Soundtrack of Our Lives: Frank Sinatra, Sinatra Reprise

Victor looked at his watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes and fiddled with his cufflinks.
"Iseult, come on. Seriously, what is taking so long?"
"Hold on, okay? I can't find the earrings I want to wear."
"Could you just pick a pair, please?" I could hear him sniffing. "It doesn't matter, does it?"
"Relax. I'm almost ready." I came out of the bedroom and stood in front of him, "Look okay?"
"Yes," he kissed me, "just like a future senator's wife should look—"
"Oh yeah," I rolled my eyes, "just like that."
"No, really, you look great, the earrings look great, and what would be really great? Is if you'd hurry up and do those lines over there so we can get out of here."
I walked over to the coffee table and bent over it, rubbed some of the coke on my gums, then inhaled three large lines. "Yuck," I swallowed and could feel the cocaine draining down the back of my throat, "it tastes awful."
"Yeah," Victor put on his tux jacket, "but it was all Mackey had. Said he'd get something better next week."
"Good, because this is shit," my eyes were running, "Is my mascara smudged?"
"No," he handed me my bag, "it's just fine. Let's go."

We were going to a big-deal democratic national committee fundraiser at the house of _____ _____. This was the first event that Victor had taken me to since he got his internship. Politics wasn't my thing, but I knew this particular event was important to him: The guest of honor was Patrick Kennedy. And Victor had always had a thing for the Kennedy family. I'd found a life-size cardboard cutout of JFK, and he kept it on display in the hallway.

I felt like a celebrity when we got to the party; there were a lot of press people there, local TV crews. We walked in and _____ _____ immediately came over to greet us. "There he is," he said, "my star campaigner."
"Thanks, sir," they shook hands. "____ _____, this is Iseult W____, my girlfriend."
"It's so nice to meet you," we shook hands. It kind of hurt.
"You, too, Ms. W____. Now you've met the man responsible for taking such huge quantities of Victor's time. I hope you can forgive me. But I have to say," he clapped Victor on the shoulder, in that guy sort of way, "I don't know what this campaign would do without his energy and enthusiasm."
"Well, sir, thank you very much," Victor beamed.
"It's just the honest truth," more shoulder clapping. "If you don't mind, I need to borrow him for just a few more minutes," he held motioned toward the next room. "May I direct you to the bar? There is absolutely no shortage of drinks, I assure you. Victor, why don't you get Ms. W____ and yourself something and meet me in the foyer with the other interns." He shook my hand again, "It was a pleasure. I hope to see you again soon."
"Yes, thanks. Me, too."
Victor handed me a glass of champagne, "Isn't he great?"
"Yeah, I guess so—"
Victor squinted at me, "Hey, this is the guy who could get me a real fucking job."
"Yes. I know." Although I didn't know why he'd want to work with these people. Everything was so plastic, so surface-y, with them. Everything _____ _____ said sounded like he'd said it a hundred times before.
He started sniffing, "Do you have any Kleenex?"
"Here," I handed him the pack from my bag. He turned around and blew his nose and I could see there was blood on the tissue. "Victor you're—"
"Holy shit," he pulled me into a corner and wiped his nose again. "Give me your mirror." Fortunately, it didn't look like a full-on nosebleed. "Here," he handed me the bullet, "you keep this. I'll take the mirror. I have to go."

I watched him walk into the crowd, making his way toward the foyer, waving at the people who called his name, discreetly rubbing underneath his nose. I finished my champagne, "Is there anywhere I can smoke?" I asked the bartender.
"Sure. Go down this hall, to your left. You can go out on the veranda."
"Thanks."
There was a motley crew already out there, many of them smoking, most of them looking just as bored as I felt. A Southern Gentleman type came over to me and asked if I needed a light. We ended up drinking sea breezes and talking about horse racing. He was a judge, had gone to school with _____ _____, so he had some funny stories to share about him and a few of the other politicos in attendance—I could have talked to him all night. His wife came and dragged him away, unfortunately, but not before giving me a series of dirty looks that must have been hard for her taught, tight, plastic-surgery-stretched face to make.

I went inside to find a bathroom, and took a few hits from the bullet, put on more lipstick and wandered back toward the bar where I ran into a very excited-looking Victor.
"Hey! I've been looking all over for you. Where have you been?"
"Veranda," I pulled up the straps on my dress. "How's your nose?"
"Good," he rubbed it and looked at the back of his hand. "Let's go into the ballroom. Patrick is getting ready to make a speech."

