World Enough

by Clea Simon

  ‘Island of misfit toys? Maybe.’ Min’s lying down, Tara can hear it in her voice. Hears her stretch and reach for something. ‘At least some of them. Why?’

  ‘I was thinking about Chris Crack,’ she says. And suddenly, she is. ‘He seemed like a golden boy, didn’t he?’

  ‘Well, yeah, to us.’ Min laughs. ‘But, really? He was just a rich kid from the suburbs.’

  ‘But, think about it.’ Tara steps aside to let others pass. She’s trying to articulate a thought, ‘I mean, most of those guys just formed bands to meet girls. Chris was different. He was, like, a star.’

  ‘You’re such a romantic.’ Min isn’t laughing now, but there’s a note in her voice. One part mockery, one part affection. ‘He could’ve been a stockbroker or something. One of the doctors whose shit I have to deal with. Only he had a rough childhood and so he decided to strut around like he’s David Johanssen. Big fish in a small pond, if you ask me. And look where it got him.’

  ‘He had a rough childhood?’ Tara sees the VP for Marketing come up the stairs. She smiles and nods.

  ‘Rough’s the wrong word.’ Cellophane ripping. Paper. ‘But didn’t you ever listen to his lyrics? Something was wrong with him.’

  Tara tries to remember. When Min’s like this, she doesn’t like to ask. As she stands there, she hears the unmistakable sound of a match being struck. Min is smoking again. First thing in the morning, too.

  ‘What about you?’ She softens her voice. Knows her friend too well. Knows the signs. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Right as rain.’ Tara hears the heavy exhalation. She can almost see the smoke. ‘Thank God I’m off oncology.’ She laughs a graveyard laugh, not trying to hide anything.

  ‘Why don’t you come over tonight?’ Tara tries to keep it light. ‘We can watch Lethal Weapon.’

  ‘Nah, Gibson’s getting too old. I can’t even get it up for him anymore.’ Another deep huff. ‘But, sure. Why not? Hey, I’ve got some errands to run later. Why don’t I meet you at the factory?’

  She means Zeron, of course. Tara looks up, as if someone could hear. ‘Great,’ she says. ‘I’ll be out front by five fifteen.’ One of the perks of a corporate gig.

  ‘If you’re not, I’ll come in and get you.’

  It’s just as well she’s already drafted the report. Tara can’t focus. It isn’t just Min – or the night with Nick – it’s the story that’s distracting her. What was it Onie had said?

  ‘Suddenly that shit was everywhere.’ She remembers. October, it must have been. That cold, clear weather that makes you forget you’re in a city. The sky so blue it looks fake. But cold at night. Frosty. That’s why she was confused by the small crowd huddled outside Oakie’s. The way they were all turned toward each other. Smoking hadn’t been prohibited, not yet. And when she’d asked Min, her friend had merely laughed.

  ‘They’re all looking to score,’ she’d said. ‘But Brian’s had enough. He’s kicked them out. He can’t risk the license.’

  It took Tara a while to understand what was happening. Pot was a constant in the clubs, so much so that people smoked openly, almost. Backstage could give you a contact high. And everyone did lines in the bathroom, at least if they could afford them. She’d done her share herself – the cheap coke cut with enough speed to have her bouncing off the walls.

  But something was changing – some factor she didn’t quite grasp at first. She remembers. That huddle was the first time. Or was it when Min pulled her back, her hand on Tara’s shoulder, just as she was about to snort a line.

  ‘You don’t want that,’ her friend had said. ‘Come on. I need a beer.’

  There’s nothing for it. She needs to talk to more people. To someone who was closer, who knew more about what was going on. She steels herself and dials Neela’s number. There’s no answer, and when the voicemail beeps she hangs up. An hour later, she tries again. This time, she leaves a message.

  ‘Please call me,’ she says, so the widow won’t think this just another condolence call. She leaves both her numbers. All through the daily meeting, she keeps checking, her phone hidden in her hand. Even as she’s neatening up her desk to leave – old habit, never lost – she’s waiting.

  ‘Hey, stranger.’ Min is leaning against the building, cigarette in hand, when Tara descends the steps. Thirty pounds heavier, she’s let her hair revert to its natural brown. Let the grey begin to show too. The pink leather is long gone, replaced by an Army surplus jacket. Generic. Warm. ‘Long time, no see!’

