My whole face burst into a wide, almost painful smile. I was so pleased, in fact, that tears threatened to roll down my cheeks. I slammed the rest of my martini and retreated to the kitchen with the excuse that we needed more wine.
* * *
Sid brought out a portable speaker and turned on some music, so we didn’t hear the car pull into the driveway. We were faux-modern dancing in the backyard, making funny shapes with our bodies, pretending to pass electrical impulses back and forth that would shake us from top to bottom. After our martinis and two bottles of red wine I unearthed some maple bourbon, which we were bopping over to and shooting straight. I had a brief moment of clarity in which I noted that the pool was covered and we wouldn’t fall in. This time, I wasn’t sure one of us wouldn’t drown. With each undulation and move of my body I imagined I was shaking all the frustrations and negativities up and away from my inner self and flinging them away from me, back out into the atmosphere, to be absorbed by the universe. You don’t get through a PhD with a concentration in women’s literature without encountering some New Age–ery, and drinking could bring out my mystical tendencies.
Sid was the one who grabbed my arm and pointed her out. Standing at the back gate, held up with duct tape as it wasn’t yet fixed from Sid kicking it in, was a woman, watching us. As soon as my eyes fixed on her I realized how drunk I was and how nearly impossible it would be to keep a steady course as I walked to greet her. “Come with me,” I said to Sid, and grasped her arm. We approached cautiously, like Dorothy and the Scarecrow entering the dark forest, arms linked.
As we drew closer to the gate I saw that it was Cynthia, wearing a slightly forced smile, like she had just opened the door on me going to the bathroom.
“Hi there,” I said, hoping I wasn’t slurring my words. “This is my daughter, Sid.” I felt very aware of Cynthia’s sobriety in the face of my drunkenness, and how judgmental she might be if she knew the full extent of the evening’s bacchanalia.
They exchanged hellos. Sid, perhaps because she was an only child, was always good about participating in conversations with neighbors or my colleagues. Unlike other children who would twist themselves away and stare at the floor when questions were asked of them, Sid would always stand placidly beside me and look adults in the eye when they spoke to her. It would mostly make me proud, though sometimes I would feel badly for her, the mini adult by my hip, so pressured to appear mature beyond her years.
After a long moment of silence, Cynthia gazed past me toward the pool and spoke. “I didn’t want to bother you,” she started. “I was on my way to campus and realized I was passing right by your house—” Later I considered that she had never been to my house before, so she couldn’t have been “passing by,” she must have deliberately looked up my address, but at the time I didn’t think of that. I murmured that it was no bother, I asked her to come in and beckoned for Sid to help me lift and drag open the broken gate.
She protested that she couldn’t stay, then said, “I heard that they asked you to stop teaching.”
“They did.”
“I wanted to let you know I think that’s totally fucked-up. Honestly, it makes me livid.”
“Thank you,” I said to her, reaching my hand over the gate and awkwardly placing it on her shoulder. “It’s nice of you to come and voice your support.” I was so wobbly, I didn’t want to take my hand away from her for fear I might stagger. I felt like I was underwater, unable to poke my head through the surface.
“What are you going to do?” she asked me, looking at my hand.
“I don’t know yet,” I told her. I could think only of Vladimir, so much so that as I looked at her she almost transformed into him, and it was him standing in front of me at the gate, him enduring the weight of my outstretched hand instead of her. I supposed I could keep my office even if I wasn’t teaching. I could still see Vladimir in the hallways and travel with him to the coffee stand, run into him in the parking lot. In my mind I saw the weather getting cold and the two of us in parkas and woolens, leaning against the cars, freezing but unable to break from our conversation with each other.
“Well, let me know if you need anything, letters—whatever—” she said. She looked once again at my hand that was still resting on her. Rooting firmly into one side so that I didn’t tip over, I slid my palm down her upper arm （rather sensually, I am mortified to admit） and allowed myself to squeeze her firm tricep before I took the hand back, scraping my forearm against one of the fence posts as I withdrew it.
Was it just my drunken imagination, or did I see her shudder and ever so slightly pull the shoulder I had touched away? In a flash I remembered that Cynthia would be taking over one of my classes if I chose to stop teaching. Did she really come here to offer support? Or did she come here to spy? Was she already counting her money like a little fox counts on the flesh of a lame hen? Was she actually on her way to campus? Or was she driving over here to kiss my ass and then getting back in the car and driving to David’s, who was due to become chair, to kiss his? Where was Phee? What was she doing out at this hour?
I stood there for too long, staring. Sid, more sober than I was, asked her if she was sure she wouldn’t like to come in, have some cake or a drink, but she once again refused, saying she had to work tonight. She murmured that I should let her know if “there’s anything I can do.” Then she seemed to examine my face for several seconds, as if searching for clues to a puzzle. Not finding what she wanted, she smiled weakly, turned, and walked toward her car.
“Just don’t stab me in the back,” I said softly. She stopped and pivoted to face me. I instinctively stepped away from her. Even drunk, I didn’t want a confrontation.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay,” she said, and proceeded to get into her car. The moment before she ducked her head into the driver’s side, I saw an expression settle on her exquisite features. It wasn’t anger or scorn or any of the emotions I would expect her to feel had she overheard my comment. Instead, even with my consciousness just brimming at the surface, I saw that I had made her nervous, and as I watched her leave it seemed she took the K-turn in the driveway too quickly, like a jittery thief escaping the scene of a crime.
XI.
The following day I woke in my old marital bed. John was not there. My head felt as though someone had taken a vegetable peeler to my brain and roughly scraped away the topmost membrane. As I hoisted myself up, an explosion of white floaters appeared in my visual field. I was wearing the same clothes from last night. I went to the bathroom and tried to will myself to vomit, but nothing came out. I looked in on Sid, asleep in the guest room, in her pajamas, under the covers. I looked in the office and saw John sleeping on the futon. Again, I didn’t remember him coming home, but I barely remembered anything from last night, and I prayed I had not thrown my hungry, booze-soaked body upon him, begging him to make love to me.
With relief I recalled I’d canceled my classes—planning in advance for this day of mental squalor. Well, yes, and so I deserved it. I started the coffee, and while I was waiting downstairs I pressed a bag of cut-up frozen mangoes to my face. Water, I needed to drink water. All the water in the world. Later I might ask Sid to go buy me a green juice from the little health food store off Main Street. And a kombucha, I liked those. I began a mental list of what I would eat and drink that day. （Most people think it’s best to compensate for a hangover by eating, and while that works for young people like Sid, I have found in my dotage that starving and dousing a hangover with excessive hydration is a much more effective tool for recovery.） I would let nothing pass my lips other than water, coffee, and the green juice until one in the afternoon. After that I would allow myself to eat high-water-content fruits and vegetables （watermelon, cucumbers, cantaloupe, celery, lettuce, tomatoes） until 5 p.m., at which time I would make a chicken soup （no noodles or rice） with a healthy amount of spice to burn and scour my insides. I would do an old aerobics DVD that forced me to sweat.