Seven

I need to drink more.

If I drank more, I probably would have missed my husband making a crude remark to a circle of alternating shocked and tittering women, which led some of their husbands to guffaw and slap him on the back, which in turn led some of the women to glare at me accusingly. Accusingly, but not without some pity.

Let me backtrack a bit. Between dodging bill collectors and trying to decide whether to pay the car note, the house note or the water bill (while I convince my kids that Triscuits and peanut butter is an excellent breakfast), I sometimes get glimpses of my former life. Before the economy collapsed, before our household income went from X to one-fourth X, Joe and I had something that resembled a high-profile social life. We went out to dinner, we entertained and we showed up at our share of charity balls and benefits. Most of the balls and benefits were duty-dances. Joe’s employer bought the tickets, we donned our formal attire and helped carry the flag for the company. Let me note that it’s easy to be gracious and fun-loving at an event for which you did not pick up the $600-per-couple tax-deductible ticket.

Needless to say, if you can’t pay the utility bill on time and you can’t use your credit cards, your ability to fake your way through a $300-a-plate fete is limited. We don’t go anywhere anymore and mostly, I find that I don’t mind. But when we got an invitation to a black-tie party to celebrate the release of a friend’s cancer-survival memoir, I convinced Joe it was time to dust off our party clothes.

The gala, I knew, was meant to build a database of potential donors for a new research foundation. Julie’s doctor, a brilliant, accomplished blowhard with matinee-idol looks, smelled the faint, sweet, magnolia-tinged scent of old money on his new patient. When he saw her scribbling in a journal during chemo, he offered to collaborate on full-fledged book—with the help of the hospital’s PR department. My Walk with Cancer found a publisher, Julie and Dr. Hubert “Cary” Grant made the talk show circuit, and the hospital underwrote the release party. Julie, graciously, added a few of her real friends to the guest list.

Which is how we wound up in a ballroom at the Ritz-Carlton sipping Champagne (me) and small-batch Bourbon (Joe) and nibbling on Frenched lamb chops and shrimp the size of a fist. I had planned on wearing a red silk sheath, but sadly discovered that there weren’t enough Spanx in three zipcodes to keep the seams from screaming in agony. Instead, I went for the safety of black chiffon palazzo pants and a coordinated black knit shell and jacket with a gold paisley pattern. The paisleys were thickly covered with gold glitter. I vaguely remembered pulling the ensemble from some long-ago sale rack back in the days when I shopped for sport.

I had never worn the glittery tops and was completely unprepared for the amount of glitter I seemed to be shedding everywhere. The car looked like an army of kindergarteners had transported Christmas projects on the seats. As the evening wore on, I tried to avoid brushing against Joe’s black tux, but noticed that whenever he put his hand on my back, gallantly guiding me through a crowd or toward the next liquor station, his hands sparkled. The more his palms sparkled, the more glitter dust he left on everything he touched.

The glitter didn’t interfere with Joe’s drinking. I perhaps underestimated the ego-stress of mingling with people who still have money when one is unemployed. Joe has been unemployed for long enough now that the usual “have a few irons in the fire” clichés don’t work. In fact, he’s been unemployed for so long that nobody even asks what he’s doing for fear of either creating an awkward moment, or of actually having to act like they care that his life and career are in the toilet. So, Joe spent much of the evening listening to other people talk about their lives and their careers. And drinking. As I congratulated my friend Julie and gave the requisite number of air-kisses around the room, I noticed that Joe and his bottomless Bourbon glass had migrated to a small coterie of older women who were standing near the ballroom doors, next to a table of books. Joe always feels happily self-confident and comfortable around ladies of age. He loves their experience and wisdom and they love him for treating them like vibrant women.

A spotlight focused on the book table spilled over onto the group and I could see Joe making broad motions and putting on the charm. I also saw glitter twinkling from his face, hands and jacket.

I moved toward the sociable circle—which included Julie’s globe-trotting, black-sheep aunt and the proud mother of Dr. Grant—just as J.J. Diehl, Joe’s former sparring partner in the magazine’s bull pen popped up. Before the magazine folded, J.J. married a widowed surgeon and convinced her to support his dream of becoming an anthropology professor. Since J.J. quit college after two years, this meant his new sugar-mama had committed to funding about seven years of education and untold numbers of field expeditions. J.J. had the giddy, outrageous demeanor of petty thief who dodged a bullet.

“Whoa! My man Joe. How have you been? I didn’t expect to see you here.” I heard J.J. interrupt the conversation. I stood behind a petite blonde and tried to get Joe’s attention. I motioned toward the door. Joe ignored me, and he ignored J.J. Unlike me, J.J. would not be ignored. “So, Joe what have you been doing? Still beating the pavement? I don’t know what this means, but I gotta tell you, you’ve got glitter on your mustache.” J.J. laughed a bit too loudly. By then, a few husbands had joined the merry band. I saw Joe take a big sip of Bourbon. His mouth pressed into a tight smile as he stared into the glass.

“I’ll tell you what it means J.J. It means I’ve been going down on Tinkerbell. She said the last time you showed up at the fairy convention, you weren’t up to the job.”

Maybe I just imagined the gasp from Mrs. Grant. I definitely heard a dropped-and-shattered Champagne glass.

I need to drink more.