  She pauses to grind out the butt, leaving it on the sidewalk before reaching up to embrace her friend. Tara looks around, hoping none of her colleagues have seen this, have seen Min, with her cat’s-eye shades and black high-tops.

  ‘What?’ Min holds her at arm’s length, examining her face for the cause of her unease.

  ‘It’s the piece.’ There’s some truth in that, and Tara shrugs, shamefaced at it – and at her lie. ‘I’ve been trying to work on it all day, despite this.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Despite the gig. Only I’m not getting anywhere.’

  Min links her arm and the two start walking. Her friend smells of ash and the pack she’s smoked today, even out here, but with each step Tara breathes more easily. ‘I think I really have to talk to Neela before I go any further,’ she says. ‘Only now I can’t reach her. I mean, she can’t be back at work yet. Can she?’

  ‘Neela? No.’ They’ve reached the T, but Min hesitates. She wants another cigarette. Tara can see it in the way she rubs her fingers together. In her distraction.

  ‘You want to walk?’ Tara doesn’t like her smoking. Not this much, anyway, but Min is clearly in a bad way. ‘I can use the exercise.’ She almost says ‘air’.

  ‘Me, too.’ Min’s response is a little too hearty, and before they’ve gone a block she has another cigarette lit. ‘So, anyway, did you try Mika?’

  ‘Her daughter? No.’ Tara looks at Min. ‘I don’t really know her.’

  ‘Hm.’ Min pauses to pick a bit of tobacco from her lip. ‘Nice gal. She was kind of wild when she was younger. No surprise, huh?’ She glances toward Tara but doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘These days, though … ugh.’

  ‘Her son?’ Tara thinks about what Katie told her. Something digestive. ‘It’s serious, right?’

  ‘Could’ve killed him.’ Min’s so matter of fact, it must be the nurse in her. ‘He’ll be OK now, though. Now that the doctors at Mercy have gotten their heads out of their asses long enough.’

  ‘Oh?’ At times, it’s hard to remember Min’s training. Her expertise. She could’ve gone to medical school. Tara has thought this a million times.

  ‘Fabry’s disease.’ Her friend nods to herself. ‘Or some variant. I told Frank. Finally, they got him tested.’

  ‘Fabry’s?’ Tara’s never heard of it.

  ‘The kid is missing an enzyme.’ Min waves the cigarette. ‘Without it, he can’t digest most food. But with it …’ Ash flies. ‘Anyway, they caught it, though the kid has some catching up to do, and Mika’s been through the mill. Anyway, Neela’s at her place, most likely. Doing her mother hen thing. Frank always said she felt responsible for everything.’

  Frank. Her friend says the name like it’s nothing. But the smoking – the archness – they’re worse than before.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Frank?’ That’s not what Tara really wants to ask. Anything to get her friend talking, though.

  ‘God, a week, maybe five days before he died?’ Those shades hide her eyes. ‘He’d called, you know, about the baby. He was at his wit’s end.’

  ‘So he called you for medical advice?’ Tara keeps her voice low. She’s not one to judge.

  Min looks at her, over the glasses. ‘We were friends, Tara. We weren’t humping in the restroom anymore, if that’s what you were thinking. Speaking of, you’ve got some weekend lined up. Tell me about this Nick. I’m not sure I remember him.’

  Tara can’t help it. She blushes, and then she’s telling Min everything. Or
almost. The talk about alienation – about the scene, their failed marriages – feels too intimate to share. And so it comes out more like a drunken hookup. Too much wine and no regrets in the morning.

  By the time she’s through – and answered all of Min’s questions – they’ve reached her building. As usual, someone’s propped the front door open with a brick, and as they go in, Tara kicks it out of the way. Peter would have a fit, talking about security and the crime in the city, and he’s probably right. But as she reaches her landing, she sees a manila envelope on her mat, marked only with her first name. It is lumpy, misshapen, and as she opens it to see what has distended it so, she is suddenly filled with joy. A shake and onto her palm slides the little carving of a horse.

  ‘What’s that?’ Min starts to reach for it, but Tara pulls back. Holds it close, admiring the grain of the wood. The curve of the legs captured in mid stride. The way the flag of a tail splays out to give the illusion of speed.

