Toxicology Page 6

  Eleanor picked up an old British Vogue that lay on the coffee table. With a thick black Sharpie, she scribbled a frantic note to herself across the face of spooky, flame-haired cover girl Karen Elson (a dead ringer for Yvonne in her youth). CREATE MEMORY NOTEBOOK!!! Yes, Eleanor promised herself, I will record a daily account of my purchases and activities in one of my Marble Composition Books. Bacon, eggs, gin, cocaine: bought on such and such a day, month, year. If so, where and from whom? Did I drink enough water, eat any food, leave the apartment at all today? Yesterday? Oxygen. Shelf life. Remember to remember.

  Tears streamed from the young girl’s eyes. What’s wrong, Violet? Eleanor asked. She did not need a teenage drama queen falling apart in front of her.

  I don’t know, Violet said.

  Well, there must be something—

  NO.

  Eleanor waited before asking the inevitable question. What are you on?

  WHAT?

  You’re high.

  NO!

  There’s no need to lie to me, Violet. Maybe your mother hasn’t informed you, but I know about being high.

  You mean cuz you’re a drunk, Violet sneered.

  Among other things. So, Violet dear—what are you on?

  Violet clamped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. The visions kept coming. Gorillas, dancing tombstones, anonymous naked women with their legs spread, leering, horrible. Leave me alone, you bitch! Violet sobbed.

  Eleanor left the furious girl and returned a few moments later with a wad of tissue and a glass of water. Blow your nose and drink some water, Violet. I swear you’ll feel better. The young girl glared at Eleanor but did as she was told. Does your father know where you are? Don’t you have school today? Eleanor asked in the gentlest and most neutral tone imaginable.

  I texted him that I was here, Violet mumbled.

  Likely story, Eleanor thought. She let it pass. Other people’s children were not her concern. She had tried with Benjamin, helping Yvonne to raise him since he was a boy of nine. And where did that get her? To shit and more shit. Ben was her sworn enemy.

  You hungry? Eleanor asked Violet.

  I’m tired.

  So am I. Unbearably exhausted, actually. Maybe I’ll try to get some sleep, Eleanor said.

  Mom hardly sleeps.

  She’s suffering from a twenty-first-century affliction. We all are.

  Mom’s not a sufferer. She’s a tweaker.

  Eleanor stifled a laugh. Is that so?

  Like, you know where she probably is this very fucking minute? Getting stoned with that asshole Bobby. I texted her when I texted Dashiell, but Mom never—

  Isn’t that boy supposed to be dead?

  Yeah, but who really knows, right? Violet fretting, anxious. I mean, look out the window and see for yourself. Who really knows?

  Go in my bedroom and lie down, Violet. Your mother will get here when she gets here.

  What about you? Where you gonna—

  I’ll take the sofa, Eleanor said. Love me some sofa.

  Save Me, I’m Drowning

  Mimi was five blocks from the subway station when the wind picked up and the hail came down. She considered going back to Carmelo’s sad-ass apartment to wait it out, knew it was a bad idea, and kept walking. The thick, punishing rain and ferocious winds made it impossible to see or walk any faster. When her rubber flip-flops fell apart, Mimi tossed them aside and slogged on in her bare feet, hoping she wouldn’t end up needing a tetanus shot by the time she got home. If she ever got home. A dark sedan that had seen better days pulled up to the curb. The driver, a shovel-jawed man with a dour face, cracked the window on the passenger side of his front seat. Need taxi?

  Mimi hesitated before walking over to the car. Thinking, Undercover cop, serial killer, rapist, maybe all of the above. Thinking, Save me, I’m drowning. The driver waited with infinite patience for her to speak, maintaining his dour expression.

  How much to Manhattan?

  Where Manhattan?

  Meatpacking. You know Horatio? Jane? Little West Twelfth?

  I know all, said the driver with a grim chuckle. Fifty.

  The words flew out of Mimi’s mouth, though she knew better. Fuck you.

  The driver rolled up the window and began pulling away. Mimi flailed her arms and shouted after him. Thirty-five! I’ll give you thirty-five!

  He watched Mimi climb into the backseat before delivering the bad news. Sixty up front.

