Toxicology Page 2

  Back in the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator door. Contemplated the word fame while pouring herself the last bits of precious fuel from her stash in the freezer. On the rocks, garnished with a twist, the premium blend tasted dangerous and smooth. She relished each oily sip of her cocktail, fought the urge to guzzle it down. Cost of gas rising. Prices the highest they’d ever been on the day the young actor lay down and died, the exact same day Mimi filched the shipping box from the recycling bin in the basement and made a bed for the dying animal. The dead actor was famous. The dying animal was not.

  No product to be found in all of Manhattan or Brooklyn, or any other borough, for that matter. Mimi considered knocking on the old woman’s door. Eleanor was never without. Mimi licked her lips, fought the urge to visit the old woman, and moved into the living room. She switched on a lamp. Better. Definitely. Light swept the dread and the what-ifs into a dusty little corner and made it all better. She flipped open her cell, scrolled down to reread the old texts from Bobby.

  Bitch b cool

  Yr palz 2 fuckin bad.

  Bad bad not good bad.

  Dnt panic. Go 2 Picasso.

  Seconds later he had texted her again before disappearing from her life.

  I wl miss u.

  Bobby random about which words to abbreviate and which to spell out. Bitch, cool, panic, Picasso. Code for Eleanor. Code that made no sense to Mimi. Eleanor’s a writer, Mimi had argued. Why Picasso? Why not call her Proust?

  Best code’s got no logic to it. Bobby had said. The fuck’s Proust?

  French dude. Wrote all this shit without getting out of bed.

  Bobby chuckled. Sounds too much like Eleanor, babe.

  Before Bobby left town, jumped ship, went out for cigarettes, whatever you want to call it, he and Mimi had been summoned to Ingrid and Badr’s loft on Walker Street. The loft was vast and sleek and chilly, more of a showcase for their eclectic art collection than a home. It was where Mimi had first glimpsed Yvonne Wilder’s work. Three small paintings of a child’s face from slightly different angles, in dark shades of green and pink. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide open.

  Wow, Mimi remembered saying.

  It’s one of Wilder’s very early pieces, Ingrid had said, coming up from behind. She calls it Three Studies for My Son’s Head. Beautiful, no?

  And ugly, Mimi remembered saying.

  Badr had flown in just that afternoon, carrying product from his various associates in Barcelona. Ingrid seemed excited. Come around nine, she’d said. Don’t be late. She and Badr were all of a sudden interested in doing business with Bobby. But why? Mimi wondered. They certainly didn’t need the money; they were swimming in it. Bobby was flattered by the louche couple’s attention. Plus, he was intrigued by the sensuous, older, blasé Ingrid, Mimi knew. Ever since the night the four of them got wasted and ended up in Ingrid and Badr’s plush, enormous bed, she knew. There was nothing Mimi could do. It was her fault that Bobby had met them in the first place.

  They remind me of Komodo dragons, she once said to him. You know Komodos, right?

  You think I’m so ghetto, Bobby had said, with a little laugh.

  WHAT.

  Just like your pals Ingrid and Badr. Gets them off. Gets you off.

  Where—Mimi sighed—is this going?

  Wherever you’d like it to go, Bobby said.

  I was talking about Komodo dragons. Monitor lizards.

  Their saliva’s red, Bobby said. You know that, right?

  Ingrid and Badr were connoisseurs of gore. Chan-wook Park. Dario Argento. Eli Roth. They signed on to invest in Mimi’s film Blood Wedding, brought in at the eleventh hour by Ivan and Matthieu, Mimi’s executive producers.

  Certain friends have come to the rescue, Matthieu had announced over lunch at Pastis. He and Ivan were feeling expansive and footing the bill.

  Dear friends, Ivan added. Old friends.

  What took them so long? Mimi was playing with her salad and in a vile, ungrateful mood.

  Ivan gave her a frosty smile. You’re welcome, he said.

  The exotic couple’s investment was substantial, and Mimi—in spite of herself—grew to feel increasingly dependent. When she was done shooting and without the knowledge of Ivan and Matthieu, Mimi made an appointment to see Ingrid and Badr at their loft. She was anxious and overwhelmed by her need for money. Rent, the combined MasterCard and American Express bills that needed paying down (twelve grand and change, 19 percent interest), the IRS balance (thirty-eight hundred) still owed for 2001—a truly shitty year—that needed paying off, as well as the five thousand she had originally borrowed from Violet’s father, Dash, so she could move. Of course we will help, Badr assured her. Yes, Ingrid said. We like to help. Can we keep this confidential? Mimi asked, trying not to show her humiliation.

