Toxicology Read online

  You dive into the bitter ocean, Wanda murmured. Hoping to find your mother in the bottomless deep. Hoping to find your father. Hoping to find someone else who is lost, covered with branches and leaves.

  Mimi couldn’t resist correcting her. You’re wrong. My parents didn’t drown, Wanda. A bomb blew up in the market, killing everyone there.

  Wanda’s eyes stayed closed. Her face serene and unperturbed, almost beautiful. She drew a deep breath and smiled. Her voice became young again, plaintive and high-pitched. How long must I wait to be found? The forest is lonely, Wanda moaned. Lonely. Lonely. Lonely.

  Holy Thursday

  The washing of feet, the last supper, the reading at Volga. She would finish writing her new piece, throbbing arthritic fingers be damned. Strange how excited she felt. She did not have a title for it yet. But she wasn’t worried. “Untitled” was her back-up, and it always worked. Whether “Untitled” ended up being some sort of condensed narrative of her life or someone else’s, some sort of elegy or confession or manifesto, some sort of dream or poem, didn’t really matter. Strange, exciting, new. What was it young Violet had said to her the other night? You go, Eleanor. And still the option of not showing up at the bar remained a distinct possibility. Looming like the shadow of death or maybe the shadow of a serpentine jaguar on the horizon of her ever-diminishing possibilities. It would have been nice to have birthed a child, someone to whom Eleanor could bestow her—

  Thank God she got Vukocevic’s voice mail. Alex? Mimi. Look. I don’t mean to be a bitch or anything, but I think—I mean, you’re a lovely person, the way you took care of me and my animal, I was touched, I mean that, really mean that, okay? It’s just . . . I am not ready to go out with you or with anyone else, I am not ready for all this attention. You’ve left me, like, eleven messages since we met, for fuck’s sake, Alex! It’s better if you stop calling me, okay? You’re a beautiful man, but. Please. STOP.

  They were lying on his bed staring up at the undulating ocean of Charlie’s ceiling, stoned on the last of her father’s mushrooms, listening to Rufus Wainwright really loud. (Too loud, Violet thought. Why couldn’t Charlie put on Wild Beasts or Lil Wayne?) Blair says Obama’s a sellout, Charlie said. No way, Violet said. Your mom said that? Blair says all that sí, se puede stuff was a load of crap, Charlie continued. That Obama’s really a centrist and she’s sorry she ever volunteered for his campaign. Nothing’s going to change, Charlie said. That’s not true, said Violet. Blair thinks you’re pretty, Charlie said. She thinks Kenya’s pretty, too, but Blair—and here Charlie gave a little goofy laugh—thinks you’re really pretty. Violet remembered she had Wild Beasts on her iPod. Blair likes when you spend the night, Charlie said. Ewww, Violet said. Like maybe someday we’ll give her grandchildren or something, Charlie said. That’ll be the day, Violet murmured. Inwardly she was thrilled. Actually, the mushrooms made her feel like her heart was bursting, like she could fly right up to the sky. Blair knows you’re queer, right? Of course she knows, Charlie said. She’s my mother.

  I’m dreaming again, Eleanor said. Jesusfuckingchrist, Eleanor! Your brain has really and truly short-circuited, Eleanor heard Yvonne saying in an impatient, contemptuous voice. Has the computer finally crashed? It will, mark my words. The cranky voice came from her study. Eleanor got up from bed, went down the hall to her study, and peered in. The desk lamp was on; so was the computer. Her eyeglasses lay on top of the printer. Eleanor went in and put on her glasses. She was anxious to read what was on the computer screen. Had she finished with her new piece? Shit. Five new e-mails in her in-box. Fourteen total, most of it spam. E-mail. This is how I spent my fucking time? Disgusted with herself, Eleanor sat down and signed out. She clicked open the “untitled new” file on her desktop.

  Mimi took the 7 train to Woodside and walked the five blocks to her brother’s apartment building. A note was taped to the front door: BUZZER BROKEN. Mimi called Carmelo on her cell. I’m downstairs. A few minutes went by before Carmelo appeared at the front door. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had a wild look about him, like he hadn’t slept for days. Mimi detected the faint stink of bourbon as she followed him up the stairs to his apartment. They found a woman’s body in the woods, Carmelo said. Out in Jersey. A detective called me. They think it’s Agnes. They need us to go out there and make a positive ID. Mimi made a place for herself on the cluttered futon sofa. It’s Agnes, Mimi said. I know it. You know it? Carmelo ran a hand through his long, unkempt hair, which stuck out in all directions. Dreams, Mimi said.