  But you said—

  You are rude.

  Say wha’?

  There’s always subway, lady. Or maybe swim.

  The interior of the car smelled of pine deodorizer and armpits. Mimi surrendered her money, along with what was left of Eleanor’s. She needed to get home in one piece, deal with the dying animal who was probably already dead, maybe jump into bed for an hour or two and pull herself together before confronting Eleanor. She was soaked and exhausted and couldn’t think straight. Fucked. How had everything gotten so fucked up so quickly? She dug into her bag for her cell phone, hoping it still worked. Maybe Bobby had relented and tried to call. She did not believe that he was dead. There were two text messages—one from Dash, the other from Violet. Mimi erased the message from Dash and read the one from her daughter.

  @ Elnrs. 4got keys. TMTH!

  TOO MUCH TO HANDLE, indeed. It was six-fifteen in the morning, the world was coming to an end, and Violet was with the last person in the world Mimi wanted to see. Mimi slipped the phone back into her bag and focused on the drops of gray rain beating fast and hard against the window. Time to compose a tale of woe for Picasso. Would you believe my brother asked to see me last night and I had to go all the way to Queens? Would you believe he’s been diagnosed with early-stage Parkinson’s and that my dumb-ass cousin Agnes has fucking vanished and has most likely been murdered? When it rains, it pours. Would you fucking believe I got mugged on the train by this skinny poet wielding a box cutter? He took my bag, my leather coat, and—get this—the kid even took my fucking five-dollar Chinatown flip-flops? No, Eleanor would never believe.

  Mimi started nodding off. She blinked several times, trying in vain to stay awake. The driver had turned on the heat, an act of kindness that surprised her. He drove in silence, taking it slow and easy through the rain-slick streets. Mimi felt a surge of relief. Perhaps she was safe after all. She closed her eyes. It took a minute or two before her mouth dropped open and she fell into a dream.

  The spindly ten-year-old girl with a crescent-shaped scar on her cheek stands before a door. The door is painted a vivid cobalt blue. The girl who stands before it wears a crisp white nurse’s costume, a white nurse’s cap made of paper pinned to her thick black hair. On the girl’s feet are red patent-leather pumps, with very high heels. The shoes are expensive, painful to wear, narrow and pointy as daggers. The tall, aloof young man with fair skin and blue eyes standing next to her specializes in tantric massage, among other things. Agnes, he commands her. Knock on the door. He is precise, insisting that Agnes knock three times in rapid succession. Three times and no more. There is no response to the loud knocking, only silence. The dream luxuriates in this mysterious silence for quite some time. The young man and Agnes hover by the doorway. I may look like Agnes, but I’m actually Mimi. The young man lifts his hand and smacks her across the face. OUCH, she cries, spitting out a bloody tooth. THAT HURTS.

  What are you waiting for? Open the door. The young man couldn’t care less who she really is. He is not capable of love and not afraid of anything.

  My tooth! My beautiful canine tooth! Mimi is a broken record, a dusty overplayed CD.

  Fuck your tooth, the young man snarls. Better do as you’re told, or I’m calling Homeland Security.

  She opens the door. Sir Mr. Romeo? Ready for your kundalini massage?

  Tantric, the young man corrects her tersely. The bedroom is dark. He pushes his way past her and flicks on a switch. The dream shimmers with light. Romeo Byron is sprawled naked across the enormous bed. Hi
s eyes are wide open and his mouth agape, as if in death he were caught by surprise.

  Mimi releases a catlike screech. Sir Mr. Romeo? Mr. Romeo! Are you dead?

  But dreams being what they are, the corpse of Romeo Byron comes alive and sits up, speaking calmly and directly to Mimi. Well, lovey, I am. Deader than dead, yet nothing’s changed, and I am not so free. My apologies for causing you such grief. Too bad we never got a chance to work together.

  Mimi’s eyes flew open. They were already in Manhattan, heading toward Fourteenth Street. She wiped the drool from her chin with the back of her hand. How long had she been asleep? Mimi glanced out the window, which was no longer speckled with icy raindrops. It was as if the storm had never happened. She rolled the window down, letting in a frigid breeze. A familiar-looking man was waiting for the light, wearing a black down jacket with the hood up. And shades. He seemed cold, in spite of the jacket. Bobby! Mimi yelled out the window in a shrill, hopeful voice. Bobby! The pale sun was doing its best to burn through the lingering mass of wintry clouds. And there, up ahead, was her street.

