Every evening, T.J. had exactly one quarter-tumbler of rye whiskey. She always offered some to Louise. The first three nights, she declined, still feeling too raw. But the fourth night, she accepted.
One thing she admired about T.J. was her moderation, when it came to drinking. Always the one small glass, and no more.
She made a note to adopt this habit of T.J.’s. In the future, when she had her own home, when and if she became a mother: if she drank at all, this is how she would drink.
The night Louise took a glass of whiskey into her hands, it loosened her tongue, and she spoke freely, veering into territory she had so far avoided.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked T.J., who laughed into her glass as she said no.
“You’re smart,” said Louise. “Don’t ever get one.”
“I won’t,” said T.J. “Promise.” With one finger, she drew a little X across her chest. Louise could tell T.J. thought she was funny—intentionally or not. It brought out in Louise the desire to clown a little, to be egged on—a part of her that was close to extinguished. With John Paul, she always had to be the straight man.
“Where do you want to be,” said Louise, “ten years from now?”
“Are you interviewing me?” T.J. leaned back in her chair, knees wide, chin lowered, cards pointing at the floor.
“Yeah,” said Louise. And repeated the question, this time holding an invisible microphone in her hands, which she then swung in T.J.’s direction.
“Aright,” said T.J. She put her hand of cards facedown on the table. “I’d like to be up north. I’d like to be living off the land. I think I’d like to try that for a while.”
“By yourself?” said Louise, into her invisible microphone.
T.J. nodded.
“In a house? A tent? A cave?”
T.J. was laughing now. “Put your microphone away,” she said.
Louise shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t, ma’am,” she said. “My producers won’t allow it.”
“Who are your producers?”
“Mike and—Chuck.” Louise picked up the nearly empty glass of whiskey in her unoccupied hand and finished it off. She wanted more. Something was happening in her belly that she recognized as desire. It startled her. She had never wanted a woman before, not really, but T.J. was registering to her as something different from a man or a woman, something altogether separate from those terms. She had an interesting face, high cheekbones, and full lips and a strong jaw. She had broad shoulders and a thin, tall build. How old was she? Based on the picture she’d produced, and some math—late twenties, most likely. Maybe five or six years older than she was. Older, too, than John Paul.
“Aright,” said T.J. “I’ll talk. But this is off the record.”
She stood abruptly and walked toward the kitchen, speaking as she went.
“I’ve got a cabin on a lake up north. Inside the park,” said T.J.
She opened and closed a cabinet. Returned to the living room with the bottle of whiskey, which she poured for herself. It was the first night she had had any more to drink than her quarter-glass, but it did not alarm Louise: instead it enlivened her, sent a little shiver of energy up her spine. She held her own glass out for more.
“My people built it a long time ago. Been in the family since,” said T.J. She walked to the wall, where the map of the Adirondack Park had been hung. She pointed to a little lake fifty miles to the north; a tack marked the spot. Then she returned and sat down in her place across from Louise. Left the whiskey on the table between them.
“We used to go up there twice a year for hunting. Me and my dad. It’s not much to speak of, but it’s got four walls and a roof and a stove for winter. You can only get to it by canoe, and first you’ve got to portage the canoe through a mile-long trail that’s gotten pretty overgrown by now.”
“It’s on an island?” said Louise.
T.J. nodded.
“Why’d they build it on an island?”
“Good fishing,” said T.J. “And a good vantage point.”
“Against the Indians?” Louise had heard stories most of her life about the Algonquins and Iroquois who came through the region for hunting. None of them had permanently settled and farmed the Adirondacks; Europeans had been the fools who were first to do so, lured there by overcrowding in New England and a government lie about plentiful arable land.
“No,” said T.J., looking at her strangely. “For hunting.”
Louise tried to imagine what edible animals there would be on an island.
“There’s a deer population that goes back and forth,” said T.J.—reading her mind. “They’re strong swimmers. And there’s waterfowl. Squirrels, if we get hungry enough. But mostly we just fish.”
“Who’s we?” asked Louise, and—seeing T.J.’s expression shift—immediately regretted it. She’d been thinking of her dad. Remembering the trips she once took with him, before his stroke.
T.J. sipped her whiskey. She never grimaced, Louise noticed; she held the liquid in her mouth awhile before quietly swallowing it down.
“Well,” T.J. said. “I guess I better get to bed.”
“No,” said Louise.
T.J. raised her eyebrows.
“Will you stay up a little longer?” said Louise. “I’ve still got a full glass.”
T.J. nodded. Her eyes stayed on Louise’s for a moment until she stood up, breaking their gaze. She strode to the kitchen, ran the tap. Added water to her whiskey. Then she turned and leaned against the kitchen counter, far from Louise but in sight of her.
On the rare occasions that Louise got drunk, or even tipsy, she became aware of her own appearance in a way that was exciting or unsettling, depending on her company. Her body and face were sometimes assets and sometimes liabilities. That night, she was glad for them, despite the black eye. Or because of it. She liked the feeling of T.J.’s gaze on her, over the rim of her cup. Louise was behaving irresponsibly, she knew. But that night she had an urge to do what she was not supposed to do.
