shocked, but her smile is indelible. “You can run from Jesus, but you can't hide.”
Tory says, “But can you get a restraining order, is what I want to know.”
The evening passes in the kitchen in front of the TV. The women are skilled at dividing their attention between the television and one another, so while never seeming to watch, they will suddenly comment on the action on the screen. The conversation has a casual, intimate rhythm. I listen from outside the circle, a privileged observer. I enjoy studying Tory on her home ground, and am eager to pick up the family lore. I feel a renewed interest, seeing her in this context. More than bone structure and habits of speech, I can see aspects of character I was never quite able to bring into focus suddenly illuminated and framed in their genetic setting. I feel like someone whose appreciation of an artist has been based on a single painting but who then is suddenly admitted to his studio.
My role of licensed connoisseur is compromised by the presence of Jim. Awkward and out of place, he butts into the conversation to ask who or what. He looks resentful, worried that a joke is being perpetrated at his expense. Mercifully, he heads up early after yawning pointedly at his wife. She tells him she'll be up soon. Bunny is up and down. At one point she disappears for most of a sitcom. I find myself sharing Ginny's anger at the old bastard who's stealing her youth.
Ginny keeps saying how nice it is to have everyone home, until, with her fourth drink, she begins to foresee the end of the reunion and slips into sullenness. “Mary's been out every night since she got her license,” she complains to Carol and Tory. “She's no company. She doesn't have time to sit down with her old mom. She's always coming or going, and everything's a big secret. She doesn't tell me anything. And then Bunny. She hates me because I don't want her to throw her life away.”
“She doesn't hate you,” Tory says impatiently.
“Of course she doesn't,” Carol says. “She loves you. We all love you.”
Ginny looks at Carol through tears and says, “Spare me this indiscriminate love. The trouble with you religious types is that you're promiscuous. Love, love, love. But then, you always were a cheap date.”
“Stop it,” Tory says. “That's no way to talk to your daughter.”
“That's all right, Tory,” Carol says. “I understand Mom's anger.”
“No, you don't,” Ginny says, slapping her palm down on the table. “You can't begin to understand my anger.”
I feel I should leave, but right now that would only make my presence more blatant.
“Between your sloppy L-U-V and Tory's Ice Queen judgment, I'm dying for a little daughterly affection.” She shakes her head. “What a brood. And Bunny. As if I need to be reminded about old letches and young bimbos.”
Ginny lights a cigarette. “And where the hell is Mary? She's supposed to be in at eleven o'clock.” We all turn to the clock above the range: It reads 10:40. “All right,” Ginny says, “so she's got twenty minutes.” They all laugh at the same moment, like synchronized swimmers executing an abrupt, graceful maneuver, their anger dispersed.
“Do you think she's still a virgin?” Ginny asks suddenly.
“Of course she is,” Tory says.
“Mary's a sensible girl,” Carol says. “She's not going to let herself be talked into anything.”
I remember Tory told me that Carol had her first abortion when she was fifteen.
“She's only sixteen,” Tory says.
“She's so cute,” Carol says.
“She is,” Ginny says.
Tory turns to me and says, “Isn't she a cutie?”
I could get very inspired on this subject. Instead, I just say, “She sure is.”
Carol says, “Remember that time she stuck the key in the electrical socket?”
At eleven o'clock, Tory announces she's tired. “You don't have to come to bed yet,” she says to me. I would like to stay up with the others, to sit quietly and listen to three women talk, but I say I'll go up with her. Ginny lets us share a room. Everyone kisses good night. Bunny, who has come back down, presses close enough for me to feel her breasts as she kisses me. Carol's breath smells chemically sweetened. Ginny folds me in a long motherly hug. She says she's going up, too.
After she takes off her shirt, Tory points to the small protuberance on her left side. It is the size of a BB, only slightly darker than the surrounding skin.