The Truth About Forever (20 page)

"Unbelievable," Wes said.

"What?" For a second I thought he meant Mrs. Talbot.

"Look at that." I followed his gaze, realizing he meant the shrimp in my hands, as well as the pile in front of me, which was twice the size of his. "How are you doing those so fast?"

"I'm not," I said, sliding the shrimp out of the shell and dropping it on my pile.

He just looked at me, then down at the one he was holding. "I've been watching you," he said, "and while I've been working on this one, you've done five. At least."

I picked up another one, ripped the legs off, then slid off the shell in one piece, dropping the shrimp onto my pile.

"Six," he said. "This is getting embarrassing. How'd you learn to do that?"

Starting another one, I said, "My dad. In the summers, we used to buy a couple of pounds of shrimp to steam and eat for dinner. He loved shrimp, and he was super fast. So if you wanted to eat, you had to keep up." I dropped the shrimp onto my pile. "It was a Darwinian thing."

He finally finished the one in his hand, putting it on the pile. "In my house," he said, "it was the opposite. You did everything you could to keep from eating."

"Why?"

"After the divorce," he said, picking up another one and, eyeing how I was doing it, ripping all the legs off at once, "my mom got into natural foods. Part of the whole cleanse your life, cleanse your body thing. Or something. No more hamburgers, no more hot dogs. It was lentil loaf and tofu salad, and that was a good day."

"My dad was the total opposite," I told him, starting another one. "He was a firm believer in the all-meat diet. To him, chicken was a vegetable."

"I wish," he said.

"Shrimp! I need shrimp!" Delia hissed from behind us. I scooped the pile in front of me onto a plate, then ran to the sink, rinsing them quickly and patting them dry as she hurriedly piled toothpicks, napkins, and cocktail sauce onto a platter.

"Those biscuits are going fast," Kristy reported as she came back through the door, balancing her tray on her upturned palm. Today, she was in her most striking outfit yet: a black leather skirt and motorcycle boots paired with a loose white peasant blouse. Her hair was held back at the back of her head with a pair of red chopsticks. "That crowd is all professor types, and they're so weird that way, ultra polite but really grabby at the same time. Like they say, 'Oh, my, doesn't that look tasty,' and then clean out your whole tray."

"Two and move," I said.

"Don't I know it." She blew a piece of hair out of her face. "It's just work, is all I'm saying."

There was a crash from the other room, just as Delia handed off the shrimp tray. We all froze.

"Shit," Delia said. "I mean, shoot. No, actually, I mean shit. I really do."

Kristy eased open the door a tiny bit. "It wasn't anything of theirs," she reported, and I saw Delia visibly relax. "But a couple of wineglasses bit it on the carpet."

"Red or white?" Delia asked.

"Ummm," Kristy said. "Looks like red."

"
Shit
," Delia said again, crossing the room to the plastic Tupperware container she always brought with us. "And Bert would pick today to have other plans."

I looked at Wes quizzically, and he said, "Bert's a whiz with stains. He can get anything out of anything."

"Really," I said.

"Oh yeah." Wes nodded, slowly de-shelling another shrimp. "He's a legend."

Delia yanked a bottle of carpet cleaner and a rag out of the container. "And how are you?" she asked me, handing them to me.

"How am I what?"

"At getting out stains."

I looked down at the rag and cleaner in my hands, as Kristy pushed out the door.

"Um," I said. Through the still open door, I could see Monica down on the floor, slowly picking up pieces of broken glass as the hostess of the party stood by, watching. "I'm not—"

"Good," Delia said, pushing me through the door. "Go to it!" She'd given me such a nudge I actually stumbled over the threshold: luckily, I was able to catch myself right before doing a face plant into a nearby end table. I caught my breath, then crossed the room over to Monica, who'd made what looked like very little headway in the cleaning up effort.

"Hey," I said, starting to kneel down beside her. "You okay?"

"Mmm-hmmm," she said. But then she stood up, wiping her hands on her apron and starting across the floor to the kitchen, leaving me and the tray behind her. So much for teamwork, I thought, as I dropped the cloth and cleaner beside me and began to pick up the broken glass as fast as I could. I'd just gotten what I hoped was all of it and begun spraying the carpet when I heard a voice.

