Souvenir of Cold Springs by Kitty Burns Florey Page A

bed, leaning against the headboard. She lit a joint—the bigger of the two—and inhaled. Immediately, she felt light-headed—maybe because she’d had a lot of champagne. She closed her eyes and let the smoke fill her lungs. She considered calling Timmy and telling him now: why wait until January? Except that she didn’t want to talk to him—didn’t even want to hear his voice. He was having dinner in Santa Rosa with his parents. Hello, is Tim there, well this is Heather. Just tell him I want him out of the apartment when I get back. Thanks. Click.
    It was tempting. She imagined going home to find all traces of him gone: no ten-speed in the front hall, no sneakers in the closet, no Sierra Club poster on the bedroom wall—no more elk staring at them while they made love. No more making love: no more Timmy heavy on her, his eyes squeezed shut as if he didn’t want to look at her, then rolling off, groaning, talking about all the work he had to do.
    The joint went fast. She lit the other one. Found a five-dollar bill in her purse and put it in the tin box, rolled up. Surprise. Maybe Margaret would light it and smoke it—wouldn’t even notice. She was spacey enough to do it.
    Okay. No more Timmy. She would clean the apartment thoroughly—get rid of every last stray sock, every copy of Mother Jones , every damned used razor blade. Then she would call Rob Berglund. And say—what? Invite him over for a beer or something. And then what? Tears filled her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. Hell, hell, bloody screaming hell. She didn’t want Rob Berglund. An accounting major, for Christ’s sake. Rob Berglund and his short, fat, pink, ink-stained fingers. Was it true that you could judge a man’s penis by the look of his fingers?
    She finished the second joint and butted it out in the tin box. Then she took the box back and replaced it under Margaret’s pillow. The cat was still asleep, still unmoving, wrapped in her alien stillness. Hesitantly, Heather petted her; the cat stirred, then raised her head and yawned. Heather said, “Hey—cat.” The cat blinked at her and curled up again. Heather stretched out on the bed. Dinah began to purr—a warm vibrating deep in her core—and Heather laid her face along the cat’s soft flank and closed her eyes.
    The house was very warm—an old lady’s house—and completely silent, as if everyone downstairs had fallen asleep, or died; even the television was still. Heather lay there, half-dozing, and dreamed she was lying in the sun at some pool where a precision swimming team was performing. She watched the swimmers falter, heard their screams, watched them sink, one by one, still in formation, not knowing if she should intervene or if it was all part of the routine, and conscious always of the chenille bedspread, the purring cat warm against her cheek.
    When she woke up, her contact lenses felt dry and her mouth had a bad taste. From downstairs, the television was loud again: she heard the Baroque music of a wine commercial. Her father said something, and there was laughter. In the bathroom she looked in the mirror; the pattern of the bedspread was imprinted on her cheek. She wet her lenses, and then she went into Aunt Nell’s room, where there was a phone. She sat down on the bed and called Information in Palm Beach and got the number of the resort hotel her mother’s postcard was from. She dialed it and asked for Kay Quinn, and the person at the desk said, “One moment, please, we’ll ring that room for you.”
    While she waited, she looked around her aunt’s bedroom. Ancient iron bed, saggy in the middle. Aunt Nell’s bathrobe hanging over the bedpost. Ancient mirrored oak dresser. Starched dresser scarf embroidered with girls in sunbonnets. Hairbrush, nail file, hand lotion, tissue box, handleless china cup with pins in it. Index card on which was written,