to keep them safe and warm, but also they relished the gruesome. At least they relished the talk of it—tragedy, poisoning, accident, as long as it didn’t happen to them or theirs, they talked it up as though it was delicious.
On a tall cabinet beneath the window there were candles and a bowl of pinecones and other domestic markings.
She was nervous.
In the dining room she moved bottles onto the counter of the bar—Jim would make drinks, since he was good at that—and set music to play from her cheap stereo.
He came in and touched the back of her neck.
She could get used to him, she thought; but then, no. He was married and he was not a replacement. Through the French doors the sun had sunk and the lower half of the sky was a pale orange.
“We shouldn’t do that while the cousins are here,” she said.
“Oh, you ashamed of me?”
“You know why.”
Her friends would see she needed comfort, and if they didn’t it would only be between her and them anyway. But the judgment of the cousins, so soon after Hal’s death—the cousins would not spare her.
She heard brakes squeaking as a car pulled up and then Casey’s voice as she went out the front door—it was not the cousins yet, only her daughter’s friends. She realized she was far too nervous to hide it. She wouldn’t be able to stand it if they took this place from her. She could hardly bear the tension of not knowing.
She said so. Jim poured her a fresh drink.
By the time her own guests got there—Dewanne and Lacy from the old street in Venice and a couple, Reg and Tony, from the last school she’d taught at—she was half-drunk and giddy. Time flowed faster, space was easier to move in . . . of course, she hoped she didn’t sabotage herself with Steven. But he and the son still weren’t there by nine-thirty and the other guests were scattered through the near-empty house, already drinking too much, already leaving empty cups on tables, smears of cheese and chip fragments on the floor. Around her she heard expressions of awe at the décor, at the plentiful zoology, awe sometimes tinged with horror.
She felt gratified anyway. She went to offer fresh drinks to Casey’s friends, sitting in the cat room. Sal had two of them backed into a corner—not an easy feat in a wheelchair, but his chair was parked at an angle and blocked them effectively. It was Nancy and Addison, her nasal-voiced, stooping boyfriend. Susan had never understood what it was that Casey and Nancy had in common, beyond the chairs, she was thinking as she crossed over to them—Nancy had prominent hobbies, the obsessive reading of fantasy novels whose covers featured women with long swirling hair and elaborate chain mail and/or bladed weapons and the copious creation, via knitting, of bright-colored afghans, scarves and baby booties. Neither of which would ever be a pastime of Casey’s.
Sal was thrusting his Walkman at her.
“It’s Bridewarrior, man. Listen. This one song is so awesome. Wait, I gotta rewind it. The album’s called The Maiden Queens of Atlantis.”
Susan remembered now: after Hal fell asleep on the bed in Casey’s guestroom, at the last supper, Sal had orated to her for half an hour on the subject of rap music, rap magazines and the East-West hip-hop rivalry. There were New York rappers and there were rappers from L.A., like two big gangs that wanted to do rapid musical drive-by shootings. They chiefly battled it out by boasting of their prowess, however, and wearing big-bore gold-plated necklaces and rings, only rarely resorting to actual weapons. While Sal was into rap, Casey had said, the women he met were typically bitches and hos. This month he was into Celtic folk metal. Women were earth-mother goddesses and busty virgins wearing fur bikinis. Though in actuality as white as the driven snow, Sal had taken the name Salvador and liked to pretend he was Hispanic and/or black.
Curiously, some people appeared to believe it.
“Bridewarrior?” asked Addison. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s like this pagan deal. Ritual nudity?”
“OK, maybe later,” said Nancy.
“We’re just trying to talk here, Salvador,” said Addison, patronizing.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Susan asked Nancy, who looked up gratefully.
“Sure, do you have cranberry juice?”
“Take a spritzer,” said Addison.
Sal fumbled with the Walkman, pressing buttons.
“So this track’s called ‘Motherblood,’ ” he said. No one was paying attention. “Wait, wait. This other one rocks even harder. ‘Black Carbuncle.’ ”
When