  Violet was almost as infatuated with Blair Dalton as she was with her son. Blair was a renowned stage actress, fabulous and mercurial. She did plays by Euripides, Beckett, and Tony Kushner. Charlie liked to brag about his mother’s Obie Awards (three) and Tony nominations (one). Blair called acting “my craft” and was a snob about it. She did not do lighthearted musicals or comedies. She did not do movies. “Hollywood has no interest in females over the age of puberty,” Blair once said in an interview in Interview. For some reason she had no problems with television. She had guest-starred on Law & Order (a lot), The L Word, and Sex and the City (twice), and The Sopranos (once). The Sopranos was a very big deal. Violet’s parents were still together then; Violet remembers staying up to watch with them. Blair hardly had any lines, but she had a sex scene and died memorably at the hands of James Gandolfini. Violet remembers how the gruesome episode made her cry. You know how my mother gets when she’s drunk, Charlie said. Thinking everyone’s pretty. Pretty, pretty, pretty, Charlie kept repeating. He had moved on to snorting coke. Are you inferring I’m not pretty? Violet asked, indignant. You mean implying, Charlie said. The person listening—meaning me—is the one who infers a meaning from what the person speaking implies. Meaning you, Violet. Violet watched Charlie snort another line. Charlie and his coke and his boring Rufus Wainwright music were really getting on her nerves. You are so fucking officious and condescending and OCD, Violet said. And pretty, Charlie said. Don’t forget pretty.

  Why not leave her literary estate to Mimi? That would be a hoot. Besides, there was no one left in Eleanor’s life. Well, maybe Benjamin. Of course, Benjamin. Benjy, Nneka, and the beautiful baby who was about to be born. There would be justice in leaving everything to them, but . . . Mimi. True, it was all a bit perverse, what with Eleanor making love to her just the other night. But that would happen once and only once. Which is more than enough for this old writer, Eleanor thinks grimly.

  You gonna offer me something to drink? Mimi asked. Carmelo shrugged. Yeah, sure. Why not? He sauntered into the tiny room where he slept and came back with a half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark. Don’t worry, Carmelo said, disappearing into the kitchen. There’s another bottle. He returned with two clean glasses. Here we go, he said. Mimi did the honors and handed her brother a drink. So what happened? she asked him. Guess I fell into the deep blue sea, Carmelo said. Mimi’s laugh was soft and knowing. Well, she sighed. Who am I to judge? I’m renting a car, Carmelo said. Told the detective we’d go out there in the morning. Frank’s her fucking father, Mimi said. Why can’t he get on a fucking plane and identify Agnes’s body? Uncle Frank’s had a stroke, Carmelo said. That’s why I’ve been trying to reach you. He was in the ICU at Kaiser, but he’s home now. How convenient, Mimi said.

  Violet watched the ceiling burst open, radiating phosphorescent light. Or maybe water. Or Devi’s billowing skirt of mirrors. We’re under the sea or in heaven, Violet thought. She felt the urge to write a poem. She turned and kissed Charlie on the lips, startling the boy with the depth and ferocity of her longing.

  Eleanor’s decision to stop having anything more to do with doctors had everything to do, as you may already have guessed, with watching Yvonne grow sick and sicker and finally, and blessedly, die. Eleanor was not a fan of doctors. She found them lacking in wisdom, humor, empathy, style, and compassion. The only exception was Dr. Sheila Singh, an Oxford-trained geriatric specialist who was Eleanor’s personal physician. The last time Eleanor went to her for a
checkup was four years ago. I am pleased to say that you are in robust health for a woman of your age, Dr. Singh had said in that clipped and coiffed, snotty, queen-of-England accent of hers that Eleanor so loved. You’ve got to be kidding, Sheila, Eleanor responded, genuinely surprised. She was not sure whether to laugh or cry. No, Eleanor. I absolutely am not, Dr. Singh said. Although I am absolutely not pleased by the traces of cocaine found in your blood and urine samples. Aren’t you a bit too old for this sort of stuff?

