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World Enough

Page 11

by Clea Simon


  ELEVEN

  Would things have turned out differently if Tara had called Min? She doesn’t know. Can’t know. Can’t talk to Min about it, either, that night years ago still the great unacknowledged shadow between them. Even now, as she goes to the kitchen for more beer, to put the leftovers away, Tara feels its presence. Wishes she’d never stepped out the door. Never found Frank. Though, maybe, if she hadn’t, he would have died, and everything would be different now.

  She takes out two more cans. Leans her head against the fridge, a moment for herself. It was so long ago, but she remembers.

  As it was, Frank soon came to, sobering up in the staff room of the Casbah, where the doorman had stored him. Where Jonah wouldn’t see. Tara didn’t know it then, but she heard after. Much of the club did, at least those by the door.

  Neela hadn’t been off with Chris, it turned out. Chris hadn’t even been in New York. His mother had lied to Tara, covering for her son. Trying to protect him, most likely, from a world she must have considered toxic. Chris, they all heard later, was in a program – some kind of detox – and although he wouldn’t stay, it would turn out later to have been prophetic that he was gone that day, that night. Because Neela had been left alone and at loose ends. And Frank, drunk and miserable, had found her. The resulting row sounded like the end, by all accounts. Bottles had been broken in tears and rage, until finally both the lovers had been tossed out of the club once more. And although the two had not left together – Tara remembered Onie talking to Frank, Onie reasoning with him, talking him down from hanging around – that night had proved a turning point. At the time, it sounded like Frank and Neela were really over. Maybe they’d just needed to air all the bad will out.

  ‘You fall in?’ Min’s voice from the other room brings Tara back.

  ‘Sorry.’ She dismisses the past. Conjures a smile and returns with the fresh drinks. ‘I guess I was thinking of how lucky we are.’

  Min’s expression says it all.

  ‘No, really.’ Tara’s chuckling as she hands over the beer. As she takes her own seat on the couch. ‘When you think how many of our friends ended up twelve-steppers – or worse.’

  ‘You’re thinking about Chris.’ Min takes a long pull, dried out by the tears.

  ‘Yeah, but not just Chris.’ Tara bites her lip. She’s remembering Min, during one of her bad periods – one of the times Frank was back with Neela. She’d walked into the ladies – was it the Rat? Or Oakie’s? – and seen her friend and two other women, hunched over a CD case, white lines laid out on the smooth plastic.

  ‘A little blow?’ Tara dabbled, not that she wanted to butt in on anyone else’s party.

  ‘No, not this.’ Min had sniffed and stood, blocking her from the case, from the woman – Rita from the Callers? – holding it steady. ‘Come on, kiddo,’ she’d said, reaching for Tara. ‘Let’s go get a beer.’

  ‘But I have to pee.’ Tara had ducked away from her friend and the other two women had laughed. One, Rita, had slumped back against the stall wall, eyes closed.

  ‘Knock yourself out, honey,’ she had said.

  ‘There was a lot of shit.’ Min looks at her now like she can read her mind. ‘It was just everywhere, and so cheap.’

  ‘Were you buying?’

  A shrug. ‘We were young. I mean, we were chipping. It wasn’t like we were shooting or anything.’

  Tara keeps her mouth shut. What matters is that her friend survived.

  ‘I mean, Rita got in over her head.’ Min turns from her. Reads the label on the beer. ‘That could have happened a thousand different ways.’

  ‘She didn’t – it wasn’t a bad shot, was it?’

  ‘No.’ Min shakes her head, her face grim. ‘Rita OD’d plain and simple. She was blue when the paramedics brought her in.’

  The room falls silent. Min doesn’t talk about work, and this wasn’t what Tara intended anyway.

  ‘Hey,’ she says at last, when the weight of memory has begun to disperse. ‘Do you want to watch that movie or not?’

  Tara’s too tired for second thoughts the next day, and when Jim and Jerry call her back, she puts them off till next week. It’s Neela she needs to speak to, and she doesn’t have the heart to leave another message. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘Have you thought about art yet?’ Scott’s call catches her off guard. She’s picked up the phone without thinking, having just walked in from the budget meeting.

