throat go a little dry. It seems strange to have us all sitting here, dwelling on this.
"Lois," Alice says with an edge, hands still, hovering over the cookies. Lois returns the tough gaze, bites her lip a bit, shrugs with effort, and looks down at her pointy, scuffed shoes.
Later that night, at the fabulous Alice-inspired cocktail party at the Beauvais house, Alice and I drink gimlets together, and the heat wilting us, the crowd pounding in, we draw closer and I've forgotten everything but how much, everything else aside, she only wants it all to be good, to be good and fine.
"Lois, I told Lora to--I mean"--Alice giggles, correcting herself tipsily--"Lora, I told Lois to stop coming by."
"Oh," I say, helping her steady her tilting drink.
"Bill doesn't really like her around. He thinks she's bad news.
Which, of course, she is."
"She is?"
"Nothing serious, of course," Alice assures. "I'm just trying to wean her off me, but it's hard because we've known each other so long."
Then Alice tugs me closer to her, nearly pressing her mouth to my ear as we nestle on the Beauvaises' sofa. It is then that she tells me how they met, years before, at the studio.
Alice was fitting Lois, a young extra, into an Indian Girl costume, feathered headband, short tunic straight from a gladiator picture, pure Hollywood. When she was adjusting the hem, she saw the Die a Little -- 47 --
abrasions on the insides of Lois's thighs, shallow like slightly large pockmarks.
"So glamorous," Lois had said, not even looking down at Alice, kneeling beside her, needles in her mouth. "I didn't know the skirt would be so short."
"It won't pick up on camera," Alice had said.
"I thought that once, and the next thing I knew, the camera was moving under my spread legs." Alice hadn't said anything but smiled just enough to keep the needle in her mouth as she pinned the hem.
"You can never tell when a camera's going to be between your spread legs," Lois had continued, seeing Alice's smile.
"You sure can't," Alice said, dropping the pin too fast. "Oops! Did you get poked?" At that, Lois had let out a long, quiet, drawllike laugh, and Alice had laughed too.
"You have a lot of history," I say.
Alice sighs and raises her eyebrows. "That we do." Then, suddenly, "I'm sorry about earlier, though. About what Lois said about the scar."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't want you to think I tell her all kinds of private things about Bill."
"I don't," I say, even as, for the first time, I wonder if she does exactly this.
"Truth is, Lora ...
Truth is, Lora...
Don't think I'm trashy ...
Truth is, I think his scars are beautiful, Alice whispers, face red.
I think they're beautiful, she repeats. Don't you?
Die a Little -- 48 --
[?]*[?]
Then comes the first step from which there is no turning back.
As the final bell rings for the day, Alice grabs my arm in the corridor.
"I know we have a staff meeting, but can we miss just this one?"
"You go on. I'll make excuses and get a ride home with Janet," I say, wondering what arch looks will fly at Alice missing yet another faculty meeting.
"Actually, Lora, I was wondering if you could come with me.
"Come with you?"
"I have to go see Lois. She's sick and I want to check in on her."
"That's fine, but why do you need me?"
"Please, Lora? I'm worried. It would be such a relief to have you there." I look over at her, fingers clasped tightly over the clipboard in her hand. There is such forceful concern that I can't help but agree. I feel glad that Alice would go to such lengths for her friend, that the intensity with which she approaches being my brother's wife is not the only force surging through her.
It is a long drive that involves threading through a series of shaggy and ominous neighborhoods. Alice talks the entire time, almost as though trying to distract me from the gray-boxed bars and barred-window pawnshops that stud the roadways as we finally land on Rosecourt Boulevard. She sings along to the radio when she
"Lois," Alice says with an edge, hands still, hovering over the cookies. Lois returns the tough gaze, bites her lip a bit, shrugs with effort, and looks down at her pointy, scuffed shoes.
Later that night, at the fabulous Alice-inspired cocktail party at the Beauvais house, Alice and I drink gimlets together, and the heat wilting us, the crowd pounding in, we draw closer and I've forgotten everything but how much, everything else aside, she only wants it all to be good, to be good and fine.
"Lois, I told Lora to--I mean"--Alice giggles, correcting herself tipsily--"Lora, I told Lois to stop coming by."
"Oh," I say, helping her steady her tilting drink.
"Bill doesn't really like her around. He thinks she's bad news.
Which, of course, she is."
"She is?"
"Nothing serious, of course," Alice assures. "I'm just trying to wean her off me, but it's hard because we've known each other so long."
Then Alice tugs me closer to her, nearly pressing her mouth to my ear as we nestle on the Beauvaises' sofa. It is then that she tells me how they met, years before, at the studio.
Alice was fitting Lois, a young extra, into an Indian Girl costume, feathered headband, short tunic straight from a gladiator picture, pure Hollywood. When she was adjusting the hem, she saw the Die a Little -- 47 --
abrasions on the insides of Lois's thighs, shallow like slightly large pockmarks.
"So glamorous," Lois had said, not even looking down at Alice, kneeling beside her, needles in her mouth. "I didn't know the skirt would be so short."
"It won't pick up on camera," Alice had said.
"I thought that once, and the next thing I knew, the camera was moving under my spread legs." Alice hadn't said anything but smiled just enough to keep the needle in her mouth as she pinned the hem.
"You can never tell when a camera's going to be between your spread legs," Lois had continued, seeing Alice's smile.
"You sure can't," Alice said, dropping the pin too fast. "Oops! Did you get poked?" At that, Lois had let out a long, quiet, drawllike laugh, and Alice had laughed too.
"You have a lot of history," I say.
Alice sighs and raises her eyebrows. "That we do." Then, suddenly, "I'm sorry about earlier, though. About what Lois said about the scar."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't want you to think I tell her all kinds of private things about Bill."
"I don't," I say, even as, for the first time, I wonder if she does exactly this.
"Truth is, Lora ...
Truth is, Lora...
Don't think I'm trashy ...
Truth is, I think his scars are beautiful, Alice whispers, face red.
I think they're beautiful, she repeats. Don't you?
Die a Little -- 48 --
[?]*[?]
Then comes the first step from which there is no turning back.
As the final bell rings for the day, Alice grabs my arm in the corridor.
"I know we have a staff meeting, but can we miss just this one?"
"You go on. I'll make excuses and get a ride home with Janet," I say, wondering what arch looks will fly at Alice missing yet another faculty meeting.
"Actually, Lora, I was wondering if you could come with me.
"Come with you?"
"I have to go see Lois. She's sick and I want to check in on her."
"That's fine, but why do you need me?"
"Please, Lora? I'm worried. It would be such a relief to have you there." I look over at her, fingers clasped tightly over the clipboard in her hand. There is such forceful concern that I can't help but agree. I feel glad that Alice would go to such lengths for her friend, that the intensity with which she approaches being my brother's wife is not the only force surging through her.
It is a long drive that involves threading through a series of shaggy and ominous neighborhoods. Alice talks the entire time, almost as though trying to distract me from the gray-boxed bars and barred-window pawnshops that stud the roadways as we finally land on Rosecourt Boulevard. She sings along to the radio when she
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