  Prodigal Daughter

  Where is she? Mimi handed Eleanor the pack of cigarettes and the half-empty bottle of Beefeater. Eleanor glanced at Mimi’s bare feet, then nodded in the direction of the bedroom. What the hell’s this? Eleanor referring to the diminished quantity of gin and the half-empty pack of Camel Lights. Where’s my change? Mimi pretended not to hear and headed for the bedroom. Violet was out cold and snoring softly, on top of the bedcovers. The vintage cowboy boots that she wore year-round were still on her feet. Mimi stared at her sleeping daughter, mesmerized. Mimi had not seen Violet in—Was it really only three months ago?

  A bit of exposition: When the prickly unit known as Mimi and Dash broke apart, Dash fled to a one-bedroom in Bushwick. Nubile Cheryl followed soon after. The allure of living in a dicey apartment with a paunchy, middle-aged cynic faded after a few months. Cheryl moved back in with her parents in Riverdale, though she and Dash continued to see each other. Violet chose to live with Dash after Cheryl moved out. Violet hated the situation, hated the claustrophobic bedroom that her father gave up to her, but she knew it was the perfect way to punish her mother. Mimi welcomed Violet dropping in, which Violet did from time to time. To yank her mother’s chain. To test her.

  Such changes, Mimi thought. Violet had grown beautiful and imposing, her body taking up a lot of room on Eleanor’s bed. She carefully pulled off Violet’s scruffy boots, not wanting to wake her. Violet was not wearing socks. Mimi recoiled from the pungent stink of her feet.

  Eleanor sipped from her tumbler of gin and tonic. They were in the living room, dusty and bright with morning sun. I was ready with all these excuses, Mimi said.

  Let’s hear it.

  I got mugged. The mugger drank most of your liquor.

  Then gave you back the bottle? Eleanor’s tone was scornful. You expected me to fall for that?

  Yeah, well. Sorry I can’t be more creative. It’s been a long night. You mind if Violet stays for a while? I hate the thought of waking her up.

  Eleanor shrugged.

  Thanks, Mimi said. I really appreciate—

  Your kid was tripping when she got here.

  Really.

  Acid. Or whatever hallucinogenic’s in fashion these days.

  Mimi was silent. Thinking, And how much does Dashiell know or care?

  Eleanor glanced at the tumbler in her hand, now devoid of gin. A new thought occurred to her. She looked hard at Mimi. Need a bump?

  Mimi had to laugh. Conscious of Violet sleeping in the next room, she lowered her voice. Jesusfuckingchrist, Eleanor. You mean you’ve had product all this time but had me running all over town like a fool? What was the point of alla that?

  You underestimate me, which is the one thing I’ve never liked about you, Eleanor said.

  I’ll pay you back later today, I swear.

  No you won’t. Listen, kiddo. Relax. It’s only money.

  Yeah? Wish I could say that.

  When you get to be my age, you can.

  Eleanor disappeared into the bedroom where Violet lay snoring and returned moments later with a tin box. She made herself comfortable on the sofa, then took her precious time laying out lines on the marble-topped coffee table. Mimi tried not to show her mounting impatience. This batch is practically uncut, Eleanor said. You won’t need much, so watch yourself.

  K, Mimi murmured. She was about to explode. Was that guy she saw waiting to cross the West Side Highway really Bobby? Man in black, hiding in plain sight. He had not turned around, had walked briskly across the highway when she screamed his name. Bobby! Had to be, Mimi thought. Definitely his style.

  Eleanor offered her a little straw made of smoky glass. Mimi listened for sounds of Violet stirring in the bedroom before bending over the coffee table and taking a snort. Eleanor thinking, Mothers and their guilt. The coke made Mimi rear her head in astonishment. She struggled to compose herself.

  Had enough? Eleanor asked.

  Absolutely, Mimi said. She handed the straw back to Eleanor with a grateful smile. The greed in her eyes burned a little too brightly, Eleanor thought. Or maybe it was grief.

