Toxicology Read online

  Thatta girl. How’s the next movie coming along? Didn’t see your first, but Eleanor told me about it. Says it’s pretty gory. What’s it called again?

  Blood Wedding.

  Got no stomach for gore, Coco Schnabel said.

  The next one’s gonna be worse.

  Mimi made sure to smile. Coco Schnabel had viewed her with suspicion and disdain since the day Mimi moved into the building. Mimi had no idea why, and except for the fact that the busybody could make her life even more miserable than it already was, Mimi couldn’t care less. Coco Schnabel smiled back at her. OH, AND BY THE WAY. You didn’t happen to see who took my stuff out of the recycling bin, did you? Whoever did it left a big mess, which of course Lester had to clean up. Poor guy. I gave him a nice tip.

  Really? Mimi said, feigning concern.

  Yes, dear. Really. Coco Schnabel yanked at Churchill’s leash and waddled off to her apartment. The elevator, which had come and gone over the course of their conversation, looked to be held hostage in the basement. Mimi took the stairs.

  Dazed, she walked the thirteen blocks to Good Shepherd-in-Chelsea Animal Rescue. She wondered how she would pay for the cremation. Her AmEx was maxed out. Thanks to her recent Flip video purchase, only $456 was left in her checking account. The duffel bag banged against her leg. A stylish young man approached from the opposite direction, blabbing into an earphone while pushing a cherubic baby in a stroller. Mimi stepped aside to let them go by. Her arm was growing stiff, and she felt like passing out.

  At the clinic the new and very young receptionist took note of the distraught, disheveled woman and steeled herself. May I help you?

  Is Lucy in today?

  I’m afraid I—

  Dr. Guzmán. Lucy Guzmán? She took care of my animal.

  Dr. Guzmán’s not on duty today, but I can certainly—

  Mimi dumped the bag on the counter. The animal’s inside.

  The receptionist’s eyes grew wide. Oh-kay.

  I want it cremated. The ashes given back to me, said Mimi.

  Please have a seat while I call one of our doctors, the receptionist said, picking up the phone. Mimi took the bag and sat in the waiting area. A man wearing green scrubs appeared a few minutes later. His eyes took in the woman nodding off in the chair.

  Miss—ma’am? he said, gently touching her shoulder. Mimi jumped at his touch. I am Dr. Vukocevic.

  Shit. Was I asleep?

  What can I do for you? Dr. Vukocevic asked. Mimi took note of his formality, the hint of accent. He looked almost as tired as she was.

  She patted the bag on her lap. The animal died before I could—She was determined not to break down in front of this man. Anyway. Dr. uh . . .

  Vukocevic.

  Yes thank you ANYWAY Dr. Vukocevic, it happened early this morning, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I ran right over here and—

  Slow down, Vukocevic said. Please.

  Mimi followed Vukocevic into the overheated examination room. She lay the bag on the gleaming aluminum table and slowly took off her jacket, trying not to wince. Vukocevic removed the bundle from the bag and peeled back the fleece blanket. The animal’s eyes were glassy and huge.

  But they were closed, Mimi said.

  Happens, Vukocevic said. He passed his hand over the animal’s eyes, closing them. Your arm needs attention.

  How much is the cremation gonna cost me?

  About one hundred and sixty dollars. The procedure is done upstate. You have to sign some forms. We’ll have the ashes for you in about a week. Vukocevic gently lifted Mimi’s arm and took a closer look at the jagged wounds. He glanced up at her drawn, tired face. Perhaps you want to sit with the body and make up your mind. I can come back when you are ready.

  I’m ready, Mimi said. Let’s do it. She started to leave but was stopped by Vukocevic. What the hell?

  I must clean those wounds.

  Excuse me?

  No extra charge. Vukocevic squirted a gauze pad with an antiseptic solution and began swabbing Mimi’s arm. She turned her head away. You’re a kind man, she said.

  And funny, too, Vukocevic said.

  A lot of death going around, Mimi said after a pause. You heard about Romeo Byron?

  Vukocevic looked lost for a moment. The actor?

  Yeah. The actor.

  I’m sorry. He was your friend?

  Mimi grimaced. Friend? Hell no. Then she added, I wish.

