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After the Champagne
Garrett Socol
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Garrett Socol 's fiction has been published in The Barcelona Review, 3:AM Magazine, Pequin, Paradigm, Hobart,
Hiss Quarterly, Ascent Aspirations and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. His plays have been produced at the Berkshire Theatre Festival and the
Pasadena Playhouse. Socol's debut collection of short stories, Gathered Here Together, will be published by Ampersand Books in December 2011.
His first novel, Fame & Madness in America, will be published the same month by Casperian Books.
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They were friends from the real estate office who became a trio in life. Celeste, the scintillating one, Kate the quiet one, and Marissa the practical one, were separate pieces of a puzzle that fit together to form a perfect photograph of profound friendship.
There were problems, of course, as there are in any friendship. Marissa enjoyed foreign films while Kate wouldn’t be caught dead at a
movie with subtitles. (Celeste went both ways; she loved American movies but didn’t mind foreign language films because she spoke Italian, Spanish and enough
French to get by at an upscale restaurant on the Champs-Elysees.) Celeste was a habitual toucher, constantly holding someone’s hand or arm - male or female - while
strolling down a hallway or a street. There wasn’t an iota of sexual intent in these actions; she merely felt comfortable connecting on a tactile basis.
Notoriously fearful of germs, Kate despised being touched by anyone other than her husband of eleven years, Norris, and she often wasn’t in the mood to be
touched by him. Marissa wasn’t crazy about being touched by friends, but she didn’t mind it the way Kate did. She actually enjoyed being touched by her boyfriend of six months, Bryan, even though his hands were often dirty.
Every Sunday morning the three women met for an early breakfast at some restaurant near the beach. The place didn’t have to be fancy; its only requirement was its location near the Pacific Ocean, someplace between Venice and Malibu. Usually, one or two of the women held open houses on Sunday afternoons, so breakfast was always on the early side: nine thirty or ten o’clock. Sometimes they socialized during the week, but their long hours didn’t allow for much free time. They found comfort in the knowledge that their Sunday morning breakfasts were sacred, unless one of them had a man in her bed. That could only be used as an excuse if he was a hot man and photos were taken. (This excuse couldn’t be used by Kate since she had a semi-hot husband who was camera-shy.)
On this particular Sunday morning, Celeste wasn’t the least bit hungry. Still, she pulled into the circular driveway of the Malibu
| "Celeste was a habitual toucher, constantly holding someone’s hand or arm - male or female - while strolling
down a hallway or a street. There wasn’t an iota of sexual intent in these actions; she merely felt comfortable connecting on a tactile basis. Notoriously
fearful of germs, Kate despised being touched by anyone other than her husband " |
restaurant and handed the key to a young valet with a shock of black hair practically covering his eyes. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said. “You look Italian.”
With two fingers, the valet shoved his hair to the side in order to get a better look at the striking woman in pink strolling toward the restaurant’s entrance. “I am Italian,” he said as an afterthought, but Celeste was too far away to hear. With her lustrous auburn mane, long tan legs, husky voice and slight European accent, Celeste De Luca had no trouble attracting men. Many professed undying love. Some were known to stalk her. But the feeling was never mutual. The most Celeste ever felt was indifference.
Overlooking the serene blue water of the Pacific, the place was jammed with hungry rich people desperate for designer coffee and build-your-own omelets. Celeste nabbed a table by the window because she knew Padraic, the manager. They had enjoyed a torrid affair some years earlier, and remained friends. Subsequently, Padraic married the trophy wife he always wanted.
“I am early,” she told Padraic, “and I want a bottle of your finest champagne. On the house.”
“Ah,” Padraic responded. “Are you celebrating something? Is Celeste finally getting married?”
“Do you see an engagement ring?” she barked, holding up her left hand. Her gold bracelet glistened in the sunlight. “White topaz and black onyx rings, but no diamond, my dear.”
“So you are celebrating life,” he remarked.
“That’s exactly right, my darling,” Celeste said with a warm smile. “I am celebrating life.”
Just then, Kate appeared. Greetings were made, and she sat down. “Where’s Marissa? She’s usually the early one.”
“Something must’ve come up.”
“Should we call her?”
“No. She’ll emerge in her own time, like the salmon when they spawn.”
Not two minutes later, Marissa scurried to the table. “Sorry I’m late. I had to drop Bryan off at a meeting.”
“She makes six figures a year and falls for alcoholic, unemployed convicts,” Celeste bristled.
“Ex-cons,” Kate insisted. “I think I associate successful, educated men with my father, and I certainly never wanted to sleep with that coldhearted bastard.”
“You’re not the only woman with a successful, educated father,” Celeste said, “and I assure you most of us do not search for love at Social Services.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t be marrying him. Your dress leaves little to the imagination,” Marissa said, changing the subject.
“Most people have little imaginations, so what’s the difference?”
A tanned waiter delivered three glasses of ice water to the ladies. “Coffee?” he asked.
“Yes,” the women responded at the same time, like a musical trio. The only missing elements were identical outfits and harmony.
After their cups were filled, Padraic arrived with a bottle of bubbly. “What’s this?” Kate asked.
“I ordered champagne for us. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” Marissa asked. “All I want to say is thank you, merci, gracias.”
“De nada,” Celeste beamed. “Madame de Pompadour once said about champagne, ‘It’s the only wine that leaves a woman more beautiful after drinking it.’”
The waiter opened the bottle with professional flair, and then filled three champagne flutes. “The women toasted.”
