Read Rhode Island Red for Free Online Page B

for change and purchased a pack of Winston Lights from the machine. Except for my ongoing bumming of smokes from anybody I happened to be sitting across from, I had been off cigarettes for two years. Goddamn. Why did they make cigarettes taste so goddamn good if you weren’t supposed to smoke the goddamn things?
    The bourbon was awfully tasty too—with just a little water, no ice, no, no ice—mellow. Like me. like Mellow Nan. No more No No Nanette. Oui, Oui . South of fucking France. Little farmhouse. Field of lilac. Hot summer sun. String bikini. Real vegetables. Vin rouge to die.
    Aubrey would scoff at this dilemma of mine. Fuck compassion, she’d say. Aubrey was mighty wise about life. Maybe I had no business doubting her on this one. Maybe my only dilemma was whether to take Air France or Sabena. American Express Travelers Checks or Cook’s. France by rail or rent a car?
    Ernestine was going to have my ass for this.
    Two drivers took a pass on me before I could catch a cab home. I must have looked drunker than I was. But on the other hand, in the daytime it’s always 50–50 whether a taxi will stop for me. I don’t look straight enough to be a bougie bank exec, but I don’t exactly look like I’m gonna take them to the South Bronx either. Sometimes the black drivers are just as bad as the white. I stand there on the curb wishing I was Sissy Spacek in Carrie . Just picturing that fucking yellow car skidding on two wheels into a concrete wall and blowing sky high and me watching the conflagration with a serene little smile on my lips. Witnesses, officer? No, sorry, I didn’t see a thing.
    Of course, when I’m in my night finery, it’s a different story. I’ve caused more than one pile up in my leather bustier.
    The kitchen table was covered with newspapers, all of them turned to the travel section. I’d bought them to compare airline prices.
    I’d taken the money and put it all in my knapsack, which I then propped up in the chair across from me. The bag looked for all the world like a puffed up midget sitting there waiting for coffee to be served. When the telephone rang, I looked over at it, as though asking, Now who can that be?
    Walter.
    He begged me not to hang up on him, as I’d done late last night. He said he had to talk to me. He missed me so much he couldn’t function. He had to see me.
    I’m getting ready for a trip, I told him.
    Just to see me once before I went off. I said I don’t know—that fatal phrase: they always know they’ve got you when you say I don’t know. Women are dumb a lot of the time: it’s not a pretty thing to face, but there it is. I said I don’t know, but I did know: he was going to come over. And we were going to talk. And we were going to end up in bed. That was how it always shook out. That was where, after one of our break-ups, the talk always led. We’d talk and then we’d fuck and then a few days later he’d move in again, amid a lot of promises and hope. Until the next time.
    â€œCan I come over now? Please, baby.”
    I felt that creeping hot patch on my neck. The signal of my desire. It didn’t much matter what he promised me now, and I was just about to tell him to hurry over, when I was suddenly knocked off my feet by an enormous wave of sadness and guilt. As much for Siggy as for Inge.
    â€œWalter?”
    â€œWhat, sweetheart?”
    â€œWalter, what would you say was the greatest thing you ever did to earn me?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou know, the emblematic gesture that said what you want in this world is me.”
    â€œ What? ”
    â€œI mean, I know that you kind of keep me—in a way. But did you ever do anything to earn me? When was the last time you jumped in front of a bus for me?”
    â€œWhat the fuck you talking about, Nanette?”
    I wasn’t listening to Walter anymore. I said I had to hang up. And I did.
    I also