By the time Frances and Maggie had found Georgie’s, the old man was in a home and George Jr. was trying to bring things up to date. He got some modern beers, like Corona, plus Guinness on tap. He put in some shelf liquors like Stoli and Absolut. In those days, the gays started to order Ketel One and Grey Goose by the label, so he got those, too. The TV still blared, but George put in cable. That way, customers who used the bar as a home and other drinkers as a family could watch sports, the Oscars, and prestige series finales like The Sopranos or Breaking Bad. It was the mixed queer/straight place to go to after work for people who were comfortable in working-class environments and wanted to pay working-class prices. And those kinds of places always attracted people who liked to drink a lot and didn’t really care about the decor. It was a place to be free from on-the-job rules, from the surveillance of coworkers, from one’s self. Home for most people is quiet, with a kitchen, a TV, a bed with a warm body. But for an addict, those walls mean anxiety and reflections of one’s own reverberating failures. Georgie’s was where Maggie was safe . . . from what? From being exposed.
Things had been tough with Julio ever since Nelson Ashford reached into his pocket and Eddie thought it was for a gun. Or at least, that was what he claimed. What was Eddie doing there in the first place? It was his precinct, but it wasn’t exactly his beat. Maggie assumed something fishy was going on; it sure looked that way. Eddie was out trying to get something that no cop was ever supposed to be seen trying to get. And, for some reason, Nelson Ashford got in his way. It was late, and Ashford had worked a long day at UPS; he’d smoked a joint on the walk home from the subway. Both Maggie and Julio knew it would be used against his corpse in court. A person who is killed by a police officer cannot have ever done anything wrong. They cannot have failed a class in school, they cannot have kissed a girl who wasn’t sure, and they certainly cannot ever be known to have taken drugs, especially on the night of the killing. That’s what Julio had been talking about all day.
“The man was high; he could not have had good judgment. No one who’s sober would ever threaten a police officer.”
They were sitting in the radio car. Maggie knew she had to hurry because it was date night with Frances, but Julio was reviewing all the evidence.
“Did he threaten Eddie? Is that what Eddie’s saying now?”
“Not verbally.”
Julio was grasping, she knew it. He was in so much pain. His best son, the one who had grandfathered into the police department.
“Eddie never would have shot someone unless they were acting crazy. I know it.”
Maybe it was because Julio had never smoked a blunt in his life, but Maggie knew the two events were not related. But she didn’t say anything. Her pal was suffering, that’s what mattered. Loyalty. But by the time they said goodnight she was agitated, both for Julio and for the tension of having something she could not honestly talk to him about. His son. So she was running late for what was supposed to be a romantic dinner between lovers. Whoever had thought up date night for long-term couples should have been shot on the spot. It was all about creating pressure and then shining a light on everyone’s inadequacies. There was pressure to prove that one was loveable, pressure to keep up her end of the conversation, to show she was interested, to ask the right questions, to try to get the fucking discussion going in a way that would bring them closer. Not to fall into old traps of unresolved conflicts and problems that never went away, that was not the goal of date night. They were supposed to discover a delicious new dinner in a place that was affordable where people could hear each other think. Did that even still exist? And all through dinner they both knew they would have to fuck when they got home, or get off somehow, to show what was really in their hearts, something they both loved and had committed to and had forgotten how to name. Maggie picked up her super-sexy dress from the dry cleaner and put it on in the Georgie’s bathroom. It was tight, white, a cut that made everyone imagine the Brazilian wax and pink nipples holding their secrets. She was supposed to meet Frances at the new Mexican place off Eighth Avenue and have fun over margaritas, but since she was at Georgie’s changing, she did a line of coke with one of the forklift guys. If she was going to be charming, she would be fucking charming. And if she did another line, she would actually love being charming as opposed to hating it. Poor Julio.
After two drinks to take the edge off the coke, which was speedy, she faced the reality that she was going to be late, so she texted Frances to meet her at the bar. Maybe they could make out a little in the corner and get Frances to dinner with some excitement under her belt. Then those margaritas would be more fun. Like the seductive flirt Frances actually wanted, and the whore Frances really wanted to be. Frances was horny, and that took the pressure off. Maggie could see her shifting on the barstool. It was fun. This was Maggie’s idea of fun. Turned on in public, making sure there was no private.
Maggie just couldn’t bear to be anxious. Not that night. Not when Julio was so upset, and Eddie’s case was certainly going to be an ordeal unless the commissioner could just bury it, but there were cell phones. Someone had a cell phone and too much footage for the white shirts to ignore. Anxious. Anxious. Maggie’s shrink said she had anxiety because she had trouble “tolerating difference,” but why the fuck would that be true? She was surrounded by it. There was no one like her within a mile of her life. He didn’t know what he was talking about. “Things bother you that don’t bother other people because of your father. When someone sees something differently from the way you do, you feel like you’re going to be annihilated. But Maggie, with awareness, this can change.”