  They loaned her fifteen thousand dollars. Will this do? Ingrid handed Mimi the check. Mimi glanced at it in disbelief. Not exactly everything she needed, but wow. Thank you, Mimi said after a pause. This is more than I—Ingrid and Badr nodded and smiled in sympathy. Mimi detected a hint of superiority in their expressions of concern. I’ll pay you back as soon as the movie—She hesitated, again overcome with shame. She was about to say something about distribution, but Badr put up his hand.

  No pressure, Badr said. We understand.

  Artists lead brave, difficult lives, Ingrid said. And we love them for it.

  Just keep making your movies, Badr said.

  Just keep making your movies. Mimi had managed to finish only one. And had decided never to call herself an artist. Thinking of yourself as an artist got you into trouble. Just ask her ex, Dashiell Smith, Mr. Unrealized Dreams. Whose bland last name Mimi had long ago conveniently adopted. She played along with Ingrid and Badr. If they needed her to be an artist, then she would be. Whatever they needed to believe was okay with Mimi back then.

  She started with noble intentions, telling herself she would get rid of as much debt as she could. Mimi paid off the IRS but ended up sending Dash only half of what she owed him. She sent a two-thousand-dollar payment to AmEx and absolutely nothing to MasterCard. Mimi then bought Violet a North Face for the coming winter. What was left of the loan, she transferred into her online savings account.

  Badr was eager for Bobby to sample the coke from Spain. A little too eager, Mimi thought. For Badr was suave and cool, never eager. Ingrid, too. Suave and cool, lurking close by Badr’s side. Mimi remembered trying to think of an excuse to leave, remembered praying for her cell phone to ring while asking herself, Why doesn’t Violet call when I need her to call? She remembered not saying much of anything, Ingrid putting on music, Bobby watching intently as Badr chopped away at the heap of tiny, dingy rocks laid out on the glass table, Bobby grinning that dangerous grin as he said to Badr, Your shit looks dirty, man.

  Badr looking at him. Not saying anything, the razor in his hand.

  You’re being paranoid, Ingrid murmured. We expected more out of you.

  Bobby grabbed Mimi’s hand.

  Should she erase Bobby’s text messages? No, not yet. She needed the instant replay, to keep savoring his last words to her. She was still angry with him for disappearing; she missed him terribly, deeply. It surprised her how much. It was a thunderbolt-and-lightning-strike sort of moment when they first met at a dismal midtown karaoke bar called Nightingale. Mimi’s brother, Carmelo, had called earlier that day to invite her to drop by for a song and a drink. A song and a drink? Mimi had said. She had to laugh. Thanks, but no thanks. I’m busy.

  Carmelo was a sucker for karaoke, had been known to get onstage after one or two beers to croon the corny seventies shit that he loved. “You Are the Sunshine of My Life.” “We’ve Only Just Begun.” Donna Summer’s drama queen disco version of “MacArthur Park.” Their parents’ music. Don’t give me that busy shit, Carmelo said. You’re always giving me that busy shit. Mimi remembered losing it on the phone. Listen, Melo—I’m trying to get a little movie made, and I don’t have time for fucking karaoke. On top
of that, I’m broke. And on top of alla that, Violet’s decided to go live with her father!

  It’s my birthday, Carmelo had said quietly. So indulge me, okay? And quit feeling sorry for yourself. Your fucking movie will get made, and Violet will be back. And on top of alla that? The drinks are on me.

  Your birthday. Fuck. I’m sorry, Melo. I forgot.

  She was not planning to stay long. Carmelo was sitting at the bar, having a discreet chat with some guy when Mimi walked in. You’re late, he teased. He was drinking something very grown-up, like scotch or bourbon. Mimi could tell he was lit. The guy sitting next to Carmelo had smoky hazel eyes. He was staring at her. Mimi’s tone was confrontational. Do I know you? Now you do, Bobby had said. Wanna be in a movie? Mimi asked him. Aware that her brother was sitting there, watching them flirt. But no matter. Carmelo was lit and ready to sing. He couldn’t care less if his younger sister was being too slutty or forward. Depends, Bobby had said. Whose movie we talkin’ about?

