Rachel Alexander 09 - Without a Word

unlocking it and holding the door open for me, following me in, slipping off the scarf and draping it over the carousel horse’s neck.
    “Come. Sit down. Make yourself at home. How about a glass of wine? I have a lovely Riesling chilling.”
    He disappeared into the kitchen. I sat on the white couch, Dashiell sitting next to my leg.
    “Any news?” he asked.
    “As a matter of fact, there is.” Waiting to see if that would reel him back into the room, if he’d finished whatever it was he was doing in the kitchen.
    I heard the refrigerator door close and then he poked his head back into the room.
    “About Sally?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you found her.”
    For the moment, I didn’t think he was acting. I thought his curiosity was completely sincere.
    “Actually, I did.”
    He came toward me and sat on the closest chair.
    “After all these years. I can hardly believe it.” Had he gotten paler, or was it all that white around us making it seem so?
    “The wine, love.”Nodding toward the kitchen. “We need to celebrate.”
    “Yes, of course,” getting up, walking backwards for the first two steps, watching me the way Dashiell was watching him. I heard the pop of the cork. I heard him pouring the wine. I heard the floor in the hall creak once, the medicine cabinet open, then nothing for a moment. And then he was back, the bottle in the crook of an arm, a glass of wine in each hand, that million-dollar grin on his face. He must have been a waiter at some point, the way he juggled the open bottle, the full glasses, not spilling a drop. He put one glass in front of me, one in front of him, the bottle off to the side, everything done as precisely as if he were onstage, everything choreographed and just so.
    I picked up my glass and held it toward him, waiting for him to lift his and make a toast. “To Sally,” I said, my smile as big as his and twice as phony.
    “To Sally,” he repeated, taking a small sip. Then, “Tell me everything. Don’t leave out a word.”
    I leaned forward to put down my glass, not paying attention to what I was doing, spilling some of my wine onto the coffee table.
    I got up. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Let me get a paper towel..
    “No, no, I’ll get it. Don’t worry about it.”
    So I didn’t. Instead, once he was out of sight, I took the little white packet out of my pocket and dropped its contents into my glass, watching the crushed pills dissolve in what was left of the liquid. I stirred the wine with one finger, then picked up the bottle and topped off the glass, picking it up, wiping off the bottom with my hand and putting Ted’s glass in the middle of the spill. Never mix, never worry. The Riesling had a slightly darker color than most whites, a stronger, fruitier taste, too. It was one of my favorites, perfect for a variety of occasions.
    Ted wiped the table with a damp cloth, then again with a dry one, wiping the bottom of the glass as I had a moment earlier.
    “You found her?” Shaking his head. “You are amazing.”
    “To me,” I said, lifting my glass.
    He lifted his as well, touching it to mine. “To you,” he said.
    And we each took a sip. In truth, I took a sip. Ted was nervous. He took a swig.
    “What’s that smell?” I said, wrinkling up my nose.
    He looked at the glass in his hand, then at mine, then back at me. “I don’t...”
    “Glue?” I watched his face to assess exactly how good an actor he was. Everything perfect, except the eyes.
    “Oh,” he said, “of course. You’re right. The odor always lingers, no matter how carefully you wash. I got that commercial. They’re always gluing things on me, a bigger nose, sideburns, a bald pate, something. I’m so used to it, I don’t even smell it. Now, don’t keep me in suspense any longer. Tell me how you found her.”
    I sighed, took another sip of wine. It wasn’t the kind I bought, that was for sure. It probably cost three or four times as much. “This is wonderful,” I told him.
    He looked down at his glass, then took another few swallows. “Yes, one of my favorites,” he said.
    “Then we have that in common. At least, it would be if I could afford it.”
    “The commercial work,” he said, leaning toward me, using a stage whisper, as if we were in a crowded restaurant and he wanted to be overheard by people at the next table. “It’s not terribly dignified, but it does pay the rent.” He sat back and took another sip. “So she’s back?” he asked. “She’s here?”
    I