A week after Thanksgiving it's party season in Washington, and this year everyone is going all out—all the Democrats, anyway, all trying to get a head start on the Inauguration and an in with the incoming administration. A week into December, and Donna is already starting to lose track of where she's been and where she has to go every night. Even though she doesn't have a job offer with the new White House yet, her mailbox is still stuffed with invitations and her calendar glows with the red ink she uses to mark the special events.
Thursday night's party is at a big house in ClevelandPark. It's a bit of a crush: by any reasonable standards the room should be large enough, but the hosts have invited a lot of people and they're packed in like sardines. Donna's standing with her drink chatting to a Marine officer who might be attractive if he had something interesting to say; she tries to look as if she's listening to him, while scanning the crowd near her for someone else she can escape to.
She catches a glimpse of Josh across the room, deep in conversation with their host, and looks away quickly, a spurt of anger at him blazing up in her chest. He still hasn't offered her a job. She'd never thought he would be this mean, this vindictive, this just plain stupid. I'm good at this, she thinks to herself angrily. Everyone else knows I'm good at this now. Lou wants me as Deputy Press Secretary; she's said so. Then she spies Lou, who has just come through the doors and isn't attached to anyone yet.
"Excuse me," she says, giving the Marine a plastic smile, "That's my boss; I have to talk to her," and she starts moving towards her, but just as she's coming up behind her another woman pushes someone not-too-gently out of the way and grabs Lou's arm. Lou obviously recognizes her; she laughs, and they start to talk. Donna stands stock-still, staring. Then she spins around and busies herself pretending to admire the painting on the wall in front of her.
She feels a little dizzy. She stares hard at the painting. It's a Matisse, but if anybody asked her she wouldn't be able to tell them what the colors are, let alone what name is signed in the corner or printed in large letters on the brass card attached to the elaborate frame. She can't believe who she's seeing, can't believe she's this disturbed at seeing her again. There's no reason to hate her now, she tells herself. You don't care anymore. There's no reason. There's no reason. Then she wonders where she's been all this time, and what's brought her back to Washington now.
It's a while before her heart stops pounding and her breathing settles down. Gradually she becomes aware that the two women are still standing a few paces behind her, talking as if they've known each other for years—which, she realizes, they probably have. It takes her another minute to realize who they're talking about.
"I get so mad at that guy I want to hit him sometimes," Lou says.
"I used to get so mad at him I did hit him," Mandy Hampton answers.
"Really?" Lou sounds amused. "More than once?"
"A few times; I lost track." She sounds as if she might be a little drunk. Donna wonders how long she's been at the party, and how she missed seeing her earlier.
"So that's what turns Josh on," Lou says, with a laugh. "I wouldn't have guessed it, but you never can tell, can you?"
Donna can't keep herself from looking around then. She's surprised to see Mandy actually blush.
"It didn't turn him on; that's not his thing," she says flatly. "He didn't like it-but it didn't make him go away, either."
"You must not have hit hard enough."
"I left some pretty good bruises sometimes."
Donna turns back to the painting, feeling a little sick.
"Did he hit you back?"
"Josh? No, of course he didn't; he's not that type at all. And I wouldn't have stuck around if he did."
"He must have really been in love with you." Lou's voice still sounds amused.
"Nah," Mandy says. Risking another glance, Donna sees her swill her drink around and then knock it back in one long gulp. "Nah, he wasn't in love with me. He's just such a fucked-up son-of-a-bitch, he didn't want to have to do the breaking-up himself."
"I wouldn't want to have to share a bed with him. He's the noisiest sleeper I've ever had the bad luck to be stuck next to on a long flight."
"Yeah?" This time it's Mandy who sounds surprised. "He must have changed then. I wouldn't have slept with him more than once if he'd done that; I can't stand a man who snores."
"He doesn't snore. He twitches and groans and thrashes around. Like someone having a schizophrenic episode; I told him he'd better not fall asleep when any press were around, they'd think Santos had a nutcase running things for him."
"That's not too far off the truth, is it?" Mandy is laughing now.
"Yeah. God help us when he's Chief of Staff. Let's get some more drinks, shall we? And we should go talk to Senator Kennedy before he leaves; he's over there. . . .
Their voices move away, talking politics. Donna turns slowly away from the painting and looks across the room. Josh is still talking to their host and his friends, his hands waving in the air to illustrate a point. There are dark circles under his eyes that she hasn't wanted to notice before. The crowded room feels suddenly cold.
On her way home from work the next day she gets off the subway two stops early. There's a shop she remembers seeing in that block once, though she's never been in; she hopes it's still in business and hasn't closed for the night yet. It is, and it hasn't.
She changes and goes out to that night's party, but leaves early and comes straight home. She looks at herself for a long time in the mirror, wondering when her face took on those dark shadows and hard lines. She wants to change her makeup and her hair; she wants to look like herself again, but she's not really sure she still can. She gets undressed, climbs into the shower and stays there until she starts to feel as if her skin is going to shrivel up and wash away.
When she can't stand the hot water any longer she gets out, puts on her oldest and softest pair of flannel pajamas, makes herself a pot of tea, turns on some quiet music. Then she pulls out her shopping bag. This is what I need, she thinks: something to do with my hands, something I used to love to do, something else to think about. She has to distract herself, she has to; she can't afford to think about him, can't afford to go there any more. The afghan she made with her grandmother is wrapped about her shoulders; the skeins of new wool are warm in her lap. But she can't stop shivering.
oooooo