one-act play had gone off without a hitch. Now all she had to do was mount and produce the second one. Sequels were always tricky.
Tess hadn’t been to The Point for months, a fact Spike lost no time reminding her of.
“Hey, Tesser, you finally come to see your old Uncle Spike? You still like mozzarella sticks? I tell you what. For you I’ll have Tommy change the oil. And a Rolling Rock, right? In a bottle, no glass. See, I remember, even if you don’t come see me so often.”
“You’ve got a great memory, Uncle Spike. Who do you get that from?”
“I got nothing from nobody, Tesser. You know that.” He turned up the sound on the Orioles game, then disappeared into the kitchen to personally supervise her mozzarella sticks.
Spike was a relative, but no one was sure whose, for neither side of the family would claim him. Tess’s father always insisted he was a cousin from some weak branch of the Weinstein family tree. Her mother maintained she had never met him until marrying into the Monaghan clan. Spike himself was closemouthed about the connection, though his looks favored Momma Weinstein’s springer spaniels. Pale, with an astonishing array of liver spots, Spike was notable primarily for his bald head, which came to a point. Hence the name of his tavern, decorated throughout with silhouettes of his bald head, cut from black construction paper by the dishwasher.
Tess adored him and his bar. When she was fifteen he had given her an open invitation to The Point, telling her it was important to learn to drink among people one could trust.
“You miscalculate here, the worst that happens maybe you wake up on my sofa, some crumbs on you,” Spike said. “You drink too much out there—” He pointed with his chin to the world beyond Franklintown Road and didn’t bother to explain what could happen to a drunk teenager out there. Accidents, vehicular and sexual.
Spike’s plan, while unorthodox, worked well. By the time Tess went off to Washington College, she knew exactly how much she could drink. It was a prodigious amount. Her dates were far more likely to pass out than she. On occasion a few did. A lady, she never took advantage of them.
Tonight she had chosen Spike’s Place because she hoped it would throw Ava off balance. She was ready for a second Rolling Rock before Ava arrived, ten minutes late and unapologetically so. She stalked in, wearing a white unitard, a turquoise thong, suede boots, and a leather jacket. Her black hair was pinned up on top of her head in a geyserlike ponytail. It was quite unlike anything ever seen at The Point. One of the older men fell off his bar stool as Ava walked by.
“Don’t get too full of yourself,” Tess told her, looking at George on the floor. “He does that all the time.”
“I know you,” Ava said, but her look told Tess shecouldn’t place her. They had met only a few times. Rock’s life was neatly compartmentalized, and Ava had shown little interest in rowing, which only happened to be his reason for existence.
“Maybe you think you know me because I’ve been watching you for so long. You’ve probably seen me several times, yet it never registered until now. I’ve noticed you don’t really pay much attention to the world around you.”
Ava slid into the booth, arranging herself so only a tiny strip of her tiny behind made contact with the smeared and cracked vinyl. She glanced at a menu, shuddered slightly, then put it aside. Tess had planned to recommend the veal chop, eager to watch her try to cut the rubbery meat. She also hoped she would order a Chardonnay. The white wine at The Point tasted like vinegar, bad vinegar at that.
But Ava had an innate sense for the right thing, even in the wrong place. She ordered—never had the word seemed quite so apt to Tess—a Black Label draft, helped herself to one of the mozzarella sticks on Tess’s plate, then sat back and raised an eyebrow. Your move , the eyebrow said.
Fine , Tess thought, I
Tess hadn’t been to The Point for months, a fact Spike lost no time reminding her of.
“Hey, Tesser, you finally come to see your old Uncle Spike? You still like mozzarella sticks? I tell you what. For you I’ll have Tommy change the oil. And a Rolling Rock, right? In a bottle, no glass. See, I remember, even if you don’t come see me so often.”
“You’ve got a great memory, Uncle Spike. Who do you get that from?”
“I got nothing from nobody, Tesser. You know that.” He turned up the sound on the Orioles game, then disappeared into the kitchen to personally supervise her mozzarella sticks.
Spike was a relative, but no one was sure whose, for neither side of the family would claim him. Tess’s father always insisted he was a cousin from some weak branch of the Weinstein family tree. Her mother maintained she had never met him until marrying into the Monaghan clan. Spike himself was closemouthed about the connection, though his looks favored Momma Weinstein’s springer spaniels. Pale, with an astonishing array of liver spots, Spike was notable primarily for his bald head, which came to a point. Hence the name of his tavern, decorated throughout with silhouettes of his bald head, cut from black construction paper by the dishwasher.
Tess adored him and his bar. When she was fifteen he had given her an open invitation to The Point, telling her it was important to learn to drink among people one could trust.
“You miscalculate here, the worst that happens maybe you wake up on my sofa, some crumbs on you,” Spike said. “You drink too much out there—” He pointed with his chin to the world beyond Franklintown Road and didn’t bother to explain what could happen to a drunk teenager out there. Accidents, vehicular and sexual.
Spike’s plan, while unorthodox, worked well. By the time Tess went off to Washington College, she knew exactly how much she could drink. It was a prodigious amount. Her dates were far more likely to pass out than she. On occasion a few did. A lady, she never took advantage of them.
Tonight she had chosen Spike’s Place because she hoped it would throw Ava off balance. She was ready for a second Rolling Rock before Ava arrived, ten minutes late and unapologetically so. She stalked in, wearing a white unitard, a turquoise thong, suede boots, and a leather jacket. Her black hair was pinned up on top of her head in a geyserlike ponytail. It was quite unlike anything ever seen at The Point. One of the older men fell off his bar stool as Ava walked by.
“Don’t get too full of yourself,” Tess told her, looking at George on the floor. “He does that all the time.”
“I know you,” Ava said, but her look told Tess shecouldn’t place her. They had met only a few times. Rock’s life was neatly compartmentalized, and Ava had shown little interest in rowing, which only happened to be his reason for existence.
“Maybe you think you know me because I’ve been watching you for so long. You’ve probably seen me several times, yet it never registered until now. I’ve noticed you don’t really pay much attention to the world around you.”
Ava slid into the booth, arranging herself so only a tiny strip of her tiny behind made contact with the smeared and cracked vinyl. She glanced at a menu, shuddered slightly, then put it aside. Tess had planned to recommend the veal chop, eager to watch her try to cut the rubbery meat. She also hoped she would order a Chardonnay. The white wine at The Point tasted like vinegar, bad vinegar at that.
But Ava had an innate sense for the right thing, even in the wrong place. She ordered—never had the word seemed quite so apt to Tess—a Black Label draft, helped herself to one of the mozzarella sticks on Tess’s plate, then sat back and raised an eyebrow. Your move , the eyebrow said.
Fine , Tess thought, I
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