Burnaway

[cont.]
She completely agreed. “My daughter, Maggie, says that architecture magnifies the affectations of its era. Brutal does somehow seem apt, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, this is impressive and all but it isn’t my idea of home. Who but a zombie could live happily ever after in a mausoleum?” He gulped the last of his drink and started on the next tray of hors d’oeuvres, tiny pies filled with minced something or other. He picked up two with each hand and stuffed them into his mouth.
As she stood there sipping her blue cocktail mesmerized by the spectacle of him wolfing down all the canapés, a tall older man joined them by the table. He sloshed his drink a bit as he reached around Tommy to pick up a single tiny sandwich. He looked familiar and he caught her staring at him, trying to place him. In the blink of an eye, he pounced, positioning himself so close to her she could feel his breath on the top of her head. “Hey, cutie pie,” he whispered into her hair, “I haven’t seen you at one of these before. I’m Larry Cotter.”
“Hello, Lawrence. So good to see you again. What a splendid tuxedo you’re wearing.” She took as much of a step back as she could. He sort of had her pinned in, one of his arms leaning against the table, the other holding the drink right by her ear. “You don’t remember me, do you? I didn’t recognize you immediately either. Context can be so important, can’t it? We met in the waiting room at my husband’s clinic last month. He’s one of your wife’s oncologists. He’s the one with the lopsided smile. Surely you remember him? Well, I was hanging the painting your wife said she liked. You were there watching us when she and I talked about how the blues seemed to float over the patterns of grey.”
“That can’t be. I never forget good tits.”
Oh, dear. She had routinely experienced such crudeness in her twenties. All well endowed young women have. Now in her fifties, she had no clue how to respond. She wasn’t quite sure if she should be flattered or indignant or simply thankful that her new bra was so effective at disguising the impact of gravity.
As he continued to leer down at the inch of exposed cleavage, she decided he wanted to make a scene and was deliberately trying to pick a fight, to push her into making a fuss. Lashing out like this was a pretty common defense mechanism, especially among dominant men with seriously ill spouses. His wife had ovarian cancer.
“It’s good to see you again, Lawrence. Please give my regards to Doris,” and she pivoted to escape.
“No, you can’t leave yet. You know, now that I see you in the light, you are old. I bet you really were something when you were young. Smiling disguises the wrinkles. Did you know that? You shouldn’t stop smiling if you’re not going to pay for cosmetic surgery. How did you get in here anyway? Rina never invites old women to her parties if she can help it.”
Confronting a drunk is never rewarding. Odessa tried to divert his attention by turning to the young artist now consuming the platter of caviar on teensy tiny crackers. “Tommy, come on over here and let me introduce you to Lawrence Cotter. I’m sure you’ve read some of his novels. He’s such a best seller. Lawrence, this is Tommy Malinowski. He’ll be graduating from Cal Arts next June and has a solo coming up in about three months at Genevieve Hightower’s gallery in Culver City. It’s on La Cienega, just off Venice, in that cluster nearest to the 10 on-ramp. I’m sure you and Doris have been there before. Tommy here is such a talented painter. You should check out his work. Doris might find them right up her alley. Is she here tonight?”
“No, she’s not. Don’t even try to get away.” He grabbed her hand. “Tell me, Tommy. What does this woman do to warrant an invitation to this party?”
“She’s an art dealer.”
“But you don’t look like an art dealer. You look like a schoolteacher, maybe third grade.”
“Please let go of my hand.”
“Everyone knows that art dealers are thin and stylish. You are not…”
“Lawrence, please let go of my hand.”
“Half the women in here would love to be getting this much attention from me.”
“Well, then count me in the other half. Seriously, you need to let go of my hand and do something to sober up. You’re being a complete ass.”
“A woman who tells the truth. Isn’t that novel?”
“Let go of my hand. You’re hurting me.”
“Yeah, dude, let go of her hand.”
“Are you going to make me?”
Larry puffed up his chest, sticking his chin out in an attempt to appear threatening. But with the tuxedo, his hair slicked down, the long nose and heft in the middle, he managed to look more like a penguin. It actually was an uncanny resemblance. Tommy and Odessa couldn’t help themselves: they started laughing so loudly that everyone within hearing range turned to see what was happening. Tommy’s laughter quickly shifted into hiccuping and to steady himself, he leaned against Odessa, bumping her into a waiter with a tray of empties. Larry certainly succeeded in getting his ruckus.
Pleased with the commotion, he wobbled his way across to the long hallway, head up defiantly, brushing up against another woman hard enough to jar her drink. This man was not going to grieve with one iota of grace, Odessa thought. But then he didn’t live with much grace even before his wife took ill. The tabloids routinely featured photos of a procession of lovely young lovers shuffling through his life. He didn’t even have the decency to be discreet. Odessa rubbed the red circle where he had pinioned her hand. It would soon be a bruise. Maybe hurting his wife was the point.
Tommy shook his head. “He’s an ass and a crappy writer.”
“A rich crappy writer with a wife who collects art, Tommy. You should have let me handle it.”
“Who cares if they buy my art? I’ve got a waiting list a year long.” Tommy lurched as he spoke, tipping the contents of her cocktail down the front of his trousers.