Читать книгу Eligible - Curtis Sittenfeld - Страница 33

After Charlotte had distributed paper and pens, the newly assembled teams retreated to separate corners of the living room to generate their phrases in hushed tones.

“Eligible,” Kitty suggested immediately, and Liz shook her head. “Too easy. Tom Cruise?”

This time it was Lydia who gave Liz a withering look. “Tom Cruise is old and creepy.”

“Frida Kahlo?” Mary said.

Lydia said, “Is that a lesbian?”

“Maybe we should do a movie,” Jane said.

“Dirty Dancing,” Kitty said, and Liz said, “Definitely.” It would be truly gratifying, she thought, if Darcy was the person forced to act it out. After Jane ripped the place where she’d written Dirty Dancing from the larger sheet of paper, they were able to decide on additional phrases with less dispute.

The other team wasn’t as efficient, though as Darcy had pointed out, they did not all know one another well. In addition to Darcy himself, the team was composed of Caroline, Chip, Charlotte, Nathan, and Stephen.

When the teams convened around the living room table, they determined through a coin flipped by Chip that Team Bennet would go first. Mary selected a scrap of folded paper from the pile on the table, read it, and frowned. “I barely know what this is.”

“No talking,” Caroline said, and Liz said, “Just start, Mary. The clock’s ticking.”

Mary held up one palm and with the other fist mimed cranking a silent-film camera.

“Movie!” Kitty and Lydia shouted together.

Mary held up four fingers.

“Four words,” Jane said. “You’re doing great.”

Mary paused and thought.

“For God’s sake, Mary,” Lydia said. “Get over yourself.”

Mary held up four fingers again, and Liz said, “Fourth word.”

Mary flung her hands out from her waist as if shooing away a swarm of insects. “A grass skirt?” Liz ventured. “Elvis Presley? Blue Hawaii?”

Mary shook her head and repeated the gesture.

“Going pee!” Kitty shouted. “Peeing everywhere! Shitting in your pants!”

“Exploding with diarrhea!” Lydia cried. “Pepto-Bismol! Having your period!” As Mary shook her head sternly and the two youngest sisters giggled, Liz abruptly understood the nature of the discomfort that had been thrumming within her since Caroline Bingley and Fitzwilliam Darcy had entered Charlotte’s apartment: What would have been a night of inconsequential silliness was now unfolding before the judgmental gaze of outsiders. Thus, the game resembled an audition in which Darcy and Caroline’s negative impressions of Cincinnati would either be confirmed or contradicted. But why did the duo deserve, simply by reason of their imperiousness, for everyone present to strive to win their favorable opinion? Or no, not everyone—certainly not Lydia and Kitty—and if the youngest sisters’ indifference to the outsiders humiliated Liz, it was her own humiliation that she found infuriating. Let Caroline and Darcy think badly of Cincinnati and its inhabitants! Why should she care? But, unaccountably, she did.

Mary waved one hand back and forth, as if attempting to erase the previous gestures, then held up a finger.

“First word,” Jane said.

Mary held up two fingers.

“Two syllables,” Liz said.

Mary again held up one finger.

“First syllable,” Liz said.

Mary cupped her hand around her right ear.

“Sounds like,” Jane and Liz both said.

Mary tapped her knee. “Bee’s knees,” Jane said at the same time Liz said, “I need you.” Mary was shaking her head. She patted her leg, this time higher, and Kitty said, “Thigh meat. Dark meat. Chicken breast.”

“Tits and ass!” Lydia yelled.

Thankfully, this was when the timer went off, and in a tone indicating that she felt the failure was her sisters’ rather than her own, Mary said, “Legends of the Fall.”

“What the fuck is that?” Lydia said.

“It’s a movie,” Liz said. “Actually, a book, too, but Brad Pitt was in the movie.”

“Then why didn’t you do that?” Kitty said to Mary. “It’s not like you don’t have an armpit.”

“No, that was hard,” Jane said. “Even if we’d had more time, I don’t think I could have gotten it.”

“I still don’t understand why you were pretending to have diarrhea,” Lydia said, and Mary said with impatience, “It was fall like waterfall.”

Liz avoided looking at either Darcy or Caroline as Nathan from Procter & Gamble stood and took a scrap of paper from his team’s pile. When he’d unfolded it, he made the same camera-cranking gesture Mary had.