The speech, thankfully, was short and sweet, reminding us of how important it was, in general, to exercise our right to vote, and how important it was, in particular, to vote for _____ ____ and his cronies. But what I found more interesting was something the southern judge mentioned when we were out on the veranda: Patrick Kennedy's cousin, John Jr., was rumored to be engaged to one Carolyn Bessette, a publicist for Calvin Klein. A video of the two of them arguing in Central Park had been making the rounds on tabloid TV for weeks, and in the video, it looked like he pulled a ring off of her left ring finger. Someone asked Patrick Kennedy about it; he demurred in a way that made it seem like it might not be just idle gossip. The room, of course, started buzzing. After that, the rest of the speeches were a total letdown. I was trying to stifle a yawn.
"Hey," Victor whispered and squeezed my hand, "Just a little longer, okay?"
Def saw us and came over, "Hey Victor. Iseult, you're looking lovely."
"Thanks. You look great, too," I gave him a kiss on the cheek.
"Thank you, thank you. So listen, man, I just heard that we can take off whenever we want. Just be down at the Statehouse tomorrow at 7:30."
"Cool. Thanks, man," he and Def did some complicated handshake thing. Then he put his arm around my shoulder, "Let's get out of here."

I took off my shoes as soon as we got in the car and when we pulled up to Victor's apartment, he ran around to my door and threw me over his shoulder, carried me up the stairs. He was in such a good mood: Apparently, _____ _____ had said a lot of glowing things about him to some important people.
"So even if he loses in November, I still have some other contacts if I want to go to D.C." Victor pulled a bottle of champagne out of the fridge, "How would you feel about living in D.C.?"
"I don't know," I pulled my right strap back up, "I mean, I think it's nice. Lots of good museums—"
"Yeah, but," he handed me a glass, "how would you feel about living there with me?" He got up and put a CD in—Sinatra Reprise. He liked to listen to Frank Sinatra when he felt celebratory. Then he went to the bookcase and took out the rest of the shitty coke out of the fake dictionary, "You know, townhouse, nice car, white picket fence, etcetera?"
I was at a loss. He'd talked before about wanting to get married, but I never let myself think about those old conversations, given how things were going now, "Well, that's—wow—"
"Wait—you don't have to say anything. Let me talk," he was cutting out lines on the Sinatra CD case. He slid it toward me and handed me a rolled up twenty, "I just can't imagine not being with you down the road." I inhaled a thick line and my nose started to burn. "I mean, I know that you probably want to sow some oats, or whatever, and maybe eventually we'll need to take some time apart for you to do that. I wouldn't want to marry you and have you always wonder what it would have been like to be with other guys," he took the bill and inhaled a line. "Well, only if you want to, that is," he took off his tie and undid his cufflinks. "Do you?"
I almost choked on my champagne, sputtering, "What?"
"Never mind. Whatever—it'll all work out," he slid the straps off my shoulders. "I've really missed you," and kissed my collarbone. It felt so familiar and normal—a memory of one of our first dates flashed into my head:

Victor had been working all summer at the local golf course, and right before he left for Ohio State, he said he wanted to do something special. We went to dinner, drank a lot of bad Chianti, and ended up back at the golf course. He'd learned how not to set off the alarm system, so we made our way to the ninth hole where, earlier in the day, he'd hidden a bottle of Cold Duck in a bucket that he put in the stream near the hole. He'd also brought along a blanket, a tiny tape deck and an old, tinny-sounding Frank Sinatra tape. We had plastic champagne flutes, but eventually tossed them aside and drank straight from the bottle. We made out on the green, walked through the sand traps, talked about the future, about how he wanted to be a politician and I wanted to be a writer. We stayed out there until the sprinklers went off in the morning.

It was one of my favorite memories of us. I was wearing a strappy dress that night, too, and the way everything felt at the moment felt exactly like it did back then.
"I miss you, too," I reached for his shoulders and pulled him on top of me.
"Wait," he sat back and moved toward the coffee table. "Let's do a few more, first, okay? I feel like celebrating."

*****
Victor fell asleep right after we had sex, but I couldn't. I pulled on his t-shirt and went out to the living room to smoke. Is it possible, I thought, as I stared at the photos of us on the bookshelf, to be in mourning for something that isn't dead?

Frank Sinatra, Sinatra Reprise
Never purchased.