Cobble Hill

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  “I love the new chairs, don’t you?” Gabby asked.

  Wendy rocked back and forth in her padded white leather desk chair, reminding herself not to sound snobbish. “Much nicer than upstairs,” she said, even though they were exactly the same. “The chair in my old office made marks on me bum.”

  “You’re so funny.” Gabby laughed and cracked open her second can of Mountain Dew that morning. “Hey, ignore the chopstick piece, okay? One of the assistants did all the shopping and research for it. She can write it and I’ll polish it up. Also, even though you’re more accomplished and way cuter than I am, I’m technically your boss now. So you can write this impossible exposé about some hard-to-get-to tiki restaurant in Tasmania and make it sound all Anglophilic and shit. I tried to call and talk to someone, but he was drunk and unintelligible.”

  Wendy giggled. Gabby might enjoy dopey photos of cakes and pies, but she was fun to share an office with. “I have friends in Australia. Maybe they can help me.”

  Gabby pressed a series of buttons on her desk phone, causing it to beep and squawk.

  “Hi, Gabby.” One of the Enjoy! assistants came on the line, on speakerphone.

  “Write up the chopstick buyer’s guide, please, since you did all the legwork? And also book lunch in an hour for me and Wendy at the yummy Indian place? We’re starving.” She hung up the phone. “Is that okay?”

  “Lunch?” Wendy never ate much lunch. Certainly not Indian food. Lately she’d felt like she was competing with Shy for how little she could eat in a day.

  “We eat at this magazine,” Gabby said firmly. “Hey, did you see they found the head? There’s a picture of it and everything.”

  Wendy stood up quickly, leaving her chair spinning. The image on Gabby’s screen was surreal: gray engorged face, huge blue eyes, tendrils of long brown hair cascading over the seaweed-strewn rocks, pale mouth gaping open, torn neck connected to… nothing.

  Wendy felt like she was looking in the mirror.

  They stared at the picture in silence for a good minute. Then Gabby switched off her monitor.

  “Whoops, that was a quick hour. Lunchtime.”

  Chapter 10

  “DNA test results show the blood and hair found in Belsito’s garage match those of the head and torso. Searches for the remaining limbs are ongoing. Belsito has been detained by Staten Island police and will remain in custody. Belsito has a history of prescription medication abuse and was suspended from high school three times before dropping out. He purchased one chain saw at a nearby Lowe’s in May, and a second, larger chain saw at Home Depot in August. Strands of Lelani Dimakis’s hair were caught in the blades of both saws.”

  Elizabeth switched off the radio as the hourly stock market report came on. Something about the murder, the body parts, seemed to tug at her, reminding her of Tupper and home. This rarely happened. Of course she thought of him. They had been together—and apart—for a long time. And this tug was not a longing or a yearning; it was more like curiosity. What was Tupper doing? Was he making something new and attractive and lucrative? Was he staying up all night watching television and forgetting to eat? Was their quaint Brooklyn neighborhood sullied by pumpkins and ridiculous Halloween decorations? Elizabeth didn’t carry a cell phone, so she had no way of knowing.

  She’d have to go back to Brooklyn soon anyway. She needed a bath and a good hot meal and perhaps some human contact. When they were in their twenties, Tupper made her promise to speak to at least two people a day to avoid “getting so sucked into her work that she lost touch with the humans the work was for.” Elizabeth hadn’t spoken to anyone in almost two months. The cabin she’d rented for this project was unheated and it was getting cold at night. She could go home to Cobble Hill, take a bath, and put on a robe. Tupper would make her a lamb burger with red wine, and he would talk to her. It was so predictable and domestic it was almost unbearable. But she did miss him, or the idea of him.

  Besides, she wouldn’t stay long. Just until she figured out the next work. This one, this project in the woods, had been good. Each day she’d created a new temporary work made of found objects at the base of a tree and taken a picture with the fancy gold phone she’d been provided with but had never connected to cell service. She’d mail in the phone (she never bothered with uploading or downloading), and the whole series would be projected on a wall at the Apple headquarters in Cupertino, California, and she would be paid handsomely. She’d collaborated with Apple years ago for the launch of another new iPhone. That project was called Find Yourself. Elizabeth built a labyrinth of tunnels that led to end zones where one could collect prizes varying from a wad of chewed gum, to live frogs, to a pair of designer flip-flops, to a hank of horsehair, to the new iPhone itself. It was immensely popular, and Apple was an excellent collaborator, providing expensive prizes and paying her an absurd amount of money.