"Macy? Is that you?"

For a second, I just kept spraying, as if doing so long enough might remove not only the stain, but me and this entire situation as well. After I gave the carpet a good dousing, though, it was clear I had no choice but to look up.

"Hi," I said to Mrs. Talbot, who was standing over me holding a napkin piled with shrimp. "How are you?"

"We're well," she said, glancing a bit hesitantly over at Mr. Talbot, who was helping himself to shrimp from Kristy's tray as she tried, unsuccessfully, to move on. "Are you… working here?"

Even though I knew this was a valid question, the fact that I was wearing a Wish Catering apron, holding a rag, and on my knees on the carpet fighting a stain made me wonder if Mrs. Talbot was really all that smart after all. "Yes," I said, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. "I, um, just started."

"But you're still at the information desk," she said, suddenly serious, and I could see Jason in her features, this automatic concern that all be As It Should. "Aren't you?"

I nodded. "I'm just doing this occasionally," I said. "For extra money."

"Oh." She glanced over again at Mr. Talbot, who was standing in place chewing, his napkin piled with what, to my eye, looked like a lot more than two shrimp. "Well. That's wonderful."

I ducked my head back down, and after a second a woman came up to her, asking about some research trip, and thankfully, they moved on. I'd been dousing, then patting, then dousing for a good five minutes when a pair of motorcycle boots appeared right at my eye level, foot tapping.

"You know," Kristy said, her voice low, "it doesn't look so good for you to be on the floor like this."

"There's a stain," I said. "And Monica just abandoned me to deal with it."

She squatted down across from me, moving her knees to one side in a surprisingly ladylike way. "It's very hard for her." she said to me, her voice serious. "She's self-conscious about her clumsiness, so a lot of the times rather than acknowledge it she just shuts down. It's a defense mechanism. You know, she's very emotional, Monica. She really is."

As she said this, Monica pushed through the door from the kitchen, carrying a trayful of goat cheese toasts. She started across the room, her face flat and expressionless, walking right past us without even a glance.

"See?" Kristy said. "She's
upset
."

"Macy," a man's voice boomed from over our heads. "Hello down there!"

Kristy and I both looked up at the same time. It was Mr. Talbot, of course, and he was smiling widely, although I assumed it had more to do with Kristy's shrimp tray than us reuniting. As she and I both stood, he proved me right by immediately reaching for one and popping it into his mouth.

"Hi, Mr. Talbot," I said, as Kristy looked on, annoyed. "It's good to see you."

"And you," he replied. "Martha tells me you've taken on this job in addition to your library work. That's very ambitious of you. I know Jason finds the information desk to be a full-time commitment."

"Oh, well," I said, bending down to retrieve my cleaner and rag, as the stain looked, miraculously, like it was actually fading, "I'm sure for him, it is."

Mr. Talbot, reaching for another shrimp, raised his eyebrows.

"I mean," I said, quickly, as Kristy switched her tray to the other hand, "that Jason just gives such a big commitment to everything. He's very, you know, focused."

"Ah, yes, he really is," he said, nodding. Then he lowered his voice, adding, "I'm so glad that you understand that, considering the decision he had to make recently about your relationship." He dabbed his lips with a napkin. "I mean, he is fond of you. But Jason just has so much on his plate. He has to be very careful not to get distracted from his goals."

I just stood there, wondering how, exactly, he expected me to react to this. I was a distraction from his goals? I felt my face flush.

"At any rate," Mr. Talbot continued, "I know he hopes, as we do, that you two can work things out once he returns."

And with that, he started to reach for another shrimp. But as his fingers neared the edge of the tray, zeroing in, Kristy yanked it away with such force that a couple actually slid off the other side and hit the carpet,
thud thud
. Mr. Talbot looked confused. Then he looked at the shrimp on the floor, as if actually wondering if the two-second rule applied here.

"So sorry," Kristy said smoothly, turning on her heel, "but we're on goal to get out another round of appetizers, and we can't allow ourselves to be distracted."

"Kristy," I hissed.

