Doone enters the atrium with a cowgirl swagger, a container of three-bean
salad in hand. Beak beelines to the kitchen and spends the entire soiree over
the sink. "Ever since the disappearance of most of our clientele, she can't
stop washing her hands," Doone offers as an explanation. "These things
happen," Grace replies, as she hides the liquid soap. The phone rings.
Frederick is working late again, and Edwidge's parents won't let her out.
Good thing, too, I think, as I watch my hairdresser's ex hit on anything in
lycra. Bubbles interrupts my reverie to show me her new test shots. "Not the
kind of thing I'd brag about," Grace mutters under her breath as she peers
over my spaghetti strap. Luke is pressed sourly against the wall, his
knuckles white around the flower stems. Moved by the beat of bubblegum,
Marianne grinds into Butch as if her life depended on it. It didn't. Give it
up, Grace scribbles on a napkin scrap. Not to be catty, but is Grace on the
rag or what? Magazine Girl is hopelessly semaphoring Buzz, who has cut in on
Marianne and Butch. Don't go there, says a voice in my head. Teenie, just
back in town, strokes Butch's hurt feelings (he only had one). "Desperate,"
Grace croons as she waltzes by, a casserole heaped with chop suey between her
oven-mitts. Zeke catches a glimpse of Bubbles and blushes at the thought of
her towering over him. He becomes even more captivated when he discovers her
card is filled. Jacob gyrates alone, one palm cupping the back of his head,
the other on his abdomen. Propriety is getting cheap. There are, of course,
exceptions, like Goat Boy, who relishes the opportunity to pick up tin cans
(chicks), using his "all-naturalness" as collateral. In her concerned mother
drag, Grace cautions him to adopt delicacy when utilizing superlatives. He
bursts into tears and locks himself in the bathroom, causing a curious
predicament for us hostesses. Egg, ever the diplomat, tells Jacob to use the
diner across the street, and don't bother coming back. Where is wiggle room
when you really need it? I'm beginning to hate the taste of my own spit. No
stranger to a cocktail, Bubbles is bumping with Zeke, who beams up at her.
"Shoulda known he was into chicks with dicks," Grace comments, stirring her
Long Island iced tea with her pinkie. Grace, God love her, is beginning to
irk me. Outside, the bog people's groans drift in on the wind, a subliminal
request for leftovers. Sorry, not an option (only Doone had taken the
"potluck" on the invitation seriously). Because I suffer from overuse of the
feeling function, parties have always been problematic for me. Should I order
some Chinese for the Bogs? This being the perfect moment to pounce, Grace
shimmies up next to me and suggests a pogrom, as if we've never discussed the
possibility before. I'm a helpless partisan, I think to myself, as I pry the
giant funnel out of the closet. We begin pushing the guests through the tiny
opening. Doone gets stuck so we wash her through with an ounce of Drano.
Rapid fizzle. "Now get out and stay out!" Grace screams as she shoos the
bruised homunculi-our former social set-out the mail slot with a fly swatter.
The bog people gape in monosodium amazement. "Gotta stir things up once in a
while," Grace summarizes, after we sit for an hour in a sullen funk, gnawing
on swizzle sticks. "Someone had to pay," I reply, observing the debris in the
backyard. I make a mental note to talk to my therapist about Grace's weird
hold over me. A baggy, caught on a twig, flaps and crackles in the breeze.