sadie.”

“Right, sorry,” the man said. “We haven’t been introduced, really. I’m Rob.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rob,” she recited, by rote, shaking his hand.

“Listen, I’m sorry about before,” he said. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you.” She laughed forcibly.

“Oh, please, don’t worry at all. It’s fine. Very nice to meet you.” She gave him a little nod—what Emily called her “bow”—and turned to catch up with Beth. How had that man, the husband, managed to get to the middle of the room before she did? Because he’s a weasel , she thought. He tunneled his way out.

Eventually, she emerged by the loft’s front door, where Beth was shaking hands with Tom Satville—she had found another route out, clearly—who smiled at her with a familiarly odious mixture of condescension and attraction. “Hello, again,” she said, smiling in a forbidding way, so as to preclude any further conversation. “Lil, it’s time for us to make our excuses. This was lovely .”

“It was,” said Beth.

“You’re going to miss the band,” cried Lil. “They’re so good.”

“Next time,” said Sadie, hugging Lil.

As she and Beth stepped outside into the cooler air, Sadie remembered. “Shoot,” she said. “My manuscript. I left it on the bookshelf. I’ll just run in and get it.”

“I’ll wait here,” said Beth. “I can’t go back in there.” Sadie skipped in, waving at friends and acquaintances, as she pushed her way through them. “You’re back,” said Lil, with a tired smile. She was nestled in the corner of the couch by the window, alone, her feet tucked under her, like a little girl.