Free Lydia's Party: A Novel by Margaret Hawkins Page A

Spence—in the old days, back when they were a new couple. Afterward they’d go to dinner, though Spence wouldn’t eat if he had a gig later. He’d played in a band then. What a pair they’d been, so attractive, well matched, dressed all in black, like the world’s cutest, hippest salt and pepper shakers. He’d been so handsome in those days—those chiseled features, his musician’s hands. They’d just fit, both of them with that jet-black hair. It wasn’t until they broke up that Jayne found out Lydia’s true color was medium brown. Jayne remembered the night they wore matching velvet coats.
    Cute as they were, they’d brought out the worst in each other, too, Jayne thought. She supposed the marriage was doomed, really. Though when she saw how they both kept repeating versions of it after, with other less suitable partners, she wondered if they shouldn’t have just stayed together and fought it out.
    •   •   •
    “Very attractive,” Douglas said, finally. “But not my type.”
    “Meaning?” Jayne said.
    He’d put his hands on her. “I like this.”
    “No, really.” Jayne knew he did. And she was glad, but she also knew there was more to it than breast size.
    He’d shrugged, let go. “She’s one of those, you know.
Women
.” He’d flapped his big hands.
    “Elucidate,” she’d said, pinning him down with a pillow. They’d been in bed.
    “You know,” he said. “Addicted to the chase. Tragic. I don’t know.” He wouldn’t elaborate.
    Jayne supposed Lydia had been flirting with him. She knew what he meant, though. He meant like his ex. Douglas had already been through one divorce when they got together—and a hellacious child custody battle—and he didn’t want any more of that. They’d both been ready to settle down. Work and raising Little Walt, his boy, part-time, were demanding enough, they both felt.
    Over time she’d come to know how much he liked knowing she wasn’t going to leave.
    •   •   •
    She also knew how much he would have hated knowing she was going to smoke tonight. Which she was, she’d decided. Though if no one else was, she’d be out of luck. She should stop and buy a pack now, she thought, just to be safe. She could pull over at that bowling alley, right now. It looked like the sort of place that still had a machine.
    She’d always preferred buying cigarettes from a machine. She liked the privacy of it, in a back hallway, usually, in some urine-stinking alcove near the men’s room where you could stand alone and think about what you were about to do.
Think about what you’ve done
, the teachers used to say when they’d done something bad. She liked the clandestine feeling, that guilty anticipation, then the sound, the good soft thump when the surprisingly hefty little pack dropped into the gutter at the bottom. The sound of relief, Jayne thought. You’d pull that big silver knob—there’d always be some resistance, that last second when you had a chance to change your mind—and then it would give, like a gear, and out they’d drop, attainable bliss, into the smooth silver groove. Then came the ritual opening, the thrilling crinkle of staticky cellophane, the folding back of the cardboard lid, the tearing of the foil and then, ah. That sweet burst of smell. Tobacco.
    Douglas, who’d grown up near a reservation in Wisconsin and still had relatives there, though he didn’t want people to know that, once told her the Oshkosh considered tobacco sacred. It was the opposite around here—strictly déclassé. They were converting cigarette machines into art vending machines now. You put in a token and out came a little origami sculpture instead. There was one at the Cultural Center. Just the sight of it made Jayne want to light up.
    •   •   •
    She wouldn’t be thinking this way if someone hadn’t offered her a cigarette at the park this morning. She could still smell it on her fingers. She’d put the butt in her coat pocket