The Party Down the Hall
Mary was in the front lobby of her building,
sliding the little key into her mailbox, when Kevan invited her to his party.
She balanced a new bag of cat litter on
her hip as she pulled out a handful of flyers. Somewhere to the right, she
heard Kevan flipping through his mail. He had a real envelope though, and he
turned it over and examined the front of it. Outside, a fresh gust of winter
wind whistled across the parking lot. The bare branches rustled on the trees.
“It’s getting nasty out there,” Kevan
said. “What are you doing tonight?”
Mary shrugged. “Taking it easy. I have
phone calls to make. I’ll probably make those.” Even as she said it, she felt
this was the right answer. Sure, she had nowhere to be, but she’d stay inside
and nurture friendships. She’d have long, involved conversations. That was
healthy.
“I’m having some friends over,” he
said. “You should come down. We’re in 118.”
For a moment, the invitation made Mary
freeze. Kevan looked to be in his late twenties, about 10 years younger than
her. It wasn’t a huge age difference, she figured. They were the same
generation. But judging from the friends who wandered past her door to head to
his apartment, with their stretched ears and tattoos and little granny glasses,
she and Kevan may as well be on a different social planet.
Then there was how little she knew of
him. She’d first met him and when she was leaving the laundry room with a
basket of clean, fragrant clothes. Kevan and a friend had been carrying a
couch. She knew Kevan had a job because she occasionally encountered him in the
parking lot mornings, both of them with their shoes polished and hair freshly
combed. She’d seen him in the parking lot on weekend nights too, often with a
short girl with green hair who wore sundresses and boots with thick soles.
There she was though. Standing in the
lobby of their building, suddenly invited into his world.
“Sure,” Mary said, forcing a shrug. “If
I get some free time, I’ll stop by.”
Kevan smiled. “Good.” He headed to the
door and got there before Mary, holding it open as she walked through. They
both headed down the stairs, and then down the quiet carpeted hallway. She quickened
her pace as if trying to outrun awkward silence, and charged up to her
apartment door.
“Maybe I’ll see you later then,” Kevan
said.
Mary turned and called to his
retreating figure. “Do I need to bring anything? Or...”
When Kevan turned, she thought she
sensed a hint of bemusement. No. Of course she didn’t. People in their twenties
didn’t bring house gifts. They didn’t arrive at front doors in pairs carrying
bunt cakes or bottles of red wine. People in their twenties brought their own
booze to house parties, or maybe a bag of chips. That was as far as formality
extended.
Her cat, Camille, greeted her at the
door when she entered. Camille had been the runt of her litter and hadn’t grown
to a full size, but she was well fed. Mary had seen her picture in the
newspaper, in the section where they profile pets looking for homes. “I’m
Camille and I’m lovable,” it had read. “I love affection and will sleep on your
belly.”
She poured some food into Camille’s
bowl and listened to the little crunches of kibble between sharp feline teeth.
Would she really go to the party? It was the sort of thing she had to decide
that instant. If she waffled, she’d change into her pyjamas by 9 p.m. Yes. She
would go. But she would not fit in, and furthermore, she would not try.
Kevan’s eyes were round and dark, his
hair once shaggy and now cut short. He never fully shaved the stubble off his
face. It was just long enough to cut angles through his soft features – to make
ledges out of his cheekbones, to form dark shadows around pink lips. His voice
was an upper-range tenor, a thread of lightness she associated with teenage
boys. It wasn’t the low-end boom she associated with the authoritative men in
her life, like her father, a police sergeant who had always yelled, or her
brother, who was in the army and often bellowed words with a rough staccato.
She went into her bedroom and sifted
through her shirts. She had a Rolling Stones T-shirt. That would have to do.
None of her jeans were skinny. All of them, in fact, seemed too long from
crotch to belt line, and as she stood shirtless in front of the mirror, they
seemed to extend halfway up her rib cage. She pushed the waist down, shoving it
past her belly button until it rode on her hips. She put on the best bra she
had – the one that came closest to pushing her breasts skyward. It didn’t
matter, she figured. Nothing would happen. But if she was going to venture into
Kevan’s world, the least she could do was look her best.
She sat on the couch, make up on and TV
screen flashing in front of her, as the wind blew outside. She had no alcohol,
but that didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be gone long anyway.
She watched Seinfeld re-runs until nine
o’clock, when she rechecked her makeup in the bathroom mirror before Camille
followed her to the door. Mary carefully shut the door and shuffled down the
hallway, hearing the steady thump of electronic music as she rapped lightly at
Kevan’s apartment.
