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christinepanas · 1 year

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Chasms

A short fiction story

Fridays often meant potluck dinner at 755 Bent Tree Lane. But our host, Rebecca Marlow, aka Jett, had changed things up a bit, as she sometimes did. That meant a theme, probably a French theme, or maybe something from the wilds of New Iberia or the French Quarter.

As we assembled around the Milo Baughman dining table, I felt a kind of shift in our little corner of the universe. It was as if the floor had moved and unsteadied us. And I sensed that this dinner was going to be unlike any other Friday night gathering.

There were a few caveats when dining at Jett’s. The comments had to be positive. Only Jett herself could offer up a negative critique. If she pointed something out, it was okay to agree. But any other criticism was a slippery slope. Offense was easy, forgiveness rare.

But the worst blunder a guest could make when dining at Jett’s was to show no interest at all. Jett never forgot such slights. As I took my seat, I thought of Max. He had been permanently disinvited from Jett’s dinner parties after he commented that something was “okay.” Of course, he had no idea that he had been permanently disinvited because Jett never said a word (not to him, anyway). That was Jett. Always simmering about something. The whole county was peppered with people who had crossed some invisible line, never to be invited again.

Despite Jett’s grudge holding and silent wrath, we always looked forward to dinner at her place. The food was usually great and the conversation lively. But the most interesting thing about being invited to Jett’s was how she curated the dinner guests.

She preferred a higher ratio of females to male, an odd strategy that seemed to work for her. There was often a new female present who was unaware that she was undergoing a silent initiation. The male guests were often men with whom Jett had at some point bedded down, or thought she might. She liked possibilities to be part of the evening. That night, we were six females and one male.

“Wait a sec,” Jett said before we took our seats. She had a specific seating arrangement in mind for that night. She was at the head of the table, and I was directly across from her. Sophie, the most fashionable, was to my right and Zoe, the most talkative, was to my left. Faith, a plump, late middle-aged friend of Zoe, was seated next to Sophie. She had the most beautiful skin and hair. Beatrice, who was six feet tall and red-headed, was seated next to Zoe, who was barely five feet tall. Our male dinner guest had been squeezed in at the end of the table, between Jett and Faith.

I had never seen a man like him seated at Jett’s table. Jett preferred to invite males of the down and out type, poets and artists and musicians and bad boys tied down by nothing in particular. Sometimes, she went for well worn, gruff guys who rode Harleys and blared vintage rock and roll. Men with leather jackets and appetites in need of satiation. Men with difficult to escape personal aromas. But this new guest was different. He was youthful and handsome, well groomed, his clothes high-end but subtle. Manicured hands. He drove a Maserati.

He told us that he was a tech entrepreneur, which was the sort of vocation that Jett often railed against. But he played guitar, his hair was a bit long, and he could sing. And his name was Baird.

“Baird?” Sophie asked. “Why does that sound familiar?”

He explained to us that Baird was a variation of Bard and that his parents, when they were in college, were part of a Shakespearean theater troupe.

I could tell by the furtive darts of her eyes that Jett was overcome with a lust juicier than a peak peach. Faith and Zoe were also captivated. The difference was that Jett said nothing as she filled his plate with her deliciousness, while they peppered him with compliments and innuendos until the conversation drifted elsewhere.

“And here we are,” Jett said as she dished up plates and passed them around the table. Sophie, Beatrice, Zoe, and I all offered the appropriate compliments as we admired the clams stewed with mussels and scallops and bits of ham. The newbies, Faith and Baird, followed our lead. And then we complimented the beautiful salad and the roasted asparagus and the red wine and the white wine and the basket of artisanal breads.

“This is lovely, Jett,” Faith said. “Thank you so much for inviting me. This is really a treat.”

“Delicious,” said Zoe. “Perfectly prepared.

Jett was all smiles as her eyes darted from plate to plate, and then to Baird and back around again.

“Yes, this is quite lovely,” Baird said.

“Thank you,” Jett replied as her eyes lingered on Baird’s mouth.

