YELLOW MAMA

Cindy Rosmus

A Chevy Camaro, that’s what they had.  A ’69.  Ricky knew jack shit about cars, but since that was the year he was born, it stuck out.  The ugliest yellow, like the caked mouth of their mustard bottle.  But some things cake faster than others.  Like blood.  And their car was splattered with it.

Hood, fenders, and grill. Outside their trailer, Ricky stood shivering, staring at the car.  Early morning, but the sun was too bright.  The time change, no doubt.  A year ago, the light would’ve killed his bloodshot eyes.  Hangovers were a bitch, he remembered: blinding headaches, boozy aftertaste, overwhelming fear that somehow things would never be right.  Never get better.  Ever.

But they had, at least for him.  But now this.  This, Ricky realized, wiping his mouth furiously, was not him.  It was Sam.  ALANON calling!  His wife, Samantha, as active as ever.  Over and over Ricky wiped his mouth, like it was smeared with her lipstick.  But they hadn’t kissed, in a long time.  My God, he thought, what has she done?  Call the police! came the voice of reason.  But his legs were as inert as the car itself.  And he hated himself for it.

Last night, he’d been dead asleep when she came home.  Strange for him, but lately Icky Ricky was changing.  Oh, he still looked the same: short, dark-haired, with the same questioning dark eyes.  But sometimes those eyes actually had answers.  He’d kept his goatee, as a “souvenir” from his drinking days. He ate lots of veggies.  Mornings he jogged.  His new job, data entry clerk, beat slicing cold cuts at the corner deli.  He even prayed.

Yes, Ricky was evolving, and he owed it to his Higher Power: A. A., ALANON, but also to “Mouse.”  His sweet, accommodating little Mouse.  Her real name “Giselle” just didn’t suit her.  Petite, sandy-haired, with the palest of blue eyes behind the ugliest glasses: wire aviators like he wore as a kid.  Mouse was Samantha’s opposite and secret rival.  Last night, alone, snuggled under the covers, Ricky had dreamed.  Crystal clear dreams of both his girls, the nights he’d met them, two years apart: nightmarish Sam, with hair of hellfire red, wildly sucking his cock after Ladies’ Night, and gentle, spectacled Mouse, trembling at her first Recovery meeting.  Sam had spilled Jack-and-Coke on him, Mouse, her scalding coffee.  “I’m so sorry!” Mouse shrieked, as he jumped up. “It’s okay,” Ricky lied, through clenched teeth.  The pain was so bad, he’d nearly cried.

*   *   *

They’d been the perfect match: Sam and him.  He hated lipstick; the mess it made, mostly the taste.  But back then, he’d dug hers: “Blood Rose.” Even sucked on her lips for more. When they drank, he just couldn’t get enough of her.  That first night they made out, so wildly, everybody in the bar snickered.  “Get a room!”  Some guy kept yelling.  “Aw, shut up!” Ricky grumbled.  Even bombed, he’d despised himself for falling so hard, so fast. 

“You are so gorgeous!”  he told Sam.  “No, I’m Scorpio,” she said, giggling, playing with his goatee.  “October thirtieth.  Mischief Night,” she said seductively. “Possessive.  Loyal.  Sexy.”  He moaned, as she massaged his inner thighs.  “Bet you are, too. Just look at those eyes!”  Ricky melted.  Hers were as dark, and nearly devoured his.  “No, I’m a Sag,” he said, like some astro-wiz.  True, but a moment later, she snatched back her hand.

“A control freak!” Sam screamed, so people stared.  “ Sagittarians suck.  All brutally honest fuckers!”  Ricky wished he could hide somewhere.  “Who needs you?”  Now she was sobbing.  “Or the truth?”  Annoyed, the bartender came over.  “The truth is useless, you hear me?”  Booze, Ricky realized now.  Too much could set anybody off. 

