Page 15 of Kill Your Darlings

“Dad, have you met me?”

Thom went over the list, made a few suggestions (more Prince), then finished his ham sandwich, resisting the urge to wash it down with a beer. It was going to be a long day and an even longer night. They’d rented the VFW hall downtown and hired a catering company plus a bartender who could stick around until one a.m. After that they’d be on their own. It was strange to be throwing a party not happening at their own house. Normally, on the day of a party he’d be frantically preparing for the onslaught. But they were full-on adults now, he supposed, and had their parties catered.

After lunch he put on his winter boots, plus a light jacket, and went outside to work on the driveway. There had been a major storm a week earlier that dumped nearly two feet of snow across the region, but the last two days had been unseasonably warm, turning that snow into a heavy, waterlogged slush from which streamed rivulets that froze into black ice overnight. The day was insufferably bright and Thom squinted while pushing waves of icy muck into the road that fronted his house. One of his neighbors, Larry, swung by to ask him if he needed to bring anything to the VFW hall that night, code for wanting to know if he needed to bring a flask of whiskey, as he usually did to beer and wine parties. “It’s a full bar, Larry, courtesy of us.”

“That’s what I heard. Mighty generous.”

“Janine coming as well?”

“Ah, probably not, I’m sorry to say. Another round yesterday and she’s not feeling her best.”

“Sorry to hear that, Larry.”

The other neighbor he spoke with was Ellen Larson, out pushing her newborn. She wished Thom a happy birthday and since he couldn’t remember whether they’d invited her and her husband to the party, Thom didn’t ask if he’d see her later. Instead, he gushed at the baby girl, her name temporarily forgotten, and avoided looking directly at Ellen, who was so pretty that Thom sometimes believed she caused him actual physical pain.

After an hour of on-and-off shoveling, there was no visual evidence that the driveway had changed in appearance or reality, so Thom quit, plunging his shovel into a pile of grimy snow that had been created by the plow, then walking around to the back of the house to lean against one of the large boulders that marked the edge of their tiny backyard. He thought of going inside, getting both his sunglasses and maybe a light beer, and returning to his sunny perch, but told himself that the night ahead required some sort of drinking plan. Maybe one beer while getting dressed, then a strong drink upon arrival at the hall—a Manhattan, maybe—then back to beer for the remainder of the evening, making sure to alternate beers with full glasses of water or seltzer. The most important thing was not to switch over to whiskey later in the evening, or to not switch over to whiskey until he was safely back at home, fireside with Wendy.

He wasn’t worried about bad behavior so much as he was worried about having a blackout, a period of time with no recall. He’d had a number of these in the last few years and they’d filled him with such a sense of fear, almost as though they represented brief glimpses of his death to come. He mentioned it only once to his wife, and she told him that she already knew he was having blackouts (of course she did), and that her fear was that in one of them he’d tell one of the young women he was infatuated with all about what they’d done years earlier.

“That will never happen,” he said. “I promise.”

But leaning against the boulder now Thom wondered, not for the first time, if he could somehow fictionalize what he and Wendy had achieved twenty-five years ago. Wendy wouldn’t like it, but itwashalf his story to tell. And now, on the day he turned fifty, he realized that maybe it was the only thing that made him special, this story of transgression, and his firsthand knowledge of it. It would make a great novel, a kind of AmericanCrime and Punishment. No, that wasn’t right. More like a modern take on Dreiser’sAnAmerican Tragedy. He’d read that in high school, and it had stayed with him throughout the years. But his story would be different. It would be about punishment, what happens when someone waits their whole life for it and it never comes. A tingling feeling crept over his skin that maybe this novel was a good idea. An opening line even occurred to him. Was this the book that he was meant to finally write? Of course, Wendy would be furious. Maybe not furious, but she’d be worried that he would be putting them in danger somehow. But that was ridiculous. Crime novels with outlandish murders were published all the time. No one went around assuming that the authors of these novels were basing them on actual events.

