Toxicology Read online

  The bride plucks her own eyes out and doesn’t scream. She drops her eyeballs on a small silver platter and takes the platter with her as she begins her climb. Tracking shot as the bride ascends the steep, winding staircase of an empty house. Her wedding gown is splattered with blood. Her face. Water slowly drips and segues into steady rainfall, then into a choir of chanting female voices (referred to in Mimi’s script as “a choir of blind, grieving mothers”). The gibberish they chant sounds vaguely like Latin. The bride with no eyes is guided up the stairs by some inner force. She never stumbles, turning corners without pause or complaint. A shadowy figure waits at the top of the stairs. The camera zooms in—

  Mimi used the remote to turn the movie off and tried to remain calm. Her sinuses and lungs were clogged. She was forced to breathe through her mouth. The sudden silence woke Eleanor. What happened? Where’s Violet? Did we find it?

  Violet went home hours ago. And no, we didn’t find it. Mimi stretched her arms and got off the sofa. I should go. Violet will be up soon.

  Wanna pick me up?

  That coke’s garbage. I truly worry about you, Mimi said.

  You worry about me? Don’t blame the product, little girl. Admit you pigged out, like you always do.

  I’m dying here. My nose—

  Eleanor was not impressed. There’s Afrin in the bathroom. Help yourself.

  The medicine cabinet was a cokehead’s dream. Mimi was amused to find more than one kind of Afrin. Original, Severe Congestion, Extra Moisturizing. She chose Severe Congestion, tilted her head back, and squirted it into her nostrils. The effect was miraculous. Next to the row of Afrin was a prescription bottle of Dilaudid made out to Yvonne Wilder. Expired but definitely still potent, Mimi thought. She jammed the pill bottle into her jeans pocket before sliding the cabinet door shut.

  Eleanor was bent over the coffee table, scribbling in the kind of notebook Violet used in school. Fresh lines of white powder were laid out on a rectangular piece of glass. Mimi hesitated, then weakened and sat back down. In the middle of writing, Eleanor suddenly threw the pen aside and studied her right hand. Hideous, she muttered grimly. Fucking hideous. Eleanor picked up the glass straw and snorted a couple of lines. Her tone was brusque. Which books of mine have you read? Maybe none of them?

  Eyes of a Jaguar.

  How’d you manage to find it? It’s been out of print for years.

  Got it from an online reseller for fifty cents. Plus shipping and handling, Mimi couldn’t resist adding.

  Eleanor burst out laughing. Fifty cents!

  Hardcover, in mint condition. I’ll give it to you.

  It’s not very good. I don’t want it.

  How can you say that? It’s your work.

  Precisely, Eleanor said. A long, uncomfortable moment passed in which Eleanor stared with longing at Mimi. Finally Eleanor spoke. How much do you need to make your next movie?

  Mimi did a fat line. You fucking with me, Eleanor?

  I want to help you.

  Because you wanna fuck me? I know you wanna fuck me.

  If I were sober, we could argue about using the term fuck, but now’s not the time. Do you find the idea of an old woman lusting after you repugnant? Grotesque?

  You’re high and lonely, Mimi said. This is all about Yvonne.

  Don’t tell me what this is about. Ever been with a woman? Eleanor took note of the faint blush spreading across Mimi’s face. The bitch was clearly flattered.

  This must be one of your standard pickup lines.

  Keep stalling, Eleanor said.

  Think I’m a whore?

  Go ahead and be a whore if it excites you, but know this. I’ll give you the money for your damn movie no matter what. That’s how much I love you. Eleanor got on her knees and with surprising force spread Mimi’s legs with her clawlike hands. She sniffed at Mimi’s crotch, murmuring, Lovely, lovely, as she struggled to unzip Mimi’s jeans. Mimi was horrified and aroused. It would’ve been easy to stop Eleanor from going any further, but she didn’t. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Violet was probably awake.

  You wet? Of course you’re wet. Mimi closed her eyes as Eleanor began to lick her. The bottle of Dilaudid rolled across the floor. Eleanor was too busy to notice.