One look from the bartender, and Ricky knew they were flagged.  Sam’s mascara connected with her smeared lipstick.  She looked like a sad clown.  His heart surged with…what?  Something that terrified him.  But the Sagittarian in him took charge.  The bartender glared as Ricky softly spit into a cocktail napkin, and wiped Sam’s face. “Thanks, Sag,” she said, and hiccuped.  “I…like…that,” she said between hiccups.  Again they made out, heavy duty.  He squeezed her so tight, he felt something crack…

*   *   *

He’d woken up, suddenly, once she was asleep.  Maybe it was the light she couldn’t sleep without.  That smell hit him, and his stomach lurched.  Booze, and what else?  All he knew was, he refused to touch her.  “I’m a Scorp with Gemini rising,” Sam would brag.  “Insanely jealous, but at the same time…a whore!”  Ricky stiffened. Why torture him?  Sure, she needed it, but not from him.  Since he’d found Mouse, he didn’t care who Samantha fucked.   

Or did he?  Why else would he stay?  Their trailer was a mess.  From the outside it was charming: fairy tale blue, with wooden tulips on sills.  Inside, it was like a litter box, thanks to her.  Mouse’s flat was tiny, immaculate, smelled of vanilla.  She would die for him to move in, take charge of her life.  “Get out!” Sam demanded, at least once a week.  And always he stayed.  But why?

“’Cos…” Mouse had said wisely, and so sadly, “’Cos you love her.”  He punched her pillow till feathers shot out.  She went on, “You really do, Ricky.”  How?  How?  Each punch seemed to say.  “ ‘ Let go,’ ” she quoted A. A., “ ‘And let God.’ ” Now that he was new, and clean, and sober, and in love with a newer, cleaner, sober woman… he couldn’t still be trapped!

But he was.  He was totally, madly in love with Samantha, and equally in hate with himself.  Just her tap on his shoulder made him cringe.  Yet, some nights he lay next to her, watching her sleep, fretfully.  This horrible, giddy feeling would come, sickening him, making him so happy, he could squeal.  As strong as the stench of booze, and just as real.  In her drunken stupor, he would…touch her, on the sneak, gently, so she wouldn’t wake up.  A strand of that crazy red hair, maybe.  Near tears, he’d feel, wanting to punch himself.  “Love you,” he’d mouth, “Oh, Sam!”

They hadn’t fucked, since…when?  God knows.  Not since Mouse, anyway.  “You make me drink!” was Sam’s new one, once he’d froze to her.  An icicle one moment, an animal the next, Sam could suck Ricky dry, then climb on top, clench her twat muscles around his limp stuff, roughly ride him till he was rock-hard again.  Mouse was happy just cuddling.  Still, he knew his incredible tongue brought Mouse to more orgasms in the past months than she ever believed possible.  No matter who Sam fucked, Ricky thought smugly, she was too trashed to enjoy it.

Such denial.  All the signs were there.  Common sense said, just quit drinking!  One day at a time.  Don’t pick up.  Ninety meetings in ninety days.  “Meetings, my ass!” Sam said, during her brief “dry drunk” period.  “All your new buddies.  Whining, self-righteous fucks.  Who needs ‘em?”  People willing to face the truth.  Like Mouse.     

Sam wasn’t stupid.  Hell, she was smarter than him!  A college grad!  Till recently, she’d had a good job, in a law office.  But she’d called in “drunk” too many times. “We’ll lose the car!” she wailed. “And this place.  What’ll we do?”  Against his will, Ricky pitied her. “I’ll pay the bills,” he said coldly. “You just chill.”  That same night, Sam went on the worst of rampages.  3AM, Ricky awakened to the wild honking of their car horn.  Then drunken shouting.  Outside, Sam had straddled the Camaro. “ Hey, you! ‘Yellow Mama!’ ” She stroked the hood.  “Know who you’re named after?”  Stunned, Ricky realized she was talking to the car. ‘‘Hey, Sag, ‘member that show?  Betcha don’t.”  She was obsessed with TV crime: forensics, serial slayings, the more brutal, the better. But this was Jersey. Only she would remember “Yellow Mama:” Alabama’s electric chair.   

Both “Yellow Mamas” were killing machines.  Ricky was clueless about blood splatter patterns, but one thing he knew for sure: this much meant something, or somebody was dead.

But who?

