Toxicology Page 9

  I don’t want to bore you, Eleanor.

  Then stop.

  She would kill and die for Violet, sure. Wipe Violet’s ass, cradle Violet in her arms like she had watched Eleanor cradle a dying Yvonne to the bitter end. She remembers a movie Dashiell rented one night when they were still together. He came home late, in one of his moods. Mimi suspected he was fucking someone (Paula? Cheryl?) or about to be fired. Either way, Dash was snarky, self-righteous. Pissed off about something but not saying what. Going on instead about the movie he’d rented, insisting that she stay up to watch it with him. Violet was in bed, thankfully asleep. Dash drank a lot of wine with dinner (Chinese takeout, too much MSG and cornstarch, but convenient). Mimi wasn’t much of a drinker yet, so Dash put away two bottles of moderately priced Chilean red all by himself. She pretended not to notice, poking at the food with her chopsticks while he drank. Violet was three or four then, hyper and funny, relentless in her demands. Mimi was looking for a job, always tired, sick of their lives. A letter accepting her into the Sundance Screenwriters Lab had arrived in the mail that afternoon. The letter should have elated her but didn’t.

  Without telling anyone and almost as a goof, Mimi had submitted the latest draft of Blood Wedding to the Sundance Directors Lab. The Screenwriters Lab was of no interest to her. As far as she was concerned, her script was locked and ready to shoot. All she needed was money, plus a producer, or two, or three. But now she was being told that she needed to jump through a few hoops first, and this particular hoop seemed like a waste of time. The thought of her perfect script being torn apart and analyzed by a bunch of so-called experts over the course of five days in Utah made Mimi queasy. Utah. A place Mimi had never been. She liked the forceful sound of it. Mimi reread the letter more carefully a second time. The list of screenwriter mentors was diverse and impressive. It seemed as if writers of every kind of movie imaginable—action-adventure, edgy-artsy indie, whatever—had volunteered to come to Sundance to impart their wisdom. Even the old guy who wrote Rebel Without a Cause. Mimi was amazed he was still alive and kicking. She had to admit, the invitation was tempting. Round-trip travel, fancy lodging, yummy meals provided three times a day. A working holiday, but a much-needed holiday nonetheless, from Dash and Violet. Thank you, Robert Redford. But no.

  The movie Dash brought home was Sophie’s Choice. Meryl Streep in the role of the Polish woman forced into making a terrible choice involving her two small children. Her helpless, innocent babies. Mimi did not want to watch it; Mimi wanted to throw the unappetizing leftovers in the garbage and go for a solitary walk. She had been indoors all day with relentless, demanding Violet, and now that grim, tight-lipped Dashiell was finally home, she wanted to flee. He was so unhappy, and she could not help him. She waited for the right moment to bring up Sundance with Dash, but the moment looked like it would never come.

  This movie’s fucking amazing, Dashiell said, inserting the DVD into their brand-new player. Gonna break your fucking heart.

  I can’t stand Meryl Streep, Mimi said.

  He ignored her childish remark, too disgusted to respond. Fuck her. He would watch the movie by himself if he had to, pass out on the sofa with his mouth open like he often did. It beat getting into bed with her, beat lying beside her acting like everything was fine, was cool. Mimi would eventually come around like she always did. She’d sit beside him on the sofa in that grudging way of hers, watch the fucking amazing movie with a skeptical frown on her face. Arms crossed, feet up on the coffee table, smug. SHOW ME WHY THIS SHIT IS SO GREAT, DASHIELL. SHOW ME. Mimi was once the beauty, the wicked fun and love of his life. How did she turn into such a shrew? He actually knew the answer to that one but hadn’t bargained on everything going sour so fast.

  The diminutive and twinkly-eyed Dr. Nimboonchaj, since passed away from her own ugly battles with cervical cancer, had called Mimi personally with the news. Mimi sensed the gracious doctor wanting to say, Congratulations. Thankfully, she didn’t.

  Is it too late for an abortion? Mimi asked after a moment of silence. She had never been interested in being pregnant or being a mother. She took all the necessary precautions, insisted men wear rubbers, et cetera, et cetera. How the fuck did this happen? Dashiell’s last bit of coke, which she was in the midst of sniffing when the phone rang, slowly trickled down the back of her throat.

  I can refer you to a colleague, Dr. Nimboonchaj said.

  How did this happen? I’m always careful.