"Come on," she said, and then she was starting across the floor, and there was really nothing I could think of to do but follow her. Which I did, not looking back, although whether it was to save my pride or save myself the sight of Mr. Talbot eating shrimp off the floor, I wasn't sure.

Kristy knocked the kitchen door open, walked to the opposite counter, and put down her tray with a bang. Wes and Delia, who were arranging more wineglasses on two platters, looked up at us.

"You are not going to believe," she said, "what just went down out there."

"Did something else break or spill?" Delia asked. "God! What is going on today?"

"No," Kristy said. Looking at her, I realized that I was upset, even hurt: but Kristy, she was
pissed
. "Do you know who's out there?"

Delia looked at the door. "Monica?"

"No. Macy's jerkwad boyfriend's father. And do you know what he did out there, in front of God and me and everybody?"

This time, neither Wes nor Delia offered any theories, instead just looking at me, then back at Kristy. Outside, I heard Mrs. Talbot trilling again.

"He said," she said, "that his stupid asshole son put their relationship on hold because she wasn't in line with his
goals
."

Delia raised her eyebrows. I had no idea what Wes's reaction was, as I was making a concentrated effort not to look at him.

"And then," Kristy continued, reaching full throttle, "he ate half my shrimp plate. He insults my friend—to her face!—and then tries to go for shrimp. I wanted to sock him."

"But," Delia said carefully, "you didn't. Right?"

"No," Kristy replied, as Delia visibly relaxed again, "but I did cut him off. He's on crustacean restriction, from here on out. He tries another grab, he's getting a foot stomp."

"Oh, don't do that," Delia said, as I concentrated on a spot on the opposite wall, still trying to calm myself from the various shames that had been thrown my way in the last few minutes, "please God I'm begging you. Can't you just avoid him?"

"It's the principle of the thing," Kristy replied, piling more shrimp on her tray by the handful, "and no, I can't."

The door swung open again, and Monica ambled in, blowing her bangs out of her face. "Shrimp," she said flatly, looking at Kristy.

"I'm sure they do," she shot back, plunking another container of cocktail sauce and some napkins onto her tray. "Bastards."

"Kristy," Delia said, but she was already pushing back out the door, her tray on her palm, rising to shoulder level. As it swung shut, Delia looked around, somewhat desperately, then picked up a tray of filled wineglasses, lifting it carefully with both hands.

"Just to be on the safe side," she said, nudging the door open with her toe and glancing out at the living room, where I could see Kristy zipping past a group of people who were reaching, in vain, for her shrimp, "I'm going to make a pass around the room and keep an eye on her. Wes, grab that other tray of glasses. Monica, get another trayful of toasts out here. And Macy—"

I turned and looked at her, glad to have something else to focus on.

"I'm sorry," she said, and smiled at me so kindly I felt like it was a third shame, the biggest of all, even though I knew that wasn't how she intended it. Still, I felt something hurt in my heart as the door swung shut again, as if all the inadequacies I'd felt since Jason's email were no longer hidden away inside me but were as clear on my face as if they were written there.

After Delia left, the room seemed to feel smaller. Monica was slowly moving toasts onto her tray, while Wes finished pouring the wine behind me. I could see out the kitchen door to the garden and the road beyond it, and for a second I considered just pushing it open and walking out, could almost feel the grass under my feet, the sun on my face as I just left this behind.

Monica picked up her tray, then brushed past me and out the door. As it swung open, I heard a second of party noises and voices, and then it was quiet again. When I turned around to look at Wes he was already lifting his tray, arranging the glasses on it, clearly more concerned with keeping them balanced than with my various shortcomings. But then he looked at me.

"Hey," he said, and I felt some part of me brace, preparing for what came next, "are you—"

"I'm fine," I told him, my easy, knee-jerk answer. "It was nothing, just some stupid thing somebody said."

"—gonna be able to grab that other tray?" he finished.

Then we both shut up, abruptly: it was one of those moments when you're not sure what to respond to first, like a conversational photo finish where you're still waiting for the judges to weigh in.

"Yeah." I nodded at the tray behind him. "Go ahead, I'm right behind you."

"All right," he said. And then, for one second, he looked at me, as if maybe he should say more. But he didn't. He just walked to the door, pushing it open with his free hand. "I'll see you out there."