“Movie,” Charlotte said.

Nathan raised a finger.

“One word,” Chip said.

Nathan closed his eyes, balled his hands into fists that he shook by his ears, opened his mouth, and pretended to scream.

Flatly, Darcy said, “Psycho.”

“Hey,” Nathan said. “Not bad.”

Chip chuckled. “Are you sure you’re not a ringer, Darcy?”

“Seriously?” Caroline said with delight. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Nathan said. “All hail—what’s our team name anyway?”

“The Conquistadors,” Charlotte suggested. “Booyah, Bennet sisters!”

Liz didn’t mind Charlotte’s competitive spirit—she knew the affection underlying it—but Caroline Bingley caught Liz’s eye, and Caroline’s demeanor contained no similar warmth. “So much for family shorthand, I guess,” Caroline said.

The game proceeded much the way it had begun, with Lydia and Kitty making guesses that were as off-color as they were inaccurate; when the answer was The Sound of Music, they shouted, “Hemorrhoids!” and “Blow job!”; for Dwight Eisenhower, “Dildo!” and “Threesome!” Her younger sisters’ vulgarity was not a surprise to Liz; indeed, she herself, more than Jane or Mary, could enjoy a dirty joke. However, the difference between Liz and her youngest sisters was their lack of deference to context. Among near strangers, Liz would never have been so artlessly, fearlessly crude. But Kitty and Lydia were always themselves, in a way Liz found both appalling and admirable. They would discuss pubic hair at the dinner table, text in church, refer as unabashedly to their hangovers as Liz would have to a stubbed toe. Perhaps, Liz thought, their nonchalance about judgment or consequence reflected the greater leniency Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had shown them; their parents had, when Liz and Jane were children and teenagers, still been concerned with bedtimes and then curfews, with grades and chores and thank-you notes. Whereas on a recent afternoon, when Liz had asked Lydia if she had any stationery Liz could use to belatedly write to a publicist who’d taken her to lunch in New York the week Mr. Bennet had fallen ill, Lydia had said she didn’t own stationery. “Then how do you thank people?” Liz asked, and Lydia said, “For what?”

But the aspect of Lydia and Kitty’s crassness most noteworthy to Liz was their lack of concern that it would adhere to them. They were such pretty girls, with long blond hair, like Jane’s—Liz and Mary were brunettes—and their bodies, per their dedication to CrossFit, were superbly toned. Plus, they were young still, their skin creamy, their eyes bright, no matter how late they returned home on how many nights. Did they not wonder if shouting about dingleberries might in some way detract from their dewy beauty, conjuring an incompatibly, uncomplimentarily vivid image in audiences’ heads? It appeared they did not.

Yet even as Liz felt gripped by embarrassment, she also felt embarrassment’s opposite, a liberating kind of resignation. Her sisters were people who never passed up an opportunity to talk about sex, shit, or combinations thereof; if her family horrified Darcy and Caroline, so be it. It was mostly for Jane that she felt regret, should the evening compromise Chip’s impression of her.

It was during the third round of the game, on Jane’s turn, when the indecency reached its apotheosis. The clue, as it turned out, was “Jingle Bells,” yet, with great enthusiasm, Lydia kept repeating, “Alabama Hot Pocket! Alabama Hot Pocket!” Liz ignored her, and together she and Mary ultimately guessed the answer, but after the turn was finished, Stephen said, “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

Lydia and Kitty dissolved into laughter. Liz stood. “Does anyone need another drink?”

Stephen said to Lydia, “Whisper it in my ear?”

“Oh, please,” Charlotte said. “No secrets. Just say it.”

Liz rolled her eyes at Lydia and Kitty as she passed them en route to the kitchen; once there, after opening a new bottle of wine and refilling her glass, she checked her phone. She’d received no interesting emails and no texts at all. Sporty was shipping on Monday, so she knew Jasper would be working most of the weekend.

“I think Caroline is having the cabernet,” a male voice said. “Does that sound right?”

When Liz looked up, Darcy had entered the kitchen and was standing at the counter holding two open bottles side by side.

