Page 16 of Kitten

“Law.” Mrs. Hartley tapped James’s arm from across the table. “Your friend Tabitha’s a lawyer. You should connect them.”

“Tabitha is studying contemporary dance in Australia,” said Isabelle.

“She’s always been very talented, hasn’t she?” Mrs. Hartley said, still looking at James. “You two were always so talented.”

Isabelle sipped her wine. Mrs. Hartley turned to me. “You know about James’s adventures with Isabelle and Tabitha, don’t you? They were like the Three Musketeers. They did everything together. Or, I suppose, Isabelle tried to keep up.”

Isabelle said nothing.

“Very endearing, you three,” said Mrs. Hartley. “Your boyfriend was the ringleader. You know this, I’m sure. His brains, astonishing. Did he tell you he spoke three languages as a toddler?”

“And forgot them all by elementary school,” James said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mrs. Hartley. “We made bets about what you would become. Walter went for diplomat, but I always said you’d be a writer. You remember that speech you gave at Isabelle’s sixteenth? Made all of us weep.”

“You were right, Julia,” James said. “Only now I just write copy for consumer-packaged goods.”

“Again with the self-deprecation,” said Mrs. Hartley.

The entire conversation bewildered me. James wasn’t being self-deprecating, he was telling the truth. Mrs. Hartley then told a very long story about some sandcastles that James and Isabelle built together. She looked at me specifically, like it was important for me to know how gifted James was. Obviously I knew James was gifted, I wanted to say, I wasdatinghim. But I realized I had no anecdote of my own to offer. Mrs. Hartley explained that in the sixth grade, James read a book about twentieth-century architecture and spent all afternoon building a brutalist-style sandcastle. Isabelle’s attempt to copy James ended in something morepostmodern.She said the word like it was a salacious offense. “Although,” Mrs. Hartley added, shaking with laughter, “the way it collapsed when the tide came inwasvery twentieth century.” I didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about. I wondered if I should bring up Rothko, but there was no opportunity for interruption. James gesticulatedvigorously, still speaking in that Mickey Mouse voice I couldn’t quite match to his face. Isabelle nodded, even though she was the butt of all her mother’s jokes. Mr. Hartley didn’t say anything at all, just beamed like he was experiencing a rare and private bliss.

I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound forced or flat. I’d never gotten drunk with real adults before and found the experience dehumanizing, as if each sip made them more vivid and multifaceted while I only became more stupid. I felt a ferocious longing to drift in the sea with Silver again, untouched by time or other people’s voices.

Beneath the table, the dog nudged my leg. Miserably I gave it a few pats. It whined when I withdrew my hand. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to touch you anymore,” I whispered. The dog growled. I steeled myself and resumed.

“But anyway,” said Mrs. Hartley, recovering from a fit of laughter. “Let’s get back down to Earth.”

The dog, sensing the diversion of my attention, shot me a plaintive look. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m still here.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” said Mrs. Hartley. “What did you say?”

James glanced my way, his cheeks still red from the conversation. Mrs. Hartley continued. “I’m sorry if you felt left out. We don’t get to see James very often.”

“Oh.” I registered what had happened. “I was talking to the dog.”

Isabelle let slip a loud laugh. I experienced a wave of love for her. “Is Bruno bothering you? He’s a stinker.”

Mrs. Hartley didn’t say anything to me for the rest of the evening, though she continued to stare at my eye. Mr. Hartleybroke at last from his silence, calling for more wine and oysters, then eventually switching to champagne and lobster. The conversation shifted to work and world affairs. Things got heated, but not seriously. For the first time I longed to be back inside a university classroom, where people did get heated seriously. I didn’t think I could feel more out of place than in those seminars, but I was wrong—here was worse. I was struck by the thought that this would be the rest of my life.

The sun set, and the dinner crowd trickled in. As the room filled, I had the feeling that everybody was related in some way, like they all used the same laundry detergent or also knew the milkshake man. The waiter refilled my flute. The way the bubbles rushed upward reminded me of raindrops racing down the car window when it stormed, the stuffy warmth of the backseat. I felt sleepy, overfed. Mrs. Hartley raised her glass and we raised ours and I felt like I was cheating on my mother.

More oysters were ordered. More champagne was drunk. The conversation continued to be loud and nonsensical. Mr. Hartley put his arm around James, their faces both wrinkled with mirth. I couldn’t recall ever making James this happy. James always looked attentive, even slightly vigilant, around me, like he was prepared to whip out a map and explain where we should go. “No-o-o,” he laughed into Mr. Hartley’s shoulder. “That’s not right, you’re wrong, you’re actually completely wrong.”

“What do you think, Katie?” asked Mrs. Hartley.

“About what,” I said flatly. I looked straight into her icyblue eyes. She blinked and I felt in my heart a bolt of hatred, outsize and pure.

“I think James is right,” Isabelle said. “I think Dad’s taking the metaphor too far. Like, evolution doesn’t—just because we were monkeys once…” Her opinion was not as strong as her impulse to free me from her mother’s attention.

“Isabelle, darling,” Mrs. Hartley said. “Don’t.”

“I think,” I said, my voice coming from somewhere above me, “you should be nicer to your daughter.”

Mrs. Hartley blinked. Isabelle looked down. James and Mr. Hartley rearranged their faces slowly. They might not have heard me, but the tension was solid in the air.

“What did you say?” Mrs. Hartley leaned forward. She looked surprised, almost hurt. Across the room, a party gained energy. Cheer smattered over the pop of a champagne cork. The sound diluted the purity of my rage, and at once I felt silly and afraid.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry.” And then I was in the bathroom with my knees on the floor, the oysters floating dreamily before me in the basin of the toilet, which smelled like it had just been cleaned.