Yesterday he’d come home from work exhausted.  The last thing he needed was a scene.  The Big One.  Before she’d even had a drink. “You’re my husband.”  Sam screamed.  Ricky was pinned against the fridge.  “I need you!”  A squirming mass of tits and thighs, she rubbed herself against him.  His cock was rock-hard, but he resisted.  Starved lips begged for his, but he jerked his head away.  As they fought, the magnets toppled off the fridge door.  Phone numbers went flying.  She crawled down his body, tried eating him through his pants.  “Stop!” he yelled.  Grabbing her shoulders, he shoved her so roughly, she landed on her ass. 

For a moment she looked hurt, pathetic.  His heart swelled.  Then her eyes narrowed.  “Who is it?” she demanded. “You’re getting it from somebody.”  He froze, as she snatched up the phone numbers.  His A. A. pals, Mouse’s included.  “Some pigeon!” As he tried snatching them back, Sam ripped, and crumpled all she could.  She was clawing him, wildly, when he lost it. 

The smack laid her out flat.  She didn’t move.  Fear made him want to puke, and he rushed to the sink.  “You…fuck!” he heard then, very softly.  Relieved, he hung over the greasy dishes.  Once, way back, she’d got trashed on jello shots.  4PM the next day, he’d reached into her purse for the car keys and pulled out this red, pulpy mass.  “I saved one,” she muttered, as he flung it across the kitchen.  It oozed down the fridge.  “I’m sorry,” she said, back then.  “You fuck!” she said now, again, getting up. 

He was scared to turn around.  If she cracked his skull, it would be fast.  Instead, he heard jingling of keys.  Then the door slam. 

He ran out after her, just as the Camaro roared to life.  A wild screeching of tires.  Sam!  He almost screamed.  Come back!  I love… She slid all over, garbage cans crashing, just missing their neighbor, a Vietnam vet who looked about ninety.  “Cunt!” the neighbor yelled after Sam.  Ashamed, Ricky ducked back inside.  “Ya drunken whoo-ore!” he heard.  Even straight, Sam was the worst driver ever.

“It’s okay,” Mouse said softly. “She’ll be back.”  Ricky grimaced.  But her words, the touch of her small hand, even the smell of coffee brewing, comforted him.  They were almost alone, up front, in the church basement.  The meeting would begin soon, and it was his turn to chair.  “I never hit her before,” he said.  ‘Cos she called you a pigeon.  Mouse, was, too.  A newcomer Ricky had fucked too soon.  “Thirteen-stepping,” A. A. called it.  “She’ll be back tonight, like nothing ever happened.”  But how did Mouse know?

More people were coming in.  “Where’s she now, do you think?” Mouse asked Ricky. “Which bar?”  A strange question.  “Boxer’s Brew, probably,” he said, suspiciously. “Our old hangout.  Why?”  Mouse’s smile was mysterious, daring.  She patted his shoulder as she got up.  He watched her head towards the back.  By the time he said, “Hi, I’m Ricky! I’m an alcoholic,” he’d forgotten Mouse’s peculiar behavior.  He never even noticed she’d left…

Now, this morning, it hit him.  Why had she left?  Where had she gone?  She’d left Recovery meetings early before, but was always home when he called, no matter how late.  How sad, that Mouse was at his beck and call, and he was at the mercy of Sam’s.  But no more, Ricky thought.  Fists clenched, he glared at the car.  The bloody headlights seemed to taunt him with Sam’s own eyes.  He had to do something.  But what?

Confront her?  Wake her, or just drag her outside by the hair, and force her to face this? “Fuck you!” she’d scream, waking up the whole trailer court.  It was Saturday, too early for these people, mostly drunks.  Sweat crawled down his neck.  Then everybody would know what happened.  Somebody was hurt bad, maybe dead.  Right now, as warped as it sounded, his world was at peace.  Somewhere a blue jay screeched.  In a neighbor’s trailer, a phone rang, was almost immediately answered by a mumbly machine.  He was still safe.

He?  Ricky thought bitterly, pacing. Safe?  He was innocent!  Sam was the culprit.  Vehicular homicide.  How many years would she get for this?  She would know, he thought wildly.  The Queen of Forensics.  An accident that might never have happened, if the driver wasn’t shit-faced!  So what if it happened in a blackout?  Her fingerprints, DNA would convict her.  He stopped pacing, felt his mouth stretch in a horrible smile.  Good for her!  He stepped back, studied the car almost in admiration.  And good riddance.

