Toxicology Page 17

  Serve & Volley

  Dashiell’s face did not light up when he spotted Mimi standing in the lobby of 33/33 (aka City Arts Resource Center, 33 West Thirtythird Street). Mimi maintained a neutral expression, as if they saw each other every day, as if neither of them shared a history or a child. She was relieved that Dash was by himself when he stepped out of the elevator. She was in no mood for another awkward encounter with Paula, Dashiell’s boss, or the latest earnest young intern he might be fucking. Dash looked tired and crabby, ready for a fight. Is this about Violet or money? Nice to see you, too, Mimi said. Got time for a quick drink? She was surprised when he said yes.

  He took her to a garish sports bar near Penn Station. The place was crowded with people like themselves, desperate for that first drop of alcohol to kick in and flatten out the edges. Dash ordered two doubles of Jameson’s neat. Mimi thinking she should really insist on wine; the whiskey was dangerous territory. But she didn’t. They slipped into the only unoccupied booth and didn’t say a word until the drinks came. Neither one of them took off their coats, prepared for the worst.

  Mimi spoke first. Interesting, that retro goatee thing you’ve got going on.

  Dash raised an eyebrow and kept drinking. Glad you like it.

  I do. Really.

  How’s the new movie coming along?

  On hold. Money fell through. Ivan and Matthieu—You remember Ivan, don’t you?

  Dash shrugged.

  Well, anyway. They’ve both, like, vanished. I don’t think they were who they said they were.

  Too bad. Dash almost looked happy.

  Mimi took a breath. I may have a new investor, but until then—I’m gonna need you to loan me some money.

  Dash reared his head in mock surprise. Mimi Smith is asking me for a loan?

  Not a lot, don’t worry.

  Why don’t you ask Bobby? He’s a dealer. Must have plenty of loose cash lying around.

  Fuck off.

  Dash was on a roll. Oh, yeah. I heard Bobby’s dead. Is he dead?

  Mimi made a move to get up. Dash grabbed her arm and gave her a pleading look. She sat back down.

  Sorry about that.

  Forget it, Mimi said.

  Who’s the new investor?

  Eleanor.

  Eleanor, Dash repeated. The crazy writer. She’s a big fan of yours.

  Mimi resisted the bait. The money I need? It’s for Violet. She needs her own bed. And some other . . . you know, stuff.

  I’ll do what I can. Things are tight. Paula says more cuts are anticipated. I may not have a job next year.

  Paula will never let them lay you off.

  It’s not her decision to make, Dash said. It’s the board of trustees’ decision.

  Yeah? Mimi rolled her eyes. Then she said, Know what? Maybe it’s time to go back to being an artist. Don’t you miss it?

  She was sticking her neck out by being sincere, and Dash let her have it.

  An artist. Gimme a break. A little too late for that, don’t you think?

  Mimi was silent.

  I’m moving to Fort Greene. Buying an apartment, Dash said, finishing his drink. There. He’d said it.

  Mimi tensed. Then she laughed in disbelief. You cannot be serious. Fort Greene? You just said money was tight.

  My credit’s good. Not like yours.

  Mimi ignored the dig. Paula moving in with you?

  She’s happily married to a nice man with money, which you seem to have forgotten.

  That’s never gotten in your way.

  Dash squelched an impulse to lean across the table and either smack Mimi or give her a kiss. He signaled for another round. Paula loves your work. She’s always loved your work. Why you being such a hater? You’ve always been a fuckin’ hater. Maybe I don’t want my kid living with a hater.

  Violet’s made her decision. Can we try to work this out? For Violet’s sake. Mimi glared at Dash.

  I’m impressed at how mature you suddenly sound, Dash said with a smarmy smile.

  Must be the mother in me.

  It’s very compelling, Dash said.

  Now he was trying to flirt.

  Advantage, Mimi. The drinks came just in time. Mimi nursed her Jameson’s, determined to stay sober. Dash gazed at her while he drank. It was a gaze that Mimi knew too well, filled with anger, resentment, and longing. She felt vaguely aroused by his passion, but mostly she felt sad. Thinking as she gazed back at him, This movie sucks.

  You hungry? Dash asked, trying to sound casual. It’s pub food, but the shepherd’s pie’s pretty good.

  Mimi no longer cared. It’s the baby-sitter, isn’t it? Cheryl the baby-sitter.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  She’s going halfsies with you on the apartment. Doesn’t the baby-sitter come from old money? She went to Bennington or Sarah Lawrence, didn’t she?

  Stop it.

  I could’ve sworn she said Sarah Lawrence.