  Dr. Nimboonchaj sighed. What is it you people say? Takes two to tango. Perhaps your husband—

  I’ve told you a million times. I don’t have a husband, Mimi said.

  Should I have this baby? Mimi asked Dashiell later that evening. Musing aloud, the question not intended for him at all.

  Only if it’s mine, Dash said with a charming, arrogant grin.

  In spite of her dour mood, Mimi burst out laughing. They kissed.

  She could tell that he was stunned, but also pleased by the news of her pregnancy. Aroused, even. I love you, he had said from across the kitchen table. The table not really a table, but a wooden plank placed over the old-fashioned, claw-foot bathtub that took up most of his tenement kitchen. It was where they ate, got high, washed dishes, and bathed. Quaint and maybe sexy, but also a drag. Dash was waiting for her to respond. Was she supposed to say I love you, too? Neither of them would ever find peace, but maybe it was true. This was love, staring her in the face. And now the baby, clearly a sign.

  Let’s find a bigger place, Dash said. Move in together. Get married.

  I don’t want to marry, Mimi said. Ever.

  All right. But we can live together and have a family.

  This is insane, Mimi said. You’re insane. We have no money.

  There’s a job opening at the Lumière Foundation.

  Really.

  The director of their film/video arts program just quit. It’s a decent gig. Benefits, all that shit. Which means I can lie that we’re married and get you health insurance.

  What about the short you’ve been working on?

  It can wait, Dash said. This is more important.

  Which touched Mimi, though she couldn’t help but ask, Did you hear about the job through Paula?

  Dash shrugged.

  Maybe I should apply, Mimi said. I mean, why not compete for the same job?

  Another grin and noncommittal shrug from Dash. Mimi lit a cigarette. Dash leaned over and snatched it from her hand. You’re a mommy now, he said. Mimi watched him take a drag and exhale before putting it out. Without missing a beat, she lit another one and held it away from his reach. So. You gonna have to fuck Paula as part of the interview?

  Dash applied for the job, was interviewed by Paula and a committee made up of Lumière Foundation trustees, was interviewed a second time and, weeks later, finally hired. He did his job with panache; he actually seemed to be thriving. Dash was good at chatting up the stingy donors and patrons, good at flattering and appeasing, at squeezing money out of them. The Lumière Foundation was its own world, and his staff of young, mostly female, over-educated program assistants saw their jobs as temporary and assumed that any day now, they would be recognized as the innovative choreographers, groundbreaking novelists, and electrifying actors they had always thought themselves to be. They were astonished when they found themselves working at the Lumière Foundation two, three, maybe five years later. Just as Dash was astonished that he was still there.

  He no longer made his strange, gorgeous films, the short films Mimi loved—all of them in black and white (he had no use for color), all of them thirteen minutes long. He no longer roamed the streets, taking black-and-white photographs of random buildings and random people with his Speed Graphic camera (4x5, like his idol Weegee’s camera). Dash was unhappy and—though he jogged in Central Park at least four times a week—putting on weight and drinking too much. And yet they stayed together another seven years.

  And their kid, their skittish, brilliant kid, sleeping in her room, peac
eful, oblivious. Or maybe not. Their kid was neither blind nor stupid. She was fucking amazing. Fucking amazing, his love for her.

  A mystery.

  Sophie’s Choice. It was the beginning of the end. Mimi hovered by the doorway, arms crossed, waiting for Dash to notice her. Okay, why not? Put up with his fucking amazing movie. Whatever he wants. It was the beginning of the end, she knew it was over, why were they still together, why won’t I leave, why won’t he?

  I got this letter, Mimi said. From the Sundance people.

  What Sundance people?

  The Screenwriters Lab. I got in.

  No shit.

  No shit.

  Did you tell me you’d applied?

  No, I didn’t.

  Congratulations.

  I’m not going, Mimi said. I just decided.

  Don’t let me and Violet stop you.

  That has nothing to do with it, Mimi said. I’m not going.

  Well, Dash said. Congratulations anyway.

  Dash pulled another bottle from the wine rack, this one a gift from Paula, the boss with the velvet fist. Of course the wine was vintage, French, very expensive.

  Are you really going to drink that? Mimi heard herself saying.

  We’re going to drink it together. Dash held the bottle up in a scornful toast. Viva Sundance!

