'Because you're supposed to get in the spirit of the thing and all that and you've just got that crummy little mask on.'
'Crummy little mask?'
'That really sucks, Tobin,' Cindy said.
'Talk about not getting in the spirit,' he said, as she bent over and locked the door of her cabin.
She stood up straight. 'You're the one who's not in the spirit. I'm right in the spirit.'
'You think real nuns use the word 'sucks'?'
Everybody was drunk.
Not just intoxicated, not just tipsy, not just sauced but rather glass-smashing, ass-pinching, bellow- resounding drunk.
And Tobin felt immediately caught up in it-the noise, the sweat, the confusion, the white flash of breast, the nylon flash of thigh-he wished he could abstract it all into one gigantic swimming pool and dive into the center of it.
The dinner and party spilled out of the restaurant and all over the deck. Waiters and stewards and waitresses toadied and simpered and cursed; insurance salesmen giggled. The deck was lined with tables, overwhelmed with food-steak and fish and poultry of every kind-and even the band inside onstage seemed caught up in the moment and actually managed to stay on key and hold their Vegas horseshit ('You know, there are a few cynics who think our Tribute to America segment isn't sincere, but let's have a round of applause to show 'em what we really think of our country, all right?') to a minimum.
Cindy, whose costume was particularly teasing to those men who'd been fortunate enough to catch her sunbathing, clutched his arm and said, 'Can we eat with… them?'
'Them?''
'You know.'
'Ah. Them.' Celebrities.'
'It'd be nice. It really would.'
'Even though at least one of 'them' is a killer.'
'But eating with regular people'll be just… dull.'
'And'-he smiled-'eating with regular people doesn't make for very exciting letters to Aberdeen.'
'Not unless somebody choked on his food or something.'
So they went inside and took their rightful place- being on 'Celebrity Handyman' had to be worth some goddamn thing-at the table near the bandstand where a bunch of people who used to have network TV series sat.
It took some time for Tobin to recognize who was what but after a few drinks everything came clear.
Jere Farris, the producer, was dressed up as a cowboy; Alicia Farris was dressed up as Calamity Jane; Todd Ames, the new host, was Robin Hood and his wife, Beth, was a mermaid; Cassie McDowell was Bo Peep; Susan Richards was a hooker in a slit skirt and bountiful white peasant blouse; and Kevin Anderson was Tarzan. Everybody on the celebrity dais sat in a semicircle, just as they did on the 'Celebrity Circle' set.
Only Anderson seemed even remotely happy to see Tobin and Cindy, and Anderson was interested only in Cindy. He looked as if he regretted throwing her out and blacking her eye this morning. Her nun's habit really did stir you up.
Tobin was about to start his third drink when he saw Joanna Howard sit down at a table out with the civilians. She was dressed up as Amelia Earhart-leather flying cap, leather jacket, fancy white trailing scarf- and she looked, in a stark way, lovely. She also looked, as always, lost.
'Poor kid,' Tobin said, feeling his booze more than he'd imagined-or hoped-he would. Then he told Cindy all about Joanna's wretched love life.
Cindy nodded. 'She reminds me of Aberdeen. Only skinnier.'
'We should invite her up here to sit with us.'
'Yes, we should.' He was surprised to hear her slosh her words, as he was sloshing his.
He stood up-wobbly now-put his two pinkie fingers in his teeth, and whistled. Or tried to. About halfway through, he recalled that he didn't know how to whistle. It was just one of many reasons he'd felt inferior to all the other boys growing up. That and being slightly shorter than every kid's little brother.
So he did what seemed natural, at the moment anyway. He stood up and shouted, 'Hey, Joanna!'
She was embarrassed by the attention.
Tobin persisted. 'Hey, come on up here!'
So she came up, obviously just to keep him quiet.
'Quite a crowd, isn't it?' Joanna said, having to raise her voice to be heard above the drunken din. She was obviously uncomfortable raising her voice.
'You don't have a date, do you?' Cindy said. She made it sound as if Joanna had just had her arm amputated.
Joanna's eyes shifted miserably to Jere Farris, bombed and swinging a champagne glass around, spilling some on his spangly Grand Ole Opry cowboy clothes.
'No,' she said.
'Then you get right up here and sit with us,' Cindy said grandly, and started patting the empty chair next to her as if Joanna were a poodle who knew when to jump up on her mistress's lap.
'Oh,' Joanna said, obviously about to protest.
'You come on now,' Cindy McBain said. 'I'm a nun and you're supposed to obey me.' She giggled.
'Well,' Joanna said, her eyes once again hooking forlornly on Jere's face. 'Well, I guess it would be all right.”
Three drinks later, Cindy, who held her liquor as well as any other horny fourteen-year-old junior-high girl said, 'Tobin tells me you're in love with Jere Farris.'
Which of course got Tobin one of those ten-thou-sand-daggers-in-your-heart glances from Joanna. 'I… I care for Jere.'
Cindy patted her hand. 'As soon as Tobin goes tinkle, I'll tell you all about married men.'
Tobin was about to protest when he felt Alicia Farris's glare on him. She obviously did not care to have her husband's mistress sitting at the same table and Tobin really didn't blame her. He'd been drunk enough that he'd forgotten all about the impropriety of asking Joanna up here.
The lounge boys left the stage to far too much applause, replaced by a dance combo that turned 'When Sunny Gets Blue' into a foxtrot.
The dancing began with confetti and streamers drifting from the ceiling.
Tobin turned to ask Cindy to dance but he saw that she was deep in conversation with Joanna. 'I've always had a simple rule about married men. If they don't give you a gift every month that's worth at least a thousand dollars, then you're really wasting your time.'
Susan Richards must have seen Tobin's dilemma because she walked around the celebrity dais and came over to him. 'Would you like to dance?'
'You're about three inches taller than me.'
She smiled her wonderful smile. 'You can stand on my feet.'
The band played 'Fly Me to the Moon' and they danced.
She smelled luxuriantly of perfume and herself and he held her tighter than was necessary but she didn't seem to mind, indeed laid her long fingers gently on the back of his neck as they moved through the melancholy darkness of the dance floor, the feeling like that of a New Year's Eve bash, hilarity and a certain sadness at the same time.
Then she startled him by leaning down (she was actually closer to five inches taller in her hooker heels) and brushing her mouth against his.
He came alive in a way that was almost painful, yet was also a wonderful experience for a forty-two-year-old sot who had recently begun worrying not about the quantity of his erections but the quality.
'My God,' he said.