  Cheryl’s written a novel, Dash said in a quiet voice.

  Is she calling it Adventures in Babysitting? A cheap shot, but Mimi couldn’t help herself.

  Ace. Mimi continued to nurse her drink. Dash ordered another Jameson’s for himself. His face was flushed and crumbling; he was starting to slur his words.

  You wanna get back together? Is that what this is about?

  No, Mimi answered.

  We could go to couples therapy.

  Don’t be ridiculous. That shit doesn’t work, Mimi said.

  Then why rag on me about who I’m fucking or living with?

  I’m a hater, Mimi said.

  The lights in the bar were too bright. The ESPN channel was too loud. Mimi tried to remain calm as she dug into her bag for her wallet. Inside the wallet were a five and a twenty. I’ll come with Violet this weekend to pick up her stuff, Mimi said. Saturday around noon okay with you? Dash didn’t respond. I want you to be happy, Mimi said. She threw the twenty on the table before leaving.

  Bodhisattva

  She showed up at Wanda Fontaine’s door without an appointment, prepared to be turned away. Bobbito opened the door. Mimi broke out the smiles and good cheer. ’Sup, Bobbito? The chunky eight-year-old boy stared back in astonishment. You’ve gotten so—Mimi was going to say big but decided against it—tall. Gonna let me in or what? Bobbito led her to the living room, a jungle of potted plants and mirrors, assorted santos and vírgenes, framed diplomas, blinking Christmas lights. An ornate white cage in the shape of a cathedral housed Wanda’s rambunctious parrot, a Congo African gray named Lázaro. The bird began bobbing and tilting his head, sensing Mimi’s presence. The apartment smelled of fried meat and Wanda’s homemade shampoo-conditioner, a potent blend of avocado, lime juice, tequila, and floral extract. Wanda called it Guacamole for the Head.

  The room was filled with her clients. Women waiting to have their hair done and their fortunes told, waiting to purchase medicinal brews or to order one of Wanda’s three-tiered coconut cakes for a special occasion. A couple of teenage mamas were busy trying to quiet the small, bored children squirming on their laps. There was nowhere left for Mimi to sit. She leaned against a wall and stared at Wanda’s television. She had to smile. Wanda, eclectic and idiosyncratic as ever, had the Tennis Channel on.

  The grueling, glorious final match at Wimbledon between Nadal and Federer was in rerun. Yum, Mimi thought. In a crouch, ready for Federer’s serve, Nadal tugged nervously at a wedgie. That’s one big, fine ass, one of the teenage mamas couldn’t resist saying. Brolic! Rafa’s brolic! the other mama hooted. Fine ass! Brolic! Lázaro squawked. Rafa! Rafa! Everyone in the room burst out laughing.

  Wanda paid no attention to the laughter and continued rinsing out Dinora Blanco’s freshly dyed hair in the kitchen sink. Bobbito poked his head in the doorway. Pop’s girlfriend’s here. His grandmother looked at him sharply, then went on with her work.

  Mimi—Bobbito started to say in a louder voice.

  I hear you. Wanda was not pleased and made no effort to mask her annoyance.
>
  What should I do?

  Tell her to sit. Wait her turn.

  There’s nowhere for her to sit, Nana.

  Then let her stand, Wanda snapped.

  The sudden harshness in Wanda’s voice startled Dinora Blanco, who was already tense. Bobbito knew not to cross Wanda further and left quickly. Wanda turned the water off. Dinora Blanco sat up. Wanda began blow-drying Dinora’s hair. You can pay Bobbito on your way out, Wanda said when she was finished.

  May I ask you something, please, señora?

  If you’re strapped, I can give you a discount. Just remember that next time I may not be so generous, Wanda said brusquely. Timid, ingratiating types like Dinora got on her nerves. She didn’t trust them.

  Thank you for your kind offer, señora. No need for a discount, that’s not what I was going to ask, but thank you, thank you.

  Enough with the thank-yous, Dinora. I have other customers waiting. ASK!

  Dinora pointed to her head of brilliant copper curls. Think this color’s too bright for a woman my age? I’m turning fifty-five.

  Trust me, Dinora. Life is too short. The brighter, the better, Wanda said.