  Mother love. If a gun were pointed at Violet’s head and a terrible choice had to be made, who could predict how Mimi would choose? Mimi regretted not putting up a bigger fight when Violet announced she was moving in with Dash. Violet had been eleven, surly and obstinate, when she made her decision. But you don’t even like your father, Mimi tried to argue.

  I like him better than you, Violet retorted. And that was that.

  And now the animal is being sent off to some crematorium upstate. And now Agnes is more than likely dead. Again Mimi flips open her cell phone—messages, one missed call, how come she didn’t hear the phone ring, exciting! She punches in Carmelo’s number. The opening chords of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” kick in. Going on for far too long, in Mimi’s opinion. Then you had to wait for her brother’s curt little greeting: I’m not available. Leave a message.

  Mimi talks fast. Melo, listen. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going with you to look for Agnes, to talk to the cops, whatever we need to fucking do! And by the way? That Led Zeppelin thing is getting really tired.

  The missed call is from a restricted number. Bobby playing one of his games, or one of the slippery hedge-fund boys, either Ivan or Matthieu. Don’t call us, we’ll call you. A rambling, awkward voice mail from Vukocevic. Hello, Mimi, it’s Alex. Aleksandar Vukocevic. The stalker from the animal clinic. Please know of course that is a joke. And not a funny one, perhaps—

  Mimi frowns, annoyed. She is ready to write him off, but something tells her to save the message. She will deal with it when she gets home. The text message is from Violet:Hry! Im Strvng!

  Souk

  Eleanor was relieved. Ferrucci Brothers Seafood Pork & Pasta had not gone out of business. And neither had Souk, the herb-and-spice shop next door to it. The unfriendly and gargantuan Persian cat still snoozed in Souk’s storefront window. As old as Eleanor in cat years. A funky PLEASE DON’T PET ME sign was taped to its wicker bed. Eleanor could see through the window that Luanne, the paranoid hippie proprietor, was gone. Replaced by a young, slender, more striking version of Luanne, sitting behind the cash register. (Spiky short hair and snazzy eyeglasses—maybe Luanne’s granddaughter?) The shopgirl was engrossed in a book. She glanced up when the door opened and Eleanor walked in, then went right back to what she was reading. Attractive. Eleanor made a mental note to sneak a peek at the title of the book when it was time to pay.

  And after Souk, on to Ferrucci Brothers to buy jumbo prawns (if they had any left), maybe mussels and clams. Definitely a big bottle of virgin olive oil, the best they had. She wanted to say hello to Dominic and Massimo, ask after their wives, their children and grandchildren. Eleanor had not felt this invigorated, this curious and social, in years. And the coat she was wearing—the red, opulent coat that had once belonged to Yvonne—made her feel like a fierce drag queen diva. A cliché, and brilliant.

  Eleanor chose a shopping basket from the stack by the door. Souk’s displays were artful, as she remembered. Lemongrass stalks sprouted from earthenware vases, red and green chili peppers filled pewter bowls. Glass jars crammed with star anise, cloves, fennel seeds, cumin, lavender, sticks of dried cinnamon. Oh, why not? Eleanor thought, wanting it all. Buy a bit of everything, replenish the bare cupboards in your kitchen, you won’t regret it. Lucky old woman. She had money, more than enough. Money from the recent sale of her archives (all those photographs, handwritten letters, postcards from famous people!), money left to her by Yvonne, money from the royalty checks that still trickled in from time to time. Death was imminent; she may as well splurge.

  The shopgirl put her book down. Eleanor handed her a bank card and the basket loaded with things.

  In Search Of Duende. She had expected the shopgirl to be immersed in some hot new novel, but this—this was too much.

  The shopgirl smiled politely at Eleanor. Debit or credit?

  Debit. Are you a Lorca fan?

  I’m doing my dissertation on flamenco as an act of resistance during the Spanish Civil War. Lorca’s a primary source.

  That’s smart. Really, really smart, Eleanor said. Thinking, I am still capable of cheap flattery. And if we chat long enough, it will seem perfectly natural to invite her to my dinner party. Eleanor had always found Lorca a trifle overwrought, precious and romantic. She had argued with Mimi and Yvonne about it, but if this stalwart, snazzy young thing was another Lorca devotee . . . then what the hell.

  The young woman came alive. Do you know his “Play and Theory of the Duende”?

  No, Eleanor lied.

