I hold the note in my hands, my skin tingling with warmth.
I left Mikey’s travel clock at his guesthouse when I moved. I’ve been relying on the sound of the other people to wake me up in time for work every morning, but suddenly, I don’t want to take a chance on being late or not having enough time. To talk to Riley tomorrow, when it’s just us.
Riley came and found me.
As I bound down the stairs to see if Leonard has a spare clock, I’m in a little bubble of warmth, just like I had with Ellis, a place I never thought I’d be again.
When Riley doesn’t answer his door the next morning, I don’t even hesitate before going in. In the front room, I find a battered acoustic guitar and a four-track cassette recorder in the middle of the floor, surrounded by sheaves of notebook paper. They weren’t there the other day.
He’s in the same position in his bed as last time: hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles. A couple of empty bottles rest on the floor by the bed. He opens his eyes slowly. It takes him a few minutes to register me standing in the doorway to his bedroom, but then his face breaks into a smile. It’s so sudden and surprising that I can’t help but grin, too.
“Hey,” he says drowsily. He looks at me in a weirdly comfortable way that makes my stomach jump. A look that says it’s perfectly natural for me to be in the doorway to his bedroom at five-thirty in the morning. I hope he can’t see the warmth that’s spreading across my cheeks.
“It didn’t take me long to find out where you lived. Just asked around for the girl on the yellow bicycle and poof, there you were. Or weren’t, I should say. I enjoyed meeting your neighbors. Fine lot of men, they are.”
“You should get up. You look wrecked,” I say. “Are those ashes in your hair?” Jesus Christ, this guy.
He rolls over on his side and looks up at me sleepily, but grinning. “Hey, speaking of fine men. How’d that work out the other night? With your friend Michael? And his friend…Bunny?”
I purse my lips, but I’m not really pissed off. That comfortable look he gave me earlier is still working its magic. He looks delighted. “It didn’t, if you must know. Now get up. We can’t be late. I don’t want to be late.”
“Well,” he says, groaning as he sits up. “Michael’s loss, then.” He moans, like something hurts.
“Do you need help?” I ask warily. I don’t want to get too close yet, not after last time. “You look like total shit.”
“There you go with that sweet talk, Strange Girl. No, no help. I’ll be good as new after a quick dip in a scalding shower.” I step out of the doorway to let him pass. He heads to the bathroom. As soon as I hear the water running, I slip into the kitchen and cruise the refrigerator, my stomach churning, looking for something to eat, and also to distract myself, because as much of a jerk as he is, he’s still a kind of used-to-be-better-looking jerk, and he’s also, at this very moment, very naked.
A carton of eggs, a packet of tortillas, a jar of green salsa. A block of yellow cheese, a block of white cheese. I find a knife in a drawer and hastily cut a hunk of yellow cheese and cram it into my mouth. I’m careful to wrap the rest of it back up and replace it, just so, in the refrigerator. A half-drunk bottle of Chardonnay in the side pocket, next to a crusty jar of jam. Three oranges. I peel one open quickly, eat a few sweet slices, and shove the rest into my backpack. It’s an open, square kitchen, plain and weirdly clean and empty. Maybe he does most of his eating at True Grit. There’s a teakettle on the stove, which I wouldn’t have expected.
Under the sink is where I find his stash of bottles. I wonder where he keeps his other stash, the one Linus was talking about. Through the back-door window, I can see a sturdy wooden building in the yard, surrounded by fat cactuses.
Bare feet slap on the hardwood floor. Riley stands beside me at the window, droplets flaring off him as he rubs a towel against his head. “It’s my recording studio. I built it with some of the money from the second, and last, Long Home record that I was on. Kinda ramshackle, nothing fancy inside or anything, but it works. At least, it used to.” He runs his fingers through his hair.
“How come you’re not in a band anymore?” I ask. “I mean, you guys were kind of famous, right?”
He shrugs. “It’s the same old rock and roll story. Boy joins band, band gets big, or almost big. Nearly big. Big enough, anyway, so that egos grew, money floated from the sky, excess occurred, demons were created, or, in my case, simply crawled to the surface after remaining carefully cloaked. And what once rose high and mighty thus fell really, really fucking hard back to earth. The end.”