  ‘Scott, it hasn’t been forty-eight hours,’ she says. ‘And I’m at work.’

  ‘No shit!’ He laughs, and for a moment she sees him as he was, her brilliant unkempt pal. ‘But I’m psyched about this one, Tara. I want some vintage photos. Something vérité. This is going to be good.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She circles her desk, settles into her chair. She could just do the job. That would be easy.

  ‘And I have a little something to get you going.’

  She closes her eyes. Memories from last night. A little something, indeed.

  ‘The boss likes it. He’s really interested in what you’re writing.’ Scott keeps talking. ‘I think we can make this the cover.’

  ‘You talked to Jonah about this?’ The idea makes Tara squeamish. Like she’s in too deep.

  ‘Yeah.’ Scott seems to take it all in stride. Jollying her. Teasing. ‘We had a meeting. The publisher likes to know what big features are pending, Tara. It is his magazine, after all.’

  When she doesn’t answer, his tone changes.

  ‘I thought you’d be happy about this.’ He sounds more rational again. More adult. ‘That you wanted a big story. Something to break you back in.’

  ‘I do.’ She closes her eyes. Rubs her forehead. Two nights in a row: too many drinks and too little sleep. ‘And I’ll get on it, Scott. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Hey, why don’t you come in.’ He’s immediately conciliatory. ‘You haven’t seen my office. And you probably haven’t seen Jonah since back in the day. Am I right?’

  ‘I’ve got this budget report, Scott.’ It’s not an answer. It’s all she’s got. ‘My deadline is Friday.’

  ‘Monday, then.’ Scott always managed to bring her around. ‘Lunch? You’ve got to eat lunch.’

  ‘Monday lunch.’ It’s far enough away. In the meantime, Tara knows, she’s got to steel herself. She’s got a number somewhere for Mika. Frank’s daughter will know where Neela is.

  ‘Why?’ It’s not the question Tara expects, but it’s the first word Neela says, when she gets her on the phone. ‘Why do you want to dig all that up again?’

  Tara sits there, unsure what to say. The hard part, she thought, would be making the call. But Mika had been quite receptive. Had been encouraging, in fact, when Tara reached her and explained what she was after.

  ‘That sounds great,’ she had said. ‘I think it would do Mom good to get out of her own head for a while. Make her talk about when she and Dad were young.’

  In the background, Tara could hear the crying of an infant, but Mika hadn’t sounded panicked. Just busy, and happy to pass off care of her mother to an old friend. It was Neela who was resistant.

  ‘I’m not dredging up anything,’ Tara says, stumbling toward a response. ‘I mean, I’m doing this article about the music scene, and I thought, since you knew so many of the players—’

  ‘You want to talk about Chris, right?’ Neela cuts her off, her grief making her sharp.

  ‘Well, yeah.’ Tara has to admit the truth, even if it does sound bad. ‘But also Frank, of course. You know, everybody on the scene.’

  ‘Of course.’ The other woman starts to laugh. But just as Tara is beginning to worry – is Neela hysterical? Can she reach Mika somehow? – she stops. ‘Look, come by on Sunday morning. My daughter will be at church, and I’ll be babysitting. That’ll be a good time.’

  Tara hesitates. Not only does the widow sound unhinged but Tara will be seeing Peter the night before.

  ‘You know where she lives, right?’ Neela rattles off an address in Medford. �
�See you then.’

  That’s enough for the week, and Tara puts her head down. Writes the stupid report. No matter what she told Scott, she gives it no more thought than she would to pumping gas. Only she gets paid for this, she reminds herself, as she makes herself skim the numbers – a proofread of the most desultory sort. Maybe that’s why she feels so empty, once she turns it in. So bored.

  Writing for Underground Sound had never left her enervated. Even the Dot gig had been invigorating, despite the hours. She sleeps badly and wakes late. Saturday, but she doesn’t care.

  ‘Do you think I should get a cat?’ Afternoon, and Tara is still lazing in bed.