“I really love this salad dressing,” Sophie said. “Delicious.”

The conversation around the table ebbed and flowed as we broke out into side conversations and the occasional cross-table story telling. Sophie, who had seemed distracted all evening, asked Baird about the Maserati, telling him how she had learned how to drive race cars. She asked him a few automotive questions, and then retreated into her thoughts.

Beatrice and I were discussing some literary reviews and speculating about how Hollywood would once again ruin this or that story or novella.

“Options,” she said to me, “are manna from heaven for the writer, I get it. But honestly, for the reader, the real reader, the fan, it will give you nightmares.”

Sophie looked up and said, “I wish I had time to read for fun. I used to do that. But this new project is so intense. It’s one of the most challenging projects I’ve worked on.”

“What is the project?” Baird asked.

“Typical Dubai bullshit. It’s a luxury boutique buildout in a mall decorated with vending machines that sell gold. The atrium is pretty amazing, though. The architecture overall is amazing. But it’s just nothing but shopping. And eating. Nothing cultural. And outside, it’s scorching desert.”

“This is so delicious,” Zoe said to Jett as she dipped her bread in the clam sauce. “Really, really, delicious.”

“Something I picked up in Spain,” Jett replied.

“I didn’t know you were in Spain. When were you in Spain?” Beatrice asked as she examined a clam.

“I lived there one summer, between undergrad and grad school,” Jett replied.

“Spanish food is fascinating,” Zoe said. “I really loved the Basque country. It’s so different from Castilla.”

From there, the conversation around the table moved from country to country and cuisine to cuisine, and all the while, Jett’s eyes roamed the dinner guests, landing on Baird, then darting away, then returning, over and over again.

Throughout dinner, Baird was a gentleman, never talking over others, not bragging about his exploits, not favoring one dinner guest over another. He told us about growing up around poets and writers, about living abroad as a child, about taking flying lessons in Europe. He could have bragged and preened. But his stories were organic and moved along in ways that were entertaining yet understated.

Beatrice was the master of pulling stories out of people, and the two of them shared a few common travel stories about visits to strange Balkan villages.

Pleasant. Everything was pleasant. And so it went until we had all eaten our fill and were leaning back in our chairs.

“Can I get anyone anything else?” Jett asked.

“I’d like some water,” Sophie said. “I’ll go get it, Jett. You don’t have to.”

“No,” Jett said. “No worries. I’ll bring out the pitcher and some glasses.”

Baird then began regaling us with a story about almost getting kidnapped in Kazakhstan. None of us had ever been to central Asia, and we all sat there, smiling and hanging on his words as Jett stood up and started to clear the dishes. I offered to help but she shrugged me off as she pretended not to be listening to Baird.

Something told me to follow her into the kitchen, and to bring the remaining plates with me.

She was silent as she scraped the food debris from the plates in long, slow motions. Then she looked at me and said, “Baird is a little too bougie for me. He’s hot. But bougie just isn’t sexy.”

The comment took me by surprise, but I knew what she meant. He wasn’t someone used to living rough. He wasn’t someone who could go a day without washing and moisturizing. His aroma was cologne rather than sweat and hormones. He just wasn’t one of the bad boys that often found their way to the space between her legs.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Definitely not your type.”

“Sophie practically asked him to fuck her,” Jett said as she started to fill the water pitcher with tap water.

The remark shocked me. First, it was crude and mean spirited for no apparent reason. It was more than Jett’s normal jibe. It was so strange and brutal because Sophie was her closest friend. And it was a lie. Sophie had barely paid attention to Baird once the food had been served.

“I don’t think she did,” I said. “Did I miss something?”

Jett’s eyes trained on me as she turned her whole body in a strange contortion.

“Trust me,” she said. “You don’t know her like I do. All luxury brands and no soul. It’s like everything she does is curated by magazines. High end. It’s dull. Soulless. I’d rather shop in a thrift store. Not that she doesn’t have a soul. But you know what I mean.”