  Visitation

  Words, Eleanor. Words strung like a noose around your neck. Words like love and shit and desire. Words like fire and green dress. She asked to be cremated wearing her—

  Eleanor put the notebook away and shook out her hands to get the blood flowing and the throbbing to ease. She hated having to use the laptop, felt no visceral connection to text on a screen, had owned several computers over the years despite her misgivings, and still it made no difference. Try thinking of it as another kind of notebook, Moss, her late agent, had once said. Convenience and speed. A genius bit of technology.

  The joints in her fingers were worn to the bone, her bones infested with ganglion cysts, her bones on the verge of cracking, herself on the verge of cracking, how excruciating to write in longhand in her lined schoolgirl notebook. Don’t think about it too much, Eleanor. Arthritis, language, and death. That’s all it came down to now. The problem with outliving your agent, your friends, your enemies and lovers, with outliving your one and only Yvonne. Perhaps it was time to cancel that Volga gig and kill herself. She had no more to say to the young people or to herself. Eleanor and Yvonne had always agreed on one thing: suicide as an honorable option.

  She clicked on Safari and perused the tabloid headlines. A man sues Oprah for $180 million. A woman hog-ties her Yorkshire terrier, then burns him over a stove. No new tidbits about Romeo Byron. No more online speculation regarding his death. Well, Eleanor thought. That was quick.

  She considered browsing Skanky Panky, the lesbian porn site Mimi had mentioned during one of their getting-high moments. It was right after Yvonne died, and Mimi was talking a mile a minute, snorting up a storm. Gotta warn you, Eleanor. Pretty nasty stuff. Plus, they only show enough. Just enough.

  Eleanor snorting up a storm as well, excited and grateful for the younger woman’s company, laying out more lines just to get Mimi to stay longer. Then what?

  Then I dunno. I guess you max out your credit cards, stop paying your mortgage, ruin your life.

  Are the girls hot? asked Eleanor.

  Mimi lowered her face over the fat white lines. They’re skanks.

  Skank. Eleanor loved the sound of it. But maybe gawking at wild young things in her present state of mind would depress her even more. The top joint of her gnarly middle finger hurt more than usual. Eleanor glanced at the tin box next to the laptop. Sighing, she pushed it away.

  WHERE’S MY HAT? MY FENTANYL PATCH?

  Eleanor swiveled around in her chair. Yvonne was huddled by the bookcase. Naturally she had on her signature dress, a pleated lettuce-green concoction by Issey Miyake that had become too big and billowy for her wispy, cancer-stricken self. Yvonne used to wear it to all her openings. Eleanor, in accordance with Yvonne’s final wishes, had her cremated in it.

  Yvonne rubbed her scarred, bald head. What’s all that fucking noise? My brain’s going to implode!

  Construction. Condo lofts where the printing press used to be, Eleanor said, trying to stay calm. The High Line. Which might be fabulous when it’s finished, but who knows? It’s obscene, what these—

  Get Benjy on the phone! I’ll buy him a condo. It’ll be swell, having him for a neighbor, don’t you think? I wouldn’t mind if you became lovers. You can’t go on like this, Eleanor. God forgives you, if there is a God, and I still don’t know, ha-ha!

  Benjy’s dead, Eleanor said. A vicious lie to test the ghost in the room. An aneurysm, sweetie. It was quick.

  Lucky boy! Beautiful boy! All death should be quick! Yvonne came closer. Eleanor could smell her hot, garlicky breath.
What about Nneka? How’s Nneka?

  In mourning, Eleanor answered.

  Yvonne contemplated the huge, dark painting that hung above Eleanor’s desk. A blurry figure crouched in a pit, what looked to be a naked woman with the head of a jaguar. Mouth open in a howl. Did Benjy scatter my ashes like he was supposed to? She suddenly asked, taking Eleanor by surprise.

  Of course he did, Eleanor answered.

  Yvonne kept staring at her painting.

  Take that down. Yvonne’s voice was cold and commanding.

  Now, why would I do that?

  It’s a piece of shit.

  I happen to like it, said Eleanor. It comforts me in your absence.

  I have never been a source of comfort to you or anyone else.

  Let’s change the fucking subject, okay, Yvonne? Would you believe a five-star hotel next to the condos? The same developers. Our dry cleaners—Hector’s bodega—all going out of business. St. Vincent’s. No more St. Vincent’s. We’ve started a petition to stop them from closing the hospital down, but who knows if we’ll win?

  You won’t, Yvonne said.

  I miss you, Eleanor said.

