Toxicology Read online

  Mimi took the bottle of Beefeater from her bag. Want some?

  I’m taking a break, Carmelo said.

  Since when?

  Carmelo shrugged. Been almost three months.

  Congratulations, Mimi said. I mean it.

  You should take a break.

  I will, Melo. I will. Mimi brought the bottle into the kitchenette. She rinsed out a jelly jar, threw in some grimy ice cubes and a healthy dose of Eleanor’s gin. It occurred to her that the old woman might not be so amused after all. Mimi felt a twinge of guilt, but only a twinge. Her brother watched as she drank. This little bottle of gin actually belongs to my neighbor the writer lady, Mimi said. I’m her designated errand girl.

  How is Eleanor?

  Giving a reading at Volga. Thursday night. Gonna be hot.

  Carmelo chuckled. Hot. Eleanor’s, like, eighty years old.

  So? Eleanor’s a mythic presence. You should come.

  Readings are boring.

  But you’re such a reader, Mimi said. Look at all these newspapers. These magazines and books!

  Fuck off.

  Promise you, bro—this will be an event. As you know, Eleanor writes dirty books and can be very entertaining when she chooses to be. The gin was making Mimi nauseous, but she poured herself more.

  How’s the new script coming along? Carmelo asked.

  Practically writing itself, Mimi answered.

  That’s great.

  Yeah, it is, Mimi said. Things are happening.

  Like what?

  Like what? Well. Tonight this homeless poet got on the 7 with me.

  How’d you know he was homeless?

  I knew.

  And?

  You believe in signs, Melo?

  Carmelo stared at his sister.

  This was definitely a sign, Mimi said. The guy starts rapping, and the rest of us are, like, feeling trapped and rolling our eyes and dreading what we’re about to hear. Plus, he smelled kinda bad. But would you believe? His delivery—and the fucking poetry—they both were actually pretty good! I felt inspired, Melo. Really inspired.

  Cool, Carmelo said, trying to sound convincing. Very cool.

  I want to be just like him. I want to be as humble and brave as my homeless poet on the 7!

  Carmelo told himself that if he really wanted to, he could make her stop. His breathless sister had the big mouth and the big game and thought he was the crazy one, but she was wrong.

  Mimi started on her third round of gin and melted ice. I don’t mean to be disrespectful by drinking in front of you, she said with a wistful smile. I can handle copious amounts of most toxins, so rest assured I won’t get shitfaced. But by all means, Melo. If you want me to stop, if you need to call your sobriety sponsor or something—

  Treatable. Incurable.

  Six or seven months ago the man had called to invite her to read at Volga. Eleanor’s first impulse was to hang up, but she stopped herself. With the coke pumping through her bloodstream, Eleanor suddenly felt curious, more open to being courted by the stranger on the phone. He introduced himself as Rajiv Gill. We’d be so honored to have you read for us, Eleanor. May I call you Eleanor?

  Eleanor didn’t respond.

  We can only pay a modest honorarium, Rajiv continued after an awkward pause. But we’ll wine and dine you. Take care of your local transport.

  Does that mean the subway? I don’t do subways.

  Taxi. Or car service, if you prefer.

  Fucking Mimi and her practical jokes. Did Mimi put you up to this? How’d you get my number?

  I’m a friend of Benjy’s.

  Benjy . . . Benjy who?

  There was another pause before Rajiv spoke again. Benjamin Wilder. Yvonne’s—

  GOT IT, Eleanor said. She took her time finding and lighting a cigarette. Don’t you think that’s rather cheeky of Ben to give you my number, Mr. Rajiv?

  Our sincerest apologies if we’ve somehow offended—

  How many are you?

  I beg your pardon?

  How many goddamn people are on the phone talking to me right now?

  Just one, and that would be me.

  Then I don’t understand why you keep referring to yourself in the plural, Eleanor said before hanging up.

  Rajiv called back before she had a chance to unplug the phone. Look, he said. I’m sorry for coming off like some pretentious son of a bitch.

  Don’t humiliate yourself, Mr. Rajiv.

  We have a print-and-online magazine. Also called Volga.

  I’m aware of it.

  You are? That’s wonderful. Really wonderful!

  It’s not bad.

  Thank you. I’m . . . well, actually, I’m the founding editor. And what we—I—want to propose is to have a special issue devoted to your work. To be published after the reading, of course.