I really did not understand the remark. And I had always thought that they were close friends. At least that was the impression they both gave. We were all friends, but they always seemed to have a closer rapport than the rest of us.

When we returned to the dining room, Baird was excusing himself for a bathroom visit. I admit that when he stood up, I looked him up and down. He was sexy, regardless of his fashion price point. And he was genuine. And despite what Jett had told me in the kitchen, it was clear to me that she was attracted to him. Very.

I watched Baird walk away before I sat back down, then glanced at Jett as she pushed the water pitcher towards Sophie. Her lips were pulled into a tight, narrow smile, her fingers tapping at the table.

A few moments later, one of Jett’s neighbors, Clair the Adorable, threw open the patio doors and shouted, “Sophie! I saw your car in the drive and I had to see you!” She greeted all of us as she rushed breathless into the dining room, holding a red gown in her hand, shaking it as she stepped inside. “I have something for you.”

“Hey, Clair,” Jett said as she leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Well, hello, Clair,” Beatrice said. “Where’s Bill?”

Clair laughed. “I still love that song, Beatrice. He’s actually sitting outside in the car, talking on the phone.”

“Sit down and join us,” Jett said. “Ask Bill to come in. Plenty of food. I can bring you plates.”

“Oh, no,” Clair said. “We can’t stay. We’re headed up to the Gruber’s for dinner.”

Baird returned to the dining room and saw Clair standing behind his chair, red dress still in hand.

“Hello,” Baird said.

“Oh, hello,” Clair returned. Giving Baird a big smile. “And who is this refreshing glass of sweet tea?”

There were a few seconds of awkwardness before Jett made the formal introductions, introducing Baird as a “tech mogul” and feigning surprise that Clair had never met Faith before.

“You two have never met?” Jett said. “I’m sure you have.”

“I’d remember that head of hair,” Clair said as she winked at Faith.

After a few more comments about Baird’s pulchritude and Faith’s gorgeous hair, Clair returned her focus to Sophie.

“Here, Sophie, I want you to try this on,” Clair said as she let the gown fall to its full length. Clair was one of those thrift store addicts who would sometimes show up with something that she thought was a must have for someone else. We almost never wanted whatever it was she had brought us. Who needs a taxidermy owl? But this dress was quite beautiful - a strappy, beaded, delicate little dress cut on the bias and with a double layered asymmetric hemline.

“If it doesn’t fit, I’m gonna take it for my niece to try on,” Clair said. “Now, here, run go try it on.”

Sophie attempted a polite refusal. “No, thanks. It’s sweet of you to think of me. But, no thanks.

“You have the perfect body,” Clair insisted. “And with your caramel skin tone, and hair, I mean, it’s just so beautiful, the dress, and you are always stunning. I don’t know anyone else who could fit in it, never mind make it look like a million bucks.”

Clair was not wrong. Sophie was always stunning and well put together, and yes, none of the rest of us could possibly have squeezed our spreading, middle-aged selves into that frock. But Sophie was not pleased to be made the center of attention.

“No, no,” Sophie said, her discomfort now visible to all. “I really don’t want to.”

But Clair continued to press until Sophie gave in and dragged herself out of the dining room, following Clair to a nearby bedroom.

While they were out of the room, Jett took the opportunity to move the conversation in a direction more favorable to her. But not before a few backhanded compliments aimed at Sophie, the second of which was, “Sophie won’t wear anything that doesn’t have luxury branding, so she probably won’t like that dress, no matter how good it might look.”

Zoe kicked me under the table and then tapped at her glass.

“So,” Jett said, leaning towards Baird,” do you play acoustic or electric guitar?”

“Both,” Baird replied. “Of course, it’s always fun to get the Stratocaster out and make a lot of noise, but sometimes, actually a lot of the time, I kinda dig the quiet contemplation of the acoustic guitar. I’ve been working on some Paco de Lucia pieces lately.”

Jett let her eyes linger on Baird while he spoke and allowed herself a slight smile. I knew this look. She was always economical with shows of emotion or interest, especially when there were males in the room. But for anyone who didn’t really know her, she often came across as disinterested. The feigned disinterest was just a part of her game, a game that no one else seemed to know they were playing.