  The Brother

  He remembers the cemetery across the street. The house in Colma being small and boxy and hot. Behind the house was a patch of yard with a chain-link fence and a listless rottweiler who was slowly dying of boredom and neglect. The house and everything in it belonged to Evie; she never let anyone forget it. Evie was Uncle Frank’s wife, a hefty blonde with a nasty laugh and glassy blue eyes. Frank adored her. On their way to pick up Carmelo and Mimi at the airport, Evie had asked Frank, So how long these relatives of yours planning to stay?

  He remembers that he was seventeen and on his way to being fat, and that his sister had just turned fourteen when they arrived.

  Carmelo and Mimi slept in the living room. Mimi on the sofa, Carmelo in a sleeping bag on the floor. Sometimes Ray-Ray and Lou, Evie’s two sons from a previous marriage, would drop by to smoke pot and have a few beers with their mother on their way home from work. They acted like Frank didn’t exist. Snickered at the strange music of his English, the way Frank pronounced words like veh-jeh-tah-ball. Ray-Ray and Lou, who’d both been in ’Nam, were overly friendly with Mimi. Carmelo was afraid of them. He and Mimi couldn’t wait to escape.

  The ocean is a mother. Carmelo remembers learning how to surf in Santa Cruz. Going back to the sad, boxy little house in Colma so he could stuff his face and dream at night about his parents. In one dream his mother laughs as she chases a cloud rat around the garden of their old house. A pink satin ribbon is tied around the cloud rat’s neck. In another dream his father clutches a brown paper lunch bag while he walks through a dense alpine forest. In a small clearing, his father looks around to make sure no one is following, then opens the bag and dumps out hundreds of eyes onto the hard, snowy ground.

  Carmelo surveys the living room. The stacks of magazines and newspapers have grown higher. Labyrinths of headlines and bylines, alluring images, fonts of rage. There is still time to save the planet and himself. He could bundle everything up, leave it all on the sidewalk. Bundles of paper, bundles of trees. Clean house. What was it his sponsor used to say? A clean house shall set you free. And yet. The yearning. The sponsor wasn’t very helpful when it came to that. Carmelo had been good. There was nothing in the apartment—no drink, no smoke, no nothing. It was easy enough to make a trip to the liquor store down the block, the one with the bulletproof window. Or call his exwife, Brenda. Brenda would calm him down. Brenda was a woman of faith, an optimist and a striver. Not one of Carmelo’s usual fluttery, vapid girls. She had worked around food all her life; she was not afraid of knives and believed in heaven. They met at an Al-Anon meeting. Carmelo was not the testifying or confessional type; he did not crave attention. He had gone to the meeting out of guilt and desperation, wanting maybe to talk about the burden of being an older brother. Mimi’s enabler. Carmelo liked the word enabler. It was new to him and sounded just about right. The meetings were held on Wednesday evenings, in the dreary parish hall of a Catholic church on the far end of Christopher Street. Carmelo got there early and hovered by the doorway. A children’s tap-dance class had just ended. The large, fluorescent-lit room was bustling with harried women and sweaty, exuberant kids anxious to get home. A sturdy, cheerful-looking young woman entered and began arranging folding chairs in a semicircle. Followed by a tattooed old man with a limp, who was trying his best to help her. The young woman noticed Carmelo. You here for the meeting? Carmelo nodded. Welcome, she said. My name is Brenda. And this is Thomas. Wanna help us set up?

  Why do you come to these things?

  I don’t have to answer that.

  If a guy like me can share, then you can share.

  Sharing’s a good thing.

  ——

  You should feel good about what happened tonight.

  I
shouldn’t’ve said what I said. Don’t like talkin’ about . . . you know. Private stuff.

  It’s not easy.

  How come you didn’t talk?

  No one has to. Listening can be just as useful.

  Yeah, right.

  You’re coming back, I hope.

  Why? Think I’m cute?

  Grow up.

  Sorry. I didn’t mean—

  Whatever, Carmelo. It’s Carmelo, right?

  You bet. But you can call me Melo.

  You believe in God?

  Sometimes.

  I come to these meetings because of Jane, my sister. She’s clean now, but—

  Your sister. My sister. That’s heavy.

  Brenda rolled her eyes. Like I said. Grow up, Melo.

