Lunar Park

Aimee finally pushed me away. “Okay—that’s enough.”

“For now,” I said in my sexiest voice, though it came out sounding merely ominous. My arm still around her, I held the phone to my ear with my free hand.

“Yo?” I said, checking the incoming number.

“It’s me.” It was Jay but I could barely hear him.

“Where are you?” I whined. “Jesus, Jay, you are one lost bastard.”

“What do you mean, where am I?” he asked.

“You sound like you’re at some kind of party.” I paused. “Don’t tell me that many people showed up at your goddamn reading.”

“Well, open the door and you’ll see where I am” was his reply.

“Open which door?”

“The one you’re behind, moron.”

“Oh.” I turned to Aimee. “It’s the Jayster.”

“Why don’t you just let me out first,” Aimee suggested, hurrying toward the mirror to make sure everything was in place.

But I opened the door, high and not caring, and Jay stood there, his hair fashionably tousled, wearing black slacks and an orange Helmut Lang button-down.

“Ah, I thought I’d find you in a bathroom.” And then Jay turned his gaze on Aimee and said, after looking her over appreciatively, “It’s where he can usually be located.”

“I have a weak bladder.” I shrugged and bent down to retrieve my sombrero.

“And you also have”—Jay reached over and touched my nose as I stood up—“what I am and am not hoping is baby powder above your upper lip.”

I leaned toward the bathroom mirror and wiped off the residue of coke, then placed the straw hat back onto my head at what I thought was a raffish angle.

“So creative yet so destructive, I know, I know,” Jay said, causing Aimee to crack up.

“Jay McInerney, Aimee Light.” I leaned closer to the mirror and checked my nose again.

“I’m a big fan—” Aimee started.

“Hey, watch it.” I scowled. “Aimee’s a student at the college and she’s doing her thesis on me.”

“So that explains . . . this?” Jay said, gesturing at the scene in the bathroom.

Aimee looked away nervously and said, “Nice to meet you, but I’ve gotta go.”

“Want a bump?” I asked Jay, blocking Aimee’s exit.

“Look, I’ve really gotta go,” Aimee said more insistently and squeezed past me, and then I took one last look in the mirror and followed, closing the bathroom door behind us. The three of us, outside in the hall, were suddenly approached by a very tall and sexy cat holding a tray of nachos. I slung the guitar back across my chest, almost hitting her with the neck but she ducked in time. Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” was now pumping through the house.

“Meow,” Jay said, and took a chip dripping with cheese.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Aimee muttered.

I nodded, watching as she moved back to where her friend was still chatting up the werewolf. “Hey,” I called out. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” And I continued to stare until it became apparent she was not going to look back.

Knocking me out of my reverie, Jay gestured at the cat with the nachos. “I take it the thought of food is the furthest thing from your mind?”

“Want a bump?” I whispered into his ear involuntarily.

“Even though you’re sounding like a parrot, there is really no other reason to be here.” He looked around the darkened living room as a man dressed as Anna Nicole Smith pushed past us to use the bathroom. “But is there someplace more private?”

“Follow me,” I said, and when I noticed him taking another nacho I snapped, “And stop flirting with the help.”

But we were trapped. Jay and I were huddled on the periphery of the party, and I was strategizing how to get to my office without Jayne seeing us; back inside, she was introducing David Duchovny to the Allens, our neighbors and truly tiresome bores, and my plans had become increasingly urgent since I desperately needed another line—the garage, I suddenly realized, the garage—when I felt someone tugging at my guitar. I looked down: it was Sarah. “Daddy?” she said, her face a frown of concern. She was wearing a little T-shirt with the word BABE on it.

“And who is this?” Jay asked sweetly, kneeling beside her.

“Daddy,” Sarah said again, ignoring him.

“She calls you ‘Daddy’?” Jay asked, sounding worried.

“We’re working on it,” I said. “Honey, what is it?”

I noticed Marta on the outskirts of the living room, craning her neck.

“Daddy, Terby’s mad,” Sarah said, pouting.

Terby was the bird doll I had bought Sarah in August for her birthday. It was a monstrous-looking but very popular toy that she’d wanted badly yet the thing was so misconceived and grotesque—black and crimson feathers, bulging eyes, a sharp yellow beak with which it continuously gurgled—that both Jayne and I balked at buying her one until Sarah’s pleas drowned out all reasoning. Since the awful thing was sold out everywhere I’d resorted to using Kentucky Pete—who was very adept at obtaining contraband—to secure one that according to him had been smuggled in from Mexico.

“Terby’s mad,” Sarah whined again.

“Well, calm him down,” I said, glancing around. “Bring him up some nachos. Maybe he’s hungry.”

“Terby says it’s too loud and Terby’s mad.” Her arms were crossed in a parody of an upset child.

“Okay, baby, we’ll take care of it.” I stood on my tiptoes and waved at Marta, then pointed down and mouthed, She’s here. Relieved, Marta started pushing toward us through the mass of bodies.

And suddenly Sarah was surrounded. Adorable children, I’d begun to notice, had that effect on people. Put them in a room full of adults and they were always the star attraction. Girls from my workshop and some of the cat-woman caterers were now leaning in and asking her questions in baby-doll voices, and Sarah soon seemed to forget all about Terby as I slowly pulled McInerney away. The cute little BABE basked in everybody’s attention even as “Don’t Fear the Reaper” roared through the house—an unsettling moment, but also my chance to escape.

As I led Jay down a long hallway toward the door that opened into the garage, he said, “You took care of that so well.”

“Jay, she’s six years old and thinks her bird doll’s alive,” I said, exasperated. “Now, do you want me to stand there and deal with that, or do you want to shut up and do a line with me?”

“You really don’t know how to do this, do you?”

“Do what? Throw a kick-ass party?”

“No. Be married. Be the dad.”

“Well, being married’s okay—but the dad thing’s a little tougher,” I said. “ ‘Daddy, can I have some juice?’ ‘How about some water, honey?’ ‘Daddy?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Can I have some juice?’ ‘How about some water instead, honey?’ ‘Daddy, can I have some juice?’ ‘Okay, honey, you want some juice?’ ‘No, it’s okay, I’ll just have some water.’ It’s like some fucking Beckett play that we’re rehearsing constantly.”

Jay just stared at me, grim-faced.

“Hey, but I bought a book,” I said flippantly. “Fatherhood for Dummies, and it is helping immensely. If only my father—”

“Okay, I can see what sort of evening this is turning into.”

“Hey, how was the reading?” I asked, switching gears.

“I like your little town” was his noncommittal answer, and I realized that the reading had probably been a bust. Not high, I would have wanted to pursue this, but wasted I did not.

I opened the door and ushered Jay into the garage and then peered back down the hallway to see if we’d been followed. I closed and locked the door and flicked on the fluorescent lights. The four-car garage contained my