Toxicology Page 13

  Ladies and ladies, gentlemen and gentlemen, the pages are blank and the music has long been forgotten. The Widow Eleanor, aka Picasso, is still banging around the kitchen by the time her neighbors finally arrive. Mimi and that surly kid of hers—what’s her name? Violet—are surprised to find the apartment free of clutter and grease and dust. Eleanor greets them in the foyer with a tentative smile.

  Do I look like a clown? Eleanor asks, rather coyly. I hate when she stoops to fishing for compliments. The mongrel bitch knows perfectly well that she looks good. She’s paid attention to her hygiene and taken the time to brush and pin up those long, silver tresses of hers. Ooh-la-la. Girlfriend’s even thrown on an exquisite, moth-eaten caftan and put on red lipstick. A little smeared around the edges, but who gives a fuck? Chin up, shoulders back, tits and pelvis forward.

  Mimi’s never seen E so grand and femme. Dangling earrings of garnet and silver, rings and bangles of carnelian and turquoise, embroidered Moroccan slippers. Neo-hippie wardrobe and jewelry courtesy of the Museum of Yvonne.

  You should wear that outfit to your reading at Volga, Mimi says, following Eleanor into the open kitchen. Very glam.

  Eleanor glances at Mimi’s bandaged arm. How’s the arm doing?

  Mimi gives a little shrug. Eleanor stirs her simmering curry with a wooden spoon. I may cancel, she murmurs.

  Mimi stares at her in disbelief. What? Oh, no, Eleanor. You can’t.

  Oh, yes I can. I’m old. I can do anything.

  You go, Eleanor. Violet giggles and heads straight for the sofa and the remote.

  Project Runway’s on, she announces gaily. Woo-hoo. Season finale!

  Absolutely no TV tonight. I forbid it. Eleanor turns off the stove.

  You’re fucking kidding, right?

  No, Violet. I’m fucking not, Eleanor says.

  Mimi starts to say something, thinks better of it, and remains silent.

  Pour us some, Eleanor says to Mimi, meaning the open bottle of white rioja on the counter. A bottle that is already half empty, mind you. To Violet, who is pouting, E says, Didn’t forget about you, dear. There’s plenty of Orangina in the fridge.

  I prefer wine, the kid says.

  Eleanor turns to Mimi. Do we have your permission?

  Mimi shakes her head. School night, sorry.

  Work lights from the construction site seep through the blinds in the living room. Those fucking lights are on all the time, Eleanor grumbles. Night and day, rain or shine.

  Mimi looks out the window at the building. At least it’s not another Richard Meier.

  Natalie Portman and the Olsen twins are moving in, FYI. Violet’s slumped down in a funk on the sofa.

  Mimi makes a “no shit” face. Where’d you hear that?

  Violet shrugs. Perez Hilton. Gawker. I dunno.

  If Yvonne were alive, she’d put those twins in one of her paintings. I saw them this afternoon, says Eleanor.

  Violet brightens. You did? Where?

  On Bleecker, Eleanor answers. Spooky little things, they are.

  The ladies take their place at the table, which is covered with a dazzling ikat fabric woven by land-mine amputees in Siem Reap, Cambodia. Eleanor’s outdone herself. Candles, a vase of perky daffodils, little jars of various condiments. Mimi’s baffled by all the fuss, Violet profoundly bored. The kid’s laying it on real thick, still furious about missing her season finale. A giddy Eleanor dishes out hearty servings of prawn curry and saffron rice, ignoring Violet’s Just a little, please, bit of admonition. Eleanor does a sloppy job, spilling sauce on the silk tablecloth. Oops, she murmurs. Eleanor looks down at her hand, then around the room. Maybe sensing a presence, maybe not. She raises her wineglass in a toast. To beautiful food. And beautiful neighbors. Even the kid has to smile. To Beauty, Violet says, raising her glass of Orangina. And the Beast! For a brief instant, death is nothing but a tantalizing whore with a knife in her hand. For a brief instant, everyone is happy and content.

  Mimi realizes she’s famished and digs in to the fiery curry. Poor Mimi. She grabs her water glass and starts drinking.

  I used those deadly little peppers. Can’t take it? Eleanor asks.

  Guess not. Mimi pours herself more water.

  Water only makes it worse, Eleanor says. She turns to Violet. Are you on some kind of diet? You haven’t touched your food.

  I’m in mourning, Violet answers. Great Beasty is dead.