  Wanda lifted the shawl and peered inside the cage. Lázaro, who was, in parrot years, as old as Wanda was, rustled his feathers and stared back at her with eyes full of love. Good night, Guapito, Wanda said, blowing the parrot a kiss. Lázaro shifted from one foot to another. Wanda, Wanda, Wanda. On the way to her bedroom, Wanda checked on Bobbito. The frowning boy lay fast asleep with a thumb in his mouth. It was a habit eight-year-old Bobbito hadn’t outgrown yet, like he hadn’t outgrown wetting the bed. Habits that used to bother Bobby when he was still around, Bobby who sweated over his son’s masculinity too damn much, in Wanda’s opinion. So what if the boy sucked his thumb, made pee-pee on the bed, had nightmares, and liked playing with girls more than boys? Wanda bought a plastic undersheet to protect the mattress on Bobbito’s bed, and that was that. She kept reminding Bobby that he should be thankful for his son. Wanda would always see to it that Bobbito felt safe, that he was safe. She left the night-light on and the door ajar, in case Bobbito had a bad dream. Wanda proceeded down the dark hall to her own room. The half-blind cat and the three-legged mutt Wanda had rescued from extermination snuggled together on her bed. The animals raised their heads as soon as she walked in. Wanda could have sworn the cat was smiling.

  Eleanor stared at the computer screen. It’s all there, Yvonne said in that loud, grating voice, making her jump. You’re done. Get dressed and make your grand exit, baby. Eleanor did not turn around, but she could smell the fecund scent of Yvonne’s signature perfume, dark and green and humid like a forest.

  Somnambulant Ballad

  I can’t look at her, Mimi said, pushing away the crime scene photograph. After a pause, Carmelo spoke. Let me, he said. He gazed at the close-up of a woman’s face in black and white. Eyes closed (had the state troopers done that for their benefit?), slack-mouthed. Faint hint of scar. I’m not sure, Carmelo said, handing the digital print back to Detective Carmen Banks. It’s been a while since—Carmelo blinked several times and swallowed hard. He was trying not to crumble.

  Your cousin was killed somewhere else, Detective Banks said. Then her body was dumped in the woods. You ready to hear this? Carmelo nodded. Mimi sat slumped in the metal folding chair next to his, her face devoid of emotion. Banks thinking, Funny pair. The tense, awkward brother doing most of the talking, the sister remote, vaguely hostile. They had shown up at the state police headquarters earlier that morning without calling ahead. Sergeant Dempsey, sweaty and frazzled, escorted them upstairs to Banks’s cluttered office. Next of kin, Dempsey had announced. Or something like that. Banks gave Dempsey a look but decided not to push it. She’d been savoring her second mug of been-on-the-burner-toolong shitty black coffee when they walked in. Coffee, especially black coffee, was high on her doctor’s list of things to avoid, but Banks couldn’t imagine a day without consuming at least five cups.

  Who found her? Carmelo asked.

  Couple of locals on a hike. She was—Banks almost used the word stuffed but caught herself—placed inside a bag before being left in the—

  What kind of bag?

  Laundry. One of those big ones.

  Mimi found the little memo pad buried in the bottom of her own bag. The cop’s desk was a fascinating mess. Mimi wrote:sad orangutan hanging from tree (desktop image on computer) folders/papers

  “I ❤ Vermont” mug w/ BIC pens & Sharpies

  small repro statue of Egyptian cat deity Bastet/ goddess of joy/ protector of women oval candy dish jelly beans/ m & m’s

  Here we go, Mimi thought. Fucking women with their sweet-tooth-and-cat thing. She smiles brightly for Banks. Mind if I use one of your pens?

  Go right ahead, Banks said. You a reporter or what?

  My sister’s a—Carmelo began.

  The notes are strictly for me, Mimi said. So I don’t forget. That’s not forbidden or illegal, is it?

  Detective Banks was unfazed by Mimi’s attempt at provocation. Nope. Take all the notes you want. I’ll get you a copy of the police report when we’re done.

  Carmelo jumped in before Mimi could say another word. We’re not done, but thank you for being so kind and helpful, Detective Banks.

  a’s body, stuffed into a 30" x 40" nylon laundry bag, dumped across tracks of abandoned railroad by Paulinskill River. Lacerations on . . .

  You know the Paulinskill?

  No, Carmelo said. Imagining Agnes curled up in a laundry bag.