Kevan answered it on the first try. His
hair was tousled, his eyes heavily lidded. He gave her a slow, lazy smile.
“Hey. You came.”
He nudged the door open more and Mary
wandered into the living room. There were only two other people there. A guy
with short, coarse-looking hair and oversized features sat cross legged on the
floor. A girl with long straw-coloured hair sat next to him, her full lips
parted, a large flannel shirt hanging over a pair of ripped jeans. The couch
she’d seen Kevan carry sat empty. A mismatched recliner sat with its back to
her, also empty.
Kevan gestured to the guests. “These
are my friends, Tucker and Anna. This is Mary.”
Tucker and Anna gave lazy little waves,
and Kevan turned to her. “I made some punch. It has fruit and lots of vodka.
You want a glass?”
Mary shrugged and smiled a little,
tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as Kevan stepped past her. Looking down,
she noticed Tucker rolling a joint, crumbling little grains of marijuana onto a
flattened rolling paper as Anna looked on in mild interest. “I guess I’ll
just...” Mary said, weaving around the coffee table and sitting on the couch.
The music continued on the stereo.
Tucker picked up the paper and folded it inward, curling it into a narrow stem.
“So how do you know Kevan?” Mary asked.
“We’ve known him since high school,”
Anna said. “Grade 12 English, I think?” She looked at Tucker as if for
verification.
“Grade 12 English,” Tucker mumbled. Two
of his fingers were nicotine stained, Mary noticed. His jeans were ripped too –
little fraying areas around the knees and the bottom cuffs. He had a little
star tattoo on his hand between his thumb and index finger. Mary wasn’t sure if
Tucker and Anna were together, but she could tell they’d had sex. She knew from
the way their knees touched, and the easy way they co-existed in the same
little glowing patch of light. It was funny how their features looked alike.
Like brother and sister. The same rounded nose. The same even brow. The same
dishevelled hair. Mary’s hair was reddish brown with little grays sneaking in
around the temples. She used to dye it all the time, but lately, she’d been too
numb to care.
Kevan returned and sat next to her on
the couch, setting the glass of punch in front of her. A lemon wedge floated in
the hot pink liquid. She ran her finger over the glass and left a trail of
moisture.
“It’s not too potent. I promise.” Kevan
tossed a lighter at Tucker, who touched the flame to the end of the joint. Mary
had only smoked dope twice in her life, the last time being in college. She and
her roommate had bought one already rolled from a guy down the hall, who was
built like a snowman and had the reddest lips Mary had ever seen. Every time
he’d opened the door to his room, she’d smell something sweet and mossy.
A thin trail of smoke extended from the
joint, and Tucker held it expertly between two fingers, frowning as he sucked.
He handed it to Anna, who made the same facial expression.
Kevan rested his elbow on his knee,
fingers running through his hair as he studied Mary. “Do you smoke weed?”
“No,” Mary said quickly. “I mean...not
in a long time. It puts me to sleep, and so ten minutes later I’m like...” She
made a quick, exaggerated snoring sound. She hated her own thin forced laugh.
Kevan took the joint, holding it
delicately as a tea cup as he passed it to her. “Ladies first.”
Mary held it between her index and middle
fingers like a cigarette. It was how she’d always seen people smoke things. The
joint was moist and fragrant, like mildewing plants in a rain-soaked forest.
When she put it to her lips, she tasted the dampness from Tucker and Anna’s
mouths.
The smoke gathered thick in her mouth,
and she coughed it out in a big puff. “Sorry,” she mumbled. Kevan still watched
her with an encouraging half smile, and she took another toke. It blazed a
trail to her lungs and stayed there.
She passed it to Tucker. Already, the
giggles came easily. She covered her hand with her mouth to stop them, but they
spilled around her fingers, light and uncertain like someone tinkering with a
piano. She looked over and saw Kevan watching her with steady eyes.
“Why did you invite me?” she blurted.
“I could be your mom.”
Somehow, the joint had already gone
around again, and Kevan took it and gave an expert suck. When he spoke again,
his voice was strained from holding in the smoke. “You’re not old enough to be
my mom. And you have a gentle soul. I feel like I can trust you.”