“I have no idea.” Liz watched as he poured, then she said, “Actually, she must have been drinking the other one, because I just opened that. Here.” Liz took a step forward and reached for the glass Darcy was holding; in one long slug, she finished its contents. When the maroon liquid was gone, she returned the glass to the counter. “Problem solved.”

“That glass was mine,” Darcy said.

“Oops,” Liz said. “Are you worried about my B-minus Cincinnati germs?”

After Darcy refilled the same glass, he looked at her, took a sip, and said, without smiling, “I have confidence in my immune system.” As he poured from the other bottle into Caroline’s glass, he said, “You might recall that it was you yourself, not I, who assigned you a grade of B-minus.”

“I was empathizing with your plight—looking at the world from your perspective.”

“I see.” Everything about him—every inflection of his voice, every expression he made—oozed superciliousness.

“For what it’s worth, my sisters aren’t representative of all people from Cincinnati,” Liz said. “Lydia and Kitty happen to have exceptionally bad manners.”

“I’m well aware that your sisters have exceptionally bad manners,” Darcy said, and Liz immediately regretted her quasi-apology.

She said, “So where are you from that’s so superior to here?”

“I grew up outside San Francisco. Though again, you’re putting words in my mouth—I never said superior.”

“Close enough,” Liz said. “And, you know, just for the record, whatever it is you think about the people here, your opinion says more about you than the city. Because I’m not sure what you think other places have that we don’t, but fifteen-dollar cocktails made with locally grown ingredients? We’ve got them. Indie bands? Got them. Reiki healers? We’ve got those, too. Maybe you have to search a little harder, but all that’s here, and so is lots of other stuff, like beautiful old houses that are completely affordable and an awesome riverfront park and nationally ranked sports teams and easy commutes and a mix of races and ethnicities. You can have a really high quality of life in Cincinnati.”

This was without question the most passionate paean to her hometown Liz had ever delivered—in fact, she wasn’t certain she believed all of it—but Darcy simply said, “You’re lucky to be so enthusiastic about the place you live.”

“Oh, I don’t live here,” Liz said. “I live in New York.”

At this, Darcy did something she hadn’t previously seen: He smiled.

“It’s not that I wouldn’t live here,” she said quickly, though she wasn’t sure this was true, either. “It’s just that it doesn’t make sense with my job. I’m a writer for Mascara magazine, but I came back because my dad had heart surgery.”

“A bypass?”

Liz nodded. “He’s doing well.” Reflexively, she knocked on a wooden cabinet.

“Did he have it done at Christ?” Liz nodded again, and Darcy said, “Their cardiothoracic department is good.”

“Are you fermenting the grapes yourself?” someone said then, and both Liz and Darcy turned to see Caroline. “You’ve seriously been in here for twenty minutes,” Caroline said, and beneath her breezy tone, Liz heard an unmistakable territoriality. How convenient, Liz thought, that Caroline’s managerial obligations had brought her to Cincinnati.

“Liz was just telling me that she’s a writer for a magazine,” Darcy said. “Mascara, you said?”

“Oh, that’s funny,” Caroline said. “Do you write articles like ‘Twenty Tips to Be a Tiger in the Sack’?”

“That’s not Mascara,” Liz said.

“I’m over Charades,” Caroline said to Darcy. “Want to get out of here?”

More loudly, Liz said, “I know what magazine you’re thinking of, and it’s not Mascara. We write about sex, of course, but not in a cheesy way.”

Caroline glanced at Liz. “You what?”

“Mascara focuses on serious issues,” Liz said. “I went to Saudi Arabia last year for a feature on gender relations in the Middle East.”

There was something challenging, or weirdly accusatory, in Caroline’s tone as she said, “Did you have to cover your hair?”

“I wore an abaya and a head scarf in public,” Liz said.

Caroline smiled faintly. “Aren’t you the world traveler.” Her focus reverted to Darcy as she said, “Charlotte is talking about ordering food, but I’d rather just leave.”

“We can go,” Darcy said.

Charades hadn’t concluded, Liz was pretty sure, though she wasn’t about to insist on extending the game.

Darcy turned toward her. “I’d suggest that the Cincinnati Chamber of Commerce hire you, but I guess it’d be a long commute.”

He and Caroline were almost out of the kitchen when Liz said, “Did you just make a joke? I hadn’t realized you had a sense of humor.”