The End of the Straight and Narrow by David McGlynn

Author:David McGlynn
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781619022492
Publisher: Catapult
Published: 2018-04-27T00:00:00+00:00

PART II

THE EYES TO SEE

THE GUESTS TWIRLED beneath a cosmos of artificial stars: the oak trees in my grandparents’ backyard wrapped in miniature white lights. Larger bulbs, like those from a carnival ride, the filament a white-hot squiggle in the center of the core, had been strung overhead, between the bedrooms to the east and the great room to the west. The glowing skeletons of the trees reached and grabbed at the dark, and leaves fell between the lights, as though from nowhere, landing on the tables and lawn and the checkerboard dance floor. Beyond the party, the garden was all deep shadows and amber haze, a maze of brick pathways and twisted, naked statues, eccentric things my grandmother had shipped back from Europe to ornament her azaleas. Couples slipped away to wander the winding paths, which had an irresistible pull, and when they emerged from the shadows and stepped onto the dance floor, their fingers were interlaced and their collars were wrinkled. Star drunk, whispering in each other’s ears, they pressed their bodies together, shoulders to shoulders, hips to hips, as though the dance floor was an alien surface that could be crossed no other way. They unfurled to the ends of their arms, and coiled back, and then, because this was Texas, two-stepped toward the bar. On the way, they passed my mother, dancing alone, the universe shining in her prosthetic eye.

This was new behavior, and strange. Most years my mother weathered the party against the terrace railing where she could remain visible, but out of the way. If she mingled, she kept her elbow linked with my father’s, or with Kay’s. She wore a matte-black dress that hung nearly to her ankles. It fit her like a shadow. She was a head taller than everyone else, including the men. She spun, two-stepped backward, and raised her palms as though to press them against the night. It seemed my grandmother had been right and the rest of us dead wrong: the party was just the lift in spirits my mother needed.

“What on earth is she doing?” my grandmother asked. She gripped the terrace railing beside me. Her gown fit snugly against her chest and stomach; only up close could one discern her age, by the creases in the skin around her mouth and clavicle and where her arms overflowed her dress. She was fifty-seven, tonight.

“Dancing,” I said.

“I don’t like the looks of this.”

“She’s having fun. Celebrating life. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Not quite what I had in mind.” My grandmother looked toward the garden and frowned. Through the trees a woman’s earrings glittered, along with the Oyster watch face of the man reaching up to touch her chin. “You’d think people would get the hint. The band is the edge of the party. Noli intrare. I only turned the lights on for ambience.”

“Pretty hard to hurt brick just by walking on it,” I said.

“Don’t sass me, Rowdy,” she said. “It’s my birthday.”

But this was no birthday party. Candles and cake and presents my grandmother considered narcissistic.

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