“Are you…do you still play?” He’s gazing at the studio with a faraway look in his eye.
“Sure. Sometimes.” He clears his throat, gives his hair a final scrub with the towel. “But you know what I’m really good at? Being a disappointment. You’ve gotta work with the talent you’re born with, I guess.”
He throws the towel on the kitchen counter. “Let’s hit the road, Strange Girl. Don’t want to make Linus mad.”
We’re quiet as we walk, me pushing my bicycle.
Being a disappointment, he said. I was always disappointing people, too, like my mother, my teachers. After a while, why bother trying? I can see what Riley’s talking about.
It’s just before six a.m. and the air is already warming up. I tie my hoodie around my waist. “Is it ever not hot here?” I ask. Riley laughs.
“Oh, shit. You ain’t seen nothing, girl. Wait until July. It’s like a hundred and twenty fucking degrees outside.”
We cross through the darkness of the underpass, silent, and after a while, it seems kind of comfortable, this not talking. I mean, I want to ask him more about the music thing, and what happened, but it’s okay not to talk, too. And a little part of me is still nervous; I don’t want to make him angry.
Half a block from True Grit, he stops and lights a cigarette. His hands are trembling fiercely, but I don’t say anything. “You go in first, okay? I’ll come in a few minutes.” Smoke drifts from his nostrils. “We shouldn’t go in together.”
I want to ask why, but I don’t. I just keep going and lock my bicycle to a pole. Linus shouts out a hearty “Hello!” when I get inside. Riley comes in a few minutes later and heads straight to the coffee. When he comes back to the dish area, he has two cups and hands me one.
I help Linus with the coffee urns and the espresso machine and then start on the dish area. Whoever worked dishes last night left plates of dried food stacked in the sink, topped with stained mugs, tea strainers, and the tiny, delicate spoons for the espresso cups. I lose myself in the task of scraping food into the trash, soaking plates and cups in the sink.
Linus walks back from the front, her face pale. “R, Bianca’s at the counter. She wants her money.” She lowers her voice. “Do we…have her money? Where the hell is Julie?”
Riley gets very still. “Uh, yeah. Let me just go cut her a check. I’ll be back.”
Linus bites her lip as Riley rushes down the hallway to the office. The doors to the kitchen swing open. A curvy woman in a loose purple dress looks around, her eyes suspicious. Linus says, “Riley went to get a check.”
The woman looks me over kind of grumpily and then huffs to Linus, “I don’t want to have to beg every time for my money, Linus. You guys want my goods, you pay and you pay on time. Julie needs to get her head together.”
“I know, Bianca. Things are a little wonky right now. Business is off some days and then roaring the next. We’re working on it.” Linus twists a dish towel in her hands.
Riley jogs back down the hall. When he sees Bianca, he slaps a hand to his forehead. “Lady B! I swear, it’s all my fault. My sister asked me to run some cash by the bakery yesterday and I forgot. My apologies.”
Bianca takes the check and inspects it. “A check, Riley? Is this one good? If this one tanks, I’m out. You people need to get your shit together.”
“It’s all good, Lady B.”
She grimaces and takes off t
hrough the kitchen doors. Linus glares at Riley. “Again, R? Again?”
“It’s not what you think, Linus, so why don’t you go back to work?”
Linus stalks back to the front. Riley walks past me without saying anything.
I listen to the murky burble of the fryer, to the drone of the grill, the dishes as they sway back and forth in the washer; I wonder what’s going on. What happened to the cash Riley had for that lady? What did Linus mean by again?
Then I find myself listening to the unmistakable sound of choking, and the rush-jumble of vomit. I whirl around.
Riley holds a hand to his mouth. He’s bent over the trash bin by the grill, liquid dripping from his chin.
I quickly hand him a towel and then cover my nose. The smell is awful.
He wipes his chin and neck, throws the towel into the bin, and opens the refrigerator door, blocking his face. When it closes, he’s drinking deeply from a can of beer. He sets it back inside, his chest heaving. The color’s returning to his face, spreading up his cheeks like a pink river.
