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Authors: Alice McDermott
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attaché case tucked under her arm. “I’m sick of this,” she tells another woman beside her. “Sick, sick, sick.” The other woman laughs.
Downstairs in Penn Station it is dirty and bright. People are running stiffly, as if it had begun to rain and they have a specific shelter in mind. The whole place smells of doughnuts.
The bar is unbelievably dark, a yellow, muddy kind of darkness, and it takes her a while to see Joanne. She is in their usual booth, right next to the hot hors d’oeuvre. She flutters her fingers at Elizabeth, and Bert, the tall black man who carves the ham and dishes up the meatballs, says, “Here she is, here she is,” as she approaches.
Joanne slides out of the booth and they hug. Although Elizabeth is nearly four inches taller, Joanne seems to lean into her a little, as if she were the one who had to bend for the embrace. They haven’t seen each other since her wedding amonth ago, although before that they met here for drinks nearly every Friday night. Joanne has a party to go to when she gets home tonight and Elizabeth has Tupper Daniels coming over, but they made this date two weeks ago and neither of them wanted to break it. They’d promised each other that Joanne’s marriage wouldn’t change their very old friendship, and this meeting is their token attempt to keep that promise.
“How are you?” Elizabeth says, sliding into the booth, slipping off her jacket. “You look great.”
Joanne laughs, puts her thin fingers to her face. Her thick, shining wedding band. “Do I still have my tan?”
“You do,” she says, looking closely. “How was Aruba?”
“Hot.” She rolls her eyes. She has a narrow face and big, bulging brown eyes. Nervous hands. When they were in grammar school at St. Elizabeth’s, people used to say that Elizabeth was the Irish version of Joanne and Joanne the Italian version of her. But since then Elizabeth has grown taller and wider and her nose has gotten sharp. Joanne has simply grown breasts, large ones; everything else about her has seemingly stayed just about the same.
The waitress comes to take Elizabeth’s order and Joanne asks for another vodka and tonic, although the one before her is nearly filled. Elizabeth notices that the black bowl between them contains only popcorn kernels and is nearly empty.
“How long have you been here?” she asks.
Joanne shrugs. “Not long. So what’s new with you? Did Toby ever call you?” She picks up one of the kernels and bites it between her front teeth.
“No,” she says. “I didn’t really expect him to.” Toby was her partner at the wedding. They’d kept up a polite banter throughout the whole thing and eventually got ridiculously drunk together, but she was sure he’d only asked for her number because all the other unmarried ushers were asking all theother unmarried bridesmaids for theirs. “I think he just took my number because he was kind of caught up in the spirit of things.”
“What do you mean?” Joanne asks, looking at her carefully, almost cautiously.
“Oh, you know, the wedding and the drinking and the dancing. And you and Tommy looked so cute together, I think everyone wanted to get married, or at least be in love.” She laughs. “And when your father got up and sang ‘Stay as Sweet as You Are,’ to your mother—”
“He was drunk,” Joanne says.
She laughs again. “God, who wasn’t?” It had been a wonderful, extravagant wedding. Eight bridesmaids, six limousines, three hundred guests, a nuptial mass, and seven rolling bars. Joanne’s father, a short, burly man, almost suave in his brown tuxedo and ruffled yellow shirt, had cried openly during the ceremony and then danced with every woman at the reception, frequently grabbing the microphone away from the band leader to shout insults at his friends. Insults that always ended with, “Ahh, I love ya!”
There had been a cocktail hour with a twelve-foot table of hors d’oeuvre and a fountain of champagne. A
Downstairs in Penn Station it is dirty and bright. People are running stiffly, as if it had begun to rain and they have a specific shelter in mind. The whole place smells of doughnuts.
The bar is unbelievably dark, a yellow, muddy kind of darkness, and it takes her a while to see Joanne. She is in their usual booth, right next to the hot hors d’oeuvre. She flutters her fingers at Elizabeth, and Bert, the tall black man who carves the ham and dishes up the meatballs, says, “Here she is, here she is,” as she approaches.
Joanne slides out of the booth and they hug. Although Elizabeth is nearly four inches taller, Joanne seems to lean into her a little, as if she were the one who had to bend for the embrace. They haven’t seen each other since her wedding amonth ago, although before that they met here for drinks nearly every Friday night. Joanne has a party to go to when she gets home tonight and Elizabeth has Tupper Daniels coming over, but they made this date two weeks ago and neither of them wanted to break it. They’d promised each other that Joanne’s marriage wouldn’t change their very old friendship, and this meeting is their token attempt to keep that promise.
“How are you?” Elizabeth says, sliding into the booth, slipping off her jacket. “You look great.”
Joanne laughs, puts her thin fingers to her face. Her thick, shining wedding band. “Do I still have my tan?”
“You do,” she says, looking closely. “How was Aruba?”
“Hot.” She rolls her eyes. She has a narrow face and big, bulging brown eyes. Nervous hands. When they were in grammar school at St. Elizabeth’s, people used to say that Elizabeth was the Irish version of Joanne and Joanne the Italian version of her. But since then Elizabeth has grown taller and wider and her nose has gotten sharp. Joanne has simply grown breasts, large ones; everything else about her has seemingly stayed just about the same.
The waitress comes to take Elizabeth’s order and Joanne asks for another vodka and tonic, although the one before her is nearly filled. Elizabeth notices that the black bowl between them contains only popcorn kernels and is nearly empty.
“How long have you been here?” she asks.
Joanne shrugs. “Not long. So what’s new with you? Did Toby ever call you?” She picks up one of the kernels and bites it between her front teeth.
“No,” she says. “I didn’t really expect him to.” Toby was her partner at the wedding. They’d kept up a polite banter throughout the whole thing and eventually got ridiculously drunk together, but she was sure he’d only asked for her number because all the other unmarried ushers were asking all theother unmarried bridesmaids for theirs. “I think he just took my number because he was kind of caught up in the spirit of things.”
“What do you mean?” Joanne asks, looking at her carefully, almost cautiously.
“Oh, you know, the wedding and the drinking and the dancing. And you and Tommy looked so cute together, I think everyone wanted to get married, or at least be in love.” She laughs. “And when your father got up and sang ‘Stay as Sweet as You Are,’ to your mother—”
“He was drunk,” Joanne says.
She laughs again. “God, who wasn’t?” It had been a wonderful, extravagant wedding. Eight bridesmaids, six limousines, three hundred guests, a nuptial mass, and seven rolling bars. Joanne’s father, a short, burly man, almost suave in his brown tuxedo and ruffled yellow shirt, had cried openly during the ceremony and then danced with every woman at the reception, frequently grabbing the microphone away from the band leader to shout insults at his friends. Insults that always ended with, “Ahh, I love ya!”
There had been a cocktail hour with a twelve-foot table of hors d’oeuvre and a fountain of champagne. A
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