  Elizabeth had always found a way to be paid for her art. She was persuasive in an almost unspoken way—her mere physical presence was convincing enough. Usually she got what she wanted. And she never stopped. Working artists had to work. As soon as she was finished with one project she would move on to the next.

  Tupper knew this. He knew her. They’d practically grown up together in Unity, Maine. Starting at age eleven he’d followed her around while she picked up dead bugs and thorny branches. He tried to make a boat out of rocks. They used to see how long they could tolerate walking barefoot in the snow. Her parents were drunk and inattentive Icelandic artists. His parents thought he was gay because he didn’t play ice hockey. He’d followed her to every educational institution where she’d sought a degree: a BFA from CalArts, an MFA from the Art Institute of Chicago, an MA from Bard’s Center for Curatorial Studies, and a master’s and a PhD in the history of consciousness from UC Santa Cruz, as well as artist residencies at MacDowell, Yaddo, Roswell, and Kala. They were extremely well-educated. Eventually they’d married—a cheesy, quickie wedding in Las Vegas of all places—and Elizabeth changed her name from Elizabeth Fuchsdottir to Elizabeth Paulsen. The very next morning, she’d hitchhiked out of town and didn’t see Tupper again until she broke her wrist five months later during her Rodeo, when she rode a bucking bull completely naked, covered in live beetles and barbecue sauce.

  Elizabeth knew she was eccentric. There were plenty of eccentrics in New York City. The thing about Cobble Hill, the neighborhood of Brooklyn where Tupper had chosen to buy a house with the embarrassing amount of money he’d made and continued to make from his Macaw design, was that everyone knew or thought they knew everyone else’s business. The artists all lived in Red Hook, not Cobble Hill. Elizabeth couldn’t walk down the street without a staring audience. She was conspicuous, over six feet tall and reed thin—her favorite foods were vodka and vitamins—with a white-blond braid that hung down her back to her waist. She made her own clothes, tearing apart clothing in the sale bin at vintage shops and repurposing it. She liked to wear vinyl because it was durable and warm and waterproof. And she never wore a bra because they were uncomfortable. What bothered her most about their Cobble Hill neighbors—most of them stroller-wielding parents; their children were their works of art—was that they were so content.

  And then there was Tupper. Beautiful, adoring, nervous, and anything but content. Sure, she and he had attempted contentment for a time. They’d bought their house. They’d prepared for a child, children. When the children didn’t come, she refused to succumb to the clichéd and obvious rabbit hole of fertility treatments, or adoption, or depression. She refused to discuss it at all. She simply made them. She made twins. Out of papier-mâché and birch bark and wool and felt. Then she staged their illnesses and untimely deaths—the one project she did not get paid for—and stashed them in a glass box. And then she moved on.

  But she did need to go back. Tupper was probably wasting away, fretting over some quirkily adorable contraption like a penguin that dispensed mini marshmallows into your cocoa or a Chihuahua that farted hot sauce. And perhaps she was
being too hard on their Cobble Hill neighbors. Perhaps she could incorporate them in some way. Perhaps they’d even be useful. More than anything, she needed the landline. Any day now the recipients of the MacArthur Fellowship “genius” grants would be announced. Elizabeth had been making culturally relevant work for over twenty years. She was certain this was her time.

  * * *

  Roy read and reread the last paragraph he’d written, pressing his back against the stiff wooden barstool. Now what was he on about? Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? A storm. Something powerful enough to get Isabel up to Mars. A magical tornado, or a tidal wave, the crest of which would reach the Milky Way.