There were older people, men and women, on the streets who acted like this. Who drank and drank and drank so much their bodies were slick with the stench of old wine, beer, vomit. The only thing, the next morning, that made their hands stop trembling, that made them stop heaving up bile or chunks of soup kitchen food? was more alcohol. The DTs, Evan called it. That’s some fucking nasty shit, he’d say, shaking his head.
The finger Riley presses to his lips has tiny red nicks from his chef’s knife. Because his hands were trembling so badly, I realize.
Shhhh, he mouths. He nudges the trash bin in my direction. I look over at Linus, who’s ringing someone up at the register. She told me to tell her if stuff like this happened.
Riley’s eyes plead with me. I’m not sure what to do.
And then Ellis’s texts flash in my brain. Smthing hurts. U never sd hurt like this. 2 much. My stomach churns with shame. I didn’t help her and I lost her.
Quickly, I pull the bag from the trash bin, tie it, and take it out back to the Dumpster. He did get me a job, after all.
Later, when my shift is over and I’m almost out the screen door, Riley appears with a brown paper bag.
“Messed up an order. Bon appétit.”
I hesitate before taking the bag, because by taking it, I know I’m agreeing to keep some sort of secret, and I’m still not sure I want to do that.
But the hunger knocking around in my stomach wins out. I’m so sick of stale bread and peanut butter. And as soon as I get home, I tear into that food: a green chili bagel with scrambled tofu and Swiss cheese, with a broken oatmeal raisin cookie wrapped in wax paper.
The library is nearly empty, so I have plenty of time on the computer. Casper has finally sent a message.
Dear Charlie, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to respond to your last message and I’m sorry you’re feeling anxious. I should be clear, here, though: I’m not your doctor, anymore, legally, so I have to be very careful with what advice or thoughts I give you. And I am helping others, too, so sometimes I may not be able to respond to you as quickly as you’d like. I hope you can understand that. I’ve looked up some resources for you in Tucson, they may be of help. You’ll find them at the end of this message.
The most important thing, Charlie, is to keep yourself active and keep yourself aware at all times. Such as: no drinking, which you haven’t followed. Have you had anything to drink since the email to me? Is there anyone you can talk to, like your friend? It’s very, very important that you follow steps every day to keep yourself sober and safe. It’s going to be a hard road, Charlie, and the hard work is largely up to you. You were given very few emotional resources as a child and your life, until now, has been one of hiding your feelings until they become simply so powerful you can’t control them anymore. Practice your breathing, take walks, do your art. Be kind to yourself.— Dr. Stinson
I may not be able to respond to you as quickly as you’d like. I look at her list of resources: Alateen, a therapy group for survivors of suicide, a women’s shelter. Alateen? I think about sitting in a group of kids talking about drinking. About what happens if you drink.
And then I think: I’m probably what happens if you lose control. A kid will end up on the street, no home, etc. I don’t want to sit in a group where I’m the whole thing they’re trying to not be. I look at the survivors’ group on the Web: a lot of pictures of sad people sitting in a circle on the grass. I don’t even look up the shelter, because I do have a place to live now, even if it isn’t the greatest.
I start to write back, but then I delete the message. What could I tell her? Whine more about messing up with Mikey? She’d say Make another friend, probably. She’d tell me to go to one of these groups. Frustrated, I click on another message, from Blue. It’s a week old.
SILENT SUE WHR R U? I miss you, my good girl. Re: your last email: yeah, we are our worst enemies. But it doesn’t have to be all that. I’ve been kind of really paying attention in Group lately, and some of what GHOSTDOC says, it’s not all bad, especially not that::::!!! Im getting sprung!!!! Don’t know when. Been following rulez, eating up meds, thinking about hooking up with Isis in KANZ ASS. Maybe we will cum on out and check u out !! Have u been a good girl? PLZ talk 2 me. Everyone you knew here is gone but me and Louisa and I tell you, that girl is NOT doing well. Something’s going on. BLUE
I stare at the message. She wouldn’t come out; that’s just Blue being a poker again. Right? I look at the list of Blue’s messages on my email. For someone who started out being so mean to me at Creeley, she sure does seem to like me. And she might, I think suddenly, and kind of sadly, be really lonely, too. I’m not sure what to do with feeling sympathy for Blue.
Make a friend. What would be the harm in answering Blue? She’s the only one I have right now who could possibly understand what it’s like to live this way.