  Mine, Mimi answered.

  She went home with him that night. She had not been with anyone since breaking up with Dash and began to shake. Sex with Bobby felt strange and raw. Everything strange and raw and new. They spent a lot of time fucking and getting high. The weeks stretched into months. Mimi an emaciated, glorious mess. Unable to keep food down, diarrhea constant, all she could focus on was getting through Blood Wedding. And Bobby. O the guilt. Violet refusing to visit, to return her pleading calls. The animal Violet left behind when she moved in with her father would go for days without being fed.

  Days keep flying by. So much work, so little money, nothing to do. Get a job, Mimi. Any job. Keep yourself busy. You aren’t a total nobody, after all. Blood Wedding still fresh in people’s minds. There was that big-shot professor from NYU. What was her name? Judith. Judith Wexler. Author of a huge, scholarly tome that critics were forever referencing, entitled The Metaphysics of Cinema Violence (Illustrated, 642 pages, Oxford University Press). Mimi had never heard of it. She later saw a copy of the book on Eleanor’s shelf. Made a note to borrow it and never did.

  Judith Wexler brought her graduate students to an early screening of Blood Wedding and introduced herself to Mimi afterward. Your film is incredibly female, incredibly Catholic. Disturbing, Judith Wexler had said, her handshake vigorous. Mimi kept silent.

  I mean that as a compliment, Judith Wexler said.

  I wasn’t sure, Mimi said.

  Let’s have coffee or a drink sometime. Judith Wexler handed Mimi her card before walking away.

  If Mimi could just find the damn card, she’d sit down and e-mail Judith Wexler right then and there, ask if there were teaching positions for people like her, people with special skills—female and Catholic—who had dropped out of college. Maybe an artist-in-residence, prestigious visiting-lecturer position, like the one Eleanor’s painter girlfriend Yvonne had held for years at Vassar. Yvonne had been paid a lot of money to train it up to Poughkeepsie once a semester, give a talk on art history or whatever damn subject she wanted to talk about, have dinner with a select group of students and faculty, and train it back to Manhattan the next afternoon.

  Should Mimi address Judith Wexler as “Professor Wexler” or adopt a more casual, breezier tone that didn’t reek of desperation? (“Hi, Judith—We met at a screening of Blood Wedding two or three years ago, blah-blah-blah, etc. etc.”) Eleanor would be glad to help her compose the e-mail. All Mimi had to do was knock on the old witch’s door. But if all else failed and Mimi lost her nerve, there was always the Learning Annex or Gotham Writers’ Workshop. Everything You Need to Know About Writing and Making an Indie Movie, Taught by an Expert. Depressing, but this was no time to be choosy.

  It was not Mimi’s style to feel sorry for herself. At least she had a couple more months left of her Ida Lupino Fellowship. The Ida was bestowed annually to five women filmmakers in the early stages of their career, chosen from a nationwide pool of nominees. Mimi had burst out laughing when the surprise phone call came, informing her that she’d won. Thirty-five hundred fifty-two dollars deposited in her checking account on the twenty-ninth of every month. Soon coming to an end.

  The beast cried out in pain. Mimi tried not to flinch. She lit up one of those girlie Cuban cigars, a cherished souvenir from Bobby’s many clandestine trips to Bobby-wouldn’t-say-where. Even after all this time, the cigar tasted fresh. She ignored the animal’s sporadic cries and stared out the window at the high-rise luxury-loft condo being built across the street. Each floor starting at six point six. Rooftop gym, spa, pool, garage, natch. Doorman, valet service, twenty-four-hour concierge, no-brainer. The architect was famous and Dutch.

  Most of the sky and the Hudson River were now blocked from view. But so what? Mimi had always avoided looking at the river; it reminded her of too many other bodies of water and the terrifying, greasy oceans beyond. The beast was wheezing now. She heard it clearly, even from the living room. Mimi hated how it made such sad, awful, hurting sounds. One shimmering drop left in the humming fridge; take it slow and easy, Mimi. And speaking of fame, just like that most famous of famous Lorca poems about death—Mimi glanced at the clock on the wall. At five in the afternoon. / . . . exactly five in the afternoon . . . Lorca’s hypnotic lament conjured the image of a young matador being gored, then eaten by some ancient Minotaur, conjured the image of the helpless, wheezing beast in the kitchen. Five in the afternoon and already dark as midnight.

