The Secret History - Donna Tartt [193]
“It’s dusty, too,” said Francis. “I think we ought to just go check into a hotel.”
Sniffing noisily, he complained about the dust as he searched for an ashtray but deadly radon could have been seeping into the room, it didn’t matter to me. All I wondered was how, in the name of Heaven and a merciful God, was I going to make it through the hours ahead. We had been there only twenty minutes and already I felt like shooting myself.
He was still complaining and I was still sunk in despair when Camilla came down. She was wearing jet earrings, patent-leather shoes, a natty, closely cut black velvet suit.
“Hello,” Francis said, handing her a cigarette. “Let’s go check into the Ramada Inn.”
As she put the cigarette between her parched lips I realized how much I’d missed her for the last few days.
“Oh, you don’t have it so bad,” she said. “Last night I had to sleep with Marion.”
“Same room?”
“Same bed.”
Francis’s eyes widened with admiration and horror. “Oh, really? Oh, I say. That’s awful,” he said in a hushed, respectful voice.
“Charles is upstairs with her now. She’s hysterical because somebody asked that poor girl who rode down with you.”
“Where’s Henry?”
“Haven’t you seen him yet?”
“I saw him. I didn’t talk to him.”
She paused to blow out a cloud of smoke. “How does he seem to you?”
“I’ve seen him looking better. Why?”
“Because he’s sick. Those headaches.”
“One of the bad ones?”
“That’s what he says.”
Francis looked at her in disbelief. “How is he up and walking around, then?”
“I don’t know. He’s all doped up. He has his pills and he’s been taking them for days.”
“Well, where is he now? Why isn’t he in bed?”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Corcoran just sent him down to the Cumberland Farms to get that damn baby a quart of milk.”
“Can he drive?”
“I have no idea.”
“Francis,” I said, “your cigarette.”
He jumped up, grabbed for it too quickly and burned his fingers. He’d laid it on the edge of the pool table and the coal had burned down to the wood; a charred spot was spreading on the varnish.
“Boys?” Mrs. Corcoran called from the head of the stairs. “Boys? Do you mind if I come down to check the thermostat?”
“Quick,” Camilla whispered, mashing out her cigarette. “We’re not supposed to smoke down here.”
“Who’s there?” said Mrs. Corcoran sharply. “Is something burning?”
“No, ma’am,” Francis said, wiping at the burned spot and scrambling to hide the cigarette butt as she came down the steps.
It was one of the worst nights of my life. The house was filling with people and the hours passed in a dreadful streaky blur of relatives, neighbors, crying children, covered dishes, blocked driveways, ringing telephones, bright lights, strange faces, awkward conversations. Some swinish, hard-faced man trapped me in a corner for hours, boasting of bass tournaments and businesses in Chicago and Nashville and Kansas City until finally I excused myself and locked myself in an upstairs bathroom, ignoring the beating and piteous cries of an unknown toddler who pled, weeping, for admittance.
Dinner was set out at seven, an unappetizing combination of gourmet carry-out—orzo salad, duck in Campari, miniature foie gras tarts—and food the neighbors had made: tuna casseroles, gelatin molds in Tupperware, and a frightful dessert called a “wacky cake” that I am at a loss to even describe. People roamed with paper plates. It was dark outside and raining. Hugh Corcoran, in shirtsleeves, went around with a bottle freshening drinks, nudging his way through the dark, murmuring crowd. He brushed by me without a glance. Of all the brothers, he bore the strongest resemblance to Bunny (Bunny’s death was starting to seem some horrible kind of generative act, more Bunnys popping up everywhere I looked, Bunnys coming out of the woodwork), and it was akin to looking into the future and seeing what Bunny would have looked like at thirty-five, just as looking at his father was like seeing him at sixty. I knew him and he didn’t know me. I had a strong, nearly irresistible urge to take him by the arm, say something to him, what I didn’t know: just to