Toxicology Page 11

  The rain slackened a bit on the day of my escape. I refused to get out of bed and pretended to have the flu. Everything hurts, I groaned. Mother laid a hand on my forehead. At least you don’t have a fever. Hurry and get dressed. The boat will be here soon. We don’t want to be late. I’m too sick to go to work, I said. They’ll dock your pay, Mother said. Or replace you. And me. We’re lucky to have jobs, Agnes.

  My tears looked real. What could Mother do but get on that boat and go to work by herself? Now or never, Agnes. I put on my clothes, made the sign of the cross, and got on my knees, begging God to forgive me as I reached under the bed for the tin box. I stuffed the money next to my father’s letter at the bottom of my shoulder bag, which looked like leather but was really plastic and—I prayed—waterproof.

  The Road of Massacred Innocents was the town’s only connection to the highway and General Johnson beyond. I knew that the road was gone, replaced by a muddy sea of floating trees and dead things. But I went there anyway and stood on a soggy embankment, waiting. If I were patient and prayed, something good would happen. In a soft voice, I sang to myself:Milkfish / peanut / coconut /

  Agnes’s little bushel /

  Agnes’s little hut /

  eggplant / okra / purple yam /

  the rooster’s crowing /

  he’s too impatient /

  the goat’s by the river /

  wondering where I am

  The sound of a sputtering motor silenced me. I crouched in the tall, prickly grass jutting out from the embankment. A long wooden boat painted many colors came slowly around the bend. I sighed with relief. Shakespeare sat at the forward end. An old man, tattooed from head to toe, squatted by the motor on the back end. The most voluptuous and popular whore at Comfort Spa sat between them. Her name was Tiny. Tiny’s son, Darling, a boy of two, sat on her lap. Have you lost your mind, Agnes? Shakespeare stared at me, amazed. I held the bag high and waded out to the boat. The water was deeper than I thought it would be, swampy and full of twigs, rocks, and shards of glass that got in the way. If I had to swim, I would.

  Crazy woman. The devilish grin on Shakespeare’s face made me blush. He had gotten me alone and drunk on his boat more than once. Shakespeare would paw at me, going on about how pretty I was. Prettier than his wife, prettier than Tiny, prettier than all the pretty whores at Comfort Spa. He’d trace the scar on my cheek with the tip of his finger. It makes you more beautiful, he’d say. Then we’d kiss. Sometimes he reeked of fish. Sometimes of cigarettes and other women.

  I hoisted myself onto the boat, almost tipping it over. There are too many of us, and we’re all going to drown in this water! Filthy, filthy water! Tiny shrieked. Shut up, or I’ll throw you and that fucking kid off this boat! Shakespeare yelled. Darling burst out crying and hid his face in his mother’s ample bosom. Tiny attempted to comfort the child and patted him on the back, glancing nervously at Shakespeare. The boy would not stop crying. May I hold him? I asked her. The boy stiffened and kept wailing but then slowly relaxed in my arms. He finally quieted down. What a sweet, pretty boy you are, I cooed. You’re good with children, Tiny said with a forlorn smile.

  The boat moved through the main part of town, past what used to be the mayor’s fancy house (a dog barked at us from the mayor’s roof), past what used to be the Temple of St. Lucy’s Eyes, past Comfort Spa & Massage, Rudy’s Unisex Hair, past the old schoolhouse and all that remained of the Tasty Yummy Bakery. Tiny suddenly came alive. That’s my mother’s place. Stop so I can get off! Your mother’s been evacuated, Shakespeare said. I’ve told you that a thousand times. Can’t you see? Nothing’s left. I want to see for myself, Tiny said.

  Shakespeare signaled the old man to kill the motor. Keep your shoes on before getting in the water, I warned her. Tiny lifted her ruffled skirt of glittering mirrors and carefully lowered herself into the murky water, which came up to her neck. I handed Tiny her child. Holding the boy high above her head, Tiny waded toward the partially submerged bakery. Crazy woman. Shakespeare shook his head in disgust. The old man spit in the water and started the motor.

  I was sorry to see her go. What’s going to happen to them? I asked. Shakespeare gave an impatient shrug. We retreated into a world of silence, except for the sputtering motor and the screeching of a solitary hawk circling the skies. The huge, stinking corpse of—I thought it was a man—bobbed in the water, so bloated it was about to burst. No one said anything. Then came a wounded horse trapped in a tangle of fallen trees, eyes bulging in panic. Screaming as only a horse could. Do something! I grabbed Shakespeare by the arm. Stop looking at it, Shakespeare said, pulling a .45 from underneath his shirt. He shot the thrashing horse between the eyes. The sound was deafening.

