Sunburn by Laurence Shames Read Free Book Online

you're soused already."
    But she wasn't soused and she stuck to her opinion. Gino didn't talk to people, he just made noises with his face. Even last night, at the big-shot fancy dinner he'd hosted for his family, was there anything that might be called a conversation? How's the shrimp, Pop? More champagne? Was there anything about Joey, about Sandra, about their life here in this town? Was there anything, one word of fond remembrance, about the dear departed mother? No. Nothing. She, Debbi, hardly got to talk; Gino always cut her off. Sandra was nice, showed some interest, asked her if she worked. Debbi had barely mentioned the pet salon when Gino barged in to call for more wine. That was classic Gino. With him a dinner was all grunts and sucking noises and grand gestures to the waiter. Everyone was uncomfortable and only Gino didn't seem to notice. Gino, you put a lobster bib on him, he was happy. The strange part, the only thing she could hang on to to persuade herself she wasn't shacked up with a total heartless louse, was that Gino meant it in his way when he said he wanted people around. He just didn't know how to be with them when they were.
    She nibbled some bran muffin, washed it down with gin, and spoke without really meaning to. "Gino," she said, "I just don't understand you."
    He was mopping up the last of his egg yolk with the last of his toast. His face was turned up to catch the runny orange paste before it dripped in his chest hair; it wasn't a moment to try to explain things to a half-soused broad. "There's nothin' t'understand," he said.
    Debbi Martini smiled for the first time that day. It was not a happy smile, but there was in it the quiet pleasure of bedrock comprehension. Gino saw the smile and mistrusted it, understood somehow that it came at his expense, though it didn't dawn on him that, against all habit and inclination, he'd just said something wise and true.

9
    "Arty, more pasta?" Joey Goldman asked.
    He held forth the huge ceramic bowl, the last of the steam wafted upward and was sliced by the slowly spinning blades of the ceiling fan. After a moment's hesitation, Arty Magnus took up the challenge, seized the dish in his big dirt-digging hands.
    "Good eater," Vincente murmured approvingly. "Guy's a good eater."
    "Don't look like he is," said Gino grudgingly. "But OK, give credit. These skinny guys, sometimes—"
    "He isn't skinny," Debbi said. "He's lean."
    "Let 'im eat," said Sandra. "Joey, fill his glass."
    The editor said nothing, but as he dug into the unending mound of linguine and clams, it vaguely struck him that here he was, in a houseful of strangers, never mind Mafia, who were analyzing his dining habits and his physique, talking about him as if he weren't there—and it didn't even see especially odd. With the first forkful of his third helping, he realized why. It reminded him of his own family, his Jewish family, who, when they paused long enough in their devouring to talk at table, generally restricted their remarks to observations on the stomach capacity and metabolism of the others present. Jews and Italians: the world's referees of intake, the arbiters of appetites.
    The guest stabbed a clam, raveled it in pasta, and sucked it down with a somewhat theatrical zest. On the issue of food, at least, he knew what was expected of him at this table.
    In other ways, he had no idea what was expected.
    He understood there were a lot of things he shouldn't ask, he shouldn't say. But what should he say? And why had he really been invited in the first place? To talk about gardening, Joey had said when he'd called. To let the old man hear about the real Key West. Reasonable enough. But in the meantime there'd been antipasto, there'd been grilled eggplant, there'd been several bottles of Valpolicella, and so far gardening had not been talked about, the town mentioned only in passing. Now the main course dishes were being cleared, Joey and Sandra working their way around the table, clattering