The After Party by Anton DiSclafani Read Free Book Online Page A

wondering when I would call. If she wanted to hear my voice, she picked up the phone.
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    T he next afternoon Darlene returned my call about the Garden Club meeting—we were beginning to plan next year’s Azalea Trail, where outsiders came to River Oaks and toured our homes—and managed to invite herself over that evening for cocktails.
    â€œIt’s just that it’s a weekday,” I said, trying to find a way out ofthe cocktails, standing in Ray’s office on the second phone extension, an extravagance.
    It was a poor excuse—we entertained on weekdays. But I didn’t particularly care if I offended Darlene. I absentmindedly pulled one of Ray’s books from the shelf. A biography of Abraham Lincoln.
    â€œMaria’s home sick. And it’s a busy week.” In our group I was known as the one who pulled no punches, who told it straight, who didn’t particularly care about hurting feelings. Joan laughed at this depiction, said I was the most sensitive soul she knew, and maybe I was but occasionally all the various songs and dances that came with being a woman exhausted me. At that very moment I was tired; Tommy was going to be up from his nap soon and I had promised him a trip to the park. I wanted nothing less than to entertain Darlene over gimlets.
    â€œIs it? For me, too. And is it a busy week for Joan as well?” She sounded gleeful. I could picture her at this exact moment: three miles away, in her black and white living room, twisting the phone cord through her fingers. She would be wearing white; though she wouldn’t admit it, she liked to match her furniture when she was home. Absurd, but true. Smiling—she would be smiling. Grinning, like a cat. Because she had me.
    An hour and a half later, after a rushed trip to the park, where Tommy had stared at other children playing but allowed me to push him in the swings, Darlene sat in my living room, in Joan’s spot on my beloved orange couch, which I’d custom-ordered from New York.
    Ray, home early from work, was outside, grilling steaks. WhenI’d told him Darlene was coming over, and that I was irritated, he’d shrugged and mixed me a shaker of gin gimlets.
    I could see him from here. He was whistling—I could imagine the tune. Tommy was playing quietly with a wooden train set he carried around with him. He’d been devoted to this particular train set, a Christmas gift from Ray’s parents, since December. Ray’s parents were kind but completely loyal to Ray’s sister, Debbie, who lived in Tulsa with her four stair-step children, each blonder than the last. We saw them once a year, at Christmas. I’d never seen Debbie’s home, but I imagined that it was as boring and perfect as Debbie herself. It had been clear, from the very beginning, that the Buchanans would dedicate themselves to Debbie, not Ray, and not, by extension, me. They were only following the time-honored rule: upon marriage daughters remained loyal to their mothers, while sons switched their allegiances to their wives.
    I had the gimlets waiting in a chrome shaker, a small plate of crackers, pickles, and cheese beside it. I owned a new Russel Wright cocktail set, squat glasses emblazoned with ruby and gold bubbles, but I wasn’t using these on Darlene. Darlene got the clear glasses—though I was cutting off my nose to spite my face. Darlene would have noticed the sharp barware, unlike Joan.
    I’d greeted Darlene at the front door and now she sat across from me. She wore slim white capris and a sleeveless white blouse; her eyes, which had always been small, almost beady, were thickly lined with kohl, and her cheeks were luminescent with rouge. I’d never seen Darlene without makeup. She was one of those women who made up her face first thing, took it off after her husband was asleep.
    I hated her, suddenly. I nodded at her small talk about so-and-so in the