cheese on the floor. Yale said, “I’d say there was a good ten years where we had a lot of fun. Look, if you know people who are toning things down, I’m glad. Not everyone is.”
Cecily pressed with her fingers, leaned in. He worried she’d fall off her stool. “But don’t you miss having fun?”
He carefully removed her hand and set it on her own lap. “I think we have different ideas of fun.”
She looked hurt, but recovered quickly. She whispered. “What I’m saying is, I have some C-O-K-E in my purse.” She pointed to the pale yellow bag under her barstool.
“You have what?” He couldn’t have heard right. She hadn’t even gotten the bong joke.
“C-O-C-A-I-N-E. When we go upstairs, we could have a party.”
Yale had quite a few simultaneous thoughts, chief among them the fact that Cecily would be horrified in the morning by how she’d acted. He was so embarrassed for her that he wanted to say yes, to snort coke right here off the bar. But lately his heart couldn’t handle more than one coffee a day. He hadn’t so much as smoked pot in a year.
He looked at her as kindly as he could and said, “We’re going to get you a big glass of water, and you’re going to eat some bread. You can sleep as late as you want, and when you feel ready I’ll drive the whole way back.”
“Oh, you think I’m drunk.”
“Yes.”
“I’m actually fine.”
He slid the bread toward her, and the water.
Cecily might take it out on him, try to screw him over on future Brigg bequests—but really, no, he had dirt on her now. He wouldn’t blackmail her, nothing like that, but this might put them on a more equal footing.
He said, “When you wake up, don’t worry about this. It’s been a good trip, right?”
“Sure,” she said. “For you.”
In the morning, Yale ordered pancakes and coffee. He’d written Cecily a note last night, in case she couldn’t remember the plan, and propped it on her dresser when he saw her to her room: I’ll be downstairs whenever you’re ready.
He read the Door County Advocate and the Tribune, and in the latter he found two articles to mention to Charlie: one on the proposed anti-Happy Hour legislation, the other an editorial on Congress’s paltry AIDS spending. A minor miracle that people were still talking about it, that the Trib was giving it space. Charlie had been right; he’d said what they needed was one big celebrity death. And poof, there went Rock Hudson, without the courage to leave the closet even on his deathbed, and finally, four years into the crisis, there was a glimmer of something out there. Not enough, though. Charlie had once sworn that if Reagan ever deigned to give a speech about AIDS, he’d donate five dollars to the Republicans. (“And in the memo line,” Charlie said, “I’m gonna write I licked the envelope with my big gay tongue.”) But at least now Yale was overhearing the word on the El. He’d heard two teenagers joking about it in a hotel lobby where he went to pick up a donor. (“How do you turn a fruit into a vegetable?”) He’d heard a woman ask another woman if she should keep going to her gay hairdresser. Ridiculous, but better than feeling like you lived in some alternate universe where no one could hear you calling for help. Now it was like people could hear and just didn’t care. But wasn’t that progress?
Cecily finally showed up at 10:30, crisply dressed in slacks and a sweater, makeup and hair done. She said, “It’s much nicer out!”
“You feel okay?”
“I’m fabulous! I have to tell you, I’m not even hung over. I really wasn’t drunk. It was sweet of you to worry.”
He drove, Cecily leaning her head against the passenger window. He tried to avoid bumps, to take the curves softly. They didn’t talk much, except to discuss strategy if the art turned out to be real. Yale would deal with Nora and her family until the time came for the actual bequest, when Cecily would step back in if needed.
Yale glanced at the yellow purse at Cecily’s feet, which he now knew contained a baggie of cocaine—unless she’d used it up this morning, which it didn’t appear she had. If they got pulled over, if a cop searched the car, they’d both be arrested. He drove even slower.
He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out the M&Ms. He offered them