#8. The Party, Part I

#8. The Party, Part I

Over the next week Patrick stopped trying to talk to Susan. She was busy, he was busy, and there really was nothing to say. Maybe she was going next Saturday, maybe she wasn’t. Either way, Patrick was going with his wife. He had a date. And besides, he thought, Susan would probably come with that guy she was seeing. He was probably a great guy. Sure he was.

On Friday night, April came home from work feeling light-headed, and went to bed right away. A few hours later she was feverish, and Patrick measured her temperature at 100. Patrick fell asleep beside her and awoke early to hear her vomiting into the trash can beside the bed, first puke, then mumbled cuss words. She came out of the bedroom mid-morning to lie down on the couch and watch cartoons next to Patrick, who sat cross-legged in the chair by her head. This scene changed little throughout the afternoon, as April passed out of and back into consciousness, and Patrick listened to the fan blow over the low volume of the TV. Neither said anything about the party until that evening.

“Hey, what time is it?” April asked.

“About six.”

“That late already?” she said, and paused. “I thought I’d be better in time for the party.”

“You did? Are you kidding?”

“I’m an optimist.”

“You haven’t eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours. Now you want booze?”

“Oh god, don’t say that,” April replied, and sat up, clutching her stomach. “No, I don’t want to go.”

“I never thought you would,” Patrick said. He swallowed. “I guess we’re not going.”

April said nothing. She just got up and walked to the bathroom, shut the door. Patrick waited. He looked at the clock again. He sighed and looked back into the TV screen. When April returned she sat down in the same spot again and stared at the TV along with Patrick. The familiar scene from the previous twelve hours took shape.

“You know, I’m feeling better. I’m definitely not going out, but I’m better anyway. You don’t have to stay,” April said.

“What’s that?” Patrick looked at her.

“You should go, it’ll be fun. You’ve taken good care of me today, I think,” she said, and smiled weakly.

Patrick smiled back.

He made April a dinner of chicken noodle soup, crackers and Diet Coke, ate a sandwich, took a shower because he hadn’t all day, threw on party clothes – the nice jeans, the tight ones with the frayed bottoms, the dark blue button-down shirt, the brown casual dress shoes that April had picked out for him – said goodbye and got in the car, checked his part, cleared his throat.

Derek’s house wasn’t hard to find because, though it was yet early for prime party hours, the street was packed with cars. Patrick had to park almost a block shy of the house and walk the rest, but when he arrived he was greeted with a warm reception.

“Patty!” Derek exclaimed when he opened the door. “Wait, can I call you Patty? Do people call you that?”

“Um, no,” Patrick replied.

“Oh, I see,” Derek said, and feigned embarrassment. “My my, what a faux pa. Bad host,” he said, slapping his wrist. “Do entrez, Sir Patrick.”

“Am I knighted now?”

“Of course. All the men here tonight are knights, all the women ladies. Nobody trumps my guest list. Nobody.”

Patrick walked into a crowd and beheld with wide eyes a spacious living room that opened into a kitchen/dining room almost as big. Everything was black and white, with the exception of red shades and lamps. Patrick felt like Alice in Wonderland.

“Drink, Patrick?” Derek said, leading Patrick through living bodies into the kitchen. “I know I made a big deal out of the refrigerator full of beer, and I must apologize for that.” He put his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “It was a gross understatement.”

Derek turned and put his hand on a small, black bar with white stools in front of it. He walked behind the bar and opened the windowed cabinets set into the wall and exposed an extensive liquor supply.

“Gin, vermouth, rum, vodka – I’ve got about a thousand mixers in the mini down here – I know, I know, you can tell me you’re impressed later. Patrick, it’s time to tell me what you’ll have. You name it, it’s your night.”

“My night?”

“Yes it is, Patrick. You and every other sexy man here. But don’t you worry,” he winked and pointed at himself. “Straight as an arrow.”

Patrick laughed. “I’m kinda partial to vodka cranberries.”

“Don’t be embarrassed about that,” Derek said, getting to work. “It’s fruity, it’s delightful. We can’t all be alcoholics who sip straight whiskey through straws” – here he gestured to himself again – “but anyway, here you are.” He handed Patrick the drink. “And if you get tired of liquor, don’t you worry, the right-hand refrigerator is indeed fully stocked with three imports and five domestics.”

“Hey barkeep,” said a voice at Patrick’s shoulder. He turned to see – and deliciously smell – Susan not twelve inches from him.