  In spite of herself, Eleanor was flattered and intrigued. Why?

  Because. You’re a great writer and—

  My work is challenging. And somewhat obscure.

  Yes, but—

  No one cares about books anymore. Least of all mine.

  Oh, I don’t think that’s true at all, Rajiv said. Our readings are standing-room-only events. A whole new generation is going to be introduced to your work, which is a vital part of Volga’s mission.

  Eleanor groaned.

  Your books will be on sale, of course, and—

  You mean the ones still in print, Eleanor said, instantly regretting it. Thinking, How loathsome and self-pitying I’ve become.

  After the reading’s done, we’ll set you up at a little table so you can—

  I know what happens, Eleanor said. Shifty-eyed men show up, shoving bound galleys and first editions in your face. They demand your signature, walk away, and peddle the stuff on eBay!

  Rajiv chuckled softly. So will you do it?

  She had said yes and wondered if it was because she was stoned and hadn’t been out of the apartment in weeks. Months. She was acutely aware of the way she’d performed for the elegant hustler on the phone. Brilliant, Rajiv had cooed. I’ll send a confirmation letter to your agent.

  Don’t bother. He’s dead.

  For once Rajiv seemed at a loss for words. Oh. Sorry.

  Nothing to be sorry about. We all have to die at some point, Mr. Rajiv. Am I pronouncing your name correctly? I tend to Frenchify when in doubt, so correct me if I’m fucking up . . . Rahh-zheev.

  Rajiv’s tone was no longer so ingratiating. I’ll send the letter directly to you, then. Or would you prefer e-mail?

  Right now Eleanor is distressingly sober. If she had her gin, she could pass out for a few blessed hours. Then get up and try to write. She no longer dreams. Or if she does, has no recollection of it. Days after Yvonne died, her dreams were vivid and charged, like the dreams of a young woman. Yet she was bereft. Stunned and bereft. Eleanor felt guilty and ashamed. Told no one about her strange, electric dreams. Not that there was anyone left to tell.

  She turns the TV on. Thank God for cable. All those dyke chefs and buff trainers flaunting lurid tattoos and spiky hair, all those short, fat, aspiring supermodels, all those pattern makers, decorators, and stylists. Thug wives, porn stars, trannies looking for love. Glorious wonders of the world. She would spend the rest of her solitary life embracing the sordid confessions, elaborate menus, and weepy makeovers of the twenty-first century.

  The body’s broken down. Eleanor writes slowly in her eighty-nine-cent Marble Composition notebook, trying not to grip the gel pen so hard. Mimi—who was not an especially thoughtful or generous person—had recently surprised her by bringing over a set of assorted gel pens from Staples. Midnight, Fuchsia Fire, Emerald City, Tomato Royale, Blue Moon. My kid swears by these, Mimi said. They’re the best for your fucked-up hand.

  Eleanor’s right middle finger—the swollen one—is starting to throb more than usual. Yet keeps breaking down. Life without Y. A purge. Big round holes. Polka dots of memory. The trannies are back, but it makes no difference now. I
’ve closed the door, and the silence is huge. On the opposite page, Eleanor draws a face covered with eyes. It is less painful to draw than to write. She goes back to writing:I am old I am lost I am dying. (she is old, she is lost . . . etc.?)

  But I (she) still want my (her) cigarettes and gin.

  And my hashish and coke.

  And though hash makes me/her paranoid

  and cocaine does not—

  Dear God what rhymes with not?

  Clot. Snot. Blot!

  Nonsense, Eleanor thinks. Tedious shit nonsense.

  For the reading at Volga, she wants to create something startling and fresh. What was it Rajiv had said about Thursdays being a big deal? We’ve given you the top slot, Eleanor. Thursday’s the new Friday. Something new would make the journey out of her cave worth the effort. This reading would be her last, she was sure of it. Would Ben and Nneka come to Volga and watch her make a total fool of herself? Eleanor tosses the notebook aside and grabs the remote, on the hunt for a Law & Order rerun. Even one of those dumb spin-offs would do. Jerry Orbach’s long, horsey face suddenly appears, rendered in dynamic, streak-free, high-definition. Tatung! A pale, unhealthy-looking young woman has come to Jerry for help. O joy. She’s Jerry’s prodigal daughter, a junkie trying to get clean. The episode’s a classic, one of Eleanor’s all-time favorites. The scene between father and daughter feels a little too sad and too real. Each of Jerry’s eyebrows frozen in a skeptical arch. Too much Botox? What season could this be? Had Jerry already been diagnosed with prostate cancer? Eleanor giggles. What a trivia bimbette I’ve become. Turn off the TV. Go back to writing your tedious shit magnum opus. Sought. Clot. Blot. Fraught. Where, oh, where the fuck is Mimi?

