Toxicology Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  OMG

  Eat the Gun

  AKA Picasso

  God Sends Me to Speak Boldly to You

  Treatable. Incurable.

  Slave

  End of the World

  Save Me, I’m Drowning

  Prodigal Daughter

  Las Meninas

  The Animal Waits for Her

  Visitation

  Gone Missing

  Love

  Souk

  Prelude to My Life as a Horror Movie

  Beast in the Mirror

  Jaguar

  The Duende Speaks

  Blood Wedding

  The Brother

  God & Smoke & Amber

  Serve & Volley

  Bodhisattva

  Holy Thursday

  Somnambulant Ballad

  Violet Smith

  Also by Jessica Hagedorn

  Dogeaters

  Danger and Beauty

  Charlie Chan Is Dead: An Anthology of

  Contemporary Asian American Fiction (editor)

  The Gangster of Love

  Burning Heart: A Portrait of the Philippines

  (with Marissa Roth)

  Dream Jungle

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland

  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell,

  Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632,

  New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2011 by Viking Penguin,

  a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Jessica Hagedorn, 2011

  All rights reserved

  Publisher’s Note This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  Hagedorn, Jessica Tarahata, date.

  Toxicology / Jessica Hagedorn.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47644-4

  1. Neighbors—Fiction. 2. Women motion picture producers and directors—Fiction. 3. Women authors—Fiction. 4. Older women—Fiction. 5. Female friendship—Fiction. 6. City and town life—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 7. Manhattan (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.A3228T69 2011

  813'.54—dc22

  2010035379

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  FOR THE GHOSTS

  When something bad happens, sometimes you wanna be a part of it.

  —VIOLET SMITH

  La verdadera lucha es con el duende.

  —FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA,

  from “Play and Theory of the Duende”

  The true—struggle, fight, whichever you prefer—is with the duende.

  —ELEANOR DELACROIX

  OMG

  It was Violet who texted Mimi and broke the news. Her message all in caps, to emphasize the importance and gravity of the situation. Fourteen-year-old Violet, of all people, had her little finger on the zeitgeist.

  OMG MOM HES DEAD TURN ON CNN NOW!!!

  Romeo Byron the He who was dead mysteriously and suddenly, the news of it traveling so swiftly that by the time Mimi got to East Third and First, a vigil was already in progress, media trucks lined up and the rubberneckers having a field day, a phalanx of cops guarding the entrance to Byron’s brownstone, Mimi thinking that some of the younger rookies were probably fans of the moody star, thrilled to be at the epicenter but trying not to show it. So what if this took all night, so what if it was cold, so what if the crowd was growing bigger and kookier by the minute, so what if they weren’t getting paid overtime, so what if the economy sucked, so what if the ME was stuck in traffic? This was history, a fucking for-real New York moment, tragic and amazing, and they—startled rookie cops fresh from the academy—were the chosen ones. Guarding the entrance to his house, privy to all the weird shit and rumors about him, what happened and why, who was in the joint when it happened, alla that. Weird shit. For example Johnny Depp may have been a houseguest, for example Chloë Sevigny stopped by the night before with Benicio and one of the Olsen twins, the really scuzzy one who’s always photographed with a Venti-size Starbucks to-go clutched in her little hand. A cup no doubt filled with vodka. Or maybe that’s Lindsay Lohan with the vodka. Or Jay-Z. Whatever, they were all his friends. Wait a sec. I heard that Romeo Byron had no friends. He may have been a sweet, salt-of-the-earth, give-you-the-bling-off-my-back kinda guy, but I heard the kid didn’t have, didn’t want or need, any friends.

  Truth.

  Mimi edged up to a dapper old man who looked like her father, Balthazar, might have looked, had he survived. Have they brought out the body? The old man sipped discreetly from a flask, dressed for the winter in a dark green trilby hat and a finely cut coat. Probably cashmere. He seemed amused by her question. Meat wagon hasn’t gotten here yet, pretty lady. The firemen and EMS are inside, CSU, borough chiefs, more cops. Too many people, if you ask me. What’re they all doing? Mimi asked. What do you think they’re doing? The old man playful, sarcastic. I dunno, Mimi said. Interviewing witnesses? Swiping souvenirs to auction on eBay? Taking pictures of the body with their cell phones? The old man appraised Mimi with a hard, shrewd gaze. Eyes that had seen everything, yet friendly. And though he was a man well past seventy, it didn’t stop him from flirting. Other big shots are on their way, he said. The commissioner for sure, maybe even the mayor. They all show up when someone high-profile dies and the dying stinks.