  The boat moved past the massive iron gates of Infinite Technology. I gave a somber little wave to my mother inside. I felt a twinge of shame and remorse, knowing that she was hard at work, that she was going blind, that I might never see her again.

  Can you take me to Lizard Point? I asked Shakespeare. Too far, Agnes. Not enough fuel. I have to catch a bus, I said. Shakespeare’s tone was scornful. And where do you think you’re going in a bus? To General Johnson, I answered. I’ll look for a job. Get my own place. Then maybe I’ll go somewhere else, get a better job and a bigger place. Then maybe, who knows? Shakespeare laughed. Stop dreaming, Agnes. I have money, I said quietly. I can pay for the extra fuel.

  Beast in the Mirror

  Violet puffed away on her last rolled Drum as she studied her reflection in the faux-antique mirror. Which her parents—when they were still together—had found dumped on a sidewalk in Chinatown. The full-length mirror—with its cheap wooden frame painted a tarnished gold—was one of a handful of things Mimi didn’t get rid of after the breakup. Weird, Violet thought. Très, très weird. She lifted her arm and struck an angular pose, her facial expression sultry and remote. Like Karmen Pedaru in that hot Rodarte dress in the last issue of W. Violet could see herself in it—a dress that didn’t look finished, that was tattered and full of holes and cost something in the vicinity of eight thousand dollars. Violet puckered her lips and blew circles of smoke at the mirror. She was trying not to think about her current sucky situation. Ten pounds overweight, failing nearly everything at school, always broke. She hated being so utterly dependent on the largesse of dear ol’ Mom and Dad, so at their mercy, so fucking enslaved. And why were the last ten pounds always the hardest to lose? When she turned eighteen . . .

  She saw herself on the beach in Santa Monica, accepting the Independent Spirit Award for Best Director in the Rodarte dress and her cowboy boots. Or maybe Sundance. Where she would be the youngest and only director to ever win all the prizes at once—the Grand Jury Prize, the U.S. Directing Award, and the Audience Award. Except at Sundance she’d definitely have to wear her North Face over the fragile little dress. Violet might even bring her mother as her date, maybe acknowledge Mimi from the podium as she smiled and gave her witty speech. The audience would cheer and applaud, suddenly realizing who Mimi was. Stand up, Mom!

  Her father had offered to pay for a haircut but was always short of cash. Probably blew it all on that little shipment from Mexico. Violet knew that once she moved back in with her mother, Dash was going to stop being so generous. She sighed. How she longed to have money of her own. Maybe she should go into partnership with Charlie and deal acid or coke or E at school. Except Charlie was a reluctant dealer, jumpy and paranoid about getting caught. She did not like the idea of getting busted and thrown in some juvenile-detention facility upstate, getting gang-raped with a broomstick by a bunch of sadistic prison guards with nothing better to do. So maybe a regular baby-sitting job made more sense, like Kenya had. Except babies were a drag. So maybe Starbucks. Patrice, Kenya’s older sister, worked the one by Lincoln Center and made okay tips. And the one thing Violet knew was how to make an excellent cup of espresso. She could see herself as a barista, but did Starbucks hire fourteen-year-olds?

  New zit on her chin. Inflamed, gross. Maybe a
fucking boil or something. This always happened right before her period. Period. What a dumb word for blood gushing out of your vagina every month. Her mother was right. Sometimes English just didn’t cut it.

  First things first. The funky vintage look had to go, the cowboy boots and frumpy thrift-store dresses that stank of mothballs even if you washed them a hundred times. She needed a serious makeover, needed to change her life, maybe kill herself, maybe hook up, enough already with this virgin shit, she should hook up with Omar or Charlie. Charlie was one of her two best friends (Kenya being the other), truly sweet and truly sexy. And gay. Or so he said. Always striving to be outrageous and different. Violet didn’t care. She was smitten the moment she first laid eyes on him. Mr. Pavino’s class. Global History. Part One: The Egyptians.

  Beast in the mirror. On its back, claws in the air. Smoke.

