Susie Yang - White ivy

“Should I cover my eyes?” said Gideon.

“Too late.”

“Care to share?” said Tom. He was looking at the pack of Camels clutched in her other hand. Her robe didn’t have pockets.

“They’re not mine,” said Ivy. They weren’t. They were Roux’s.

“Do you smoke often?” Gideon asked politely.

Ivy blinked in surprise. “No. Not often.” She tossed Tom the entire pack. He barely managed to catch it.

“Go on,” said Tom, flicking the lighter at her.

Ivy hesitated. She glanced at Gideon but he seemed mesmerized by the fountain across the lawn. What the hell. She took one. A breeze tickled the back of her neck. She listened to the faraway sound of a lawn mower, the chirping of birds, the gurgle from the two stone Cupids pouring weak streams of water out of fat Roman jugs. Polite, orderly sounds for the polite, orderly life awaiting her.

“That noise makes me want to piss,” said Tom listlessly. No one bothered with a response.

Ivy shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The silence dragged on. She felt as if she were at the end of a sloppy party in which she, Tom, and Gideon were the only ones remaining, all of them dispirited and tired of one another yet unwilling to be the first one to leave.

“I really have to piss,” Tom repeated. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on the tree and flung it into the grass. He took a long while to pull himself upright. “Well—Giddy. It was a good run. See you lovebirds on the other side.” He gripped Gideon’s upper arm in that forceful gesture macho men use in lieu of hugs.

Gideon said, “Wait, T-T-T-Tom.” Tom turned around. “Sober up, pal,” said Gideon.

Tom made a jaunty salute, his benevolent smile almost rendering his once-handsome face boyish again. Ivy watched him saunter into the chapel. She turned to Gideon with a sympathetic smile, as if they shared the same relief in being rid of a burdensome friend, but whatever words she’d been about to say died on her lips. Gideon’s eyes were still on Tom’s back. He was panting lightly, his mouth contorted, his brow so furrowed he appeared either in pain or in rage. She had never before seen such a look on Gideon’s face.

When he realized she was watching him, his features artfully rearranged themselves, as if an invisible hand had smoothed over his face. “How are your parents liking Cattahasset?” He smiled with obvious effort.

She must have managed to formulate a response because he was nodding and smiling and she was smiling back—or else they were both so lost in their own charade they might as well have been two deaf-mute people miming to each other.

She kept hearing Gideon’s infinitesimal pauses between the soft T ’s when he’d said Tom’s name. She couldn’t unsee the frightening look on Gideon’s face as he watched Tom walk away, nor Tom’s hands gripping Gideon’s arm, the comic bravado of a tragic farewell. But why was there need for such a tragic farewell? Gideon was only getting married… yet he was in agony—the look on his face could only be called agony—because he didn’t want Tom to leave. He wanted Tom to stay, because… because Gideon was in love with Tom.

And Tom… and Gideon—!

Her breath stopped. A million images filtered through her mind—there must have been clues. Yes, she remembered many instances now. Breadcrumbs become obvious when one sees through the eyes of a bird. But she hadn’t known… she hadn’t bothered to look! She’d believed in Gideon’s integrity, in his noble character, his fine, dashing manners and courage, which had felt a little heartbreaking when it came to his impotence—but even that flaw had only served to reinforce his innocence, that he should lack the animal desire that’d led so many others astray.

She’d been wrong about everything. The shadowy figure she’d sensed between them hadn’t been Roux but Tom. It’d always been Tom.

What to do. What to do.

“There’s Roland,” Gideon said, nodding toward the green golf cart slowly making its way up the hill.

“I’m going inside,” Ivy heard herself say. She repeated Tom’s good-bye: “See you on the other side.” Gideon’s lips were hot and dry on her cheek. She floated back to the church. She was still holding her cigarette. The remaining clump of ash fell on her arm. She didn’t feel a thing.

IVY LAY ON the love seat watching the minute hand tick by. Why had Gideon asked her to marry him? What did he want from her? She could call off the wedding, she thought listlessly. She could take a taxi home. But she didn’t move.

Andrea arrived at two o’clock in a torrent of shopping bags and overwhelming perfume. “Ivy, you’re flattening your extensions!” she squealed, dropping her bags in front of the mirror. Ivy opened her eyes. She wondered if she’d fallen asleep.

“Have you eaten?” Andrea asked. She pulled a large platter of assorted sashimi and two bottles of green tea from a takeout bag. Since returning from Machu Picchu with an eight-carat diamond ring, Andrea had lost no time in starting her wedding diet. Only fish and seaweed. She ran five miles a day around the Common, fractured her tibia, and continued running.

Ivy obediently picked up her chopsticks. Her stomach turned at the taste of raw, oily flesh in her mouth. She spit the salmon in a napkin and turned to Andrea abruptly. “Do you think a gay man can love women?”

“Norman’s not gay,” said Andrea, her eyes watering from a large mound of wasabi. “I know everyone thinks he is because of the way he looks—he gets hit on all the time at gay bars—but trust me, he’s practically homophobic.” Andrea paused. “He’s not homophobic—oh, you know what I mean.”

Ivy went back to staring at the minute hand ticking by.

When Sylvia drifted through the door in cutoff shorts and studded ankle boots, she greeted Ivy with an air of bemused friendliness, as if she’d ended up here by accident. She flung herself down on an armchair.

“Mom wanted me to give you this.” She took out a little silver tiara from her tote bag. “It’s one of her last-minute whims. She cried for an entire hour by herself this morning looking at Gideon’s baby photos.”

Andrea made a gasp of pleasure and asked if the photos would be displayed at the entrance table.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Sylvia, smiling quizzically.

“We met at the Swingbox party,” Andrea prompted. “You were there with Jeremy?”

“Remind me your name again?” said Sylvia.

Andrea told her.

“You’re engaged to Norman Moorefield.”

Andrea looked as if she might die of happiness.

Ivy said, “Andrea, can you see if you can find a cooler and some ice? There’s a kitchen somewhere in this church.”

“For what?”

“For the bucket of champagne over there.”

After Andrea left, Ivy gestured toward the sushi.

“Thank you,” said Sylvia. “I love this place.”

“Did you know this entire time?” Ivy asked, deliberately waiting until Sylvia was fully immersed in her food.

“Know what?”

“About Gideon and Tom.”

“What about them?”

Ivy was impressed. Sylvia hadn’t even stopped chewing, so seamless was her transition from friendliness to battle. Or maybe battle was her normal mode of existence. Her impassive face revealed nothing but the cold-blooded hardness of someone used to calling other people’s bluffs and winning.

“You did know,” Ivy said with a soft sigh. She lay back down on the love seat and let her arm flop over her forehead. She saw herself from the bird’s-eye view: Fainting Woman on Chaise. She told herself to focus. She’d come so far.

The room was silent except for the sound of her own shallow breathing. She could practically hear Sylvia’s mind churning.