The Suicide Club by Toni Graham

Author:Toni Graham
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: University of Georgia Press
Published: 2015-01-16T16:00:00+00:00

FUBAR

Give … wine unto those that be of heavy hearts.

Let him drink, and forget his poverty,

and remember his misery no more.

Proverbs 31:6–7

At LAX on his way to the gate, Slater slips on something and nearly bumps into a young woman with an orange tan, wearing backless high-heeled shoes and accompanied by a Yorkie on a rhinestone leash. She stands talking into an iPhone, blocking the flow of foot traffic, stock still, right in front of one of those airport news shops. As she inexplicably holds the phone in front of her face, smiles, and snaps her own photo, Slater stops to examine the bottom of his shoe and determines he has stepped in dog crap.

The woman does not notice or pretends not to notice her dog has defecated, so as Slater walks on he says, “Excuse me! Your dog pooped here!” For a moment she lifts her chin and meets Slater’s glance, but then looks away. By this time Slater has passed her, so he calls over his shoulder, “Don’t foul the footpath!”

He’s on his way back to Oklahoma, having just spent the weekend in Santa Monica, most recently photographing Frank Gehry’s residence. Beth was unable to come along on the trip, needing to act as hostess for a long-planned baby shower for one of her friends’ daughters, which is the primary reason he chose this particular weekend—he does not want her or anyone else to find out about the real deal, the thing that actually brought him to Southern California. Well, the old saw is true, it only hurts when he laughs, so he made sure last night not to watch any comedies on the hotel-room television. He looks at his watch and realizes he has time to kill. Might as well grab an early lunch. He heads for the bar where he knows he can order a quick burger and a double Manhattan.

When he takes a seat, the surge of pain stuns Slater. His entire torso thrums with a burning ache. Must be the elastic pressure belt the surgeon has made him wear. How will he be able to hide the thing from Beth? It’s not as if coming to bed with a girdle on is something that heretofore has been within the realm of possibility. He stifles the groan he feels on the verge of emitting and orders a Rusty Nail. Where did that come from? He has not drunk a scotch and Drambuie since he was young and still teaching at Pratt, and he fully intended to order his usual Manhattan. The pain must have called up a weird unconscious association—there is something toxic sounding about a rusted nail, the taint of tetanus. Discomfort, my ass.

The woman to his left turns her face ever so slightly away from Slater as she reads the Los Angeles Times and sips a glass of white wine. Don’t worry, I’m not going to land on you, Slater thinks. It occurs to him that maybe she smells dog do, so he

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