Back in the living room, Frank adjusted the lighting, a ritual which I had heard usually preceded grass-smoking. He lit the kerosene hurricane lamp on the mantelpiece and brought in the two candles from the dining room. It was apparent he had smoked before; aside from wondering how often, I wondered where and with whom. I sat on one side of Frank and the friz girl, Sylvia, sat on the other. When the joint had been smoked down to a stub, he held it for her. I didn’t like the way her lips pressed his fingers as she sucked in the smoke.
For twenty minutes or so, I didn’t feel a thing. But when I stood up to get the jug of wine, a flush of cold blood ran from my head to my legs, and I had to stand still before moving.
“She’s stoned,” said Sylvia, as if I had won some kind of victory.
“Hey, Irene, how d’ya feel?” Bernie asked, laughing. The others tittered; their voices sounded hollow and metallic. Since I was the only one standing, I was the center of attention and I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to walk and I wasn’t sure I could sit down gracefully, so I just stood where I was, in line with the blast of the air conditioner. I felt Frank’s hand grip my wrist, his other hand grip my waist, and in one blurred movement I was sitting next to him again. We were all sitting in a circle and for the longest time nobody said anything. Half of them had their eyes closed, their chins lifted in the attitude of receiving a vision. I caught Bernie Golden staring at me with a bold expression I had never seen before. I stared back, dumbly, wondering if I was imagining it. When his mouth formed a crooked half smile, I quickly turned away. What I turned to was no better. Sylvia was leaning against Frank, whispering in his ear, leaning back to giggle, leaning forward to whisper again. She had on one of those muslin Indian tops and no brassiere. When she whispered to Frank, her breasts nuzzled his arm. I made another attempt to get up, but Frank caught my shoulder.
“What do you want, honey? I’ll get it.”
“The wine,” I lied. I wanted to go upstairs.
“And some music, Frank,” said Sylvia. “We need some music.”
“What kind?” he asked.
Don’t ask her what kind! That bitch doesn’t run this house!
“Got any Jefferson Airplane?”
“No.”
“Rolling Stones?”
“Uh uh. We’ve got Mamas and Papas.”
“That’s good. They’re mellow.”
Frank got up. Sylvia lit a cigarette, then turned to me and said, “How do you feel?”
“I feel fine.”
“Good, good.”
Good, good. Who do you think you are? The goddam hostess?
“Look at Tim!” she laughed. “He’s spaced out!”
Everyone looked at Tim and tittered. The boy’s eyes were closed, his mouth open. When he sensed everyone looking at him, he shook his hair off his shoulders onto his back and said, “Wow, am I stoned!”