  Yvonne began flitting around the study in her voluminous green frock, pulling books and random objects off the shelves. MY HAT. I NEED MY HAT. She tipped over a bowl made of black clay. It fell off the shelf and shattered into pieces. Yvonne plucked a shard off the floor and pointed it at her heart. YOU’LL FIND OUT SOON ENOUGH, ELEANOR. BEING DEAD IS THE SAME AS BEING ALIVE. A MYSTERY.

  Gone Missing

  Which was too tidy and perfect and not what she really said. Yvonne also called herself God and loudly absolved Eleanor of Felix’s death. You didn’t take a hammer and bash his skull in! Ángel did! You weren’t even there! Again, too many exclamation points. Too tidy and perfect. Moss used to warn her against using the declarative. A phone rang and rang from somewhere far away. Eleanor woke in a foul mood, disoriented. She had fallen asleep with her head on a desk—but whose desk? Whose dark, windowless room? Where the hell was she? Her tongue was swollen and tasted of swamp. Disgusting, Eleanor thought. Really disgusting. She took in the destruction around her. Books and papers, jagged bits of clay everywhere. Are these my things? Eleanor turned on the desk lamp. The painting was gone.

  The phone was ringing. She stumbled out into the sunny living room, tin box in hand, to answer it. She had a feeling. What do you want, Rajiv?

  Sorry to bother you, the silken voice said. I would’ve left a message, but your voice mail didn’t kick in.

  With her free hand, Eleanor pried open the tin box. She removed a tiny Baggie of cocaine and held it up to the light, not pleased. Bad product. Sticky, congealed into clumps.

  Eleanor? Rajiv, anxious. You there?

  Yup, Eleanor said. She reached for an ashtray—one of those big, kitschy fifties ashtrays, shaped like a kidney—and pressed it down on the Baggie as hard as she could.

  I’ve got great news, Rajiv said.

  Eleanor was too impatient to lay it all out nice and pretty. Too impatient to use the glass straw. One of the house keys would do just fine, she decided, dipping into the Baggie. The first hit was searing, exactly what she needed. Eleanor grunted with pleasure. She forgot about Rajiv listening intently on the other end of the phone. Forgot about the stabbing pain in the joints of her fingers.

  Fantastic news, Rajiv continued to gush. Sasha Collins from the Times—well, actually, she’s also an associate editor for the Volga Review and—

  Busy girl, Eleanor murmured. Thinking, What fun. She dipped into the powder again, brought the key up to her other nostril and inhaled. By the way, what time is it?

  Two-fifteen P.M. Did I wake you? Rajiv sounding amused, conspiratorial.

  As a matter of fact, you did.

  Sorry about that. Really I am. After a pause, Rajiv said, Sasha’s way cool.

  Eleanor didn’t respond.

  She’s a fan, Eleanor. You’ve got a lot of fans.

  Eleanor lit a cigarette.

  Sasha’s coming on Thursday and she—

  Which reminds me, Eleanor said. About Thursday—

  She wants to interview you. That’s why I called. Wanted to run it by you first.

  I can’t do Thursday.

  Oh?

  I’ve come down with a terrible case of bronchitis. Eleanor coughed for dramatic effect.

  You’re not—Am I hearing this correctly? Not showing up? I mean, I’m sorry you’re sick, but—

  Eleanor heard the anxiety in Rajiv’s voice. That’s right, she said, enjoying herself immensely. According to my doctor, these bronchial things are highly infectious. Lethal at my age. And what with the swine flu and—

  Rajiv quietly hung up on Eleanor. She was delighted by his impertinence. Her respect for Rajiv—nonexistent until that moment—grew. She knew he would call again, offering profuse apologies. If not today, then tomorrow. Eleanor not showing up at Volga meant Rajiv losing face. The young man was never going to let that happen.

  Back in her study, eager to start again. Careful to avoid the sharp, broken things on the floor. Eleanor told herself that Yvonne’s painting wasn’t gone but misplaced. Hidden under the bed, or in the back of a closet somewhere. Yvonne’s restless, contentious ghost did not pay her a visit, steal the painting, or make a mess of Eleanor’s study. If Eleanor looked hard enough, she would find the beloved painting sooner or later. Stop getting high, she said to herself. Give the tired old brain and heart a little respite. Liver, too.