  Usually he got her voice mail. Brenda never answered her cell when she was driving that Volvo of hers, which seemed to be every minute of every waking hour now that she lived in Los Angeles. But today was different. Hey, Melo, Brenda greeted him warmly. How goes it? Carmelo had not spoken to her in at least a year. I can’t believe it, he said. Can’t believe what? She kept up the casual, friendly tone. It was noon in her part of the world. You answering the phone. She was silent, so he tried again. Getting ready for the lunch crowd? Last he’d heard, Brenda and her sister Jane had opened a seafood-and-steak house across from the Marina del Rey Yacht Club. I’m actually home, still in my pajamas, Brenda said. We sold the business. No kidding, Carmelo said. Thought you were doing really well. We were. But everyone was stealing from us. The manager, the bartender, a couple of waiters. Brenda groaned in mock despair. That’s too bad, Carmelo said. You okay? Of course I’m okay, Brenda retorted. Busy finding investors for something new, as a matter of fact. I want to open a dumpling-and-noodle bar. Her tone darkened. You in trouble, Melo?

  Nope.

  Please don’t lie to me.

  I’m not.

  Need to borrow money or what?

  A cousin of mine’s missing. We think she’s been murdered.

  Gee whiz. That’s awful. Is there something I can do to help?

  Don’t hang up on me, whatever you do.

  I won’t.

  Promise?

  Melo, for godsake. After a pause Brenda said, You still going to meetings, I hope. And church. And keeping up with the piano. She was a firm believer in rehab and redemption. And the arts.

  Had a little relapse earlier this year, but—

  What kind of relapse?

  No big deal. I’m back on track.

  That’s terrific. You can do it, Melo. I know you can.

  He imagined her sprawled on some Pottery Barn couch in her cutesy pajamas, a worried frown on her face. You working? Brenda suddenly asked. You’re too old and too smart to keep living like—Brenda stopped herself. She did not want to hurt him. Well, anyway. That job you have at the—Where is it again?

  Brooklyn Museum. Security guard. No longer relevant.

  Oh, God. You quit.

  I miss you, Brenda.

  No.

  You’re the best thing that ever—

  We can’t go there. Brenda’s voice grew sharp.

  Carmelo knew he was blowing it, but the neediness kept spilling out of him. You seeing anyone? It’s okay, you can be honest, I’m cool with it.

  Sorry about your cousin.

  I love you, Brenda.

  I will always be your friend. Whatever you need. I mean it.

  Her kindness stabbed him like a knife. I don’t want to be your friend.

  Brenda sighed. I pray for you, Melo. All the time.

  Their marriage had lasted eighteen months. Carmelo remained sober and clean throughout. He went to church with Brenda and grew thick eating her food. There were those moments. Carmelo would become restless, hang out with Mimi and Bobby and binge. Brenda always knew when Carmelo slipped, but she didn’t call him on it. She watched and waited. One day while Carmelo was out, she packed what was important to her and left. Just like that. Scribbled a terse little note and taped it on the piano. I’m filing for a divorce. Moving back to L.A. Don’t follow me. Carmelo laughed when he read it, thinking it was another one of her pranks. He called Trattoria Barzini and asked for her. I’m sorry, but she no longer works here, the manager said. Tell Brenda it’s her husband calling, Carmelo said, still in a jovial mood. Thinking, They’re all in on the prank. The manager spoke in a gentler tone. I’m sorry, but . . . Brenda quit two weeks ago. She said there was a family emergency.

  In a zombie state, Carmelo walked all the way downtown. It took him close to three hours. Bobby buzzed him into Mimi’s apartment.

  Wazzup man? Long time no see.

  She left me, Carmelo mumbled.

  No shit? Bobby wasn’t surprised. Brenda was a ballbuster.

  Where’s my sister?

  Upstate. I’m supposed to go up there this weekend. This acting shit’s a lotta work. She wants to reshoot one of my scenes. Wanna come? I’m takin’ my ride.

  I wanna get high.

  C’mon, man. You don’t mean that.

  Carmelo looked at him.