A moment later, he sunk to his knees, sobbing.  Out of nowhere tears had come, and he bit his fist so hard, it bled.  My wife, he thought, as tremors shook him.  Can’t live with her, my God, could he really live without her?  Mouse.  He had to call Mouse, ask her what to do.  Only she would understand, in her selfless way.  And he, Mr. Control Freak himself, would obey her!

No answer, still.  He was confused, anxious.  Where was she?  As he slipped past their tiny bedroom, Ricky glanced in at Sam.  On her back, she was now, still out cold.  Nude. He hadn’t noticed before.  Something about her body was different.  He crept closer.  The huge bruise under her left breast matched the one by her eye.  Not his doing.  All he’d done was slap her cheek.  The impact from the accident.  When she woke up, oh man, the pain she’d be in!

 Furious with himself, Ricky tried Mouse again.  Nearly slammed down the receiver this time.  How dare she?  Didn’t she know he was worried sick?  Was she playing hard-to-get, so he’d leave Sam?  Suddenly, in his mind, he saw Mouse the way Sam would: a helpless Plain Jane, not in Sam’s league.  Somebody you’d kick aside, or wipe your shoes on.  Muddy, bloody shoes.

In the back of his mind was a thought so abominable, he instantly forgot it.  Or thought he did.  Keeping his mind blank, he got to work.  Bucket, big sponge, detergent.  Dish, or laundry? He’d use both.  As the water rushed into the bucket, he found himself whistling cheerfully, like some lunatic.  Sudsy water spilled, as he passed the bedroom.  Fuck you, he told the phone. 

Enabler!  The word disgusted him.  Haunted him, as he hurried outside.  As he splashed water on the Camaro, a worse word described him: accomplice.  Quickly, he soaped up the hood.  His heart raced like it used to, when he’d first started jogging.  After he finished the big clean-up, he’d go for a run.  Or…something.  Oh, God, he thought, he would kill for a drink.

Mouse, he thought wildly.  Save me!

The fenders, next.  So much blood, pink suds ran over his hands.  Gloves, he realized.  He should’ve worn rubber gloves.  Too late, now.  He and his wife were partners in crime.  Sorry, Mouse.  Should’ve answered the phone!  Ricky wrung out the sponge, tightly, like he was wringing her little neck.  Now she’d lost him for good!  Well, she knew he was married, didn’t she?  Dopey little four-eyed fuck!  Wearily he soaped up the sponge again, then bent to scrub the grill.

They were there, all twisted, imbedded in the grill.  No lenses, just the frames.  Those geeky wire ones, like he wore as a kid.  Puke filled his throat. 