  It would take about a year to get to Mars in a spacecraft—he’d looked it up. But since Isabel was traveling by natural disaster, she could pop up whenever he wanted her to. Because she was special and he was in charge. Now all he needed was for Ceran to get both girls pregnant. And for the bad guy—who was either a Russian stowaway or a mutant scientist—to swoop in and hold them hostage. Maybe the bad guy hides in the food-restocking rocket ship amongst the crates of bananas—no, bananas wouldn’t last—grapefruits and oranges and bags of rice and sultanas, and emerges on Mars, pretending to be a new scientist. He assimilates and slowly begins to kill everyone. Then, like a pack of stealthy coyotes, Ceran, Bettina, and Isabel lure him outside into Mars’s atmosphere, to which they are immune, and look on triumphantly as his head explodes.

  Oh hell.

  The bar was dark and empty. Would it not be wise to put the book down for a bit and go home and make a snack? Perhaps he could plan a magnificent meal for Shy and Wendy, go to the shops, and spend the rest of the afternoon cooking in their wonderfully equipped kitchen. He’d never been much of a cook though. He’d never done much of anything besides write books. He was useless, really. How Wendy and Shy put up with him he’d never know.

  The bad guys must have a laser gun. Roy couldn’t actually call it a laser gun, though, that was silly. If this were a TV show, the guns would be called something cool and futuristic. Zapper. Taser. Faser?

  Roy jumped off his barstool and aimed his index finger at a bottle of gin.

  “Watch out! He’s got a faser!”

  * * *

  “Where’d you get this anyway?” Shy passed the joint back to Liam. Neither one of them had ever tried weed before. They’d almost bought a little vape pen, but they were so expensive and she’d always wanted to try rolling a joint, so they’d bought rolling papers instead.

  Liam inhaled deeply and then coughed out the smoke. “My mom. She has a dealer. Actually, I think she might be a dealer.”

  “Seriously?” Shy was impressed. Her parents were so boring. Well, maybe not boring, but old-fashioned. “How do you know?”

  “I found a giant jar full of pot in a paper shopping bag in her closet. I was looking for the dog leash. And now it all makes sense. I mean, she’s always been really weird. Now I know why.”

  Shy nodded. “I already feel weird.”

  “Me too,” Liam said and put his arm around her. They were huddled on a bench in the playground next to the entrance to the BQE. It was sort of a clichéd thing to do, but where else could they go, Starbucks?

  Shy put her head on his shoulder and they looked up at the darkening sky. It was a little after five o’clock. Stars appeared one at a time in the expanse of azure, twinkling brightly, like they’d been switched on.

  Shy pointed at a freshly glowing pinkish-red dot.

  “Mars is the Roman god of war.”

  She’d garnered this fact from Mr. Streko’s Twitter feed, which she’d decided to be more strict with herself about and not look at more than four times a day so as not to become an obsessive teen stalker. Also, she was starting to really like Liam.

  “And also a candy bar,” she added with a giggle.

  Liam snorted and actual snot came out of his nose. He pulled his arm away from her and wiped at the snot with the back of his hand.

  “Ugh. I can already tell I’m not going to like my mom’s weed.”

  Shy didn’t move. “I like it.”

  Liam shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and jittered his legs restlessly.

  “I know it’s been a few weeks, but all I can think about is the schoolyard fire. I can’t sleep. Black Ryan wants to confess. I want to confess. But then Bruce will kill me. He’ll kill both of us.”

  “But you didn’t really do anything, right?”

  Liam shook his head. It was exhausting just thinking about it.

  Shy sat up and turned to face him. Her blue eyes were enormous. She looked pretty in the twilight, but also a little fucked up. “Then you should be the one to confess first. Just tell someone what happened. Exactly the way it happened. You won’t be punished for being honest. Forget about Bruce. He’s disgusting.”

  “Yeah,” Liam said. “I guess.” And the more stoned he felt, the more he decided what Shy said was right. He hadn’t started the fire, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. He had to come forward and confess so he could get a decent night’s sleep.

  “Oh God.” He grabbed Shy’s hand and squeezed it hard, bouncing his feet up and down, overcome by paranoia and nervous exhaustion. “How does my mom smoke this stuff? She’s a maniac. Seriously. I’m freaking out.”