  The gastric cancer has metastasized to the brain. We’ve got a couple of options, but— Meyer Griswold was the name of Yvonne’s oncologist. He had delivered the news in a calm drone that Eleanor found oddly refreshing. She and Benjy were sitting in the doctor’s dreary office at St. Vincent’s. Beige, windowless. No trace of the personal, just the requisite framed diplomas and citations hanging on the walls. Eleanor remembers the doctor saying something about the cancers being treatable. Treatable, but incurable. Like the cruel refrain to a song. Or maybe Eleanor misheard on purpose. She remembers turning to look at Benjy. Dank, bitter wind. Gnashing of teeth. Too many lesions and deaths, and now she was numb. She remembers the doctor clearing his throat. Benjy slumped down in his chair, devastated.

  Yvonne refused to undergo any more radiation or chemo. It’s killing me faster than the fucking cancer. Her eyes were clear, and she was still her feisty self when she said this. Whatever you want, Eleanor said. After Dr. Griswold removed the tumor in Yvonne’s brain (size of a tennis ball!), Eleanor brought her home. Their old bed was donated to Housing Works, to make way for the rented hospital bed. Wide enough for the two of them, Eleanor had made sure of that. The point being that Yvonne was going to recover and live for a long time. Three of her paintings had been chosen for the Venice Biennale; Yvonne was convinced they were still going. Have you booked our flights yet? I refuse to stay at the Gritti. Fuck the Gritti. Find us something not in San Marco, please. Maybe Benjy can take time off and join us. Tell him the trip’s on me. Benjy and you and I in Venice. Won’t that be fun?

  She did not recover. Mostly Yvonne slept, or floated in a morphine dream. Eleanor would wait until the nurse was out of the room to sit by the bed and speak to Yvonne in a low voice. You’ll get a kick out of this, babe. I finally went and did it. Splurged on one of those forty-inch flat-screens, like you were always wanting me to get. DVD player, all that stuff. Had to ask Mimi to help set it up. In fact, she went shopping with me at Best Buy on Twenty-third. They were having a sale. That chick is not intimidated by electronic gadgets! It’s good to have a young friend like that, don’t you think? I’m such a friggin’ Luddite and can’t deal with any of it, as you know—Eleanor could not believe the insanity of her monologue. Yvonne’s eyes were closed, but her mouth hung open in a faint, mocking smile. Eleanor touched Yvonne’s hand. Her skin as transparent and brittle as rice paper. Can you hear me? Yvonne hiccupped. The sound somewhere between a cough and a sigh. Then she farted.

  It was surprising how long it actually took Yvonne to die. That final year Eleanor could barely keep up with the stream of people in and out of their increasingly chaotic apartment. Delivery guys from the pharmacy and the supermarket. Grace, the private nurse. Benjy, of course. An eerie young woman claiming to be some long-lost, favorite niece of Yvonne’s from Chicago crashed on the couch for nearly two weeks until Eleanor finally snapped out of her daze and asked her to leave. Tibor de Lyn of Impure Gallery, Yvonne’s longtime dealer, always came on Friday afternoons with his new bride, the luscious and aptly named Plum. She was his fourth wife, a graduate student majoring in atmospheric and planetary science at Columbia. Tibor was one of those short, virile, Old World types, a barrel-chested man of ninety with a shock of white hair. He had made Yvonne a lot of money over the years and probably—Eleanor suspected—skimmed quite a bit from her too. How’s our girl doing today? Tibor would ask in his soft, raspy voice. Not too bad, Eleanor might answer. Or: Bad. Or: Dumb question, Tibor.

  Sometimes it was all a little too much. I’m going out for some air, Eleanor would announce to Grace. I’ll be right back.

  No rush, Miss Delacroix. I’m here, the nurse would say.

  Eleanor liked walking along the river, past Stuyvesant High to Battery Park. One time she decided to go to a movie. It was around noon on a weekday, and there were too many mediocre choices at the oddly suburban cineplex in Battery Park. She can’t remember which movie she chose to watch, but she remembers sitting in the top row of the vast, empty theater, snorting coke and weeping uncontrollably.