  Carmelo followed Bobby into the living room and sat down on the sofa. He closed his eyes. You okay, man? Bobby asked. Carmelo opened his eyes and didn’t answer. Bobby poured them each a glass of Maker’s Mark. They sipped the bourbon in silence. Bobby left the room and came back with a vial of cocaine. He laid out a neat row of lines on the coffee table with his credit card. Carmelo rolled up a twenty-dollar bill and gave Bobby a melancholy smile. Go ahead, my friend, Bobby said.

  EXCERPTS FROM DELACROIX’S 2001 MEMOIR, CALIFORNIA MELANCHOLY

  Handbags

  My mother’s addiction to Benzedrine and gin was no secret in our house. She was also a handbag junkie and had quite a collection—Lucite buckets, beaded clutches, bamboo birdcages, rattan picnic hampers. Whenever in distress, which was often—Mom would run out and buy more. Poor Ann (Ana Rosario Vargas on her birth certificate) was oblivious to the fact that everyone in the family had, at some point, come across the Bennie inhaler and little silver flask stashed away in that alligator handbag of hers. We all pretended that it was perfectly normal. When I was nine, I filched her inhaler and stayed awake for three days. My secret.

  The Wizard of Oz

  But where in Sacramento could Mom go to buy Lucite buckets studded with rhinestones? Did she have to put on a hat and little white gloves and drive all the way to San Francisco? Did she prefer Gump’s over City of Paris over I. Magnin? Did my father approve? Was I forced to put on a Sunday frock and act as her little chaperone on these excursions? Did we have tea and crumpets at Blum’s? What year are we talking about? What kind of car did my mother—I mean Ana Rosario—drive? Was she a reckless driver? Did I listen to the radio and daydream while she drove? “Over the Rainbow”? “Strange Fruit”? Who was marching into Poland while I daydreamed? Did Ana smoke Kents or Chesterfields while driving? Did my father approve? Why did Ana forbid me to call San Francisco “Frisco”? Did she actually say it made me sound like a sailor? Was I with her when she picked up that sailor in Union Square? Was I with her when she took him to the Clift Hotel? Did she slip me money and send me off to see The Wizard of Oz by myself? Did a man move down next to me in the dark theater and rest his clammy hand on my thigh? Did I let him slowly pull up my skirt? Did I hold my breath? Close my eyes? How many times did I sit through the movie?

  The War

  Two of my brothers were killed. Another—a survivor of the Bataan Death March—went crazy.

  Jealousy

  I ended up being fucked by Jocanda Fox in more ways than you can imagine. Completely destroyed, but wanting more. Jocanda was quite open about her long-standing relationship with the infamous, cross-dressing bolero singer Magda Beltrán. She bragged about being Magda’s main paramour quite often, as a matter of fact. Jocanda enjoyed making me jealous. I soon discovered that jealousy made for great sex.

  “Noche de Amor.” “María Linda.” “Alma de Mujer” (supposedly written for Jocanda). �
��La Gitana.” And there was that other song, “Lágrimas Negras,” which Magda didn’t write but turned into a big crossover hit. I remember hearing it on the radio and wishing her dead.

  The Mexicans revered Magda Beltrán. Her tragic boleros and distinctive, sandpaper voice moved them in profound and mysterious ways. Magda broke all the rules. She was ugly but sexy, carried a switchblade, was fond of guns, cursed, drank, smoked Cuban cigars, seduced married women, and dared to write songs about her conquests. Magda Beltrán’s carefully constructed image was of a dangerous dyke cowboy, albeit one with a noticeable limp. Compared to her I was nothing but a bore. Little Mary Sunshine from Sacramento. College girl. Earnest, pallid, provincial. A bore.

  Taboo

  I was home for the holidays when I decided to announce that I was in love with a woman. The war was over. My parents went about their business with their jaws clenched, incandescent with grief. Quietly drunk and buzzed by five in the afternoon. Only one son left who was sane and alive. And he was out of the house, living in another state with his own secrets. And then? There was the daughter. Me. A puzzle. My affair with Jocanda Fox—illicit, taboo, exciting—made me feel strangely powerful. I was high on sex, high on loving women and myself, indestructible. Either too dumb or too defiant to keep my mouth shut.