  Oh, wow, you should! It’s this lecture Lorca gave in Buenos Aires in 1930—no, ’33!—about—and I’m sorry if I’m oversimplifying or making it sound pretentious—but it’s about the struggle and state of possession that go into making great art. Duende’s hard to explain. Sorta like when black singers are said to have soul. I mean, what is soul? Either you have duende or you don’t.

  Exactly, Eleanor said. Have you read Lorca in Spanish?

  No. The shopgirl gave an embarrassed laugh. I can get a little earnest and reductive about this duende shit. Sorry.

  Nothing to be sorry about. I’m intrigued. Eleanor was about to ask her name, but the shopgirl was suddenly all business. Paper or plastic?

  Beg your pardon?

  Some people prefer not to use plastic bags.

  Plastic, Eleanor said.

  ELEANOR DARLING! Nneka was waving to her frantically, turning heads on Bleecker Street. Benjy stood next to his beaming, insanely tall, insanely glamorous wife, looking glum. Eleanor froze. Benjy tossed his cigarette aside but made no move toward Eleanor. He still sported a beard. Mr. Marketing and Media Consultant. Mr. Branding. Constantly miserable, but clearly prosperous.

  Nneka ran up to Eleanor and gave her a fierce squeeze. Eleanor reveled in the tart, woodsy scent of Nneka’s perfume.

  You look smashing!

  No, you look smashing.

  Where’ve you been?

  Where I’ve always been.

  Well, I’ve missed you!

  And I’ve missed you.

  Benjy finally sauntered over. What a sexy, gorgeous couple they made. Eleanor almost forgot that she had not been invited to their wedding.

  Nneka’s tone grew sharp and exasperated. Benjamin. Please? Eleanor needs help with her bags.

  No, Eleanor said, stepping back. No thank you, but I don’t.

  Benjy’s voice was cutting and cool. Is that Mum’s coat?

  Your friend Rajiv called me, Eleanor said, ignoring his question.

  I heard.

  I said yes to the reading, Eleanor said.

  I heard. Benjy glanced at his watch. Nneka, the thing’s at five.

  Nneka
ignored him. She grabbed Eleanor’s hand and placed it against her belly, which was firm and flat. We’re having a baby.

  A baby? Eleanor was astonished.

  I cannot wait to get FAT, Nneka said. Will you still love me, Benjamin?

  More than ever, Benjy said.

  If the baby’s a girl, we’re calling her Yvonne, Nneka said.

  That’s lovely, Eleanor said.

  Benjy touched the small of Nneka’s back. We should go.

  Nneka bent to kiss Eleanor good-bye. Come visit.

  Absolutely. When the baby’s born.

  That’s such a long way away, darling. Come see us soon.

  Eleanor turned to Benjy. You’ve sold your mother’s place in Chinatown, haven’t you? Tell me it isn’t true.

  Afraid it is.

  But why?

  Let’s just say I no longer found the rodents charming, Benjy said.

  Eleanor felt stunned and confused. But where do you and Nneka live? I don’t even know where you live.

  Benjy chuckled grimly. We’ve got a place in London. And one in Brooklyn.

  Fort Greene, Nneka interjected. Come visit us in Fort Greene, Eleanor.

  Absolutely, Eleanor said. When the baby’s born.

  She watched them walk away. A crowd started gathering on the sidewalk around her. Everyone staring at the black Hummer parked in front of the new shoe place across the street. The hulking commando type waiting beside the ostentatious vehicle glowered back at the gawking crowd. Some sort of bodyguard-chauffeur, Eleanor supposed. She was too frazzled by her encounter with Benjy and Nneka to be interested in the spectacle that was about to unfold. There was still more shopping to do at Ferrucci Brothers. The prawns. Should she call the whole thing off? A fucking dinner party, the Mad Hatter’s dinner party, what the hell was she thinking?

  There they are! Someone shoved Eleanor, hard. Someone else caught her by the arms as she was about to fall. Why, it’s Lorca Girl, Eleanor remembers saying to the young woman from Souk.

  To the rescue, the shopgirl said.

  With Lorca Girl by her side, Eleanor felt safe and not in such a hurry to flee. A pair of wispy, golden-haired trolls in huge sunglasses emerged from the shoe place. Eleanor mistook them for children. An older woman, also in sunglasses, walked behind them, carrying their shopping bags. The driver commando held open the passenger door. The crowd—a sizable one by now—craned their necks and readied their cell phones and cameras. Their anxious, hostile energy was palpable. The older woman and the trolls scrambled into the Hummer and were driven quickly away. The crowd began to scatter.