How It Ended Part 3

"I'm not saying he was perfect."

She's getting misty-eyed, now, and it's absolutely imperative to change the subject before I get the full-blown eulogy. "He was smart enough to marry you at least."

"I have my faults, too. Believe me, I know."

"Not in my book." I give her a big hug, being careful not to crush her prominent calcium-deficient bones. "You've been great to us."

"I'm only glad I can be here to help."

"You know how grateful we are," I say. "And the kids love it, too."

As if to disprove this a.s.sertion, Bucky intercepts me on the front step and attaches himself to my leg, and it takes a good ten minutes to get him settled down again.

Back at the house, Susan is tweaking herself in front of her vanity.

"Turn around."

She puts her arms down and stares at herself in the mirror.

"Susan? Let me see."

She's wearing a low-cut white cotton halter with low-rider Diesel jeans. s.e.xy without being theatrical. Her makeup seems subdued. I feel like she could go heavier on the eyeliner. Finally, she stands up and walks to the closet.

"What's the matter?"

She stands at the closet door. "Nothing," she says. "Long day. I'm a little tired."

"We can take care of that," I say, showing her the gram vial I copped at lunchtime.

"Maybe later," she says. She's still standing there, looking into the closet as if at some profound vista.

I walk over behind her, put my hands on her shoulders and rub her neck and her delts. There's nothing to see in the closet except two rows of hanging clothes, hers and mine. "Sure you don't want a little pick-me-up?"

"What the h.e.l.l," she says, turning around and flashing a wan smile. I tap some onto the fleshy part between her thumb and forefinger. She huffs it up and holds out the other hand. "Have you seen Bongo," she asks.

"He broke out," I say, generously anointing her other hand. "Remind me to turn off the fence so he can get back in."

By the time we get to the Corral, a sprawling C & W dance hall about ten miles west on the interstate, Susan seems to have shaken her funk. We order a couple of platinum margaritas and survey the crowd. We haven't been here in four or five months. Last time, Susan picked up a guy who was a lineman for the phone company, but he was s.h.i.tfaced by the time she got him out of there and ended up puking in the parking lot, which is where we left him, sprawled over the hood of his truck, drooling on his snakeskin Justins. Earlier, he'd been telling Susan all about the boots, which he'd just bought that afternoon at the outlet in Gallatin.

"Lone Ranger at four o'clock," I shout over Tim McGraw's "Cowboy in Me," indicating a guy down the bar in a shiny orange leather jacket who's been checking her out.

"Let's dance," she says.

"Okay." I finish my drink and lead her out to the floor. We shimmy to Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats," or rather, she shimmies and I sway. I look around to see if Susan's got an audience, and sure enough, Mr. Leather Jacket is standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching. At the end of the song, I lean over and whisper in her ear. "Keep dancing," I say. I turn and walk away, heading to the men's room, even though I don't really have to go. I linger there and fix my hair in the mirror, then go back to the bar and order another margarita, forcing myself not to look over to the dance floor until I've paid for my drink and taken a long swallow. Sure enough, now he's dancing with Susan, grinding up against her while Alison Krauss sings "Simple Love." I feel a tingling buzz that's like the first wave of a c.o.ke rush.

What can I say. It turns me on watching Susan turn other men on. Is that so hard to understand?

I settle in at a table where I can occasionally glimpse them through the crowd. Susan eventually spots me and maneuvers her partner closer so I have a better view, then starts making out with him. I mean really sucking face. This guy can't believe his luck. Which is, strangely enough, just how I feel.

But then, just to torture me, she drifts back into the sea of bodies until I can't see either one of them anymore. It's making me crazy. I wait a few minutes, then circle the place, but I can't see them anywhere. What the h.e.l.l? I look everywhere. Did she take him out to the parking lot? On a sudden inspiration I bolt for the men's room. Sometimes she trash-talks about doing some guy in the men's room because she knows it's a turn-on in theory, but in real life that's a taboo, one of the boundaries we've established. When you're playing outside the regular borders, it's important to have rules and boundaries. We've learned that the hard way.

I stop at the men's room door and take a deep breath, trying to compose myself, to think what I'll do if I find them in there. I push the door open. A couple of good old boys in Stetsons, propping themselves up against the urinals. No one in the stalls, which is a relief, I think.

I finally find her at the bar, alone, sucking down a margarita.

"So?"

She shakes her head. "Let's get out of here."

In the car, she says, "He told me he wanted me to meet his mother."

"He must get a lot of p.u.s.s.y with that line."

"Actually, I think he was serious."

"So where to?"

"Let's go to Tini's," she says.

"You sure?" I'm still sober enough to feel some trepidation about Tini's. The last time we were there, somebody got stabbed, although we didn't actually see the fight.

"If we're going to go for it, let's just go for it." Her earlier diffidence seems to have evaporated. "Turn it up," she says, when "Mr. Bright Eyes" comes on Lightning 100.

It's early for Tini's, but the Friday-night house band's already playing. We settle in at a table and order drinks. Mostly old drunks and a few friends of the band so far. A fat mama in a gold bustier calls out, "Tell it!" and "Play it!" in between choruses. It would be easy to imagine these losers are playing the same song over and over, the same twelve bars on an interminable loop, but every once in a while a lyric emerges or the guitarist cuts loose and at some point I make out Sonny Boy Williamson's "Fattening Frogs for Snakes."

Then I see him approaching, rolling like an aspiring pimp, gold chains bouncing on a voluminous white T-shirt. He grabs the empty chair at our table and flips it around, then straddles the back of it. He's not much more than twenty, if that, very dark-skinned.

"I seen you here before," he says.

"That's possible," I say.

"Yeah, I seen you all right."

"I'm Susan, and this is Dean."

