Green Eyes

  Balancing the punch, slipping between couples, Jocundra threaded her way toward Donnell. He was sitting across the room from the punch bowl, scowling; he had gotten some tan lately, his hollows were filling in, but his social attitudes had not changed much. He had rejected every advance so far, and no one was bothering to talk to him anymore. Jocundra was beginning to feel like the loser in a garden show, watching the crowd encircle the winners, sitting alone with her dispirited, green-eyed plant.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said, handing him the punch. ‘Where have I been?’

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ He sipped the punch. ‘God, this is awful! Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘We have to stay until Edman comes. He should be here soon.’ A lie. Edman was monitoring the video, overseeing the big picture.

  Marilyn Ramsburgh’s therapist signalled to Jocundra, and she signalled him back No. Donnell was not ready for Ramsburgh. She was, as far as Jocundra was concerned, the most physically alarming of the patients. Frail, white hair so thin you could see the veined scalp beneath, hunched in her chair, hands enwebbed with yarn, her pupils shrunk to almost nothing. She was due to be ‘discharged’ soon, taken back to Tulane for ‘a few final tests,’ and lately she had been chirping about hugging her grandchildren again, promising to write everyone, and had presented Edman with a beautiful hand-woven coverlet worked into a design of knights battling in a forest illuminated by violet will o’ the wisps: a token of her gratitude.

  Squabbling noises on the patio, a woman’s squeal, and Richmond came into view, swinging his cane to clear a path; his therapist, Audrey, trailed behind him. He limped along the refreshment table, picked up a sandwich, had a bite, and tossed the remainder on the floor; he dipped a ladleful of punch, slurped, and spewed it back into the bowl. ‘Fuckin’ fruit juice! Jesus!’ Punch dribbled off his chin onto a torn T-shirt emblazoned with a crudely painted swastika and letters spelling out Hellhounds MC. Greasy strands of hair fell down over his eyes, and he glared between them at the crowd like a drunken Indian.

  The crowd retreated from the refreshment table, from Richmond, but three men and an overweight girl in a yellow sun dress bravely held their positions. Noticing them, Richmond hooked his cane over an arm, limped forward and grabbed the girl’s breast, slipping his free arm around her waist and pulling her close. She shrieked and lifted her hand to slap him.

  ‘Go ahead, bitch,’ said Richmond, nonchalant. ‘Lessee what you got.’

  The girl’s mouth puckered, opened and shut, and she let her hand fall. Richmond cupped her breast at different angles, squeezing it cruelly. ‘Damn, mama!’ he said. ‘I bet you give Grade A.’

  ‘Let her go, Jack.’ Audrey tried to pull his hand loose, but he shook her off. ‘C’mon back to the room.’

  ‘Cool. How ‘bout all three of us go and we play a little ring-around-the-rosy?’ He tightened his hold on the girl’s waist and flicked her nipple with his thumb. Her eyelids lowered, her head drooped to one side, as if she were experiencing a sweet wave of passion.

  One of the men, a skinny guy in a madras jacket, did a shuffle forward and said, ‘Uh, Mr Richmond…’

  ‘Hey, little savage!’ said Richmond good-naturedly. ‘Guess you wonder what’s gonna happen to your squeeze.’

  The girl spun free. Richmond made no effort to hold her, but as she staggered back, he clawed at the top of her dress. He was too weak to rip the material, but his fingers hooked one of the straps, and in her struggle it came away in Richmond’s hand - a little yellow serpent. Her right breast bounded out, pale and pendulous, the imprint of his fingers already darkening to bruises. Richmond sniffed at the strap. ‘Warthog,’ he said, identifying the odor. The skinny guy covered the girl with his jacket, and she flung her arms around him, sobbing.

  Richmond grinned at the crowd, nodded; then he whirled about and brought his cane down on the punch bowl, shattering it. The punch gushed out, floating cookies off the trays, puddling in the paper plates. He swung again and again, snake-killing strokes, his hair flying, red droplets spraying from the tablecloth, until a sugary dust of pulverized glass lay around his feet. No one spoke. Jocundra could hear the punch dripping onto the carpet.

  ‘Why you citizens just stand there and let me fuck with your women?’ asked Richmond, hobbling away from the table. The crowd parted before him, reforming at the rear. ‘I mean this is the real world, ain’t it?’ He spotted Donnell and headed toward him. ‘Hey, sweets! You lookin’ gorgeous today. How come you think these chickenshits is lettin’ me crow?’

  Donnell gripped the arms of his wheelchair, but didn’t freeze up. ‘Keep your mouth off me, asshole,’ he said.

  ‘Hostility!’ Richmond was delighted. ‘Now I can relate to some hostility.’ He moved closer, tapping the crook of his cane on his palm.