Inside, the phone rang.  But Ricky never heard it.  On his knees, he and “Yellow Mama” shared the kiss of death.

~~~~~

“Yellow Mama.” Collected in Angel of Manslaughter by Cindy Rosmus.  Copyright 2006 © Fossil Publications. First appeared in Hardboiled, # 32, November 2004.

HOLIDAY CHEER

by

Cindy Rosmus

“Shoplifting time?” their boss Alex had said as Elena and Dulce left the office.  He was overflowing with sarcasm these days.  Just that morning, he’d told them, “The only Christmas gifts you’re getting . . .” He snickered. “Is still having jobs for New Year’s.”

Last week, while the girls were trimming the office tree, Alex made fun of the ornaments.  Even  adjusted his glasses, so he could see them better. “Get you a speculum from my brother, the ‘g-y-n,’ ” he’d joked. Dulce was horrified. “Scrooge!” Elena said. 

Their friend Ceil, who worked in the sales office across the hall, asked Alex who’d clawed his face. “Was it you?” she demanded of each of the cat snapshots on Alex’s bulletin board. He’d stormed out when Ceil had picked up the new framed photo of his wife.

Elena remembered when they’d all been friends.  Ceil had spent her free time in their office; now she hardly ever stopped by.  Just a month ago, Alex had taken Ceil out to lunch for her birthday. Now they only spoke when they had something nasty to say to each other.

If only Alex had changed, Elena would’ve asked Ceil what had happened. But Ceil seemed to have forgotten she’d ever been Elena and Dulce’s friend.  So far she hadn’t asked either what she wanted for Christmas, or even exchanged Christmas cards with them.  Most of all, she’d stopped confiding in them.  So neither asked Ceil to come shopping with them this Friday night.

At four-thirty it started to snow, and as they walked to the train, Elena imagined a lunatic above them shredding paper dolls.  She didn’t mention this to Dulce. “You sick bitch,” Dulce would’ve said.

People thought they were sisters, though they looked little alike, and came from different parts of the world.  Dulce was a twenty-one-year-old, baby-faced Filipino with very generous parents.  A real go-getter.  She wouldn’t be at Fillimon Publications for long. Someday she’d be an accountant for some rich guy.

Elena was Dominican, twenty-three, but took life as seriously as a woman twice her age.  Someday she’d be a therapist.  Weeknights she went to school, working toward that dream.  She had lustrous black hair and small, intense features.

She’d had a rough week.  Besides feeling uneasy at work, she was miserable at home.  Her parents fought constantly, and two days ago, her brother Carlos had been thrown out of the house after their mother found a gram of coke in his jeans pocket. 

Elena wished she had a boyfriend who didn’t live in Santo Domingo, or at least one who loved her enough to make it to the states for Christmas.

Rush hour in the City was worse for the holiday shoppers. What’ll it be like on Christmas Eve? Elena wondered, as they hurried along.  On the streets, homeless people were scattered like stubborn roaches.  As the girls passed, an old lady with blue eyes as bright as the Caribbean grabbed Dulce’s sleeve and asked where she’d bought her leather coat.  Elena felt sorry for a one-armed panhandler but ran out of change to give the blind, legless, and one-guzzling ones she saw next.

“What’re you getting your mother?” Dulce asked half an hour later at Century 21.

“Nothing she’ll like, I’m sure.” Elena smirked at the price tag on a silk blouse. “I wish I could send them both to Santo Domingo.”

Dulce smiled. “Wouldn’t Tito rather see you?”

“The joke would be on him.”

They stopped last outside a boutique with windows displaying the most bizarre fashions they’d ever seen in shades ranging from mustard yellow to midnight blue.

“My God, look at that!” Dulce said.

It was a micro-minidress that looked more like an oversized clutch.  That and the mannequin’s fishnet hose were an identical Granny Smith apple-green.  The  stiletto pumps were exactly the kind Ceil would wear.

“I miss Ceil,” Elena said.

“You, too?”

The green outfit sure was made for Ceil, but not the mysterious grouch she’d become, nor even the friend who’d once slapped Elena out of hysterics when a co-worker had committed suicide.  This was the Ceil she’d been during the summer who’d changed so drastically with her thirtieth birthday.

One day in July, Ceil had come to work wearing an outfit Elena would only have worn out to a club.  “Puta Pants,” she’d called Ceil, and the three girls laughed.  “I’m going out later,” Ceil had explained, and they’d dropped the subject.  But then the next day, Ceil had worn a tight skirt and revealing tee shirt.  For the rest of the summer each day’s outfit surpassed the one before.

