One Big Joke by Laurence Shames

Author:Laurence Shames [Shames, Laurence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781981614288
Publisher: Southernmost Press
Published: 2018-01-18T05:00:00+00:00

24

Over eggs Benedict and a bottle of Prosecco at a rolling table in their room, Carla said, “I don’t want to be a nag, but I really think you owe Lenny an apology.”

She was braced for a denial and a disagreement, but none came. Instead, Ricky said in a mild, even momentarily humble, monotone, “Yeah, you’re right. I owe Lenny an apology. I owe Pat an apology. I owe my agent an apology. I owe everybody an apology. I’ve been messing things up for everyone.”

Disarmed by this spasm of remorse, she reached gently for his wrist and said with partial accuracy, “No one blames you, honey. And one of these days you’ll get a chance to make it up to everyone. Especially yourself.”

He didn’t seem to believe it. He gave his eyebrows a dubious and gloomy lift and sipped some wine.

She said, “You regret it, Ricky?”

“Hm?”

“Picking me up.”

At that he finally smiled. “Hey, I didn’t pick you up. You picked me up. With the whole cast of The Sopranos sitting right there at your table. Pretty ballsy. And no, I don’t regret it.”

It didn’t occur to him to ask her if she felt the same. Why wouldn’t she? He stabbed an egg yolk with a spear of toast and asked her how she was enjoying brunch.

“Oh, it’s great,” she said, but she said it in the underwhelmed tone of a three-star review. “I mean, the sauce is yummy and I love Prosecco but I wouldn’t say it exactly feels like brunch. Brunch is, like, ya go out, there’s ferns, other people, waiters, you smell bacon, maple syrup when the trays go by. It’s, ya know, a going out thing, a being around people thing. You think we could open up the doors to the balcony, at least?”

He said nothing, just glanced uneasily at the closed and double-locked doors with the translucent curtain still drawn across them. Beyond the balcony there was nothing but the pool area and the twinkling green water of the harbor, seamed and cross-stitched with the wakes of yachts and skiffs, made somehow jovial by the roly-poly movement of red and green buoys on the surging current. The tableau could hardly have been more peaceful, but no scene is peaceful to a man who feels hunted.

Nevertheless, trying to be accommodating, Ricky stood up, sidled with cat-like movements toward the dreaded window and twitched back the curtain. He undid the locks with slightly trembling fingers, and threw open the doors while simultaneously diving away from the flood of sunlight that poured in. He edged around the room’s dim perimeter to return to his seat at the rolling table and was in a sweat by the time he got there.

Mopping his forehead with his napkin, he said, “I think my pulse just went up to a hundred forty. Look, this is pathetic. I admit it. I’m a wreck and I need to get out of this town. Travel awhile. Go someplace else.”

“And what would that accomplish?” Carla said. “Just more running.

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