  Eleanor sat down before the computer. Clicked on “New Blank Document.” She would look for the missing painting later tonight. Maybe with Mimi and Violet’s help. Yes, Eleanor thought. What an excellent idea! Do a little writing, wash your face, brush your teeth, soak in the tub, change your clothes. Eleanor had never been seriously invested in fashion in the same way that Yvonne had been when she was alive, but Eleanor was vain. Though in the last year, Eleanor couldn’t think of a good reason to get out of her tattered robe and baggy pajamas. Today suddenly seemed different. Today she was determined to crawl out of her cave and clean herself up, put on lovely clothes (so many of them waiting in the closet), shop for groceries, invite Mimi and Violet over, and cook the three of them a fabulous dinner. Prawn curry with lemongrass, chili peppers, and coconut milk. Saffron rice. A bottle of tart white rioja (or two) to go with everything. Her first stop would be Souk, the spice shop on Bleecker. It had been there since the seventies. A bit of a journey, a bit of a hassle, the hippie proprietor a paranoid bitch, piercing kohl-rimmed eyes on the constant lookout for shoplifters. (Was Souk still in business? Was that paranoid bitch still alive?) But having real lemongrass and the right kind of fiery peppers—wicked, tiny, and red—would be worth the effort. If she were ten years younger, she’d walk to Chinatown. To that corner stall on Bayard, near Yvonne’s old studio, the corner stall that offered the most fragrant and exotic of ingredients at less than half the price—Eleanor swore—of any market in all the five boroughs. She could probably get her prawns there, too. But Eleanor could no longer move with joy and ease and abandon through those teeming, crowded streets. She was old. Whatever she found on Bleecker Street would just have to do.

  Love

  Mimi was five blocks ahead, walking south on Ninth Avenue, by the time Aleksandar Vukocevic caught up with her. Out of breath, still in his scrubs, nervous.

  May I see you again? Vukocevic asked.

  Mimi stared at him, surprised. Her right arm was stinging, dressed and bandaged by Vukocevic only moments ago. Sorry, she said. I’ve run out of animals.

  His dark eyes were full of woe. We can go for a wine. Maybe to the cinema. Whatever you prefer.

  A sensitive romantic, Mimi thought. Reckless enough to pursue her down the street. She liked the idea of men being reckless and often mistook it for passion. She suspected that soulful, reckless Vukocevic could be fun—intense was probably the better word—in bed. A day ago she would have happily surrendered to the heat of the moment.

  I
have offended you?

  No, Mimi said. Not at all.

  Ah, Vukocevic said, relieved. No maybe means yes?

  Listen, Doctor. You’re hot, but I don’t think so.

  Alex, he said. Please call me Alex.

  Whatever. Mimi quickened her pace.

  In spite of her rudeness, he continued walking beside her. How about we try? We have a wine, we talk. If we don’t like each other, we say very nice, thank you, Alex, thank you, Mimi, good-bye!

  Mimi laughed. You can look up my number when you get back to the animal clinic. You’re new there, aren’t you?

  Only yesterday I started.

  And by the way, I smoke cigars. You like cigars?

  Vukocevic gave a little shrug. I don’t know, but why not? Sure.

  So maybe I’ll take you to my favorite cigar bar. Maybe.

  She turned to go, but he leaned in and kissed her on the mouth, again taking her by surprise. He then walked away. Up close he had smelled faintly of tar and sweat; his kiss tasted of nothing. Damn, Mimi muttered to herself, wiping a hand slowly across her mouth. What balls.

  She liked to brag about being an orphan, brag that she has never been in love. She admitted to desire, to lusting after elusive men like Dashiell and Bobby. It was all about the self, Mimi would say, when it came to those two. Their masculine beauty, what they could do for her, was what mattered. Mimi understood the exploitation to be mutual. Tit for tat, rule of karma, goes aroun’ comes aroun’, et cetera. Mimi rolled with the punches. Unlike her brother, Carmelo, she wasn’t a sap. Her world was a hostile, brutal place, a brothel to be navigated with exquisite care. Fuck that love shit. Aleksandar Vukocevic, healer and protector of the animal kingdom, would have provided a pleasant distraction. Nothing more.

  The old writer, during another of their truth-telling, getting-high moments, had said, I don’t buy that you’re heartless. I just don’t buy it. You love Violet. More than you think.

  Because I somehow can’t help it? I’m her mother?

  Your dishonesty bores me. If I say that your love comes from some dark, twisted place, would that make you feel better?