  Las Meninas

  My last year on earth, I asked Eleanor to throw a party in my honor. Out of the fog and into the starry night, I always say. There’s only so much pain, doom, and gloom a dying person can put up with, especially a brat like me. My real birthday had come and gone while I was undergoing another futile round of surgery; it was no secret that I probably wouldn’t make it to the next one.

  Let’s have fun, I murmured. A little soiree. Not too much fuss or too many people.

  Eleanor hovering by the bed, trying to understand.

  No gifts, I said. I don’t want any gifts.

  I believe that Eleanor attempted a smile. You comfortable, sweetie? I can have Grace—

  Comfortable, the euphemism in palliative care for getting someone high. The nurses and doctors all used it. No one, for some reason, said the word high when it came to me. Not even Eleanor. You high, sweetie? I can have Grace pump you with a stronger dose of—(No, not even Eleanor.)

  Don’t invite Grace, I said. Nurses and birthday parties don’t go together. You hear me, Eleanor?

  Yup.

  And no Tibor and no Plum. Fucking predators. I don’t want them here.

  Got it.

  You look pissed off. Did I piss you off?

  Absolutely not, Eleanor said.

  A party! Booze, salty canapés, the whole bit. First of all, I couldn’t really eat or drink, but that was certainly beside the point. After cocktails we were off to dinner at Las Meninas, one of the few neighborhood places left that has withstood every dining trend, every economic downturn and upturn imaginable. (It is still there, on Washington and Bethune.) The owners, a married couple named Larry and Rocio, live above the restaurant. Larry once asked me to paint a portrait of his beloved Rocio as a surprise for her birthday. Originally from Sevilla, Rocio is an earthy, vibrant woman with big tits and big hips, full of zest. But for some reason, the painting I did of her turned out to be dark and sinister. I remember Larry trying not to look horrified. I won’t charge you but I won’t change a thing, I said to him. And if Rocio hates the painting, feel free to burn it.

  They ended up hanging it in the restaurant’s main dining room. O the sexy paella! Rocio has taught her Vietnamese chef, Tommy, how to make a mean paella. Full of the sea, briny and moist, a sight to behold. Tastes like your cunt, Eleanor once whispered to me over a meal. We had gone to Las Meninas to make up after some awful quarrel—over Benjy, over some other woman or man I may or may not have been sleeping with. Anyway, Eleanor was drinking a little too much and trying a little too hard to be clever and shocking. I remember rolling my eyes. Amazing the things you never forget, even when parts of you have been removed, your skull’s been cut open, probed by a scalpel, and sewn back again.

  It may have been the same day or the next or the next after that. You
have to invite Benjamin Wilder, I insisted. Be sure to invite—I was stoned from the morphine drip; I was determined to make a real effort. To impose my will, to enunciate my son’s entire name. Benjamin Wilder.

  I left a message, Eleanor said. For Benjy and Nneka.

  Nneka! Oh, yes, Nneka. Glorious Nneka. And Benjy’s father. May as well invite him, too.

  WHAT.

  Sebastian, I said. It’ll make Benjy happy.

  Sebastian’s dead, Eleanor said.

  You’re lying, I said. I was slipping away, my skull encased in bales of cotton.

  Grace walked into the room just then. Grace, I moaned. Grace, how old am I?

  And then the drift. The blessed, shallow drift.

  Oh to be young and reckless again, fucking whoever and whenever I want! I had not been to any doctors yet when I shouted this at Eleanor, but I could smell the sickness oozing from my pores. Actually, I’m exaggerating a bit. There were no symptoms, no stink oozing out of me. Just a feeling.

  It may have been later that same night or the next day or the one after that. I was conscious, swimming in a pool of sand. Benjy won’t show up, I fretted. Eleanor didn’t seem worried. He’ll show up because of you, she said. Your son loves you.

  He thinks we despise him, I said. For being such a suit.

  Don’t be silly. Are you comfortable? Eleanor asked. Do you need—

  I need, I said. Gimme all you got.

  It only took a moment. I bared my teeth and snarled in delight. My eyelids fluttered like feathers.