The Secret History - Donna Tartt [162]
“Actually, sir, we’ve already had our dinner,” Francis was saying. “… No, of course not.… Yes. Oh, yes sir, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, but you know how confused things are.… Certainly.…”
Finally he hung up. We stared at him.
He shrugged. “Well,” he said, “I tried. He’s expecting us at the hotel in twenty minutes.”
“Us?”
“I’m not going by myself.”
“Is he alone?”
“No.” Francis had drifted into the kitchen; we could hear him opening and shutting cabinets. “It’s the whole crew except for Teddy, and they’re expecting him any minute.”
There was a slight pause.
“What are you doing in there?” said Henry.
“Making myself a drink.”
“Make me one, too,” said Charles.
“Scotch all right?”
“I’d rather bourbon if you’ve got it.”
“Make that two,” said Camilla.
“Just bring the whole bottle in, why don’t you,” Henry said.
After they left, I lay on Francis’s couch, smoking his cigarettes and drinking his Scotch, and watched “Jeopardy.” One of the contestants was from San Gilberto, which is really close to where I grew up, only five or six miles away. All those suburbs tend to run into one other out there, so you can’t always tell where one ends and the next begins.
After that came a made-for-television movie. It was about the threat of the earth colliding with another planet and how all the scientists in the world united to avert the catastrophe. A hack astronomer, who is constantly on talk shows and whose name you would probably recognize, played himself in a cameo role.
For some reason, I felt uneasy about watching the news alone when it came on at eleven, so I turned to PBS and watched something called “History of Metallurgy.” It was actually quite interesting, but I was tired and a bit drunk, and I fell asleep before it ended.
When I awoke, a blanket had been thrown over me, and the room was blue with a cold dawn light. Francis sat in the windowsill with his back to me; he was wearing his clothes from the night before and he was eating maraschino cherries from a jar balanced on his knee.
I sat up. “What time is it?”
“Six,” he said without turning around, his mouth full.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I didn’t get in until four-thirty. Too drunk to drive you home. Want a cherry?”
He was still drunk. His collar was open and his clothes disordered; his voice was flat and toneless.
“Where were you all night?”
“With the Corcorans.”
“Not drinking.”
“Of course.”
“Till four?”
“They were still going at it when we left. There were five or six cases of beer in the bathtub.”
“I didn’t know it was going to be a frivolous occasion.”
“It was donated by the Food King,” said Francis. “The beer, I mean. Mr. Corcoran and Brady got hold of some of it and brought it to the hotel.”
“Where are they staying?”
“I don’t know,” he said dully. “Terrible place. One of those big flat motels with a neon sign and no room service. All the rooms were connected. Hugh’s children screaming and throwing potato chips, the television going in every room. It was hell.… Really,” he said humorlessly as I started to laugh, “I think I could get through anything after last night. Survive a nuclear war. Fly a plane. Somebody—one of those damned toddlers, I guess—got my favorite scarf off the bed and wrapped up part of a chicken leg in it. That nice silk one with the pattern of clocks on it. It’s just ruined.”
“Were they upset?”
“Who, the Corcorans? Of course not. I don’t think they even noticed.”
“I don’t mean about the scarf.”
“Oh.” He got another cherry from the jar. “They were all upset I suppose, in a way. Nobody talked about much else but they didn’t seem out of their minds or anything. Mr. Corcoran would act all sad and worried for a while, then the next thing you knew he’d be playing with the baby, giving everybody beer.”
“Was Marion there?”
“Yes. Cloke, too. He went for a drive with Brady and Patrick and came back reeking of pot. Henry and I sat on the radiator all night and talked to Mr. Corcoran. I guess Camilla went over to say hello to Hugh and