  Paulinskill’s like—again the motherly detective in search of the precise word—part of the Delaware River. It’s really very interesting, the history of this place. I’m not from around here. Always thought of New Jersey as kinda—Banks paused. Why was she telling them this? The sister stops scribbling and stares at Banks with great curiosity. I dunno, Banks said. A cliché about Jersey being a nothing kinda state, I guess.

  Where you from? Not that Carmelo cared, but he knew to be polite and ask.

  New Hampshire, Banks answered proudly.

  Mimi kept her head down as she scribbled away in the little notebook. What the hell was she writing? Banks wondered.

  Ask about the body, Mimi said to Carmelo.

  My sister—Carmelo began.

  I’d say a bear, Banks said.

  Mimi stopped writing and looked up.

  The bear, Banks explained, had ripped the purportedly tear-resistant nylon laundry bag to shreds and dragged away parts of the body deep into the brush. To devour in seclusion, Banks continued, after a brief silence in which Carmelo and Mimi gazed back at her with stunned eyes. Bears are usually shy, omnivorous creatures, Banks said. Then she said, I’m sorry.

  Mimi decided that the motherly detective was embarrassed, ashamed by something. Was it her geeky knowledge of animal lore and evident sympathies? Mimi fantasized excusing herself for a quick detour to the women’s restroom down the hall, where she could lock herself in one of the toilet stalls for a bump or two. Or swallow a Dilaudid. But the New Jersey State Police probably had surveillance cameras installed in the restrooms. She then fantasized a bracing shot of mezcal and a cigarette. It was 11:22 in the morning. The wounds on her arm were itching and her bandages needed to be changed. The motherly detective was talking again. Apparently, what parts of Agnes the bear left behind were first covered with dirt, broken branches, and leaves.

  Sign of respect by the animal, Carmelo supposed.

  Yeah, Banks said. Bears do that.

  The alleged black bear, Mimi said, her laugh curt and bitter. The perp.

  You okay, miss? asked Banks.

  How do you know it was a bear? You don’t have witnesses, evidence!

  Shut up, for fuck’s sake, Carmelo said.

  Why? Mimi glowered at her brother. Why should I shut up?

  It occurred to Carmen Banks that the sniffling, erratic younger woman sitting across from her desk had probably stuffed something powerful up her nose before heading out to New Jersey. Maybe the brother, too. Maybe today wouldn’t be so boring and predictable after all. There were bear droppings, Banks said to Mimi in a gentle voice. Around the area where the remains of the deceased were found. That’s evidence enough for me.

  You’re an animal lover, Mimi said.

  Yes, ma’am. I most certainly am.

  They leaned against the rental car, brother and sister in a state of mild shock. Mimi held the nine-by-twelve envelope close to her chest. Inside were three copies of the police report and Detective Banks’s business card. On the back Banks had written her cell-phone number. Just in case, Banks had said. She shook hands with both Carmelo and Mimi as a way of say
ing good-bye.

  Carmelo had parked the Nissan Versa in the lot next to the state police station, a three-story concrete affair adjacent to a drab strip mall off the highway. Nails R Us, Hi-Way Liquors, Rite Aid, Subway, Dunkin’ Donuts, 7-Eleven, Hallmark. The usual purveyors of drabness and treacle. Yet the sun was out and it was one of those brisk, radiant days. Mimi wondered if they’d run into traffic heading back to Manhattan. She had a phobia about sitting in traffic, based on nothing at all. She liked blaming her anxiety on Godard’s Weekend. It was her favorite Godard movie, the only one that she could still bear to watch after all these years. Certain images were indelible, yet filtered over time they had become Mimi’s own version of the film. The endless violent traffic jam, the saucer of milk, the woman with blond hair perched on the kitchen counter, the band of hippie cannibal musicians, the tedious, hypnotic drum solo played over a white-hot screen. The poem about the ocean. She first saw Weekend when she was Violet’s age. Fourteen years old. Mimi had cut school to meet up with Julian, who was middle-aged, married, and paid her to sleep with him. Julian dabbled in photography and real estate and always had plenty of money. He owned a beat-up Porsche and liked driving to San Francisco to eat foreign food and watch foreign movies. Let’s check out the Godard festival at the Roxie, Mimi remembers him saying. Whatever. As long as you get me back to Colma in time, Mimi had said. She remembers him laughing. But of course, my dear. They were walking toward his car. Julian looked around to make sure no one could see him, then grabbed her taut, perfect little ass and gave it a squeeze.