A sing-song voice announced the arrival of the duty nurse.
“It smells like booze in here, Mr. Peterson,” she said, with a grin suggesting she didn’t mind.
“That would be my son.” He pointed at me. “He has a problem with the stuff.”
The nurse gave me a wink, suggesting she wasn’t buying it. “It’s time for me to get up close and personal with you, Mr. Peterson.” She looked at me. “I suppose you’ll want to step outside for a minute, unless you want to see your father whimper like a child.”
I stood, feeling not sticking around for a catheter removal a good idea.
“Thanks for the talk, Dad.” We shook hands. The needle from his IV drip caused him to wince but he powered through the sting. “I guess I’ll take off now.”
“Don’t be a stranger.”
I left him with his nurse and walked to my car through the warm drizzle of an early summer rain. Fittingly, my mind was now swimming, my brain churning through the heavy wake of our discussion.
My mother and father had slept with other people. As much as I resisted the idea of them having an open marriage, there was no denying their happiness together.
A drunk driver had ended all that.
My father sued the guy into the poor house.
Chapter 8: The Fundraiser
RYAN AND SUSAN TRY SOMETHING NEW
The next evening was Marci’s charity auction. She’d picked up charity work after attending a seminar on being a better person, or some such thing, and Susan and I felt no reason not to support good causes. In this case, rather than raising money for a children’s hospital in Uganda or building new schools in Chad, the focus involved something to do with promoting holistic healing for sufferers of imaginary traumas. I wasn’t sure what that meant but didn’t grumble.
“Hey!” said Marci, standing in the receiving line. “Thanks so much for coming!” She gave us show business style hugs as if we were celebrities strolling a red carpet.
The ballroom was packed with the Who’s Who of our community, suggesting imaginary traumas were at the forefront of its concerns. When I’d asked Marci to clarify what exactly constituted an imaginary trauma, the best she could come up with were people suffering from past-life regression analysis. I suggested this added nothing in the way of offering a clarification. She gave me a snarky look and I let it go.
After shaking hands with local dignitaries, Susan and I headed to the cash bar. This involved shaking a lot more hands along the way, offering assurances to near strangers we were well while exchanging obligatory “And how are you?” inquiries. Once at the bar we were again alone. I ordered two bourbons neat.
“So, what are we hoping to score?” I said, looking at the brochure of items coming up for auction. “Oh, look. Randle Ford has contributed a ‘79 Mustang in mint condition.”
“Dream on,” said Susan.
“Okay. How about a trip for two to Tulum, Mexico, all-inclusive, except for the booze? It’s from that new travel app, Booked. It could be worth it.”
“Describe what you mean by worth it.”
“I don’t know. Five grand?”
“Two.”
“Maybe that could fly. How about three?”
“Okay.”
“Settled then.”
Marci joined us, arriving as she’d just landed from some turbulent journey and needed to restore her bearings.
“Drink?” I asked.
“I’ll have what you’re having,” she said. “God, why do I do this stuff? I hate these people.”
“Thanks,” said Susan.
“I don’t mean you guys.”
“You do it because you want to feel better about yourself,” I said. “Therefore, it’s an entirely selfish endeavor. See, it suits you.”
“Fuck off, Ryan.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” I saw Harold hovering nearby and went to say hello. He was standing with Meg, who looked very fine indeed. I’d forgotten she was much younger than Harold, possibly only two years my senior. I was now seeing her in a new light, meaning nude, envisioning her in a sauna.
“Hey, Ryan!” said Meg, brightly. She kissed my cheek. “Is Susan with you?”
“Of course,” I nodded in Susan’s direction. “Her friend Marci is an organizer of this event.”
“Maybe she can tell me what it’s all about,” said Harold. “I’m clueless.”
“Shush, Harold,” said Meg. She turned to me. “So, Susan had quite an adventure I hear.” Her eyes twinkled as she made her delivery. I wasn’t clueing in.
“Sorry?”
“Harold told me you had an interesting lunch this week.”
I clued in while giving Harold a look. I had assumed our conversation was a private one. Of course, I’d already shared it with Susan, so I didn’t really mind.
“Ah, yes. Right. The underwear incident. Talk about traumatic, though it wasn’t imaginary, of course.”
“Traumatic? Harold said it was, well... He said it wasn’t all bad, though I’m sure Susan was embarrassed.”
“I was joking about the ‘traumatic’ bit, fortunately.”
“Oh, I get you now. Good. Harold said he told you about our little experiment.”
He hadn’t framed it exactly as such, but I caught her drift. So, we were having an open discussion about the relative merits of wives exposing themselves to other men.
“He did mention something, yes.”
“Oh, there’s no need to be shy about it. We should all have a sauna together. You’ll see.” Her eyes now had a conspiratorial gaze, and I was no longer sure I was getting the right drift of the conversation. What did she really mean? Did she and Harold want to get naked with Susan and me? I admit I found the prospect pleasing, at least as it concerned Meg. She was looking better every minute. Would I mind if Harold saw Susan nude? I wasn’t sure.
Meg was wearing a low-cut dress of impeccable taste. Her body was slim and her legs seemed to go on forever. The prospect of actually seeing her naked became an increasingly pleasing one the more I studied her.
I had only managed a polite guffaw at her suggestion. It wasn’t the sort of thing I felt I should jump