A sudden, jarring flutter went through his chest, not for the first time, but this one was accompanied by a tightening of his throat that made him think he might suddenly be sick. He placed a hand against the cool surface of the rock and thought to himself, Jesus, I’m dying on my birthday, dying before I get a chance to finally write the great American novel. He breathed deeply through his nostrils, telling himself to calm down. The fluttering stopped, but his throat was still tight. He swallowed several times, remembering that his phone was inside. Should he call 911? Should he tell Jason, no doubt back in his room perfecting the set list? Wendy was out to a birthday lunch with two of her friends. Regardless, he needed to make his way back to the house, unless he really was dying, in which case maybe this rock was an excellent spot. He flexed his jaw several times, then walked on stifflegs up onto the deck and through the sliding-glass doors into the kitchen. All of his symptoms had disappeared, and he felt fine, except for a slightly racing heart and a fuzzy mind. He poured himself a glass of water from the tap and consumed it in one long swallow. From upstairs he heard the sound of music, a bass line he recognized as belonging to a song by the Talking Heads. It was a song whose title he could never remember, a song about being already at home. Not great for dancing, Thom thought, refilling his water glass.

iii

The party was in full swing, and Wendy had begun to have fun. There had only been one toast, delivered by Larry Bathurst, while everyone was sitting down to eat the prime rib and baked potatoes that Thom had insisted on serving (“we’re old folk now and need to eat like it”). Larry, despite his circumstances, had delivered a toast that was funny rather than sentimental, and for that, Wendy was grateful.

And now the buffet was closed, the tables cleared, the dance party happening. The song was “Tempted” by Squeeze. Despite their turning fifty, most of Wendy and Thom’s friends on Goose Neck were ten years older at least, and the spectacle of them cutting moves on the VFW dance floor was mostly horrifying. She sipped her white wine and watched from a distance. Why was it that perfectly good dancers started to look ridiculous once they hit a certain age? Her oldest friend, Daniela, had come up from New York for this party. The two of them had spent their college years in Houston, hitting clubs, staying up till dawn. Daniela had been a tireless and sexy dancer. And she wasn’t a bad dancer now, but she just looked like... like a mom, Wendy supposed, since she was one, three times over. But still, it was a depressing sight. Thom, on the other hand, had always beena spectacle on the dance floor, all quick pivots and flailing elbows. He was dancing now with Laura Ferreira, Jason’s girlfriend, who seemed only mildly embarrassed by his gyrations. Laura was two years younger than Jason, not a big difference except for maybe in high school, especially with Jason leaving for college soon. Laura was quiet, studious, arty, and rather beautiful, and Wendy hoped that when Jason broke her heart he would be kind about it. She thought he would be.

The song ended and something new began that Wendy didn’t immediately recognize, some recent bass-heavy hit. No one left the dance floor.

She finished her wine and was trying to figure out what to do next when Walter Johnson approached, bringing her a fresh glass.

“Saw you were getting low,” he said.

Walter was a watercolor artist who had moved to Goose Neck two years earlier. Wendy knew him because he volunteered to work events at the Saltwick Institute, the nonprofit writers’ residency where Wendy worked as the director of retreat and operations. Thom had become convinced that Walter only volunteered in order to spend time with Wendy. She scoffed whenever he’d say this, but secretly believed he was probably right. He was not a particularly attractive man, with thinning hair and deep-set eyes and that body shape particular to certain men, all their weight in their stomach, so that their pants were always drooping a little off their hipless frames. But he was the only man who ever made a point of seeking her out at parties and art openings, and he always asked her questions about herself. Wendy had no interest in him—why would she want another fragile, middle-aged man in her life?—but she appreciated his interest.

While she gossiped with Walter, Thom danced over and said they should join him on the dance floor. His forehead was sweaty, and he was breathing heavily.

“Maybe you should take a break, darling,” Wendy said.

“‘Fifty-year-old man dies on dance floor. Story at eleven.’”

“What song do you think you’d like to die dancing to?” Walter said.

“That’s a good question. Let me think for a moment.”

Wendy watched Thom as he pondered. He loved this type of thing, making lists of favorite songs, movies, books. Talking about the best sandwich he’d ever had.

“It would have to be New Order, I think.”

“Which song?”

“‘Blue Monday’?”

Walter was nodding, reverently. Wendy’s annoyance grew.

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