Suddenly Ceil was the “Mystery Woman” of Fillimon Publications.  One day Alex himself had asked Ceil where she was going after work.  “Follow me,” she’d said smoothly, “and find out.”

“You think they’re having an affair?” Elena asked Dulce, as they walked to their train.

“She would’ve told us.”

“Not if they didn’t want us to know.”

“But Alex loves his wife.”

Smiling, Elena watched a bum spit down the subway pit, just missing some guy’s head.  “Think so?”

The first time Alex had taken Ceil to lunch, he’d casually asked the girls not to mention it to his wife.   “Lana’s paranoid,” he’d said, attempting a laugh. On his desk were many photos of his wife, and she sure didn’t look paranoid to Elena. 

All Lana’s pictures were taken in windy places.  Olive-skinned, with her cranberry hair blown to either side, she was ecstatically beautiful.  “Besides,” Alex had told Elena, “I only like redheads.” One look had told Elena his wife hadn’t been a redhead for long.

Still, Alex rarely mentioned his wife.  When they talked on the phone at work, his voice was pitched so high, he could’ve been yessing his overbearing Jewish mama.  Only when Ceil was perched on his desk, re-tying his Geoffrey Beane ties or admiring the latest photos of his cats, did he try to sound blissfully-married.  Elena recalled his eyes never left Ceil’s face.

Looks like that had always unnerved Elena.

“If they are,” Elena told Dulce, “It’s none of our business.”

Their train was delayed indefinitely due to the heavy snow.  “How ‘bout a Christmas drink?” Dulce said.

Elena wasn’t much of a drinker. “Well,” she said reluctantly. “Let me call my mother.”

But the lines for the phones were so long, they headed straight for the commuter bar. “Besides,” Dulce chided her, “How long does it take to drink one ‘Shirley Temple’?”

Though every table was taken, they arrived just in time to apprehend two seats at the bar.  Elena ordered a white wine, and Dulce had her usual Kir.  Dulce attacked the free hors d’hoeurves.

The place was a cross between a cheesy cocktail lounge and a friendly corner tavern.  A huge Christmas tree was covered with tasteless ornaments and noticeably defective lights. Over the bar was a moose head sporting a Santa Claus cap and from whose antlers hung a string of little plastic Santas.   

Though the waiters and waitresses wore tux-like uniforms, the handsome blond bartender had on tight jeans and a green tee with nine drunken reindeer scattered across his muscular chest.

As she picked at the little chicken wings and barbecued ribs, Elena looked around the crowded room.  In between impatient executives and jolly shoppers who didn’t mind being stranded, apprehensive-looking couples stuck out.  Elena suspected most were married—but not to each other.

The wine made her even more depressed.  No doubt Tito had a girl or two in Santo Domingo.  Elena’s brother Carlos had hurt more than enough this year—one named Marianela had called up crying six times on Thanksgiving.  Their father had finally told the girl to “¡ Vete al carajo!”

“What’s wrong?” Dulce asked.

“Nothing.” Elena wiped barbecue sauce off her fingers.  “You think Jonas cheats on you?”

“Better now than after we’re married. If I can stand him that long.”

“See that guy in the navy suit? With the woman in gray?”

“What about him?”

Elena looked away. “He just winked at me. You don’t think she’s his wife, do you?”

Dulce signaled the bartender.  “Of course not!  She’s wearing too much makeup.”

“Nothing for me,” Elena murmured.  “One’s enough.”

“Feliz Navidad, you little sissy.”  And Dulce ordered two more, anyway.

The bartender brought Elena a Kir instead of plain white wine, but she decided to try it.  The first sip was intriguing, the second and third went straight to her head.  As she stirred the drink, strange impressions of it raced through her mind.  Crème de Cassis made her feel she was eating a jelly donut while drinking white wine.  And the color—a lurid pink—made her think of strained blood, or diluted passion.  She wondered if the Lunatic-in-the-Sky was still shredding paper dolls.

Then, from across the bar, came a crash.  A red-faced, very drunk businessman was holding the bottom half of what had been a martini glass.  “Fuckin’ thing broke right in my hand,” he explained to the nervous young man next to him.

“All right, Tom, you’ve had enough,” the bartender said.

“But it wasn’t my . . . “