It's true: I remember him. We partied with one of his friends.

"I'm dry," he says.

"What are you drinking," I ask.

"Yac and c.o.ke."

"I'll get you one."

"Hennessy," he says, getting c.o.c.ky.

I look over at Susan to see if it's okay. You need to have signals; you've got to be able to communicate. But she seems fine. In fact, she seems more than fine, with that blurry, lascivious look on her face. How the h.e.l.l much did she drink at the Corral anyway?

I'm waiting at the bar, listening to "Little Red Rooster," when I hear three little pops. It's like the witnesses always say when you see them on the eleven o'clock news; it's like firecrackers, or maybe somebody snapping a whip outside the door, so I don't even think about it until a young guy with a reddish Afro in a puffy black parka comes running in the bar, shouting, and even though I can't make out a word of what he's saying, the place starts clearing out. Suddenly, Susan and the kid are beside me.

"There's been a shooting in the parking lot," she says. "Derek needs a ride." She doesn't quite wink at me, but she's got that little smirk on her face.

Outside, I catch a glimpse of legs on the ground between the legs of the onlookers, bright white Nikes splayed on the pavement.

"I don't need that s.h.i.t," the kid says as we're driving away. "You know what I'm sayin'?"

"I hear you."

"You can drop me on Broadway."

"Whatever," I say.

"Or you could come to our place," Susan says. "We could party."

"I got a bottle of Courvoisier," I say.

"XO?"

"I think. It might be VSOP."

"Y'all got any reefer?"

"We've got some fine bud, plus some killer blow."

He seems to be considering the offer, weighing the pros and cons. I try to find him in the rearview, but it's too dark.

"Where y'all's crib?"

"We're over in Green Hills."

He snorts. "More like the white hills."

"Len Simmons lives down the street," Susan says. I turn toward her and roll my eyes, but she's not looking at me. Jesus Christ, I think. But the kid seems impressed that we have a Heisman winner in the nabe.

"Not bad," he says, surveying the house from the vantage of the entry hall.

"Yac and c.o.ke?"

"To start with."

"Susan will show you around," I say, handing him a Baggie with buds and papers.

When I return with the drinks, they're sitting beside each other on the living room couch. Derek is sealing the joint with his tongue.

"What's a crib like this set you back?"

"We bought in '01, back before the big run-up."

He lights up the joint, inhales and hands it to Susan. "I'm gonna get me a house like this."

"It's a great investment."

Susan inhales deeply on the joint while I chop the c.o.ke on the coffee table.

Derek nods at me. "We oughta call Len Simmons."

"His daughter goes to school with our little boy."

"That wife of his, she look like she know how to get down."

"She's hot," I say, handing him a length of straw.

"White folks is all about the powder," he says. "Where I comes from, s'all about the rock. You ever smoke that rock?" He leans over and snorts a couple of lines, then hands the straw to Susan.

She gathers her hair behind her head and starts to lean forward. "Would you hold my hair?" she asks.

"No problem." He holds her hair as she crouches down over the coffee table. I've always found this incredibly s.e.xy. When she comes back up, she strokes his arm and kisses him on the cheek. I get the feeling he's just beginning to get a sense of the possibilities.

"What kind of party y'all got in mind here?"

"Just hanging out, getting down," I say.

" 'Cause I ain't into no dudes."

"You're a ladies' man," Susan says.

I shake my head. "Me, neither," I say.

"I ain't ridin' no trike."

"I hear you."

Derek scratches his chin contemplatively. "We need some tunes."

"Coming right up."

I figure The Black Alb.u.m The Black Alb.u.m is a pretty safe choice. Marvin Gaye or Al Green might just be pushing it, at least to start. Susan's bending down over the coffee table. Derek takes her hair in one hand and puts the other beneath her breast. This time when she comes up, she starts to kiss him. I hold my breath, standing beside the sound system. This is no time to call attention to my presence. I wish I could say why this thrills me, why I love seeing my wife sticking her tongue in this stranger's mouth, especially when he has skin the color of French-roast coffee. They make out for three or four minutes while I stand there. Then I see Susan going for his belt. By now I have inched a few feet closer, but she has her back to me, blocking most of my view, as she slides his pants down below his knees. At this point I have to remember to keep breathing. Still in stealth mode, I move around the coffee table to improve my angle. is a pretty safe choice. Marvin Gaye or Al Green might just be pushing it, at least to start. Susan's bending down over the coffee table. Derek takes her hair in one hand and puts the other beneath her breast. This time when she comes up, she starts to kiss him. I hold my breath, standing beside the sound system. This is no time to call attention to my presence. I wish I could say why this thrills me, why I love seeing my wife sticking her tongue in this stranger's mouth, especially when he has skin the color of French-roast coffee. They make out for three or four minutes while I stand there. Then I see Susan going for his belt. By now I have inched a few feet closer, but she has her back to me, blocking most of my view, as she slides his pants down below his knees. At this point I have to remember to keep breathing. Still in stealth mode, I move around the coffee table to improve my angle.

I hear Bongo just moments before I see him; he's barking frantically even before he launches himself at this man who is wrestling with Susan on the couch. The ensuing racket is terrifying, Susan screaming, Derek cursing, Bongo snarling and barking, until he comes flying in my direction, yelping as he lands at my feet. I grab hold of him as he tries to make another run at Derek.

"Motherf.u.c.ker bit me. Jesus Christ. I'm bleeding. That f.u.c.kin' dog bit my a.s.s."

Susan is examining his thigh, which seems to have been the part of his body that actually sustained the wound.

"f.u.c.kin' crazy," he says. "Where'd that racist motherf.u.c.ker come from?"

"I think we need to get him to the emergency room," Susan says to me. Bongo's still barking and lunging as I clutch his collar.