  Excuse my asking, Mimi said, after a pause. You a retired detective or something? Maybe I am, the old man said. And you? Some kinda reporter or something? Mimi was about to lie, then decided against it and shook her head. Didn’t think so, the old man said. You aren’t dressed right. No tienes frío? The old man taking in the hatless head, gloveless hands, the ratty scarf carelessly wrapped around her neck, the inadequate jacket she wore over her jeans. I was in a rush
, Mimi said. Had no idea how cold it was. The old man offered Mimi his flask. Mimi hesitated, sorely tempted. She had not eaten all day. Go ahead, the old man urged in a gentle voice. It will keep you warm. Mimi took the flask and drank. So, the old man said, after a long moment. You are one of the dead man’s grieving fans?

  She lost him in the swelling crowd. One minute the dapper, courtly old man was standing beside her, the next he was gone. His name, he’d told her at one point, was Mauricio Silva. Damn, Mimi thought. Why didn’t I take Mauricio’s picture? But instinct told her that Mauricio Silva would’ve refused.

  Mimi tried to get closer to Romeo Byron’s brownstone, but there were too many people in the way. Still, she had a great view of the wide stone steps leading up to the front entrance, where the tense cops stood guard. The fans had left their humble offerings along each side of the curved wrought-iron railings: flowers from the local deli, flickering votive candles, teddy bears clutching satin lollipops in their paws, little airplane bottles of vodka, heart-shaped Mylar balloons, handwritten farewell poems tucked into envelopes addressed to “RB.” Mimi wondered if there was some way she could steal the life-size cardboard cutout that some fan had propped up against the façade of the building. Romeo posed as Doppelganger, a smirk on his ghoulishly made-up face. Doppelganger was the lead character in the soon-to-be-released movie of the same title. Based on a popular manga series, the ode to violence had cost $200 million to make and was shot on location in New Zealand and Morocco. Sweet Romeo Byron had never played such a freaky villain as this. I am your mirror. I am your dreams. There was much advance buzz, audacious sneak peeks on YouTube. Mimi knew that the movie was going to be horrible and crass and brilliant. And now that he was dead, she, along with Violet and thousands of other people, could not wait to see it.

  Mimi took the Flip video out of her bag. The camera so compact and unobtrusive it fit in the palm of her hand. She glanced around. Violet, no doubt, had cut school. She was somewhere in the vicinity, somewhere in that milling crowd with her posse of feral friends. Kenya, Charlie, Omar, Bethanne. The party in full swing. Mimi began shooting, aiming the lens at the anonymous-looking building, panning across the teddy bears and candles and flowers, the bereft fans, the cops, the reporters. A tear fell. Then another. Mimi kept shooting, disgusted with herself. She was not one of his tweeting stalkers, those pathetic scholars of Romeology who made it a point to know where he lived, who he fucked, the kinds of books and music he loved, the kinds of muffins and dope he consumed for breakfast. There was no reason for her to cry. People like Romeo Byron messed up and died young all the time. It came with the territory.

  She agreed with the zealous fans on one thing. Romeo Byron was not afraid to go there. To watch him act was a joy, scary and moving, almost embarrassing. Mimi’s gaze wandered up to the dark row of windows on the top floor. Where his bedroom was supposedly located. The blinds were drawn. There was a hush and a stillness to the building, as if it were frozen in time. Mimi thinking, The entire nation is already so fucking depressed. I’m so fucking depressed. What if Romeo’s death were just another prank or hoax? She imagines the blinds pulled up by unseen hands. The lights coming on. Romeo Byron standing at a window, smiling that ambivalent smile of his. She imagines an angry, disappointed fan shouting from the street: We got punk’d!

  Believe. Romeo Byron was the actual name on his birth certificate. He was an only child. Father a physicist, denied tenure at Stanford, sixty-one years old and in the early stages of dementia when Romeo was born. Mother who, except for an exquisite, limited-edition, hand-stitched chapbook, was an unpublished poet and short-story writer, about to turn forty. Imagine the shock that she had managed to conceive after all those years. Imagine the awkward delight, the shame and the dread. Mimi remembers Violet reading something online (TMZ? maybe TMZ) about Romeo coming home from school to discover his mother hanging from a beam in the master bedroom. He was nine years old.

  There was a housekeeper and a personal assistant who came and went seven days a week, also a sometime girlfriend who was pregnant with Romeo’s baby. She was a nobody who lived in Paris and planned to raise the child as a single parent, according to Violet and Entertainment Tonight. Whether any of it was true, for all intents and purposes Romeo Byron lived alone in the three-story brownstone. Its proximity to the Hells Angels clubhouse had been a major selling point, according to the interview real-estate broker Jill Stockhausen later gave to Dateline NBC. Romeo liked the idea that the Hells Angels were right across the street. He went on about karma and synergy, Stockhausen said. Stuff that made no sense to me. I mean, what synergy? Romeo was wussy about motorcycles, and frankly, those guys made him nervous. Yet he was attracted, Stockhausen said. She also said, with a soft, self-deprecating laugh, We were in the same acting program at Juilliard. He was my friend.