As the bartender brushed away broken glass and replaced several customers’ drinks, Elena took another look at the young man next to Tom. He faced somebody blocked from Elena’s view by the bartender’s broad back, but whose red-nailed hand clutched the young man’s tie.  Without turning around, he nodded as Tom said, “So long, pal.  I’m getting’ the fuck out of here!”

There was something familiar about the young man that Elena couldn’t quite place. He might’ve been an ex-boyfriend or cousin.  He looked Latino, but not really, like he was merely playing the part, with dark hair and mustache and olive skin, but his eyes seemed too closely-set and small, almost shrunken from their original size.  He looked as uncomfortable in his white shirt and maroon tie as if he’d just been fired from a brand-new job.

When he put his glasses on to check his watch, Elena gasped.  As the bartender bent down, both girls saw Ceil untie Alex’s tie.  When they kissed, both girls looked away, but not at each other.

“Aw . . .shit,” Dulce whispered.

Reluctantly, Elena’s eyes returned to the couple.  Now that Alex faced front, she could even see the scratch-marks on his cheek.  What a difference a pair of glasses made!  The wine made Elena imagine a potential mother-in-law’s appraisal of him: He’s no Englebert Humperdinck, but he’ll make you a good husband.”

Ceil, on the other hand, looked totally unlike herself.  Above her black leather skirt and red angora sweater, her dark eyes were as somber as the dead Christmas tree lights. Against her skin, her hair was almost black and managed to curl, as if she’d gotten it wet or been sweating profusely.  Most of her lipstick had come off on Alex’s face, and what remained on and below her lips made her look like a child who’d been playing dress-up.  As if she’d read Elena’s mind, Ceil wiped her mouth and chin with a cocktail napkin, then did the same to Alex.

“They’re going to see us,” Dulce said, in a mournful tone.

But Alex and Ceil seemed oblivious to them.  Ceil seemed to have drunk quite a lot, while Alex appeared only mildly tipsy.  Elena recalled that at office celebrations, Alex never drank more than a small paper cup of champagne or wine.  Now he was finishing a Beck’s but looked like he needed something stronger.  Ceil herself was drinking something Elena could nearly smell across the bar.

Still clutching her drink, Ceil suddenly seized Alex and pulled him to her again.  It was the strangest kiss Elena ever saw.  Each seemed to be holding the other’s hand down and out of the way, as if a blow were feared. It finally ended with Alex mumbling something that caused Ceil to nod—without smiling, or even looking into his eyes—before downing her drink.

“Let’s get out of here,” Elena whispered to Dulce.

Eyes on the couple, the girls gathered up their belongings and began to squeeze through the crowd.

“Goodnight, girls!” the bartender said too loudly.

“Don’t go!  We need some holiday cheer!” yelled an executive drunk in a huge designer suit.

“We’ll buy you dinner,” said his friend. “Hey, China Doll!”

“Aw, shit,” Dulce muttered.

Alex and Ceil looked up. One of them gasped, Elena wasn’t sure who. Then Alex smiled to hide his embarrassment, but looked down at his hands.  Ceil fished an ice cube out of her glass and popped it into her mouth.  Unsmiling, she beckoned the girls over as if she’d been expecting them.

“What’re you drinking?” Ceil asked them.  “Your boss wants to buy you a drink.”

Alex had taken off his glasses again and was now rubbing his face. His hands were as small as a young girl’s.  For the first time Elena noticed that his wedding ring was taped with band-aid tape.

“I’d rather have my Christmas bonus,” Dulce said boldly, and everyone laughed but Ceil.

“Isn’t he cute without his glasses?” Ceil said.

“What can I get for you ladies?” the bartender asked the girls. “Two more of the same?”

“Another round for us, too,” Ceil said.  “No ice in mine this time.”

“Ceil . . .” was all Alex said.

“Sit down,” Ceil offered, sliding unsteadily off her seat.

“We really have to go,” Elena said.

“Why? You can’t hate him as much as I do.”

“Sit down, Ceil,” Alex murmured, without looking at any of them.  Then he got up himself.

“We’ll stand,” Dulce said.

As they hung their coats on the seats, Elena remembered how the four of them had once spent fifteen minutes of company time shooting rubber bands at each other. It felt like years instead of six months ago.

Ceil accepted her fresh drink from the bartender with her first smile of the evening.  This drink contained no ice and was in a glass twice the size of the others. “Thank you,” Ceil said.  “I don’t want you to think . . . I mean, I don’t drink like this all the time.”