“Do you play an instrument?” he asked.

“Some guitar, actually,” Jett replied, “but also piano and cello.”

“Oh, sounds like you play the classical canon” Baird said.

Jett shifted in her chair as a small curl of disagreement formed in the left corner of her mouth.

“Well, I was trained classically,” Jett said, “but I play more folk and bluesy stuff, and some punk.”

Baird was about to say something when Clair again burst into the room, dragging Sophie along by the hand.

“Oh my god,” Clair exclaimed as she pushed Sophie and her reluctance onto center stage.

“This dress,” Clair said as she admired Sophie, “this dress. This is so, so perfect. Doesn’t she look great? No, she looks phenomenal. I knew this dress would look great on you.”

Sophie was not smiling. She looked uneasy and apologized to us for the dinner interrupted.

“Sorry guys,” Sophie said. “I wasn’t planning on being turned into a life size Barbie doll tonight.”

“You do look great, Sophie,” Beatrice said. “Like a beautiful lollipop.”

“Lollipop?” Sophie asked. “I look like a lollipop? I don’t even know how to process that.”

Zoe and I giggled but agreed that Sophie did look stunning.

“What’s wrong with a lollipop?” Beatrice asked as she opened another bottle of wine. “Who doesn’t like a lollipop?”

We all giggled a little, except for Jett, whose eyes had gone dark and her mouth tight.

I could tell that Baird was captivated by the sight of Sophie in the dress. He hadn’t said a word, nor weighed in on the lollipop controversy. But his face was now one big, unrelenting smile. I swear his perfect teeth sparkled in the candlelight. And I could see that Jett saw this, too.

“Wow, just, wow,” Clair said.

Jett got up from the table and went into the kitchen, leaving the rest of us to watch Sophie grow more and more uncomfortable with being the center of attention.

“I’m taking this thing off,” Sophie said.

“That dress really does look good on you,” Beatrice said to Sophie. “It really does.”

“Leave it on,” Zoe said.

“It just looks so damn good,” Clair said. “I knew it would.”

“What do you think, Sophie?” I asked.

Sophie smiled and looked down at the floor. “I just really want to take it off.”

“Leave it!” Clair said. “I have to go. See you later. Maybe Sunday? We’re having a croquet afternoon, if anyone is interested.”

“No,” Sophie said. “Wait. I want to take this off. I don’t want it.”

“I love it,” Zoe said, “I’d take it but that must be a size two, and this size six won’t be able to zip it up.”

“Gotta go, guys,” Clair said as she headed for the door. “Enjoy the dress.”

“But, wait,” Sophie said as Clair winked at her.

“Bye, everyone!” Clair said as she disappeared into the night.

The room fell silent as Sophie stood there in the sparkling dress, shoeless and annoyed. She rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders and then sat back down in her chair.

Jett returned to the dining room carrying a tray filled with bowls of fruit and ice cream, which she placed near the center of the table.

“Didn’t Clair say that she was headed to the Grubers for dinner?” Jett said. “They must eat late.”

“I don’t know,” Faith said. “I don’t know them.”

“I’ve never been invited to the Grubers,” Zoe said. “Not that I’ve fished for an invitation. Don’t even know if I’d go. They’re lobbyists. Aren’t they?”

“I’m gonna go change,” Sophie said as she pushed her chair away from the table. “I don’t want to be in this dress another minute.”

“No, don’t!” Faith said. “You look too adorable. And really, when do any of us get a chance to dress up?”

Jett frowned. “Is it not high end enough for you?” she asked with a smirk. “Fabric too scratchy?”

Sophie’s eyes locked onto Jett’s with a brief flash of anger. “It’s fine. It’s a fine dress. I just want to be in my own clothes,” Sophie said.

“Then go change,” Baird said. “No one will blame you.”

“I might,” Beatrice said. “If I looked that good in that dress, I’d never take it off.”

