The Asylum Read Online Free Page A

flight the next day. After a few minutes, she let out a shriek of horror.
    â€œHe’s stolen it! Two packets. I bought it in San Francisco specially!”
    Doris ran into the kitchen, rummaged in the trash can and pulled out two empty Rice-A-Roni boxes. She held them aloft. The expression on her face was much more
“J’accuse!”
than
“J’adore!”
    â€œYou can only get it in San Francisco. The man in the shop said. And he—
he
—bloody ate it!”
    Doris finally calmed down when we took her to the D’Agostino across the street and showed her the shelves and shelves of Rice-A-Roni variants
.
    â€œWhy the bloody hell do they call it ‘the San Francisco treat.’ It’s bloody confusing. Stupid bloody Americans.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    THE FOLLOWING SPRING we planned our usual trip to Miami. Danny seemed even more volatile than usual. Right before departing, he and Henry had a face-off. A bitchy comment sent Danny into a butch tizzy. He made a fist.
    â€œGo on, hit me! It’s what everyone said you would do eventually,” said Henry, sounding very Susan Hayward and film noir–ish. Danny responded by punching a hole in the faux-finished terra-cotta wall behind Henry. (Don’t judge our décor too harshly. Yes, it does sound very naff, but faux finishes were big back then, especially marbling and gold leafing.)
    Down in Florida, Henry and Danny became night owls. We were on separate schedules. I lost track of them.
    On the third day I started to crave a little drama. I wandered down the beach, thinking I might bump into the two lovebirds in our usual spot in front of the Raleigh
.
    Donatella was shooting with Bruce Weber on the beach. Lucie and Daniel de la Falaise were frolicking with white tigers while half-naked boys bounced up and down on trampolines in the background.
    In the gaggle of spectators, I saw a mutual friend who filled me in.
    â€œDanny’s in jail in downtown Miami. He tried to knife a cop.”
    I felt a wave of relief. Danny’s imprisonment was not exactly desirable, but maybe it would set Henry free from the bondage of this exhausting relationship. He was going to end up in the clink sooner or later. Pahty tahme could not go on forever.
    Or could it?
    Danny’s incarceration did nothing to cool Henry’s ardor. Au contraire! I think it actually heated things up. Henry found it HOT.
    He spent the next few months commuting to Miami, visiting Danny and doing everything and anything—I am sure he toyed with baking a chocolate gâteau with a metal file inside—to get him out of jail.
    After those first few months, Danny was transferred to a facility in upstate New York. Henry spent every weekend dutifully schlepping back and forth, taking a bus to a train to a ferry to a train to a bus, all for a half-hour nonconjugal visit.
    Henry seemed to enjoy these seemingly masochistic trips. He told me that he loved to chat with the other broads—note I said “other”—on the bus. They shared feelings of solidarity and beleaguered wifely devotion, plus a few beauty tips.
    â€œNo, I haven’t had time to get my roots done either. And our men all expect us to look our best. They don’t realize what it takes to run a home and keep it together. Aren’t you just
so
tired!”
    Eventually Danny became eligible for parole. Henry attended the first hearing and voiced his unconditional support for his man.
    â€œAnd what is
your
relationship to the defendant?” asked the presiding judge, while peering at Henry—he was sporting Maharishi embellished jeans, a charcoal-black Helmut Lang cotton jacket, Hermès espadrilles, a scarf made from Indian sari fabric, massive Cutler and Gross shades and an elephant-scrotum-size Fendi tote—with undisguised curiosity.
    â€œShe’s my bitch!” interjected Danny. (Much tittering in the courtroom.)
    Henry leapt at the