After Frances decided to have fun, too, and downed her second Maker’s Manhattan—this never came up in court of course, her drinking. Everything was on Maggie. With straight people, the mother gets away with murder, and with lesbians it’s the birth mother who is presumed to be the hero. She did what she was supposed to do, after all, even if she is queer: she had a kid! After Frances’s second drink she was turned on by Maggie’s hand on her thigh and the ball game on the TV. She started cheering the Yankees, and then the news came on and it was all about the rumored cell phone footage that a neighbor claimed to have of Eddie Figueroa shooting Nelson Ashford, and it looked really, really bad for Julio. Eddie was coming off like a racist, like a maniac, like he didn’t give a damn about a man’s life.
“Damn. Remember that party, when he graduated?” Frances shook her head. “His parents were so proud.”
“He’s fucked.”
“Come on, sweetheart.” Frances patted Maggie’s ass. “Let’s go home and fool around.”
“Come on, George. One more cosmo.”
“I’m going out for a smoke,” George said, too smart to get between Maggie and Frances. “Johnny will take over the bar.”
“Come on, honey. We got to get going.”
“I said just one more, Frances. Come on, Johnny, let’s get some service over here.”
Johnny was George’s useless nephew, a friendly dickhead who had dropped out of Aviation High School and had some stupid tattoos, but the new kind. The kind that make no sense. Who wants a word on your neck and another on your knuckles? What kind of moron does that to his future?
Johnny raised his eyebrows to Frances, then made a big show of turning in Maggie’s way. “I heard you the first four times.”
“Frances is not in charge of me,” Maggie snarled. “Are you, baby?” She licked Frances’s face.
Now Frances was in a pout. They both sat there for a while watching the news, but Maggie was still feeling Frances’s body, all over the place, and she was still turned on, even though she was mad. At this point George came back from his smoke and resumed control of the bar.
Maggie knew Frances was falling into some kind of a hole. Now the fun was over but she was still horny. She was already drunk but if she had another drink, it would be to keep quiet. Otherwise, everything would come pouring out. How wrong everything was. Not that Frances didn’t want thin
gs to be better, she did. But Maggie could not give in, and Frances had decided that Maggie was her problem. She only knew how to shut down the conflict by escalating the drinking until the other person didn’t care anymore about being in control. Like, if Frances said, “Maggie, I am fucking upset about the way we’re living,” then she already knew that Maggie would say, “Don’t talk to me like that.” And they would never be able to discuss.
“Welcome back, Georgie. Let me have my drink.”
At that point Maggie must have been more sloshed than she realized, slurring or stumbling or something, because she could see in George’s eyes what was happening. He was going to enter the conspiracy to cut her off.
“Okay, babe,” Frances murmured in that way of making everything worse by being condescending. Somewhere along the line she had internalized the false information that if she spoke softly and showed some love, Maggie would obey. But it was a rotten theory, because that soothing act enraged Maggie. How dare Frances love her when she was being forced to do something she didn’t want to do. That’s not love. Love is when you do what you want, even if you are in a relationship. Control was not love.
Maggie blew up. She knew she would. She always did. And Frances knew what was coming as soon as she started contradicting Maggie. So, why did she contradict her? What did she expect? It was damned if you didn’t.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Come on, Mags.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Frances always got uptight at that point. When it wasn’t fun anymore. “Come on, Maggie. We have stuff to drink at home.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
That was it. She should be able to do what she wanted to do or else it was abuse. After all, Frances was trying to control her.
“We have a little girl at home with a babysitter who hates you as much as I do right now.”
“You hate me?”
“I don’t hate you, Maggie, and you know it. I just hate this shit.” Frances pointed to her heart.
“If you hate being with me, you hate me.”
“Maggie, I don’t hate you. I just can’t stand how you act.”
“Same fucking thing.” She knew she was being difficult but fuck it. Then Maggie crawled onto the bar, showing everyone her thong, as she meowed at the bartender. “Come on Johnny.” She hissed and arched her back, made pretend scratch moves into the air.
“STOP ACTING OUT.” That was Frances, at the end of her rope. But she was drunk, too. That was the thing that the court never heard a peep about. Frances also got loaded. “STOP ACTING OUT. When are you ever going to learn?”
CHAPTER TEN
10:15 PM
“Is everything okay?”
Maggie looked up. Steven Brinkley was concerned. He performed concern, his voice was soothing, his distance was perfect, his attention was present.
“I’m sorry, I was thinking.”
“Happens to the best of us.” He laughed and sat back in the chair. He was waiting to see if he had successfully beaten this thing, this round of investigation.
“So.” Maggie reached for another cookie she didn’t want. “She would act out. Jamie.”
“Yes.”
“I see.” She had lost control of the moment by drifting away and that was lousy form. She had to get back the upper hand but fortunately Maggie knew how. She just waited. She didn’t smile. She didn’t move. She made the air heavy with the expectation that he would explain himself. Tell what he knew. About Jamie. What she did. The dead girl. The one who acted out and got herself strangled by somebody else. Not by the man who knew something was wrong.