  Sometimes she’d walk the other way, toward Chelsea Piers. Not as aesthetically pleasing, but what the hell. Even on rainy or unbearably cold days, the meandering strolls usually did her good. The now family-friendly esplanade along the Hudson so pleasant and picturesque. Hudson River Park. What irony, Eleanor thought. Though the loud, flashy, and defiant baby dykes and gay boys from the Bronx—pants worn so low past their hips Eleanor marveled at how they could walk—were still cutting school and showing up. One sunny afternoon Eleanor lounged on the Astroturf lawn and watched the preening boys line up to rehearse what looked like fashion-runway poses, angular and imperious. The boys were very serious and kept at it for a long time.

  She remembers sitting on the curb of the West Side Highway in shock. Was it only eight years ago? Yvonne was not yet diagnosed, and the scenic esplanade was still under construction. The highway was shut down, except for emergency vehicles and the flatbed trucks carrying twisted airplane parts. She could be remembering it all wrong, of course. Maybe the flatbed trucks and rolling tanks didn’t appear until the next day, September 12.

  By then the flag-waving patriots would stake their claim on every median, cheering and holding up homemade signs whenever an armored vehicle or fire truck whizzed by.

  GOD BLESS AMERICA!!!

  SUPPORT OUR TROOPS!!!

  The syrupy, toxic stink of burning rubber and plastic made it hard to breathe. The air heavy and hot. Fluttering ash and pieces of paper. Eleanor remembers her neighbors, a solemn and scraggly crowd milling about the deserted highway, everyone too scared to go back to the solitude of their apartments. Comfort in numbers—now, there was a truth. She turned her head and saw a building forty-seven stories high collapse in a swirling mass of black, fiery clouds. It’s down! 7 World Trade Center’s down! shouted Lester, the Trinidadian longtime super of her building. His voice was cracked and filled with wonder. Coco Schnabel stood with her bulldog, looking stunned and bewildered. Eleanor almost felt sorry for her. Eleanor remembers Yvonne wearing baggy khaki shorts that day, and a faded, 2PAC “All Eyez on Me” T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, one of Benjy’s hand-me-downs. Dowdy, paint-splattered Birkenstocks on her feet. Gorgeous, graying, wild-eyed Yvonne, pacing back and forth, trying to get her so
n on the phone. My cell’s not working. I need to find him. The procession of ghostly people clutching briefcases marched past them like a dream. Heading uptown, covered in white ash and dust. Their silence eerie. Yvonne gripped Eleanor’s arm so hard it hurt. Let’s go home, she snarled. I need to use the landline. Reach Benjy. Make sure he’s all right.

  They heard the old Bakelite rotary phone—which Eleanor had refused to part with—ringing inside their apartment. Yvonne unlocked the door and ran to answer it. Hello? Oh. Just a minute. Disappointed, Yvonne handed Eleanor the receiver.

  Yes.

  Eleanor Delacroix? A young woman’s voice, crisp and professional.

  Eleanor held her breath.

  Sasha Collins from the New York Times. We’re asking different writers to contribute response pieces to the—

  I went to Westbeth and voted against Giuliani, Eleanor said, interrupting her. There was only one poll worker left and she was scrambling to get out of there, but I insisted on voting anyway. Nuts, right?

  It’s for the op-ed page, Sasha Collins continued, after a brief pause. We understand you live downtown. Did you actually see—

  Nope, Eleanor remembers saying. Not a damn thing.

  Yvonne was relentless in her efforts to locate Benjy. Calling his friends and lovers, the few whose numbers she knew. No one had seen or heard from him. Eleanor remembers walking as far as Canal Street with Yvonne but being turned back by the National Guard. Ben was waiting outside when they got home. Yvonne wailing as she threw her arms around him. Where the hell have you been? He stayed with them that night. While Benjy and Yvonne slept, Eleanor pulled a hardcover copy of California Melancholy from the box that had been delivered just that morning, before anyone knew about the first plane flying into the tower. She stared at the glossy, elegant jacket, the color of pale, golden sand. Her book was doomed, she knew. Now the world had more urgent matters to ponder. Eleanor put the book back into the box and went into her study. She sat down at her computer and typed out a one-page story using the following words: flashlight, battery, bananas, coffee, child, water, ramen, Cipro.