  Of course. I understand. Maybe you can have a little dessert when we’re done, Eleanor says. I made rice pudding with cardamom from scratch.

  No thank you, says Violet.

  Tonight is almost too easy, but I’m having fun. What a delicious disaster. Eleanor keeps glancing at the door, like some trembling ingenue waiting for her first love. Praying that Benjy and Nneka will surprise us all by showing up. Fool. The pages are blank, the music long forgotten. Would you believe the way Bolaño’s being fetishized? Eleanor says to no one in particular. He must be laughing in his grave.

  Who’s Bolaño? Violet yawns. Mimi thinking of a polite way to exit. The pizzeria run by the Pakistanis delivers until midnight. Their pizzas are gooey and salty, just what she and Violet crave.

  And that VH1 tribute to Romeo Byron was on again today, E continues, oblivious. Did you catch it? Bunch of crap. Interviews with people who didn’t even know him. Everyone lying through their teeth!

  Sucks, mumbles Violet.

  Sucks indeed, Eleanor mutters.

  I had no idea you were such a fan. Mimi’s face is flushed; she’s on her way to being drunk. Never mind the shitty food, the weird atmosphere, the fact that her lips and tongue are burning. Happy drunk makes up for all of it. Mimi reaches for another bottle of rioja—You mind, Eleanor?—and opens it. Refills Eleanor’s glass and hers. Violet frowning.

  Mimi raises her glass of wine. To Romeo!

  To the dead, Eleanor says. She drinks, eyes fixed on the door.

  Are you expecting more people? Mimi asks her.

  Hell no.

  Violet turns to her mother in frustration. Can I go? School tomorrow—remember?

  You can’t leave yet, Eleanor interjects before Mimi can answer. I need two sets of eyes to help me find a painting.

  Mom.

  I’ll stay and help Eleanor. You go on home, Mimi says, trying to appease Violet. She is not too drunk to miss the implication of the word home. Whose home, et cetera.

  Why can’t you come with me?

  I won’t be long. Good night, Violet.

  Violet slams the door when she leaves.

  Your kid’s a royal pain in the ass, Eleanor says.

  Mimi unmoved. Yeah, so . . . We gonna look for this fucking painting, or WHAT?

  They get down on their hands and knees and look under and behind the sofa, the desk in the study, Eleanor’s bed. Mimi pulls aside the shower curtain. The painting of the jaguar/woman made her heart stop the first time she saw it. Dark, smeared, hauntingly familiar. Mouth wide open, ready to swallow the world.

  You sure you didn’t sell or give it away? Mimi asks, sober by now. They are back in the living room. Eleanor’s long white hair has come undone. She looks ancient and ravaged, more beautiful than ever.

  No, Eleanor says. I would never do that.

  Mimi takes a deep breath. That painting was, like, the size of a wall. It can’t just disappear.

  Yvonne hid it. Don’t you see?

  You’re giving me the creeps.

  Eleanor chuckles. That’s ironic, coming from you.

  Mimi gets on her feet. I’m going home. You should get some sleep. You look like you haven’t slept in ages.

  Sleep’s for the young. Eleanor reaches into the pocket of her caftan and pulls out a vial. She unscrews the cap/spoon, aware that Mimi is watching her intently. The lost pages, the forgotten music, the dead silence.

  They were at it for a while. Three in the morning, maybe later. Picasso outdid herself, Picasso splurged. So what if the old girl’s mind is gone and she can’t cook anymore? Mimi
thinks. I’ve achieved a raggedy nirvana, a fleeting bliss.

  Eleanor?

  Yes, dear.

  I’m broke.

  Which means?

  Can’t get my movie made.

  Finished your script?

  Well—

  All about money, huh.

  Always.

  Bullshit.

  What do you mean, bullshit?

  Your first movie was made on the fly, with a lovely cast of amateurs and very little money. Why not do it the same way again?

  Mimi tries not to tremble from all the coke. The way it came together was a miracle. I didn’t know what I was doing.

  My wings flutter. Eleanor feels something brush against her skin and slither out of the shadowy room. She wants desperately to follow but crawls over to the credenza instead. What are you doing? Mimi asks in a wan, dejected voice. Eleanor combs through her library of DVDs until she finds Blood Wedding. It’s about time you saw this again, kiddo.