“One night we were sleeping together. At her place.”
“Where did she live?”
“East Eighty-Second Street. Far eastside. In a boxy studio with no light and a fold-out couch and no air, over a woman who lived with her disturbed adult son. They used to bicker all the time. We could hear them yelling through the floorboards. It made everything even more unpleasant.”
“Did Jamie ever come over here?”
“Sure. But we traded. I didn’t want her moving in until she was more established financially. You understand. It wouldn’t have helped anyone. Too much dependency.”
Maggie nodded. Whoa, he was planning a future. That was a surprise. He was establishing boundaries. He believed she could make it. He thought that they could do it. That was reasonable. Adult. Maggie was thrown. She hadn’t expected real plans, real love. She hadn’t expected he would be so thoughtful. She didn’t think he really cared, but now it seemed like he did.
“So.” Brinkley sighed. Thinking. Feeling. His voice cracked. Paused. Then resumed. “So, we were sleeping. The doorbell rang. It was the middle of the night.”
Maggie waited.
“The weird thing was that she hopped out of bed and just buzzed this person in. She didn’t even ask who it was.”
“And who was it?”
“Her father.” Brinkley’s tone was exhausted and incredulous. Not a welcomed father, obviously. Maggie finally heard some pain. “The man entered her place like it was normal to barge in on his daughter at 3:00 a.m.”
“Was he drunk?”
“No, worse.” For the first time, Maggie thought that he would cry. “And she didn’t even put on a bathrobe.”
“She sat naked in front of her father?”
“No, no, no. But in a skimpy thing. And she didn’t have a second thought about it.”
“Was he embarrassed?”
“No, it was a conspiracy between the two of them. It was how they normally conducted their lives. All the imposition. He sat there, at the edge of our bed, mumbling incoherently—monologuing, really—about all kinds of insane subjects. Barely noticing that I was there in my skivvies with the blanket pulled up to my chest.”
“What did they talk about?”
“Arcane philosophy. Bizarre and extremely inappropriate sexual theories. Tagore. He was rambling on and on about the Indian writer Tagore. And about Chekhov and sex. Big subjects but insubstantial commentary. The kinds of things a father doesn’t say to his daughter, especially while she is in bed with a naked man. He’s a truly sick person. Anyone would feel that way about him. It was obvious.”
“Except Jamie.”
He pointed at Maggie. “You are correct.”
This was a whole new turn. Steven loved Jamie. Steven was devastated. Steven was enraged. He was in grief. He was unhinged. He blamed himself. He wanted to be heard. Maggie saw it all now. Now that it was becoming real.
He picked up another cookie and ate it carefully. It was the kind with a dot of jam in the middle. He ate the plain dough around the edges and saved the jam center for the end. He liked those cookies. He’d bought them for himself. Maggie was getting the picture. Brinkley took care of himself and others. Cookies for him and for her. He had a sense of other people’s needs.
“So, what did you do?”
“I waited for Jamie to say something, to explain, to object, to do something. But when she didn’t, it became clear to me that this was a normal part of her life.”
“Her father barging in in the middle of the night.”
“Exactly. So I asked him to leave. He seemed surprised, but went quietly. I assume people throw him out all the time.”
“But not his daughter.”
“Exactly.” The memory of Jamie’s reaction disturbed him, still. “I looked at her after the door closed and she was numb. Flat affect. Her lower lip was slack. Then she seemed confused. We started talking and I quickly recognized that she had no idea that this relationship with her father was . . .”
“What did she say?”
“Jamie said . . .” He was choked up now. He was still shocked. His voice trembled. He was retelling it, the truth. “She said, ‘What do you want me to do? Pretend? It’s been this way my whole life.’” He drowned. “She was used to it.”
Maggie watched as Brinkley lost many years and gained many years. It was the
recollection of how traumatized the life of the person you loved truly was. The drama of taking in the pain of a disappeared person, long after they’re gone.
“I was kind,” he said. “I stayed calm. I wanted to help her and my tone became . . . explanatory. I said that he was hurting her, and she . . .”
“Exploded in anger.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Nothing makes people hate you more than the truth that can save their lives,” Maggie whispered.
“Unless they want to know.” He was bargaining still, to the grave.
“Did she want to know?”
“No. It was terrible, a failure. She started making crazy allegations. Blaming me for all of her pain.”
Maggie didn’t move. Just as Brinkley was living in the present and the past, so was she. Just as he was reliving the moment of doom that created the hell that now would be his life, so was she.
Brinkley kept talking but Maggie wasn’t listening. She was back in her bed in her home with her lover and Frances was trying to stay calm, trying to be heard.
“Maggie,” Frances said. “I love you. You are hurting me.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Maggie hissed. She was livid. She wanted to kill Frances. No one who loved someone talked to them like that. Saying, “You’re hurting me,” that’s not love.
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