Their fingers kissed when he passed on
the joint, and Mary noticed his hands for the first time. They were slender and
pale. Piano player’s fingers, her grandmother used to say. But it was more than
that. The backs lacked the coarse dark hair of a man’s hands. The thin tracery
of veins was barely noticeable. They weren’t just young, she realized. They
were dainty.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a deep
breath at the joint. Here she went again. Mouth to the tip. The DNA of three
sultry companions on her lips. She heard a moist sound and looked up to see
Tucker and Anna kissing, tongues visibly meeting between teeth, jawbones moving
in the same patient rhythm.
She handed the joint back to Kevan,
whose hands were steady, his face unaffected. Numbness sank into Mary’s feet.
Her fingertips tingled. She ran them over her face, feeling rubber and padding
where her cheekbones used to be. She realized that she still wore the same
stupid grin from 10 minutes ago.
“I think I’m stoned,” she said. “What
do I do?”
“Just enjoy it. That’s the point,”
Kevan responded, nudging Anna to pass the joint.
Crisp snowflakes hit the window and
splattered like bugs on a windshield. The electronic music thumped in the
background, muted as if played underwater. Mary felt herself crawling to her
knees on the floor, lying back on the thin rug. The floor was hard on her
shoulders. She watched the white ceiling. She listened to the dull murmur of
voices. Whose house was this again? Oh right. The boy from down the hall.
“I’m stoned,” she repeated. To make
sure they knew. When she touched her stomach, it felt flat and smooth, a soft
white valley between the mountain peaks of her hips. She allowed herself an
indulgent fantasy then. She imagined drifting her fingers farther down – past
her belly button and over the little rise of her pelvic bone. She imagined
Kevan’s mouth making the same trail, stopping between her legs as she clutched
his hair like handlebars. She thought about Kevan’s lips. How pink they were.
How soft they likely felt. As soft as when she touched her own.
She couldn’t pin down an image or a
thought, and she closed her eyes. Because that might make it easier. The music
melted into muted underwater beats. She rolled onto her side and tucked her
hands between her knees. She didn’t care about anything anymore as long as she
could sleep, and the voices grew more distant as she let it overtake her.
She woke to see a candle flickering on
top of the silent stereo. The lights were still low, a string of Christmas
lights hanging around the snow covered windows. Outside, there was the hum of a
car passing, a glimpse of activity in a distant world. Anna and Tucker were
gone.
She rolled her head and saw Kevan
asleep on the couch – one foot on, one foot off, arms folded on his stomach.
His hair flattened against the pillow.
When Mary crawled to her knees, even
the rustle of her clothes was too loud. As she got closer, she took in the
sleeping details of Kevan. The index finger on his left hand twitched. His
mouth was open slightly. Mary imagined slipping her index finger past those
lips to feel the scrape of teeth and the moist hint of tongue.
The single grey button of his jeans was
open at the waist, partially obscured by the tail of his shirt. He smelled of
leather and minty aftershave – the way he always had, she realized – and it
took a moment of staring to realize that he would not stir.
She held her breath as she lifted the
tail of his shirt. There could have been a loud clock ticking in the kitchen,
or it could have been her imagination. He didn’t twitch as she lifted the shirt
to his stomach, revealing a dark smattering of hair.
His jeans were too big. They buckled on
his body, pouching at the groin. Somehow, she knew what she’d find, but she had
to know. This was a parallel universe anyway – a shift on the time-space
continuum – and she had nothing to lose.
The zipper slid down easily, and still,
she couldn’t breathe. She looked for the lift in the cotton of his briefs.
Evidence of a penis lying flat against his pelvic bone. As she unzipped more,
the material lay flat and un-elevated. There was no penis to be found.
Mary had gone out on a date with a
mountain climber once. She’d desperately liked him, but he hadn’t returned her
call after the first date. Climbing the mountain was easy, the climber had said.
It was going down that was hard. You’d already reached the summit, and you
charged back down feeling like the danger is over. The descent, he’d said, is
what kills you.
She remembered that as she used her
fingertips to zip up Kevan’s pants. She got halfway before his hand swept over
hers, and her heart stopped. She looked up to see him watching her, dark eyes
peering into her own. Not angry, she realized. But startled. Cautious. And
somehow, asking a question.
Mary shot back to land on her feet,
stumbling around the coffee table. “Thank you,” she whispered. Wet flakes were
hitting the window, splattering and dripping down the glass.
Somehow, she knew to unlock the door
when she got to it. It was the same door lock as her own door. A half twist of
the wrist. The door made the same hollow sound as she closed it and treaded
down the familiar stained carpet to her apartment, heart beating like the
steady thump of a bass drum.
She’d call her friends for real
tomorrow, she decided. And she’d already made up her story.