  Wanda Fontaine was a resourceful woman of many talents and sidelines, renowned as a hairdresser and a cook, revered as a healer and a seer. She could read auras, cowrie shells, tarot cards, coffee grounds, tea leaves, the palms of people’s hands, and, most disconcertingly, their faces. People often made the error of referring to Wanda as a santera, which never ceased to amuse her. Wanda would be the first to admit that while she had been permitted to observe and participate in certain covert ceremonies and rituals, she had never officially been initiated into any religion. No animist cult, leopard-worshipping secret society, or voodoo sect could rightfully claim her. Wanda was too independent, too strong-willed to chain herself to one set of spiritual beliefs. She believed that enlightenment could be found in the most unexpected and terrible situations. She also believed in dreams and signs, in demons and angels, in the mystical power of women and animals. She lifted what was best from the isms—Roman Catholicism, Santeríaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Koranism, Lukumiism, Candombleism, Judaism, Rick Warrenism, et cetera—to remix and create her own Temple of Wanda, Our Merciful Lady of the Good Death.

  Bobby used to call his mother “DJ Yeye, the Original Sampler.” Wanda wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  A chair finally freed up. Mimi sat down with a groan of relief. She tried calling Violet’s cell, which went right to voice mail. WHERE R U? Mimi texted. SLEEPOVR W KENYA @CHARLIE’S, Violet texted back. A lie, Mimi knew. Kenya’s churchgoing parents absolutely did not approve of wild-boy Charlie and his loosey-goosey, unwed, celebrity mom.

  It was almost ten by the time the last of Wanda’s clients paid up and said their good-byes. A drowsy-looking, pajama-clad Bobbito came through the living room with a dustpan and a broom, sweeping up crumbs of goldfish crackers and flattened juice boxes. When he was done, Bobbito draped a shawl over Lázaro’s cage. He paused before the television. Want me to leave it on?

  Mimi shook her head.

  How’s it goin’ at school, Bobbito?

  The boy froze. Okay, I guess. Hard.

  And the asthma?

  Under control.

  Under control? Mimi smiled.

  Bobbito shrugged. Yeah. Tha’s what Nana says.

  I bet your grandma stays on you about getting good grades.

  Bobbito gave another shrug.

  It’s late. Way past your bedtime, right?

  Uh-huh. Bobbito started to leave the room.

  Hey, I almost forgot.

  The boy glanced at Mimi warily. He had Bobby’s pretty hazel eyes.

  Heard anything from your pops?

  The boy frowned. Then he nodded and left the room.

  Mimi moved to the sofa and steeled herself for Wanda. Except for the annoying Christmas lights, the room was dark and peaceful. Wanda emerged at long last from her kitchen. Mimi noticed that Bobby’s mother had grown heavy and tired-looking. Wanda swayed slightly as she walked, as if the weight were too much for her knees and her heart to bear. She kicked off her slippers and settled into her dead husband’s La-Z-Boy recliner, resting her swollen feet on a little stool. I don’t like what I see, Wanda murmured, staring at Mimi.

  Mimi didn’t respond.

  Is your daughter safe?

  Violet’s strong. Violet’s fine.

  Are you here about my son?

  I’m lost, Mimi said.

  Wanda snorted in disdain. Lost. It’s because you don’t eat. Why don’t you eat? Never mind. I know the answer to that one.

  If you want me to go, I’ll go, Mimi said.

  Not before I feed the both of us. Wanda got up with a sigh and made her way slowly back to the kitchen. A few minutes passed. Mimi heard the insistent beeping of a microwave. Lázaro, roused from sleep, imitated the beeping sounds. Get off your skinny ass and set the table, Wanda ordered Mimi in a sharp voice.

  Skinny ass! Set the table! Lázaro echoed.

  They sat down to a stew of pork and green chiles over yellow rice, eating in ravenous silence. When they were done, Mimi got up to wash the dishes. Wanda remained at the table, observing her intently. The faint, disturbing aura around Mimi was less evident in the drab fluorescent light. But it was definitely there, and Wanda was not fooled. When Mimi was done with the dishes, Wanda asked her to bring out a bottle and two glasses from one of the cabinets. The bottle was unlabeled, filled with dark rum. A gift, Wanda said, from a very special client. She apologized for not offering cigars to go with the rum. I quit smoking, Wanda said. She gave Mimi a hard, meaningful look. And furthermore, I no longer permit anyone to smoke anything in this apartment. You understand what I’m saying?

  I understand, Mimi said. Her tone was respectful.

  I don’t have what you’re looking for. Got rid of everything evil in my house when I sent my son away.

  Okay, Wanda.

  Okay? So. Now I need to ask you something.

  Mimi waited.

  How’d you get past security?

  Mimi was baffled. Excuse me?

  The guard, Wanda said. He’s supposed to call before letting any visitors up here. Those are the rules.