  Blood Wedding

  Casting the movie had been a hoot. A blast, a goof. The only professional hired was a ghostly, fifty-something-year-old tweaker named Irene Sykes. Her résumé was impressive, though badly in need of updating. There had been a recurring role as a judge on Law & Order back in the nineties. Bit parts on gritty HBO dramas. Oz. The Wire. Irene had even made a killing as the voice of the queen bee in an animated national commercial for Feminex, a drug used to control bladder leakage in women. Side effects may include: headache, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, dry mouth, panic, anxiety, and abnormal dreams. Desperate Irene had burned some bridges and was willing to work for scale with a first-time director. Mimi couldn’t believe her luck. Against everyone’s advice, she cast Irene as the bride’s vengeful mother. Mimi believed that attention, flattery, and encouragement were all that Irene Sykes needed in order to deliver. Her strategy worked. Irene’s memorably bizarre performance was cited by discerning critics and fans of shock and gore. Mimi’s secret nickname for her: Irene Yikes.

  A blast, a goof. Bobby agreed to play the groom. It was a nonspeaking part; all Bobby had to do was stand there and look pretty. And after weeks of dispiriting auditions with perky blondes fresh out of drama school, Mimi decided to cast the unknown and untried Darlene Drayton (born Perpetua Cienfuegos in El Paso, Texas) in the starring role of the bride. She was a stripper friend of Bobby’s, lovingly described as an amazon goddess with charisma, brains, and perfect boobs. Big, but not too big. Firm, but not too firm. None of that implant shit, know what I’m sayin’? Darlene gives you real.

  A blast, a goof. The story of Perpetua/Darlene got juicier every time Bobby told it. Mimi was sufficiently hooked to keep listening. Darlene was a distant cousin of Bobby’s, some sort of business associate from the old days. Running shit across borders and continents on Bobby’s behalf, living a thousand lives. High-school dropout, runaway, autodidact, reformed crackhead, yoga devotee, voracious reader of poetry. Some of Darlene’s favorite poems: “Somnambulant Ballad.” “Monologue of a Dog Ensnared in History.” “You Bring Out the Mexican in Me.”

  She had done time and deserved a medal for what she’d been through. But most of all, Bobby said, Darlene deserved a medal for being a heroic single mom to little Isis.

  A stab of jealousy. A cigarette. Mimi bursts out laughing.

  Oh. My. God.

  What.

  The way you’re talking.

  What.

  You’ve never gotten over it.

  What.

  Saint Darlene.

  Bobby’s smile was cagey. Want her in your movie or what?

  I dunno, Bobby. Can the bitch act? The kid yours?

  He kept smiling. She could not read his face.

  The more cautious and sober members of Mimi’s production team grew worried, detecting faint whiffs of destruction in the air. But Mimi was not to be stopped. She was determined to meet and audition Darlene.

  Boomerang was a so-called gentlemen’s club out by Newark Airport. The club’s flashy Web site boasted VIP amenities, full bottle service, prime rib, and the most beautiful exotic entertainers in the world. Darlene was in the middle of her act when Mimi and Bobby walked in on a Saturday night. Every seat was taken, so they headed straight for the bar. Bobby had a little chat with the cheerful topless bartender, who seemed to be fond of him. Two generous doubles of Cuervo Gold suddenly appeared. Mimi made sure to sip hers.

  The topless girls had it down to a science, managing to stay out of harm’s way as they doled out platters of lukewarm nachos and four-hundred-dollar buckets of Smirnoff to the tense, horny men in the audience. All eyes fixed on the fierce, intimidating woman dancing before them, naked except for her high-heeled patent-leather boots and the tiniest of G-strings. A husky male voice crackling with anger and desire rapped on the sound track. Pussy. Fame. Money. Betrayal. Vengeance. Death. The rhymes were hokey and uninspired, but it didn’t matter. The men grew quiet as Darlene caressed herself in a hot, white circle of light and gyrated slowly to the pulsing, ominous groove.

  Mimi, who was the only woman in the room with all her clothes on, stood close to Bobby. They had done a few lines in his Camaro before going inside the club; Mimi was feeling antsy and vulnerable. She was definitely turned on by what was happening onstage, but also profoundly detached. Like she was already dead. Bobby, on the other hand, was in his element and could not shut up. He ordered another round, without bothering to ask if she wanted it. Darlene’s been taking acting lessons with this guy, Stein. Guy’s old and doesn’t take just anybody. Works with all the cool people. Ethan Hawke. Marisa Tomei. Romeo Byron. That fat dude who won the Oscar—what’s his name? Bobby waited for Mimi to provide him with the answer, but she was distracted by Darlene’s lewd interpretation of a yoga scorpion pose. The audience went wild.

