Immaculate Blue by Paul Russell

Author:Paul Russell
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781627781091
Publisher: Cleis Press Start
Published: 2015-03-12T04:00:00+00:00

Inside the clubhouse, Chris steers clear of the long line of people waiting to sign the guest register and instead heads for the open bar, where he orders a double Stoli on the rocks. Attractive young waiters bearing silver trays tempt him. “Goat cheese crostini topped with pesto & eggplant salad,” murmurs one. “Asian marinated beef–wrapped asparagus tips,” purrs another. He wonders whether any of them might be amenable to making a few extra bucks after all this is over. Wouldn’t that be rich? I went to Anatole’s wedding and all I got was this handsome waiter.

That one whose name tag reads QUINN, for instance, is a real gem.

He tells himself he’s having these thoughts because, frankly, he’s bored out of his mind.

Side tables are laden with cheese and fruit and antipasto. Platters of crudités beckon. The raw bar offers jumbo shrimp, oysters, and clams on ice. The guests, many of whom could afford to lose twenty pounds or so, heap their plates full.

He escapes to the outdoor patio, where he finds Lydia and her family ensconced at a table. She and Caleb are drinking soda, but Tom’s having a beer and Craig, who used to be so handsome, is sipping a martini. Mrs. Forman dozes in her wheelchair.

“I thought that was a very nice service,” Lydia says. “I imagine you found it very dull and bourgeois.”

“Lydia,” Chris tells her. “That’s not really fair, now is it?” Though she’s hit the mark with uncanny precision. “I’m delighted for Anatole and Rafa. Why shouldn’t I be?”

She looks at him narrowly, and sips her soda through a straw.

“Just checking,” she says. “I’m still getting my bearings, you know.”

“You two,” Tom says. “Were you always like this?”

“You had to be there,” Lydia tells him. “It all played out differently in 1985. Even the light was different. Everything was in Technicolor back then. Emotions, most of all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I desperately need to pee.”

Actually, she doesn’t, but Chris has flustered her. She has no idea why she’s just said what she said. Tom’s right, of course: it was completely uncalled for. If Caleb were to do such a thing, she’d call him on it in an instant. Then why can’t she control herself?

Chris is a reproach, somehow. A reminder that she hasn’t always been who she’s become.

It turns out she has to pee after all, which at least makes everything a little less of a sham than it might otherwise be.

On her way back from the ladies’ room, she pauses to peer into the empty banquet hall—just to make sure everything’s ready, not that it isn’t all completely out of her hands. The central dance floor is an expanse of polished blond wood; on the carpeted perimeter, fifteen round tables are gleamingly set for dinner. At the center of each, Marla’s bouquets provide bursts of summery color. It’s a stage set awaiting the arrival of the actors who will give it life and meaning, but for the moment she savors the soothing emptiness.

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