  ‘Do you want to never get laid?’ From the slight hush in Min’s voice, Tara can tell her friend is on the ward. Weekends are the busy times at the hospital. ‘Don’t become even more of a stereotype.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Tara ignores her friend’s question. Waking up alone is getting old. ‘I mean, I loved Smiley.’

  ‘Smiley was special.’ Min has a soft spot for the tuxedo cat still. Partly, Tara recalls, because Smiley always kneaded Min’s leg when she came over. ‘My little masseuse,’ she called him.

  ‘Is this about your bartender?’ She’s not reminiscing now. ‘The blue-eyed stalker?’

  ‘He’s not—’ Tara catches herself. ‘No. I don’t know.’ She kicks back the covers. Considers coffee. The day. ‘I know he’s busy this weekend. I guess I was hoping he’d call.’

  Min surprises her. ‘You know, you could call him.’ Voices in the background. A machine starts beeping. ‘He did leave you that little thingy. And don’t you have another date tonight?’

  ‘It’s not a date …’ Too late, Min is gone, leaving Tara to wonder what exactly her night will hold. It’s too much to contemplate, not without coffee. And so she gets up to start her day.

  ‘You look nice.’ Peter rises to greet her. He speaks gently, like he used to.

  ‘Thanks.’ She takes her seat and looks around. Away. His gaze is too direct. Too needy, she can already tell. Besides, she hasn’t been here, to the bistro, in months – no, years. The art on the wall is the same: watercolors of some village, somewhere. The knickknacks – the flowers, that ceramic pig – are familiar, too, but the color has changed. They’ve painted, or maybe it’s her memory. Time flies, and when she picks up the menu, she remembers why. It doesn’t matter that she’s earning a corporate salary. Spending that much on a piece of halibut just seems wrong.

  ‘May I offer you a cocktail?’ The server appears by her side, deferential and way too young, and she hesitates. She could use a beer or – something. She tries to think of something French.

  ‘I thought we’d have wine with dinner,’ Peter interrupts, and she smiles and nods. Some things never change. But when the server retreats, Peter leans forward. ‘Is that OK? I thought we’d get a nice bottle. That white Burgundy you always liked.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m having yet.’ The menu makes a handy shield. Against what, exactly, she doesn’t really know.

  Maybe that’s why she orders the halibut as he rattles on about his week. About work, and about the condo again. Drinks the Chablis without really tasting it, throwing it down too fast to savor the limestone and the lime and grunting when he tries to draw her out. When Peter hesitates before refilling her glass, she feels like she’s won a round, or at least survived one.

  ‘Enough about me,’ he says, once he has relented and poured. His voice isn’t so soft anymore. Isn’t so warm. ‘But I’ve found out something that might interest you.’ His voice suggests otherwise. ‘Something about your friend.’

  Is it her imagination or has his smile grown a bit tight?

  ‘My friend?’ She puts the glass down, uncertain.

  ‘Frank Turcotte. I made some calls, you know. After the funeral.’ He’s watching her and she sees it. He’s not aiming to hurt her. He’s bragging. Peter has the connections. Peter always gets the scoop.

  She waits, regretting suddenly that first, quickly downed glass.

  ‘They did an autopsy, of course.’ He glances up from his steak. ‘His wife – widow – said he was alone when he fell, so that was par for the course.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tara gives him this, to urge him on. They were married long enough. She knows the law. ‘So?’

  ‘They’re investigating. It’s open.’ He takes a bite of his steak but his eyes stay on her. He’s looking to see if she understands. She knows this, and it infuriates her.

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’ She puts her own fork down. ‘I understand toxicology, though everyone is swearing up and down that Frank was sober, but—’

  Peter is shaking his head as he chews.

  ‘You can’t mean.’ Tara is confused. The wine. ‘Suicide?’

  Peter shrugs as he saws off another piece of meat. ‘Don’t know yet.’ He has eyes only for his dinner now. ‘But if you’re going to take a trip down memory lane, I thought you might want to know. Maybe things weren’t so rosy, so happily ever after. Maybe he was drinking again and fell down the stairs. Maybe he did it intentionally, because he couldn’t stand his life anymore. Or maybe—’ he looks up, a hunk of flesh on his fork – ‘maybe Frank Turcotte was murdered.’

