Stud Rites

the middle of his stomach before dropping pitifully to the floor.
    The gasps and laughter were inevitable. Mavis, the mother of the bride, did not join in. In ringing tones, she demanded to know who the hell was responsible for this inexcusable screw-up.
    Instead of answering directly, the manager apologized. ”An unfortunate miscommunication,” I heard him valiantly maintain.
    With a look of scorn that would have set lesser men aflame, Mavis exercised the organizational skills that she must have developed in planning the wedding.
    Rounding up various waiters and waitresses, she held a huddled conference. Then she announced the results to the entire Lagoon: ”In the kitchen, our beautiful cake was clearly labeled WEDDING. Then it was moved into the corridor, where it sat completely unattended! And while it did, our label was maliciously replaced with a card that read LAGOON!” Her voice quivered. She cleared her throat and glared at the manager. ”Maliciously replaced by a heavyset woman who was observed by one of your waitresses in the vicinity of our cake!” Turning to address us all, she continued, ”By a heavyset woman that this same waitress had previously observed on the grounds of this hotel walking a DOG! ”
    Which waitress was now apparent. A woman in a sarong was slinking out of the Lagoon. On her face was a big smirk.
    ”Darlene!” the manager called. ”You will get back here this minute and help us straighten out this misunderstanding! Why in God’s name didn’t you stop this individual, whoever she was, from fiddling with the labels on the cake?”
    ”I didn’t see her touching the label,” Darlene answered so defiantly that I could hear, see, and smell the lie. ”I thought she was just looking at the cake.”
    ”And do you see this woman here? Is she here now?”
    Darlene nodded. In response to a request from the manager, she pointed a finger straight at Sherri Ann Printz.
    Sherri Ann bounded from her chair. ”I damned well went nowhere near that cake!”
    ”Oh, yes you did!” Freida charged. On her fleshy bosom, the gold malamute seemed to frown. ”And I don’t know how you did it, but you got the entrees mixed up, too! From the moment you arrived here, you have done nothing but cause trouble, trouble, trouble! You are a jealous, spiteful woman, Sherri Ann! And I have had all I intend to take from you!”
    With that, Freida stooped, grabbed two huge fistfuls of the sugary glop at Harold Jenkinson’s feet, marched over to the Printzes’ table, and, with both hands, smeared Crystal’s dark chocolate wedding cake, apricot icing, and confectionery flowers all over Sherri Ann’s astonished face.
    The silence in the Lagoon was absolute.
    Excusing myself, I went to the bar, ordered a double Scotch, and drank alone. Downscale really is beneath me.
     

 
     
    I AWOKE at three o’clock, stumbled in the darkness to the bathroom, and hunted through my two cosmetics bags. Reluctantly, I looked in Leah’s numerous makeup kits, searched through the beautifying debris strewn around the sink, and checked the travel cases Leah uses for her hair dryer and her rechargeable toothbrush. Inspired, I tiptoed back into the room, got my purse, returned to the bathroom, and, in its bright light, discovered that I’d used the last spare tampon I always carry. Suppressing a sigh, I padded back into the room and eased open the closet door. The dogs stirred. ”Shh!” I told them. On my knees, I located my big soft-sided suitcase and blindly ran my hands over its interior, including the side compartments. I hate to admit that I looked in Leah’s handbag, too. Nothing. I’ll skip the gory details and report only that the situation was dire.
    After making do with the scanty supply of tissues in the bathroom dispenser, I threw on a sweatshirt, jeans, and shoes, and belatedly remembered to take the room key and every piece of change from my purse. I recalled that in addition to miles of mirror and counter, the fainting couch, and the dainty chairs, the big public ladies’ room had vending machines. I slipped out into the silent, empty corridor. As I was passing the alcove that housed the soft-drink and ice machines, a sudden liquid rattle sounded to me like the hacking, coughing ghost of a thirsty, cranky James Hunnewell. Before I even peered into the little room, I knew it would be empty of the quick and the dead alike. The only movement was invisible: the hidden motion of a cycle-shifting motor