Blue—Good on you for listening to Casper. What else are you gonna do, right? The desert is a hot mess—if you come down bring your halter tops and sunglasses and lots of sunscreen because every day is like fire on your skin. I’m not sure what I’m really doing here, but here I am, so here I am, I guess. I have a job washing dishes and it isn’t so bad. What is going on with Louisa? Tell her I miss her before you go, okay? Maybe you could give her my email or something. I’m not a good girl, I’m bad all the way through.—Charlie
A few days later, over the rumbling sound of the dishwasher, Riley calls out, “I hear the boyfriend’s going to roadie for that band on a big West Coast roll. Won’t you be lonely for the next few months!”
I yank the lever down on the machine. “What?” I blow steam away from my face. The swamp cooler in the kitchen is broken and it’s apocalyptically hot outside, which means it’s even hotter by the dishwasher and fryer and the grill. Riley says this heat is unusual for June. There are box fans set up and Riley’s got a fan jerry-rigged to the wall, but his face is slicked with sweat and pocked with red blotches by his nose and hairline. He’s hiding a sweating can of beer under the counter and smoking a cigarette, the ashes sinking to the floor. He sweeps them away with his boot.
He pretends to choke on a sip of the beer. “Oops. Did I spill beans that weren’t ready to be spilled yet? Looks like Michael’s in the doghouse.”
I blink. “Mikey?”
“Michael. He’s a man, call him by his man’s name, girl.”
I wonder if he’s taking Bunny on the trip. I wonder if he’s told Bunny.
I practically just got here, I think, morosely dunking plastic water glasses in the soapy sludge of water. And he’s leaving already.
But then I remember what Mikey said: It’s not going to be like it was, and I think, It doesn’t matter anyway. My one friend: gone, already.
Riley scrapes a block of hash browns across the grill, twirling the spatula in his hand. His cigarette rests on the lip of his beer can. Julie is away for the next week. “In Ouray,” Linus said this morning. “Learning abo
ut her doshas.” It seems like Riley is being even more careless than usual about drinking at work since she’s gone.
Riley finishes his cigarette and drops it in the can. He stands up, lobbing the can over my head and into the trash bin. “And stop wearing those long-sleeved shirts, Charlie Girl. You make me hotter just looking at you in those things. Buy some goddamn T-shirts or something.”
I don’t answer him. Instead, I dump some food on top of his beer can in the trash.
I finger the bundle of cash in the pocket of my overalls as I walk the aisles of the art store near the coffeehouse. Willow charcoal sticks, the airy, soft bristles of watercolor brushes. I press my fingers against the stacks of bound drawing paper, feel the raised teeth under the plastic-wrapped covers. Elegant Winsor & Newton paints in pristine bottles, lined up in perfect rows: SCARLET LAKE, PURPLE MADDER, LEMON YELLOW. They have pads with comic panel templates already in place; no more using a ruler and a finely sharpened pencil, like I did with mine. I see a lot of canvas messenger bags, low-slung army pants, and filmy scarves on the necks of the girls in the store. The boys all look like car mechanics in sandals, light scruffs of hair on their chins. I wonder if some of them are in Ariel’s classes in the program at the university. Her workshop is starting next month. I still haven’t decided if I will go. Art School Tools, that’s what Linus called a tableful of kids in paint-spattered pants and horn-rimmed glasses. They had full messenger bags and black portfolios duct-taped together. They drank cup after cup of tea and coffee. They left tips of stacked pennies and hand-rolled cigarettes, sometimes a napkin sketch of one of the waitpeople. I check the prices on sticks and graphite and paper. I have to buy some soap and toilet paper, tampons, and underwear. The soles of my boots are thinning; I can feel the bumps in the pavement on my feet as I walk and it’s so hot outside, maybe I should just get some sneakers or something instead, a lighter, cooler shoe. I have to pay Leonard rent, but I’m not sure when I’ll get a check from Julie. And then I think: Where am I going to cash this check? I don’t have a bank account. I try to add some figures in my head, but the numbers get complicated and I lose track of them, and myself. Everyone here seems to know exactly what they need, but I leave without a thing.
Girl in Pieces Page 16
