Diary Read Free Page B

Tabbi, and expects you to wait on your own mother-in-law and your own kid like their own personal slave, take two drinks. When they both sit there at table eight, Granmy Wilmot telling Tabbi, “Your mother would be a famous artist if she'd only
try,
” take a drink.
    The summer women, their diamond rings and pendants and tennis bracelets, all their diamonds dull and greasy with sunblock, when they ask you to sing “Happy Birthday” to them, take a drink.
    When your twelve-year-old looks up at you and calls you “ma'am” instead of Mom . . .
    When her grandmother, Grace, says, “Misty dear, you'd have more money and dignity if you'd go back to painting . . .”
    When the whole dining room hears this . . .
    A couple drinks. A couple aspirin. Repeat.
    Anytime Grace Wilmot orders the deluxe selection of tea sandwiches with cream cheese and goat cheese and walnuts chopped into a fine paste and spread on paper-thin toast, then she eats only a couple bites and leaves the rest to waste and then charges this and a pot of Earl Grey tea and a piece of carrot cake, she charges all this to you and you don't even know she's done this until your paycheck is only seventy-five cents because of all the deductions and some weeks you actually end up
owing
the Waytansea Hotel money, and you realize you're a sharecropper trapped in the Wood and Gold Dining Room probably for the rest of your life, then take five drinks.
    Anytime the dining room is crowded with every little gold brocade chair filled with some woman, local or mainland, and they're all bitching about how the ferry ride takes too long and there's not enough parking on the island and how you never used to need a reservation for lunch and how come some people don't just stay home because it's just too, too much, all these elbows and needy, strident voices asking for directions and asking for nondairy creamer and sundresses in size 2, and the fireplace still has to be blazing away because that's hotel tradition, then remove another article of clothing.
    If you're not drunk and half naked by this point, you're not paying attention.
    When Raymon the busboy catches you in the walk-in freezer putting a bottle of sherry in your mouth and says, “Misty,
cariño
.
Salud
!”
    When that happens, toast him with the bottle, saying, “To my brain-dead husband. To the daughter I never see. To our house, about to go to the Catholic church. To my batty mother-in-law, who nibbles Brie and green onion finger sandwiches . . .” then say, “
Te amo,
Raymon.”
    Then take a bonus drink.
    Anytime some crusty old fossil from a good island family tries to explain how she's a Burton but her mother was a Seymour and her father was a Tupper and
his
mother was a Carlyle and somehow that makes her your second cousin once removed, and then she flops a cold, soft, withered hand on your wrist while you're trying to clear the dirty salad plates and she says, “Misty, why aren't you painting anymore?” and you can see yourself just getting older and older, your whole life spiraling down the garbage disposal, then take two drinks.
    What they don't teach you in art school is never, ever to tell people you wanted to be an artist. Just so you know, for the rest of your life, people will torture you by saying how you used to love to draw when you were young. You used to love to paint.
    A couple drinks. A couple aspirin. Repeat.
    Just for the record, today your poor wife, she drops a butter knife in the hotel dining room. When she bends to pick it up, something's reflected in the silver blade. It's some words written on the underside of table six. On her hands and knees, she lifts the edge of the tablecloth. On the wood, there with the dried chewing gum and crumbs of snot, it says, “Don't let them trick you again.”
    Written in pencil, it says, “Choose any book at the library.”
    Somebody's homemade immortality. Their lasting effect. This is their life after death.
    Just for the record, the weather today is