  They drank and watched Darlene do her thing, watched the audience make fools of themselves. Darlene was hot, Bobby cocky and proud, clapping and whistling when Darlene’s set was over, a stab of jealousy, Mimi thinking she was in love with Bobby and could that ever work?

  Are we going backstage? Mimi asked him.

  The bouncer with the shaved head was right out of central casting. Big, buff, probably on steroids, and just back from Iraq, ready to protect Darlene Drayton from the hammered frat boys and melancholy stalkers who might be lurking in the shadows. Except nothing was happening, and he was bored. At the sight of Bobby, he perked up. ’Sup, man? Long time no see. Bobby didn’t bother introducing Mimi and whispered something in the bouncer’s ear instead, making him laugh. The bouncer pulled aside the dusty black velvet curtain to let them through. Backstage at Boomerang was a bleak affair. She’s the only one with her own dressing room, Bobby said as he knocked softly on Darlene’s door. They were happy to see each other. You could tell by the way Darlene’s face lit up and Bobby’s, too. Mimi felt another pang, but Darlene was quick and held out her hand. You must be Bobby’s friend the filmmaker, Darlene said. Not like she was making fun of Mimi, but with a warm smile. Bobby said just enough about the movie to stoke Darlene’s interest even more, then left for the parking lot with the bouncer. Who wanted to check out Bobby’s restored ’98 Camaro, maybe do a little blow. Get twisted.

  The women compared snapshots of their daughters. She’s an old soul, Darlene said, studying Violet’s somber class photo. Who doesn’t like me very much, Mimi said. Typical mother-daughter shit, Darlene said. It’ll pass. What sign are you? Scorpio with Gemini rising. For real? So am I. Sweet, Mimi said. I’ll do your movie for no money if you like my audition, Darlene said. Meeting you is a sign. Your movie is a sign. I believe in signs.

  Word, Mimi said. Whatever Darlene needed to hear.

  Bobby came back in a funny mood. He asked them if they wanted drinks, then offered to get them high, as much as they wanted, excellent rock from God-knows-where in Colombia or Bolivia, take it from me, ladies, you won’t need very much. Mimi said yes to a drink—straight up Patrón, this time please, Bobby—and of course she said yes to more of his b
low but tried to act cool around Darlene and not sound too eager. Darlene said no to everything. Since when? Bobby asked. Darlene rolled her eyes. Since the last time I told you. No shit, Bobby said. Darlene winked at Mimi. Gotta tell it like it is, girl. The body is a temple. And now that I’m a movie star . . .

  In spite of all the lines they had done, Eleanor and Mimi kept nodding out. Mimi didn’t mind the nod. She was sick of Blood Wedding, sick of Eleanor yammering about it like she always did. Though it was mad funny, she had to admit. How the two of them kept waking up at various intervals to the same damn opening scene, wondering if the disc was damaged or if they were stuck in a dream. The eerie sound track didn’t help.

  Sudden banging of piano keys, water dripping, a child crying softly in the distance. Alas, one of the few delights in this infuriating, delirious, often incomprehensible little horror film is the stunningly effective score composed by director Mimi Smith.

  —KEVIN JAMAL STOKES, SF Bay Guardian

  Not quite. There was never any money to hire a real composer, so with the help of GarageBand, Sounddogs.com, and her Mac, Mimi was forced to become one. Carmelo was surprised when Mimi called, asking if she could come over to record him. Doing what? Cecil Taylor meets Chopin. I need you to mix it up and freak ’em out, Mimi said. Carmelo laughed. Then he told her to fuck off and leave him alone. He hated the idea of Mimi showing up at his apartment with some DJ/audio engineer/one-night stand of hers in tow. He had not played in years, and the piano he owned was nothing but an upright piece of shit. Mimi cajoled, cursed, and pleaded until Carmelo finally broke down and agreed. It took all night, a lot of blow, and what seemed like hundreds of takes, but the music he came up with was perfect. Ominous, spare, tinged with sorrow. Carmelo refused to be acknowledged for his contribution and asked that his name not appear in the credits. Mimi remembers hearing him grunt as he played. A long-overdue elegy for their murdered parents was buried somewhere in those deep, dark chords. She believes it to this day.