  Shy walked Liam home and then went home herself. She was still so high, and trembling with cold, and trembling because she was pretty sure Liam wasn’t just her tutor anymore. They might even be in love. In the dimly lit library, her father sat very straight in his chair. He looked like he was concentrating.

  “Hi, Daddy.” Shy walked up behind him and read the words on his computer screen. “Mars, really? Did you know Mars is the Roman god of war?”

  Roy was in deep space with Ceran, Bettina, and Isabel and didn’t notice how stoned she was.

  “Is it?” He ruminated on this little factoid, wondering how he could work it in. His teenage Martian colonists were at war with everyone on Earth who had stolen their privacy and with the rich Russians who were trying to steal their gold.

  “It was on Mr. Streko’s Twitter. Oh, and I’m thinking of joining the table tennis team. Mr. Streko is the coach, and Mum said I need extracurricular activities for college.”

  “That’s fine. Sorry, I’m distracted. Did you have a nice afternoon?” Her father looked up with a vague smile. “How’s Liam?”

  “He’s a mess.” Shy yawned. “I’m going to go stare at my homework. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck.”

  Shy had homework, that was good. He’d come home from Monte intending to make an elaborate sandwich and read the newspaper, but had wound up eating only a few crisps before going back to his book. Ceran and Bettina were having sex outside the airlock in a sandstorm, while Isabel messaged Earth in fluent Russian. Soon Wendy would be home from running Fleurt and they’d heat up the delicious lamb stew she’d made over the weekend, or order Thai curries from Joya and drink white wine.

  Roy hit return.

  Chapter 11

  A MESSAGE FROM NURSE PEACHES

  Dear PS 919 parents,

  As you know, our beloved schoolyard was vandalized last month. The identity of the perpetrators has since been revealed and a suitable punishment has been assigned—by me. The vandals themselves have agreed to pay for repairs to the schoolyard. They have also agreed to personally apologize to each and every classroom of children in this school for the damage they did that night. And they have agreed to weekly community service within the school from now until winter break.

  The apology will take place this Friday, starting at 8:55 a.m. I will need a few parent volunteers to help me walk the vandals from class to class. The whole process should take about three hours.

  Repairs, on the other hand, will take longer. A few contractors have made bids. I’ll keep you posted.

  Thank you for your help and support. We will have our schoolyard back soon!

  My very best,
<
br />   Peaches Park, school nurse

  nursepeaches@ps919brooklyn.edu

  Stuart followed Nurse Peaches down the fourth-floor hallway to Ted’s classroom. Behind him Peaches’ son, Liam, and his teenage vandal cohort shuffled dutifully along.

  “Dad!”

  Stuart was a parent volunteer. “Hey, bud.” He hugged Ted’s head to his hip.

  “Ticktock,” Ted’s slightly loony septuagenarian homeroom teacher, Mrs. Watson, called out.

  “Applesauce!” Ted and the other nine-year-olds responded dutifully and took their seats at their tables.

  Liam, Bruce, Black Ryan, and Ryan stood in front of the sunny windows, staring down the lint balls on the round blue classroom rug with nervous exhaustion. They’d worked their way through the grades, missing a whole morning of classes and lunch at their own school. Ted’s was the third to last classroom to hear their guilty plea.

  “These big boys have something to say to all of you,” Mrs. Watson told the class. “So I need you to be all ears and open hearts.”

  Stuart wanted to hug her. Something about her heavy Brooklyn accent and smoker’s voice using a term like “open hearts” made him feel mushy all over. Maybe it was the massive amounts of THC in his system from the pot he and Mandy had been constantly eating and smoking, or maybe it was the presence of Nurse Peaches in the sunlit classroom, her dimples popping despite her efforts to frown.

  “Go ahead, boys,” she said. “Liam, why don’t you start?”

  Liam glanced at his mom and then at Mrs. Watson and then down at the rug again. Ted and his classmates wiggled impatiently in their chairs. Half of them had food on their shirts and untied shoelaces. The room smelled like farts.

  “Yeah. So.” Liam looked up at the classroom full of boys and girls. He knew three out of every ten boys in every classroom in the school from his after-school job at the Brooklyn Strategizer, which made this even more humiliating. “Um.”