  Violet was a baby then, but she remembers the day Dash and Mimi found the mirror on Doyers Street. Remembers the day vividly, as if. How bright and brisk and clear, perfect for a stroll. I remember the weirdest shit. Like being born, she once confessed to Kenya and Omar and Charlie when they were high. Bethanne may have been there, too. They were in Charlie’s room, lying next to one another on Charlie’s king-size bed, listening to Manu Chao, to Violet describe her dreams and brag about her special powers, laughing hysterically at nothing. At one point Charlie got up and began to dance in exquisite slow motion. Omar grabbed Charlie, and they kissed. Violet remembers that all the girls were giggling, finding it all strangely beautiful and . . . well, hot.

  Her parents were young. Dashiell tall and aloof, Mimi still flabby from having been pregnant. Violet remembers her mother not being her usual grumpy, preoccupied self that day. Remembers how carefully her father navigated the secondhand baby carriage through the narrow, teeming streets crammed with jabbering women doing their Sunday shopping. Remembers being four months old, awake and alert in her carriage. It was her mother who spotted the mirror. Violet remembers the fishy stench from the bagged-up trash piled near the curb. Remembers her mother calling out to her father. Dashiell . . .

  Her father slipped the heavy mirror on top of her folded-up carriage in the trunk of a cab. Violet remembers how her mother held her close on the bumpy ride home, remembers being jostled as her mother suddenly leaned over to plant an unexpected kiss on her father’s mouth. As if. In love, if love, were they ever?

  Violet remembers being five years old and waking up to the beast howling in the alley outside her bedroom window. It was raining hard, and she didn’t want to go to school. She hated school, hated being around rude, giant, stinky kids who loomed over her and made ugly faces. She remembers refusing to get dressed. Standing in the middle of her room in her frilly panties, sobbing. Her sobs almost as loud as the beast’s mournful howling. Her parents argued in the kitchen about Violet’s behavior, about money. Then her father left, slamming the door behind him. The beast was suddenly silent, and Violet grew silent. She peered out the window, saw nothing but sheets of rain. Her mother stood in the doorway of her bedroom and began pleading with her. Mama has to go see someone important, Violet.

  Is it the doctor?

  No. It’s about work.

  Movie work, Violet remembers herself saying.

  Yes, her mother said, smiling. Movie work. But if you don’t get dressed and cooperate—

  There’s a monster in the alley, Violet said.

  Violet and her mother were waiting to cross the street when the animal started howling again. Violet let go of her mother’s hand and ran out from beneath the umbrella. Her mother chased after her, shouting, Be careful! Violet approached the drenched and cowering animal. Its right ear was torn off and bleeding. The animal growled and hissed but didn’t flee. We’ve got to save it, Violet said.

  She was picking at the red, angry-looking zit when her mother walked in with a bag from Whole Foods. Whole Foods? Violet tried not to sound too disappointed.

  Eggplant and goat cheese, Mimi said. On ciabatta.

  But I wanted bacon, Violet said.

  I thought you didn’t eat meat.

  I love the way you make bacon, Violet said.

  If you don’t want the fucking sandwich—Mimi’s arm was throbbing. She slipped off her jacket and let it fall to the floor. What she needed was a goddamn nap.

  I WANT IT. Violet grabbed the bag and sat down at the dining table. She tore open the sandwich wrapping and began to eat. Mimi sat across from her and watched.

  Wow, Mimi said.

  Wow what? Violet defensive, chewing away.

  Would you like a plate?

  Violet grunted and shook her head. The sandwich gone in a flash. Violet burped. Eleanor came by, she said. All dressed up. We’re invited over later for dinner. I don’t want to go.

  Eleanor’s a good cook.

  I don’t care, Violet said. She stared at her mother’s arm. ’Sup with those bandages?

  It’s nothing, Mimi said. The vet insisted on fixing it. After a pause, she said, He asked me out.

  Ewww. Violet was not in the mood to hear about her mother’s sex life or some creepy potential suitor. I wanna be a vet. Don’t you think I’d be good at it?

  Yes, Mimi said. I actually do.

  I called Dashiell. Told him I was staying with you.

  Mimi waited. Dash was a volatile subject between them. She knew she had to be careful.

  He was pissed, Violet continued. Tried not to show it. Acting all cool and stuff.

  Mimi made an effort to sound gentle. You sure about coming to live with me?

  You’re my mother, Violet said.

