Aida is surprised. “But he gave us free drinks.”
Cammie cups her breasts in her hands. They fill them and overflow until Aida is certain they are going to pop out.
“I paid a thousand bucks for these babies and I haven’t paid for anything else since.”
A waiter passing by stumbles at the sight of Cammie. She puts her empty drink on his tray and says in her breathless voice, “A scotch and soda. Tell Fred it’s for Cammie.”
“You bet,” the waiter says.
“Where the hell’s this wedding?” Cammie says, taking Aida’s hand again.
Like she is walking on air, on bubbles, on nothing, Aida glides beside Cammie into the Stardust Room.
IT IS LATER, much later, before Aida is alone with Cammie again. They have had the soup with the escarole and miniature meatballs, the antipasto, the green salad, the ziti, the roasted chicken with potatoes and green beans amandine, the spumoni. There has been dancing to Frank Sinatra, to the Beatles, to the Rolling Stones. Terry and Eddie danced their first dance as man and wife to “And I Love Her.” Aida watched as her sister, her lipstick smeared, her eyelids heavy above red eyes, hung on to Eddie’s neck and Eddie kind of moved her around the dance floor. Too many whiskey sours, too many trips outside with her bridesmaids to smoke joints, had left the bride unable to walk or dance without Eddie’s help. The aunts and Mama Jo and Mama G and Aida’s mother took it for love. “Look at those two,” everyone was whispering. “Can’t wait for their wedding night.”
The cake still needs to be cut and the garter removed and the bouquet thrown, but Terry’s maid of honor, Celeste, is trying to get the bride straightened up enough to perform her duties.
The band begins to play “That’s Amore” and a sigh passes through the Stardust Room. Everyone finds their husband or wife or lover and takes to the dance floor, leaving Aida and Cammie alone at last.
“Do you know him?” Aida asks. “Dean Martin?”
Cammie blows a few perfect O’s of smoke before she answers. “Oh, sure. He’s always in Vegas.”
Aida looks into her cousin’s eyes, which are so bright they seem to be lit from somewhere deep inside her. Her legs shake up and down, up and down as she moves from cigarette to drink to cigarette.
“But do you actually know him?” Aida asks.
The bubble of platinum hair bobs up and down. “He’s come to my show a bunch of times.”
“He has?” Aida says. “Oh God, Cammie, I want to go to Vegas.”
Cammie stubs out her half-smoked cigarette and finishes her millionth scotch and soda. “Sure you do,” she says, distracted. “This place makes me want to jump out of my skin,” she says, not looking at Aida.
Everyone on the dance floor sings along with the band: “Ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling . . . ”
“What’s he like?” Aida says. “Is he funny? Is he suave?”
“Oh, yeah. Sexy,” Cammie says. She plays with the clasp on her purse, snapping it open and shut, open and shut.
When she takes out her bottle of pills, Aida says, “You seem pretty awake. Do you need more of those?”
“These here are different,” Cammie says. “They calm me down.”
“Uh-huh,” Aida says, frowning.
The waiter places a fresh drink in font of Cammie. “From Fred,” he says.
“You tell Fred that if he gets me drunk he’s going to have to drive me home.”
“He forgot my Shirley Temple,” Aida says.
Cammie doesn’t hear her. “Everyone comes to my act,” she says. “Sammy. Joey Bishop. Johnny Carson.”
“Wow,” Aida says, but she doesn’t feel impressed. She isn’t even sure she believes her. She studies her cousin’s face, searching for signs of a lie. Cammie’s makeup is practically sliding off, and everything except her hair and her breasts appears to be drooping.
“What exactly is your act?” Aida asks her.
“Oh, it’s something,” Cammie says. “Everybody who’s anybody comes to see it.”
“I know,” Aida says. “But what is it?” As a child, Cammie was the star of the Al Angelone School of Dance, tapping and shuffling her way across the stage in glittery top hats and sequined costumes. “Is it tap dancing?”
“Kind of,” Cammie says.
Aida sighs, frustrated.
“You want to see it?” Cammie says. She says it like a challenge.
“Yes,” Aida says. “I do.”
Cammie stands up. “I’ll go get set up and then I’ll talk to the band. See if they know my music.”
“Okay,” Aida says.