“To us,” Celeste said. The flutes met with a soft tinkle followed by a hard gulp. “Warm light, the sound of champagne glasses, the glow of background conversation. What more could we ask for?”
Gaby and Marissa smiled before taking another sip. Celeste placed her flute on the table and buried her face in her bejeweled hands.
“What’s wrong?” Kate inquired.
Celeste didn’t respond. “What’s the matter, honey?” Marissa asked.
“Can we leave?” she asked. “Take our champagne with us?” Without waiting for an answer, she tossed a crisp hundred dollar bill on the table. Then she stood up, grabbed the bottle of Cristal, and strolled across the room with purpose. Marissa and Kate followed, puzzled and concerned.
Once outside, Celeste headed to a grassy area on the south side of the restaurant.
Sharing a wooden green bench overlooking the Pacific, the women felt as if they’d walked several miles when it was merely one hundred feet. “What’s wrong?” Kate asked.
Celeste blurted out the news as she gazed ahead. “They have to be removed.”
At first, the ladies thought Celeste was referring to the huge rocks emerging from the sand. “ What has to be removed?” Kate asked.
“The best part of me,” Celeste announced. “My breasts. The one part that always found approval.” She calmly told her friends about finding two lumps much too late.
“Oh Celeste,” Kate said, “we’ll be with you every step of the way.”
“That’s right,” Marissa echoed. “Every single step. Whatever you need.”
“Those rocks too,” Celeste said, eyes on the large stones that had been battered by the ocean for centuries. “Diseased. Soon they’ll erode, turn into sand, and become a memory. I was a fool, you see. Ignored what I feared. And now it’s over.”
“It’s not over,” Marissa assured her. “Don’t be absurd.”
When she discovered the first lump, Celeste had maintained a weak hope that it was nothing to worry about and the thing would disappear
| "Less than four weeks after that morning, Celeste was laid to rest in a low-cut, ruby red designer dress
and dazzling red stilettos. She looked spectacular, with perfect hair, perfect make-up, and an expression of contentment. A diamond bracelet given
to her by a political advisor in Paris adorned her wrist. " |
as quickly as it surfaced. But it didn’t. And soon a twin popped up to keep the first one company. “Of course it’s over. Do you think I would tell you if I wasn’t completely, disgustingly sure?” She took a large gulp of champagne straight from the bottle.
“This isn’t 1960,” Kate said. “Women survive and thrive.”
“I don’t want to survive. Not that way.” A tense silence hung in the air. “They do wonders with reconstructive surgery,” Marissa said. She grabbed the bottle from Celeste’s hand and took a large sip.
“Not on me they don’t. There will be no surgery of any kind.”
Marissa cleared her throat. “My sister-in-law went through three months of…”
“I’m sure she did,” Celeste interrupted. “And she has a friend who has a daughter who has a colleague who has a first cousin who was diagnosed ten years ago and she’s alive and kicking. She might even be a Rockette or a Cirque du Soleil performer. But I am not her. I have a different face, different body, different outlook.” Marissa took Celeste’s hand, Celeste took Kate’s. A flock of seagulls played noisily in the distance, accentuating the picture of this memorable morning.
Celeste closed her eyes. The back of her eyelids became a movie screen on which the events of her life played. “I have money, I’ve been widowed twice, I’ve had lover after lover, it’s been wonderful.” The memories sparkled in her head, and her gratefulness made them sparkle in the air. “I never saw myself living to an old age. I was always waiting for the bad news to arrive. But when it did, it hit like a bullet. Raw, stinging, scathing. I almost passed out. Then I was nauseated. Then short of breath. Then…then….then…and then, now. I want one more affair. One more husband to bury. One more chance to watch the running of the bulls at Pamplona.”
“So you’re at the bargaining stage,” Marissa concluded.
“Do I look like I’ve ever bargained for anything?” Celeste snapped. “I’m going through all the stages at the same time: anger, gluttony, lust, whatever the hell they are.”
“We’re not going to let you sit around and wither away,” Kate said. “If we have to, we’ll drag you to the surgeon’s office.”
“Please,” Celeste said, “let the inexorable process take its natural course, without any interference from those medical mongrels.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“If I can’t be dramatic about my death, what can I be dramatic about?” Celeste inquired. She stood up and stepped toward the ocean, greeted by a sudden burst of sunshine. “Don’t you understand? I plan to die the way I live, on my strict terms. I refuse to be anything but strikingly beautiful. I will not become emaciated, ugly and flat-chested. It’s out of the damn question. It’s too late to be cleansed, healed, purged, and stuffed like a turkey with artificial hormones. My body will do what it naturally wants, and I won’t waste an ounce of energy fighting it.” She closed her eyes and basked in the warmth of the sun. Kate and Marissa exchanged a concerned glance.
“Would you promise me something?” she asked tenderly.
“Of course,” Marissa said.
“Do you remember the Akoya pearl necklace given to me by His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of Japan?”
“I remember it well,” Kate said.
“Good,” Celeste replied. “Please make sure I’m wearing it when they put me in the ground.”
*
Less than four weeks after that morning, Celeste was laid to rest in a low-cut, ruby red designer dress and dazzling red stilettos. She looked spectacular, with perfect hair, perfect make-up, and an expression of contentment. A diamond bracelet given to her by a political advisor in Paris adorned her wrist. Diamond earrings she’d been given by a bullfighter in Madrid clung to her ears, and two magnificent strands of Akoya pearls hung so exquisitely around her neck it seemed as if she’d been born wearing them.
* * *
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2004-2011 the Dublin Quarterly--to see familiar things with unfamiliar eyes!
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