  She was not finished, following Mimi into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of Mimi’s bed as Mimi kicked off her shoes and lay down to rest. And by the way? Uncle Carmelo called my cell. Said he’s been trying to reach you. Said why bother having a cell if you never have it on? Started shouting all this stuff, like it was my fault, really fucking psycho. I wish—I really wish you’d stop giving out my number!

  I’m sorry he upset you.

  I didn’t understand what he was shouting. It wasn’t even English!

  Your uncle gets very emotional, Mimi murmured, closing her eyes. I’m sure he didn’t mean to—

  HE DID. Violet waited for a response that never came. Her mother had finally succumbed to her exhaustion. Violet sat on the edge of the bed and watched her mother sleep. Mimi lay on her back, hands clasped and resting on her stomach, mouth slightly open. Her dark, unruly hair fanned out on the pillow. She looked dead.

  Jaguar

  Ixtlala was where I met and fell in love with Yvonne. I was old when I first laid eyes on her. Not old old like I am now, but old enough to worry about making a fool of myself. Yvonne was twenty years younger, a restless beauty with terrifying eyes, a strong face and body, full of life. Thirty-five to my fifty-five, if you must know. I always thought she would outlive me. I always thought a lot of people I cherished would outlive me, as a matter of fact.

  IXT-LA-LA.

  What exactly does it mean? I asked Felix Montoya.

  At one point in my life, I had spent a lot of time in Mexico, but the town of Ixtlala was new to me. A tourist destination high up in the mountains, approximately 23,175 inhabitants, one of its most prominent being moi, Felix said. He was toying with me, having a high old time.

  Felix, please.

  Ixtlala is impossible to translate into English.

  Try, I said.

  Serpent of the Starry Sky. Land of Mirrors. River of Tears and Eternal Remorse. Take your pick, Eleanor.

  Poetic.

  It’s the Aztec in me, darling.

  It was my first day there, and the altitude was giving me a headache. Felix wanted to show off by taking me to La Fonda, a former colonial hacienda that had been converted into a restaurant. It was his favorite place, he said. The service was impeccable. The food was to die for. I remember we had to dress up. We sat in the courtyard, knocking back shot after shot of pricey tequila reposado and sangritas. We were suppos
ed to be having lunch. Solemn waiters hovered close by, anticipating our every need. Birds trilled in the lush, vibrant foliage. The sun was shining, the baroque fountain in the center of the courtyard gurgling merrily away.

  I feel like I’m in a movie, I said, trying to ignore the dull, persistent pain in my temples.

  You’re not, Felix said, giving me one of those cryptic smiles. The walls are splattered with blood and too much history. But the waiters are sexy and cute, no? The young ones anyway. He scanned the glossy, oversize menu. You must be starved. We should order some chilled pomegranate soup to start. Specialty of the house.

  Felix gestured for a waiter. Rattled off a list of delicacies: Chilled pomegranate soup, followed by grilled shrimp and squash blossoms. The inevitable guacamole, freshly made before us on a heavy molcajete made of black stone. A basket of steaming, tiny tortillas. How’s the new book coming along?

  That’s a deadly question for a writer, answered Felix, downing the last of his tequila. Let’s talk about your love life instead.

  Unrequited: Vicky Gantner (elementary school), Nan (I forget her last name, but I can still see her face), Moss Blake (Yes, Moss Blake. I’ll admit I found him attractive. Didn’t you?).

  Loves: Jocanda, Cleo, Annie, Dominique.

  That’s all? You’ve been very selective, Felix said. And now?

  I’m on the prowl. Did you invite Jocanda to my reading?

  Of course. But Mexico City’s a long way away.

  She won’t come.

  She is old and she is frail, Felix said. Not the Jocanda you used to know. Is fine, Eleanor. You are, as you say, on the prowl.

  The town of Ixtlala was famous for its shamans and dream weavers and gringo expats and scorpions and packs of stray dogs and a spooky little pyramid tucked away in a nearby forest. Felix used to say that the forest was also home to an enigmatic, solitary jaguar. If you stay up late, Eleanor, you might get lucky and hear the jaguar’s howl. A howl like no other, he said. Felix was a firm believer in the spirit world. It was one of the beliefs we shared, though I didn’t bitch and moan and brag about it like he did. Felix claimed that he’d not only heard the jaguar, he’d seen it. Of course, he was on a three-day peyote bender at the time. The old shaman Don Rufo had been with him, acting as his spiritual guide. So had Don Rufo’s wife, Susanna, a renowned weaver who went by the title Mother of All Dreams. They, too, saw the jaguar.