“And who is this?” Jay asked sweetly, kneeling beside her.
“Daddy,” Sarah said again, ignoring him.
“She calls you ‘Daddy’?” Jay asked, sounding worried.
“We’re working on it,” I said. “Honey, what is it?”
I noticed Marta on the outskirts of the living room, craning her neck.
“Daddy, Terby’s mad,” Sarah said, pouting.
Terby was the bird doll I had bought Sarah in August for her birthday. It was a monstrous-looking but very popular toy that she’d wanted badly yet the thing was so misconceived and grotesque—black and crimson feathers, bulging eyes, a sharp yellow beak with which it continuously gurgled—that both Jayne and I balked at buying her one until Sarah’s pleas drowned out all reasoning. Since the awful thing was sold out everywhere I’d resorted to using Kentucky Pete—who was very adept at obtaining contraband—to secure one that according to him had been smuggled in from Mexico.
“Terby’s mad,” Sarah whined again.
“Well, calm him down,” I said, glancing around. “Bring him up some nachos. Maybe he’s hungry.”
“Terby says it’s too loud and Terby’s mad.” Her arms were crossed in a parody of an upset child.
“Okay, baby, we’ll take care of it.” I stood on my tiptoes and waved at Marta, then pointed down and mouthed, She’s here. Relieved, Marta started pushing toward us through the mass of bodies.
And suddenly Sarah was surrounded. Adorable children, I’d begun to notice, had that effect on people. Put them in a room full of adults and they were always the star attraction. Girls from my workshop and some of the cat-woman caterers were now leaning in and asking her questions in baby-doll voices, and Sarah soon seemed to forget all about Terby as I slowly pulled McInerney away. The cute little BABE basked in everybody’s attention even as “Don’t Fear the Reaper” roared through the house—an unsettling moment, but also my chance to escape.
As I led Jay down a long hallway toward the door that opened into the garage, he said, “You took care of that so well.”
“Jay, she’s six years old and thinks her bird doll’s alive,” I said, exasperated. “Now, do you want me to stand there and deal with that, or do you want to shut up and do a line with me?”
“You really don’t know how to do this, do you?”
“Do what? Throw a kick-ass party?”
“No. Be married. Be the dad.”
“Well, being married’s okay—but the dad thing’s a little tougher,” I said. “ ‘Daddy, can I have some juice?’ ‘How about some water, honey?’ ‘Daddy?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Can I have some juice?’ ‘How about some water instead, honey?’ ‘Daddy, can I have some juice?’ ‘Okay, honey, you want some juice?’ ‘No, it’s okay, I’ll just have some water.’ It’s like some f**king Beckett play that we’re rehearsing constantly.”
Jay just stared at me, grim-faced.
“Hey, but I bought a book,” I said flippantly. “Fatherhood for Dummies, and it is helping immensely. If only my father—”
“Okay, I can see what sort of evening this is turning into.”
“Hey, how was the reading?” I asked, switching gears.
“I like your little town” was his noncommittal answer, and I realized that the reading had probably been a bust. Not high, I would have wanted to pursue this, but wasted I did not.
I opened the door and ushered Jay into the garage and then peered back down the hallway to see if we’d been followed. I closed and locked the door and flicked on the fluorescent lights. The four-car garage contained my Porsche, Jayne’s Range Rover and a motorcycle I’d just purchased with unexpected Swedish royalties. And, I just noticed, a miserable golden retriever that lay waiting for us in the corner, curled up against Robby’s bike. But Jay aroused so little interest that Victor barely looked up.
“Ignore that dog,” I told him.
“Ah yes, your intimacy problems with animals. I forgot.”
“Hey, I dated Patty O’Brien for three months.” And then: “Ready for a little acción?”
“Indeed.” Jay rubbed his hands together eagerly.
“I have brought us some very pure Bolivian Marching Powder,” I said, rummaging through my pockets.
“Ooh—the Devil’s Dandruff.”
I quickly located the stash and handed Jay a packet. He opened it, inspected the coke and then put it down on the hood of the Porsche and started rolling a twenty into a tight green straw.