  ‘It’s one of Nick’s carvings,’ she says. ‘He whittles,’ she corrects herself. ‘He did this one for one of his kids.’

  ‘Creepy,’ says Min. ‘Come on. I need a beer.’

  Min doesn’t want to talk about Frank. That much is obvious as Tara ushers her friend inside. Still, his presence hangs over the room, thick as the smoke as Min lights another cigarette. In the silence, as Tara struggles for the right words to say. Instead, or maybe simply to stave off her friend’s inquiries, Min presses Tara about Nick – about that carving.

  ‘Think he’s a stalker?’ The way she asks it’s more like a statement. ‘Did he seem, I don’t know, obsessive that way?’

  Tara hesitates, already uncomfortable with how much she’s told her friend about the encounter. She fetches an old mug for Min to use as an ashtray. On the way, she ducks into her bedroom to put the little horse away where Min can’t casually handle it. Can’t pick it up to examine.

  ‘I think it’s kind of sweet actually,’ she says when she emerges. This feels like an act of defiance. ‘His son liked horses when he was younger.’

  Min looks at her, one eyebrow raised, and waits. But Tara has learned a few things over the years of their friendship, and instead moves on to safer topics. To work, to what they want to eat. Not that there’s much discussion. They always order Chinese. Dumplings and moo shi. But an hour later, Min has barely touched her bowl. She’s said something about her weight, gesturing with her latest cigarette as if that’s a reason. But she’s on her third beer, and Tara knows her friend too well.

  ‘You must be missing him.’ Tara’s had a beer as well. It makes her brave. Besides, her friend is clearly hurting. ‘I mean, you’d become friends.’

  Min shrugs, but lets out a sigh that seems to release all her tension. ‘Ah, shit,’ she says, and, leaning forward, covers her face with one hand and starts to cry.

  In a moment, Tara is beside her, arms around her as she sobs, her cheek against her friend’s bowed back. ‘Oh, Min,’ she says. There are no words, but they’ve been through this before – or something similar, anyway. ‘Min.’

  ‘It’s not like I lost him,’ Min says, with a hiccup, as she surfaces. ‘Not really.’ Tara hands her a takeout napkin, and Min blows her nose. She is still, Tara sees, holding her lit smoke.

  ‘Don’t.’ Min shakes her head, though if she’s warning Tara off a lecture or more questions, Tara can’t tell. ‘I mean, we were barely even friends anymore.’ Min stubs out the cigarette. The former, then.

  ‘Well, you guys talked, right?’ Tara tries to piece together what Min has told her, even as she reaches for another napkin. ‘I mean, when his grandson was sick, he called you.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m cheaper than a doctor.’ Min wipes her face with two rough swipes, as if she were angry at her eyes. ‘He changed, after they were married.’

  Tara knows better than to comment. Knows that Min can hear herself.

  ‘It wasn’t just Neela.’ Min glances over, a little sheepish. ‘Or, you know, being married. I think it was the drinking. Something happened when Frank quit drinking.’

  ‘Well, yeah.’ It just comes out, but Min doesn’t seem to mind.

  ‘No, I mean, he closed down somehow.’ Her friend appears to be struggling.

  ‘Maybe that’s how he needed to be.’ Tara strokes her friend’s back, like she would a baby’s. ‘Maybe that’s how he managed.’

  ‘No.’ Min sputters and reaches for her cigarettes again. Lights another without looking. Without, Tara decides, even being fully aware. ‘There was something else going on.’

  ‘Well …’ Tara stops herself from saying any more. There was a lot going on, and they both remember it well.

  It had been early March, the tail end of a miserable winter that had dragged on for far too long. For Tara, it was all about the bands, but even there a deep freeze seemed reluctant to give way to spring. Scott had dubbed it ‘the winter of our discontent’, adding, ‘cause everyone sucks just now’.

  ‘Not everyone.’ Tara had come over for an editorial meeting, which really meant having a few beers and some gossip. ‘Maybe the Aught Nines will finally ink a deal.’

  Scott snorted as he scribbled notes, pawing through a pile of fliers from fledgling bands. But Tara was hopeful. Every week, the rumors promised that a contract was near. Epic. Elektra. MCA. All the labels had come courting. Numerous professional management firms, as well. But like some airhead debutante, Chris Crack had kept them all at bay. Playing them against each other, as if for the sheer fun of it. They’d been flown out to LA – down to New York – so often that their gigs were becoming rare occurrences, and between the slush and the cold, the on-again, off-again of clubland’s new favorites was straining everyone’s nerves.