  A digression: The formidable Wanda Fontaine lived in Building 5 of the towering projects on Ninth Avenue known as the Peter Minuit Houses. The Minuit was where Wanda and her husband, Roberto, had raised Bobby Junior and his three older sisters. The Minuit was where Wanda had watched Roberto rot away from lung and liver cancer. The Minuit was where the Widow Wanda was now raising Bobbito, Bobby’s son by a high-school flame named Yessica. Yessica had moved to Miami and was no longer interested in being a mother. Bobbito’s safety was of paramount concern to Wanda. In fact, safety had become one of her recent obsessions. She was one of many older tenants in the Peter Minuit Houses and was grateful that a uniformed guard sat behind a counter in the front lobby of her building 24/7. Tenants were issued laminated ID cards, and guests were required to sign in and out, no matter how many times they came to visit. It was a soul-crushing way to live, but the Widow Wanda had a practical side. She understood the necessity.

  No one was in the lobby. No security guard, nothing, Mimi said.

  I dreamed you were going to show up at my door. And here you are.

  Mimi emptied her glass of rum.

  You caused a lot of trouble for my son.

  I miss him, Wanda. A lot.

  Wanda spoke calmly, without anger or judgment. But you never loved him. Not the way he loved you. Not the way he loved his family.

  Wanda was wrong, but Mimi didn’t bother denying it.

  And you never loved your husband. What’s his name? He had a funny name.

  Dashiell. We weren’t married.

  If you have a baby and live with that baby’s father, then you are married, Wanda said. You know what I said to my husband after Junior brought you here to meet us? “That girl has bad karma.”

  Mimi made a wan attempt a
t sarcasm. Gee, Wanda. Thanks.

  I see what I see. I know what I know. And—What do you people say?

  Call it like it is.

  Wanda gave a raucous laugh and poured another round. The rum tasted like burning sugarcane fields. Mimi felt the heat coursing through her body. If only she could smoke. Like in the old days, when she and Bobby would drop by to check in on his newly widowed, insomniac mother. They’d hang out all night, smoking and drinking and listening to Wanda’s rambling, grief-stricken monologues.

  You believe in karma?

  Yes, unfortunately, Mimi answered.

  Why unfortunately? You gotta quit being so negative, girl. Check it out. I shouldn’t be drinking because of my diabetes. But in moderation, a little vice can’t hurt. Right? Moderation and a positive outlook. That’s the key. You understand what I’m saying?

  Absolutely. Inwardly Mimi was alarmed by Wanda’s Oprah-esque pronouncements. It wasn’t like Wanda to be maudlin and trite. Mimi hadn’t come all the way up to the sixteenth floor of Building 5 of the Peter Minuit Houses for a touchy-feely lecture on sobriety and moderation. From Bobby’s mother, no less.

  A lot of people think Bobby’s dead, Mimi said. I’m starting to think maybe he is.

  I sent my son home, Wanda said. Where I know he’ll be safe. You ever think of going home?

  New York is home, Mimi said. Fucked up as it is. Fucked up as I am. Why are you still here, Wanda?

  I ask myself that every day, Wanda said.

  It was time. Wanda closed her eyes and placed both hands flat on the table. Her voice grew heavy and dark as the lovely rum they were drinking, rum not from Cuba but from the abyss of Haiti or maybe Guatemala. You hurry into the empty lobby of my building, Wanda said. The guard’s chair lays across the floor. Blood splattered everywhere, even on the walls. But this doesn’t surprise you. The elevators are out of order. This doesn’t surprise you either. You climb the stairs to the sixteenth floor, open the door into a little room. Wanda’s dark, heavy voice changed into the brighter voice of a young girl. You see a small bowl made of tin sitting on a shelf. The bowl is filled with gravy, gravy yellow and thick as wax. You hear rats chirping and scratching behind the walls of the room. Children screaming for their mothers. The children are trapped inside the walls. You hear them trying to claw their way out. You dip a spoon (it just appears!) into the waxy yellow liquid. Tilt your head sideways and pour the boiling yellow wax (which doesn’t hurt you) into your right ear. Straighten your head and look in the mirror. The pain is gone. Everything stops. Wanda made strange faces and moved her head, as if listening for something. Mimi stared at the old woman, riveted. The children. The rats. Everything suddenly silent. Then comes the roar of the bitter ocean. Wanda’s voice changed back into her own. Bitter ocean, Wanda repeated, which Mimi misheard as “Bitter Oshun.” Orisha of love, motherhood, beauty, mirrors, vanity, love, et cetera! Whose color is yellow, the color of madness and daffodils, yellow like the waxy gravy in Wanda’s dream.