  Romeo was murdered by drug dealers, was molested as a child, was bipolar, was genius, exhausted, brokenhearted, had stopped taking his meds, had mixed up his meds, had chronic insomnia, had committed suicide, had simply fucked up big time, had OD’d.

  The medical examiner finally arrived. At five in the afternoon, exactly five in the afternoon! Mimi checked her cell. Well, actually, it was more like 5:49 P.M. She slowly elbowed her way through the throng. They could be bringing him out at any second. Him the corpse, the shell of Romeo Byron. The seconds and minutes ticked by. The hours. Mimi was amazed by her willingness to stand there and wait. She and the throng so mesmerized by that nondescript front door, so fucking patient, so fucking rapt and coiled tight, not wanting to miss a thing. To pass the time, Mimi shot footage of the rather quaint Hells Angels clubhouse of orange bricks, zooming in on the black steel door with its gaudy mural of demons, skulls, and yellow-orange flames. Mimi thinking, How very Halloween. Yet it evoked a certain power. Mimi realized that there was no reason for her to be surreptitious about filming. Not a grizzled Hells Angel or a Harley chopper in sight, which was actually quite disappointing.

  Night had fallen, and it was colder than ever. A young girl in a skimpy Juicy Couture sweat suit stood in the middle of the street, trembling and disoriented. O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? she wailed, possessed. Mimi pointed the camera at her.

  The front door was held open by a cop. The EMS guys wheeled Romeo’s body out on a metal gurney, trying their best to ignore the circus of downtown freaks and paparazzi gathered outside. Hundreds of cameras went off at once, flashbulbs popping like gunfire, lighting up the night. Random sighs curses and moans from the throng. Love, Mimi thought. One love, and why not? Him zipped inside a black plastic bag. A small, insignificant lump that jiggled on the gurney as the nervous EMS guys hurried to get everything into the waiting van and drive away. Yo, that wuz some sad, sick shit, one of them will say later to his wife.

  That’s a prop! A decoy! Not him! The Juicy Couture girl rocked and keened. Mimi kept the camera on her. Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die, / Take him and cut him out in little stars, / And he will make the face of heaven so fine . . . The Juicy Couture girl fell on her knees in the street, closed her eyes, and clasped her hands in prayer. Her lips were moving, but the camera wasn’t picking up any sound. Mimi tried getting closer to her, but a cop got in the way. Another cop started yelling through a bullhorn. Come on, people! Move it! Go home! The party’s over! There’s nothing for you here! Mimi put the Flip video back in her bag and started walking west, exhausted and drained by the histrionic displays of emotion. The walk would do her good. Wouldn’t it be sweet to run into someone, someone she knew and liked and trusted, and maybe get high? Who was in town? Who was feeling compassionate and magnanimous, who wanted to share? Mimi turned up her collar and walked a little faster. She could feel it now. The cold.

  Eat the Gun

  She slept until the next afternoon. Don’t be afraid, Romeo Byron said in her dream. The ceiling and floor and walls of her bedroom were swarming with caterpillars. He stood in the doorway, edgy and distracted, completely naked. His long, stringy blond hair w
as damp. A gun dangled from his hand. Mimi tried to say, I had a good time at your vigil, but the words wouldn’t come. Was she lying down or sitting up? Her body a Flip video, aimed at a burning star.

  What I’d give for sardines, Romeo said with a sigh. Bread and peppers and sardines!

  You gonna shoot me? Mimi asked.

  Prop. I’m doing Hamlet at the Delacorte.

  Romeo lay down under the covers and closed his eyes, the gun still clutched in his hand. Mimi straddled his sleeping body and yanked a caterpillar out of his left ear. Romeo opened his eyes and grinned. Thanks, he said. You’re an angel.

  Mimi felt the sudden urge to fuck him. Or bite his neck and draw blood. A secret she must keep from Violet. OMFG, Violet!

  And for such a small boy, you’ve got a humongous head.

  A movie star’s head, Romeo snapped. His tone became desperate. I’m hungry, woman. Please. Help me out.

  Eat the gun, Mimi said.

  She woke up drenched in sweat, yet cold. The blankets were on the floor. Was the beast still alive? She hated the gloom of winter and felt the faint beginnings of an old, familiar dread. It always started the same way—the utter aloneness, a queasiness in her gut. Then the endless, terrifying litany of what-ifs. Mimi forced herself to get out of bed and turned the lights on. Better. In the bathroom she peed, then washed her face and quickly brushed her teeth, avoiding the mirror above the sink. She turned the lights on in the narrow, windowless kitchen and tried not to look at the beast lying in the box. The beast was lying very still. Mimi brewed a small pot of Bustelo for herself. She emptied the pot into a large mug and drank it, black. The coffee was strong and made things worse. She ran back into the bathroom just in time to throw up in the toilet. She felt lost, still in her dream. How could she have slept so late? She rinsed her mouth out and brushed her teeth a second time, trying not to puke again. What she needed now, what she really needed now was—