Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,151

a little revealing to wear in public, isn’t it?”

“Leave her alone, Harrison,” Rob said dismally. “I picked her up at the beach. She wasn’t there with a suitcase.”

For the remainder of the night the two of them hardly spoke, though Rob made sure to get one more free meal for Rourke. No matter how angry Rob was, it wouldn’t have been in him to cut Rourke out of a deal. While Rourke ate, Rob kept drinking whatever Val put in front of him. The more Rob drank, the more he kept reaching out to others, greeting old friends, making new ones, until eventually we’d become a sizable crowd. Rob commandeered the pool table and hustled six players before turning to Rourke and challenging him to “a serious game.” Rourke consented, standing without a word, as though he’d expected the invitation. It occurred to me that Rob had intended to play Rourke from the start; that all the other games had been leading to this one.

They each laid down two twenty-dollar bills. Though the bar was noisy, there was the impression of silence in our area. The men concentrated on the table, moving around it like it was theirs and theirs alone. As one would shoot, the eyes of the other would lock on the ball pattern, memorizing the layout. The game had a different quality than the preceding ones; not only was it an even match, but Rob and Rourke had obviously played together thousands of times. In the end, Rob won, but it was unclear whether Rourke had simply let him.

“C’mon,” Rob said. “I’ll give you a chance to win your money back.”

Rourke handed Rob the twenties and said, “Happy birthday.”

I stood off my stool and gave it up to Rourke, who sat and pulled me onto his lap. I felt his thigh between my legs. Next up against Rob was Roger, the captain from the slow-pitch team, but by then I’d stopped paying attention. I was distracted by Rourke; he was distracted too. I could tell by the death-like tranquility of his hands. Through my stupor, I could only register the knock and split of the balls, the slugs of color whizzing across the verdant felt, the thuckish gulps of the pockets swallowing balls, the ups and downs of drunken conversation.

“He’s doing really good,” I said to Rourke. “Too bad there’s no girl to impress.”

“There is,” Rourke said. “You.”

We were outside—midnight, a little after, walking to the cars. Ahead was the sea, and behind, the chime of Rob’s keys kicking up irregularly, which gave us an indication of how he was walking.

Roger and the guys were taking him to meet some girls.

“You’re not driving,” Rourke turned and said. “Remember?”

Rob took his time answering, as if relishing the messy power he had, as if he could not be completely perceived, as if his drunkenness concealed him.

He made his way around the rear of Rourke’s car, moving with the confidence of a heavily armed man. “We’re going dancing,” Rob slurred as headlights appeared behind him—a car approaching from Montauk. “She loves to dance,” he said of me, his eyes gazing inches beyond my face, somewhere to the left. And then to me, Rob said, “Come dance with us.”

Rourke grabbed Rob by the shoulders and lifted him forcefully onto the fender just as the car shot past. The rush of wind blew their jackets open.

Rob tried to shake Rourke off. “I’m all right. I’m all right.”

Rourke gripped him tighter, shoving him farther. Rob’s gaze trawled upward from Rourke’s chest, its focus continuously adjusting until arriving at Rourke’s face. Rob’s mouth split into a solemn smile of recognition, and when another car came, the headlights glinted off his teeth, and his eyes looked like dry tobacco rings. He threw his arm around Rourke, falling into him, and for a time they were speechless. Rourke slid the keys from Rob’s hand.

Roger and his friends jogged down the restaurant steps to meet us. “C’mon, birthday boy, let’s go get laid.”

Rob lurched away with the pack of guys and settled into the front seat of the first car, which was Roger’s Camaro. Roger was a student at Brooklyn Law who made three grand a summer waiting tables at Gosman’s. He flashed his lights and leaned on the horn as they pulled away, and all the passengers screamed out the windows—“Yahhhhhhhh!”

Rourke seemed lost in thought on the ride home, so I didn’t speak. Back at the cottage I cleaned up a little, then showered while he