“I don’t care if you do.” Eyes on her face, the bartender kissed her hand.  “Merry Christmas,” he said only to her, dismissing Alex as if his seat were empty.

“I didn’t know you drank beer,” Dulce said to Alex.

“Usually I drink ‘New Amsterdam,’ ” Alex said, “But they don’t serve it here.”

“You see,” Ceil said too loudly, “He’s convinced that ‘New Amsterdam’ is the kind of beer Dylan Thomas would be drinking if he were still alive.  Your boss feels that if Dylan Thomas were still alive, the two of them would be hobnobbing with the rest of the twentieth-century intellectual elite, or . . .” she went on with a cruel smile, “Just hanging out alone together drinking cases of the stuff and sneaking lines in men’s rooms.”

For a moment Elena thought Alex was going to slap Ceil.  What he did was stranger.  Grabbing Ceil’s hand, he squeezed it till she let go of the drink. Then he placed her hand on his face, the length of her nails making his hand seem even smaller.  Ceil worked one finger into her mouth.  The look they shared turned Elena’s stomach.

“I’d . . . appreciate it if you girls keep this to yourselves,” Alex said quietly, tying his tie.

“We’ll be glad to,” Dulce said, for both of them.

Ceil’s next smile actually scared Elena.  “He means his wife, poor, sainted thing.  Loves him just too much for sanity.  Do you know she sleeps with her leg crossed over his so he can’t escape in the middle of the night?”

Alex choked on his beer.  “You bitch.”

Ceil took a ladylike sip of her own drink.  “Even changed her religion to marry him.  Sold her soul to a man who makes her trim his hair so he can afford a manicure.  And look at the mess she made. . . .”

“You made a worse mess,” Alex said before he could stop himself, “With your nails.”

Ceil’s hand returned to Alex’s cheek.  Smiling again, she followed the fading scratches with the tips of her nails.  “I’m sorry.”

Elena put down her drink.  She couldn’t take anymore.  Dulce had stopped drinking as well. 

“Alex is giving me up for Christmas,” Ceil announced without releasing his face.  “It’s his present to her.”  Her hand fell to his tie-clip.  Tracing the gold “A,” she whispered, “That’s how much he loves her.” Then she turned to her two friends, her eyes filled with tears.  “And I thought he loved me.”

Alex eased his tie out of Ceil’s grasp and got up.  “I have to call home,” he said on his way out.

“Don’t cry, Ceil,” Dulce said, sliding into Alex’s seat.

“Did he tell you he loved you?” Elena asked.

“And what if he did?” Ceil laughed, suddenly.  “Would that change anything?”

Elena followed Ceil’s wild eyes to the ornamented moose head.  “Lucky little bastards,” Ceil said, referring to the string of Santas.  “Hanging out up there away from it all.  Knowing all our secrets.  Do they know what you want for Christmas?”

“No,” Elena said. To her, the little Santas looked crazed.

“Ceil,” Dulce said, “Why did you let this happen?  How did it all start?”

“Forget it, Ceil,” Elena said gently, “It’s none of our business.”

Ceil and the bartender exchanged sad smiles.  “How many?” he asked, and she held up three fingers that the young man couldn’t resist matching with his own.  “Just three?” he said, removing the Beck’s.  She nodded.

“You can keep the change,” she said, when he’d brought the drinks.  “He won’t be back.”

“Oh, Ceil!” Elena said, but there was an unmistakable finality to the neatly-stacked bills, all facing in the same direction.

“I knew it when he checked his coat . . . and wouldn’t check mine . . .” Ceil pulled her coat out from under Dulce’s.  “Because it has a fur collar.”  She buried her face in the white fox fur.  “I knew hours ago.”

By now, most of the other customers had left, and Elena could see the hallway outside.  It seemed the trains were back on schedule.  She wondered what her mother was thinking had happened to her.

Just then she remembered Christmas Eve long ago at her grandmother’s house: her thrice-divorced Aunt Carmen wearing mistletoe in her black hair; her father’s sudden disappearance; her mother’s despair and eventual breakdown.  Elena had seen her father and aunt share looks—some stinging, some deliberately vacant, some that, to an eight-year-old girl, meant, “Some day we’ll commit the perfect murder.”

Elena had forgotten most of her favorite dolls and even the eyeless, shaggy, once-blue bear she’d slept with every night for years, but never the intensity of those looks.  Tito had never looked at her that way, and she would be willing to bet her job that Alex—with or without glasses and his band-aid-taped wedding ring—never wasted any on his windblown wife.

“What a cheap gift,” Elena whispered.