All I wanted was to peel off my suit, fall into bed, and find something better across the black, sandy gulf; but the moment I turned onto my block, I saw that it wasn’t going to happen. The curving slope of driveway that should welcome a man at times like this glittered instead with shiny black and silver cars. The sharks had gathered. The friends of my wife had come, bearing their honeyed hams, their casseroles, and their eager questions. How did he die? How’s Work holding up? Then, sotto voce, when Barbara couldn’t hear: What was he mixed up in? Two bullets in the head, so I heard. Then lower still: Probably deserved it. Sooner or later, one of them would say what so many thought. White trash, they’d say, and eyes would glint above lips chapped by one too many tight smiles. Poor Barbara. She really should have known better.
On principle, I declined to be chased from my own home, but my car refused to make the turn into the driveway. Instead, I bought beer and cigarettes at the convenience store next to the high school. I wanted to carry the bag into the football stadium, mount the bleachers, and get slowly drunk above that rectangle of brown grass. But the gate was locked, and the chain was loud when I yanked on it. So I drove back to my father’s house and drank in his driveway. I killed most of the six-pack before I managed to go home.
As I turned onto my block, I saw that the number of cars had grown, giving my house an unfortunate festive air. I parked on the street two houses down and walked. Inside, I found the crowd I suspected: our neighbors, several acquaintances from out of town, doctors and their wives, business owners, and half of the local bar, including Clarence Hambly, who, in many ways, had been my father’s greatest rival. He immediately drew my gaze, for he stood tall and disdainful even in this monied gathering. He had his back to the wall, one elbow on the mantel, and a drink in his hand. He was the first to notice me, but looked away when our eyes met. I dismissed him, a minor irritation, and scanned the crowd for my wife, finding her across the room. Looking at her, I could say, without pause or reflection, that she was a beautiful woman. She had flawless skin, high cheekbones, and eyes that flashed. That night, she had salon-perfect hair and looked stunning in last season’s most expensive dress. She was cloistered with her most regular companions, women whose hands were cold with jewels and thin blood. When she saw me, she stopped talking, and her friends turned as one. Their eyes dissected me, settling on the beer bottle I’d carried in; and when Barbara left their circle, they said nothing, yet I imagined sharp tongues poised to flay my naked back. I lit another cigarette and thought of the funeral yet to plan. Then Barbara materialized, and for a moment we were alone together.
“Nice party,” I said, and then smiled so that my words would not sound so cruel.
She pressed hard lips against my cheek.
“You’re drunk,” she said. “Don’t embarrass me.”
That would have been the low point, had Glena Werster not chosen that moment to sweep through the front door. She flashed a smile that made her teeth look oiled, and her black dress was short and tight. The sight of her in my home made me ill. I thought of Jean and the weight of her tread as she’d mounted the steps to Glena Werster’s pillared mansion.
“What’s she doing here?” I asked.
Barbara watched over her wineglass as Glena nestled into the bosom of her little clique in the corner, and I saw worry in my wife’s eyes. When she turned to me, her whisper was fierce.
“You be nice, Work. She’s very important in this town.”
By “important,” I knew my wife meant that Glena Werster sat on the board of the country club, was filthy rich, and mean enough to ruin reputations for the joy of it.
“I don’t want her here,” I said, and gestured vaguely at the group of women huddled under the portrait of Barbara’s father. “I don’t want any of them here.” I leaned closer and she pulled back so quickly that it stank of pure instinct. I spoke anyway. “We need to talk, Barbara.”
“You’ve sweated through your shirt,” she said, flicking three