God Hates Us All

Tana sounds anxious in a way I can’t quite pinpoint. “Is this something that can wait? Because I can come over now.”

“I won’t be here. Dottie’s booked us haircuts and manipedis. Oh yeah, and a massage.”

“Sucks to be you,” I say.

“I’ll see you tonight.” She hangs up, good-byes apparently having gone the way of hellos. I turn to head back to the freak show in the kitchen, but the circus has come to me. Dad’s framed in the doorway like the maniac in a slasher flick.

“You got a minute to talk?” he asks.

“Sure,” I reply. “Is this about the money you borrowed?”

“Heh,” he says, closing the door behind him. “No.

I’m thinking of leaving your mother.”

The silence gets awkward. “Okay,” I finally say.

“That’s it? Okay?”

“What do you want me to say? ‘Don’t do it’?

‘Congratulations’?”

“You’ve got every right to be angry….”

“I’m not angry. We both know Mom deserves better than you. I’d say that I hope the bimbette is worth it, but knowing you, she’s probably not.”

“Janine. Her name is Janine. We didn’t mean for it to …”

“Dad,” I say, “I really don’t give a fuck.”

He stands up, looking at me as if he wants to say something else. After a false start or two, he claps me on the shoulder and exits.

I spend the rest of the morning hiding out in my room. When it’s time to go to the party, my mom insists I ride in front with Dad. “And away we go,” he says, starting the engine, “to another one of Larry Kirschenbaum’s tax write-offs.”

We finish the trip in silence, turning the car over to one of the red-suited valets Larry has hired for the occasion. Dad makes a beeline for the bar, leaving me alone with Mom. She looks pale. I want to say something, but I don’t know what my father’s said to her. “Go mingle,” she tells me. I give her a hug and wander into the living room.

I’m scanning the crowd for Tana when one of the Naughty Elves appears beside me. Black hair, maybe thirty, with a mole above her lip like Cindy Crawford. Not quite as tall, but she earns major points for her costume: I had no idea elves wore fishnet stockings.

“Sufganiot?” she asks. Her voice is husky. I can imagine her, thirty years from now, playing canasta with a long brown cigarette dangling from her mouth. Strangely, I don’t find this a turnoff.

“Gesundheit,” I reply.

“It’s a jelly donut.”

I should admit that hooking up with one of the Kirschen-baum elves has long been a fantasy of mine. In the past, they’ve seemed remote and unattainable, like supermodels. But now that I’ve spent a little time next to supermodels, an elf from the Island doesn’t feel like such a stretch. “If I were Santa,” I say, accepting a donut, “I don’t think I’d let you out of the workshop.”

She’s already moving away with the tray. “Be careful,” she says over her shoulder. “Bad boys usually wind up with coal in their stocking.”

“What was that?” asks Tana, who at some point has materialized behind me.

“Just me figuring out what I want for Christmas this year.”

“Uh, hi,” she says, annoyed that I haven’t bothered to turn around. My jaw drops open when I do.

“Holy shit,” I say. “Look at you.”

Tana is definitely something to look at. A short black cocktail dress makes the most of her already formidable cleavage. And heels. Tana never wears heels. “Who are you trying to impress? Is Bono coming this year?”

“You could just tell me I look great,” she says.

“You look great. But you could have just looked around the room and gotten the same opinion.”

Indeed, most of the heads are turned her way, their faces forming a continuum between “sneaking glance” and “drooling stare.”

Tana blushes. “I need a drink,” she says.

A few minutes later, armed with spiked eggnogs, we settle into the couch for what’s become an annual Christmas tradition for Tana and me: taking turns guessing the sins of each of the guests.

“International terrorist,” I say of a man with a pencilthin mustache.

“Not even close,” replies Tana. “That’s Mr.

Atkins. Tax evasion. What about the guy over there in the red sweater?”

I see Red Sweater but my eyes keep going until they reach my father. Scotch generally keeps my Dad in one of two states — loose or too loose — but right now he just looks uncomfortable.

He’s glancing nervously at a frosted blonde in a business suit on the other side of the room. She isn’t a head-turner, but she’s attractive. She’s standing next to a tubby, balding guy in a brown Christmas tree sweater. He has his hand wrapped around her waist. They’re talking to another couple, smiling. She looks sidelong at Tubby, making sure his attention is on the other couple, then throws a half-smile across the room to my father. I’m not exactly sure how I know, but I’m sure this is Janine.

“Your ten o’clock,” I say to Tana. “I think it’s the trollop Dad’s leaving my mom for.”

Tana whips around to face me. “Excuse me?!” I quickly bring her up to speed on the morning’s conversation.

“What a fucking prick!” she says, jumping off the couch.

“Where are you going?”

“To find out who she is.” And then she’s parting the crowd, making her way toward the two couples.