  Mimi took another hit off the dainty cigar before stubbing it out in an ashtray. She wondered why she couldn’t remember any other lines from Lorca’s poem. Five in the afternoon. At exactly five in the afternoon! You’re such a drama queen, Mimi. Mimi It’s All About Me-Me! Why the tears? You don’t know any matadors. You never knew poor, dead Romeo Byron.

  The animal crawled into the living room and emitted a long howl, shining eyes fixed on her.

  I can’t help you, Mimi said.

  Mimi scooped up the limp, dehydrated animal. There was a time it wouldn’t have been as easy. Now the animal felt wet and sticky and weighed nothing. She could not bear to look at it but carried the creature into her bedroom and—as gently as she could—lowered it on the bed. She snatched a blanket off the floor and tucked it around the animal’s body. Enough to warm the beast, to make it feel snug and protected, but not to cover it in any way. She was careful about that. Something had happened when it was very young, for the beast reacted violently to being confined. It did not move, but its eyes were alert. Or so Mimi thought. I can’t help you, Mimi said. But you’re welcome to die here.

  She was the squeamish type. Never mind the low-budget slasher films she watched with such glee and dreamed of making. You’ve seen the trailers. Supermodels trapped in desolate hostels in the Black Forest. Trembling jocks strapped down and slowly eviscerated by melancholy sadists. Genius scenarios. Her ex did not approve of her tastes and ambitions. When he got drunk and loose, Dash used to say to anyone who’d listen, Next time you invite Mimi to a dinner party? Watch the way she suddenly stops eating. Watch the way she flings her knife and fork, aiming straight for your face. The cutlery flung with such fucking élan!

  Mimi went back to the living room, sat down at her computer, and Googled Romeo Byron. The blogosphere was humming. The online bulletin boards and chat rooms. DISCUSS. SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS. Sad. Tragic actor guy. So young! RIP. How could you? Oh, man. You were the source of our national pride. LIKELY A SUICIDE OR ACCIDENTAL OVERDOSE. The headlines a jumble of contradictions. Mimi turned on the TV. This is not officially a crime investigation, Romeo Byron’s lawyer was saying to Anderson Cooper. This is a death investigation. Apparently Romeo had a standing appointment with his tantric masseur. Apparently it was neither the housekeeper nor the personal assistant but the tantric masseur who discovered Romeo’s naked, lifeless body on the bed. Apparently the tantric masseur had a key. Apparently the tantric masseur, carrying an umbrella and a set of keys, slipped out the side exit and hailed the first available taxi before the cops arrived. A search wa
s on for the young man, one Jimmy from Cartagena.

  Mimi switched to NY1. Clips from last night’s spontaneous vigil were being shown. She hoped for some glimpse of herself in the crowd, hoped for a glimpse of Violet and her pals. The Juicy Couture girl was being cuffed and led away. A Hells Angel sporting a long, silver ponytail turned and muttered something to the camera, which was bleeped. We’re here to bear witness, a solemn young man in a New York University varsity jacket said to reporter Vivian Lee. That’s the least we can do for Romeo.

  AKA Picasso

  Mimi waited until the sun went down, until she was sure the animal was not dead but merely asleep. She threw on the long coat—the extravagant, hand-stitched Beguelin that looked so fabulously beat-up—over her jeans. The coat was a consolation gift to herself, the coat she couldn’t really afford but what the hell. The shoulder bag, too. Another hand-stitched indulgence that Mimi had purchased two years ago and was still paying off. In defiance of the weather, she headed out the door in her flip-flops.

  In the hallway she found Picasso wandering in her bulky chenille bathrobe, a hundred-dollar bill rolled up in her fist. A beautiful coincidence, Mimi thought. Synergy! Karma! Whatever!

  You okay, Eleanor? Mimi asked. Then: I’m dry. Maybe you can help me out.

  Picasso the old woman stared back at her, uncomprehending. Or pretending.

  Eleanor?

  I was thinking all day about the boy.

  What boy? Mimi forced herself to sound polite, to stand still.