“Grrrr,” Sophie growled as she left the room. “I’m taking this thing off.”

The rest of us sat in silence, focused now on the bowls of ice cream and fruit.

“Well, that was awkward,” Jett said. “Like we all wanted a fashion parade.”

“C’mon, Jett,” Zoe said. “Clair always means well. She was just excited. She gets like that. Remember when she bought me that hat?”

“Oh,” said Beatrice, “she gave me this necklace. Remember? Maybe none of you were there. She just showed up one day and gave it to me. I really love it.”

“She seems like a fun person,” Baird said.

Jett began pulling at her hair, something she did when things were not going her way. She had leaned away from Baird, but her eyes continued their furtive darts. She glanced at me. I shrugged my shoulders.

“Clair can be nice,” Jett said. “But she can also be a little too pushy.”

No one said anything until Sophie returned in her own clothes and took her seat. There was just the clanking of spoons as we all picked at the fruit now starting to swim in the ice cream.

“What did I miss?” Sophie asked. “You all look kind of … glum.”

“Just the annoyance of you and Clair playing dress up,” Jett said as she poured herself a glass of wine.

“What?” Sophie said. “Playing dress up? I didn’t want to put that thing on.”

“You could have said no,” Jett retorted, leaning back in her chair and glaring at Sophie from the top of her wine glass.

“Were we not at the same dinner party?” Sophie said. “I did say no. About ten times. But no. Clair doesn’t take the word ‘no’ seriously. And you guys! Calling me a lollipop.”

Jett continued to glare, cradling her wine glass in both hands and holding it close to her face.

“Sorry,” Beatrice said. “It was fun for the rest of us, though.”

“Not for me,” Jett said as she stood up and retreated into the kitchen.

We fell silent, glancing at one another and shrugging our shoulders.

“I’m gonna take these dishes to the kitchen and help clean up,” Faith said.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” Zoe said. And the two of them got up and started to clear the table.

“Well I don’t know about the rest of you,” Beatrice said as she took a sip of wine, “but I had a marvelous time tonight.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Baird said. “I’m glad to have met you all.”

“I hope we get to see you again,” Beatrice said. “I hope this little dinner party didn’t create any chasms.”

Baird smiled and shook his head. “On the contrary,” he replied. “I’d like to invite you to a party I’m having at my retreat.”

“Where’s you retreat?” I asked.

“Near Dunraven. It’s a party celebrating some local artists and writers.”

“What kind of retreat is it?” Beatrice asked. “Like a yoga thing?”

He smiled. “No, it’s more like an escape for people who want to focus on something. No themes. Nothing regimented. I designed it to increase creative potential. At least that was my plan.”

“I’d love to see it,” Sophie said.

“Then you guys have to come to the party,” he said. “Here’s my card. It’s easy to find. I know a lot of people say that, but in this case, it really is easy to find. And don’t forget. The party is two weeks from tonight.”

“Beautiful card,” I said. “Simple. Yet not antiseptic.”

“Oh, you have a website. Of course you do. You’re in tech. I will definitely take a look,” Beatrice said.

“So very kind of you,” Sophie said. “I plan to be there. What time?”

“Seven,” he said.

Jett and Faith and Zoe then returned to the dining room and took their seats, Jett still smoldering. Zoe kicked me under the table again and when I looked at her, she gave me that ‘we need to talk’ look.

As we all thanked Jett for her hospitality and made our goodbyes, I sensed the proximate chasm that soon we would all have to navigate. Sophie would be disinvited, although she would not know it. Jett would force the rest of us to choose between her and Sophie. Baird would never be spoken about again.

Before departing, Baird thanked Jett and then offered her his hand, which she took and firmly shook as she gave him a cold smile. His parting word was “evening.”

Outside, under a half-moon, Beatrice and I climbed into my Jeep.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she said. “That was a new kind of blow up. I mean, really? Why did she go after Sophie like that?”

I shook my head, but I knew exactly why. Sooner or later, we would all, one by one, cross some invisible line and be ostracized. It was just a matter of time.

#short story #fiction

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