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Scott said finally, handing her a Xeroxed sheet. ‘What do you think of these guys? Want to check them out?’

  ‘Might as well.’ Tara looked at the announcement. The Casbah, that night. Chris had blown off an interview, and not until she had called his mother in Hamilton as a last resort had she found out that Chris was down in New York, supposedly hammering out the last details of a contract. ‘If we hear from the Aught Nines, I can always write it up as an “in review”.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Scott glanced at another flier. Crumpled it and took a shot at the wastebasket. ‘That might still happen.’

  ‘You think they’re playing too hard to get?’ To Tara, this seemed impossible. Despite – because of? – the rarity of their gigs, the band had never sounded better. Chris, meanwhile, had perfected his rock-star moves. Rarely still once he was on stage, his writhing body glowed like some phosphorescent sea creature.

  ‘Things don’t always work out,’ Scott had said, with a shrug. ‘The bloom doesn’t stay on the rose forever.’

  That night, at the Casbah, Tara decided her editor was crazy. There were three bands on the bill, and none of them could hold a candle to the Aught Nines. The first had been thrash metal, but too disorganized to get the mosh pit moving. And at the Casbah, there was always a mosh pit. The second had some boy band singer – cherub lips and golden curls. But his voice had been so bad, Tara had ducked out, despite a frigid wind that cut through the waterfront like a knife. That’s when she’d seen Frank, collapsed against the wall.

  ‘Hey, you OK?’ Tara had never gotten close to the man. But really, it was too cold to let someone pass out out here. ‘Frank?’

  ‘Huh?’ He’d turned to face her, and she recoiled. Frank Turcotte had always been a bit scary: rough-looking, with a permanent scowl under those heavy brows. The man who turned toward her now looked not so much a bully as a victim. His eyes seemed barely focused in his pale face, his wide mouth hanging slack.

  ‘Frank!’ Tara reached for him, pulling on one leather-clad arm.

  ‘She’s gone.’ He shook his head, even as he let Tara pull him to his feet. ‘I can’t reach her.’

  ‘Come on, Frank.’ Tara draped his arm over her own shoulder, as if she could actually support his w
eight. She knew better than to argue with a drunk, especially this drunk. ‘Let’s go inside. It’s not that bad.’

  As they staggered back toward the door, Tara debated calling Min. Her friend loved this man, for reasons she couldn’t decipher. But really, foisting a melancholy drunk on her was not an act of friendship. Especially when she – when everyone – knew the reason for Frank’s state. Neela had moved in with Chris Crack. Was living with him openly, last anyone had heard. From the looks of Frank, Tara figured the redhead was in LA with him right now. Or was it New York? She couldn’t keep the stories straight.

  With the last of her strength, Tara managed to pull the door open.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Mick, the bouncer, stood in their way. ‘Not in here.’

  Tara closed her eyes, as Frank slumped against her. ‘Please,’ she said, at last. ‘You can’t leave him out here. He’ll die.’

  She never knew if it was her words or some fleeting sympathy for the man who, until recently, had been a colleague, but the burly bouncer relented, taking hold of Frank as if he were a ragdoll and dragging him over to the small room that served as a staff office and de facto lost and found.

  ‘You might call your friend.’ He dropped the man into one of three folding chairs. Let him slump against the cardboard box that overflowed with scarves, mittens, and, apparently, a forgotten coat, before closing the door behind him. ‘Have her pick him up.’

  Maybe it was his tone. His casual assumption that a woman would always come when called. Maybe it was concern for Min. Or maybe, Tara had wondered, sometimes, late at night, it was that she was jealous. The passion Min felt for Frank. The love. But she didn’t make the call. Looking back, she asked herself once again, if she should have.

  ‘He was in really bad shape, Min,’ she says now, sitting in her living room. Watching her friend smoke. ‘He needed a change.’

  ‘He needed to get over Neela, that’s what. He knew what she was like.’ Min takes a long drag on the new smoke, then grinds the butt out anyway as if it were the mug that had broken her heart. ‘He knew, but he didn’t care.’