How It Ended: New and Collected Stories - By Jay McInerney Page 0,16
mine. Cara packs her own Hello Kitty backpack: Barbie nightgown, Barbie and Chrissie dolls, the usual stuff.
“Come on, come on,” I say.
“I don't want to go to Grammy's,” Bucky says.
“Sure you do,” I say. “You always have fun at Grammy's.”
“Her house smells funny.”
“What about Bongo?” Cara whines.
I've forgotten about that. “Okay, let's go find Bongo.”
We walk out front and look up and down the street, though I don't really expect to see the crazy mutt—the last time he ran off, we got a call two days later from the next town over. Bongo's a wanderer. He's also a biter, which is why we always make sure he's out in the backyard before we bring anybody over on Friday nights.
“I'm sure Bongo will come home soon,” I say, but Cara's still weepy when I drive them over to Susan's mother's house.
“What have you kids got planned for tonight,” Susan's mother asks me after we have planted the kids in front of the TV.
“Just going to have a bite and hit the town.”
“I think it's great the way you two have your together time. It's important to keep the romance alive. Some couples, the kids come along, they just let the spark go out.” I'm afraid she's going to start talking about her ex, Susan's dad, an epic horndog who has achieved sainthood since he succumbed to lung cancer a few years back.
“We're trying to keep it fresh,” I say.
“It takes work,” she says. “You can't just take it for granted. Buck and I, we had our problems, Lord knows. But every Saturday night he'd take me to dinner at the club.”
If I were her, I wouldn't bring up the club; there's a famous story about my father-in-law and one of the waitresses. “He was a hell of a guy, old Buck,” I say.
“I'm not saying he was perfect.”
She's getting misty-eyed, now, and it's absolutely imperative to change the subject before I get the full-blown eulogy. “He was smart enough to marry you at least.”
“I have my faults, too. Believe me, I know.”
“Not in my book.” I give her a big hug, being careful not to crush her prominent calcium-deficient bones. “You've been great to us.”
“I'm only glad I can be here to help.”
“You know how grateful we are,” I say. “And the kids love it, too.”
As if to disprove this assertion, Bucky intercepts me on the front step and attaches himself to my leg, and it takes a good ten minutes to get him settled down again.
Back at the house, Susan is tweaking herself in front of her vanity.
“Turn around.”
She puts her arms down and stares at herself in the mirror.
“Susan? Let me see.”
She's wearing a low-cut white cotton halter with low-rider Diesel jeans. Sexy without being theatrical. Her makeup seems subdued. I feel like she could go heavier on the eyeliner. Finally, she stands up and walks to the closet.
“What's the matter?”
She stands at the closet door. “Nothing,” she says. “Long day. I'm a little tired.”
“We can take care of that,” I say, showing her the gram vial I copped at lunchtime.
“Maybe later,” she says. She's still standing there, looking into the closet as if at some profound vista.
I walk over behind her, put my hands on her shoulders and rub her neck and her delts. There's nothing to see in the closet except two rows of hanging clothes, hers and mine. “Sure you don't want a little pick-me-up?”
“What the hell,” she says, turning around and flashing a wan smile. I tap some onto the fleshy part between her thumb and forefinger. She huffs it up and holds out the other hand. “Have you seen Bongo,” she asks.
“He broke out,” I say, generously anointing her other hand. “Remind me to turn off the fence so he can get back in.”
By the time we get to the Corral, a sprawling C & W dance hall about ten miles west on the interstate, Susan seems to have shaken her funk. We order a couple of platinum margaritas and survey the crowd. We haven't been here in four or five months. Last time, Susan picked up a guy who was a lineman for the phone company, but he was shitfaced by the time she got him out of there and ended up puking in the parking lot, which is where we left him, sprawled over the hood of his truck, drooling on his snakeskin Justins. Earlier, he'd been telling Susan all about the boots, which he'd just bought that afternoon at the outlet