  ‘I never said anything was rosy.’ Tara ignores the speculation. She knows what Peter’s after now. ‘Particularly not Frank and Neela’s life.’

  They’re still in the bistro. The candle still casts its golden glow. But Tara has pushed her full wine glass aside, and her fish is getting cold. ‘You think I’m sentimental. That I don’t see things – people – as they really are.’

  ‘You’re nostalgic.’ He states it as a fact, once more focused on his plate. ‘You’ve never gotten over something that never was.’

  ‘So that’s what this is about.’ She should have guessed. ‘The story. The fact that I’m writing for Scott again.’

  ‘Really, Tara?’ His tight smile contorts as he forks another piece of meat into his mouth and starts to chew. ‘You think I’m jealous of Scott Hasselback?’

  ‘Hasseldeck,’ she corrects him automatically and when his smile broadens gets madder still. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Peter Corwin, I really don’t. You seem to view me as some kind of outdated child, some naïve infant who you’re going to educate.’

  ‘I just hate to see you wasting energy.’ He motions with his fork, his appetite unabated – no, spurred – by her growing fury.

  ‘I’m not your problem anymore.’ Her hands, on the table’s edge, are clenched into fists. Her voice is an angry hiss. She makes herself breathe. Opens her hands. ‘This,’ she says, ‘was a mistake.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be.’ Peter puts his silverware down. Reaches across the table to place his hand over hers. ‘Tara, please.’

  His face, she sees, is sad. Not smug, or not now. ‘I’m sorry, Peter.’ She is. Not that it makes a difference. ‘I shouldn’t have come tonight.’

  ‘Tara.’ A note of warning, and that’s what cinches it.

  ‘Please.’ She doesn’t mean it this time, but she knows him. Knows her own smile, pasted on, will sting more than any invective. ‘Thank you for the dinner. I’m sorry to embarrass you, but I really have to go.’

  With that, she pushes her chair back and stands, the plastic grin still in place. And with a nod to the server, hovering just out of earshot, she walks to the door and is free.

  TWELVE

  ‘Holy shit!’ Min laughs when Tara tells her what happened. ‘So much for comfort sex with the yuppie ex!’

  ‘Yeah, I guess I burned that bridge.’ She chuckles, grateful for her friend’s reaction. Realizing that she’s more shaken than she knew. The anger may have burned off as she stalked off, but now that she’s home, the implications of her abrupt departure loom large. ‘I just – he gets so smug, you know?’

  ‘Hey, you married him.’ Min never did like Peter, Tara recalls. ‘So, you going to see the blue-eyed bartender tonight?’

  ‘No.’ Her laugh catc
hes in her throat. The idea of stacking men like that – as if she was ever that free. That in demand. ‘I think I’ve had enough excitement for one night.’

  ‘Different kind of excitement. Best remedy for one man is another.’ Min has finished her shift. She’s at home and at liberty, too, but Tara knows better than to bounce the bromide back to her.

  ‘Yeah, I don’t know about that.’ Tara still hasn’t heard from Nick. Still hasn’t called him, either. Though she has been thinking about him. Was, perhaps, thinking about him during dinner. She looks at the carving, which she’s taken back into her living room. Picks it up to admire the work. ‘Besides, I’ve got an appointment tomorrow.’

  ‘An appointment?’ Min lingers on the word. ‘On a Sunday?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m going to talk to Neela,’ Tara admits with some reluctance.

  ‘And the grieving widow isn’t going to be in church for her sins?’ Min must have picked up on her tone. Still, Tara works to tone down her reaction.

  ‘Hey, she’s had a rough time.’ Jealousy. It could be the theme of the evening. ‘And I do think she’ll be good for the story.’

  ‘Maybe now she’ll be able to give you the real dirt on Chris.’ There’s something in Min’s voice that Tara can’t place.

  ‘The real dirt?’ She’s gotten over playing coy, at least about Chris Crack.

  ‘You ever stop and think about where all that shit came from? How come all of a sudden everyone was snorting or shooting up?’

  Tara catches herself before she interrupts. ‘Not everyone,’ she wants to say. But she’s unsure what Min is driving at, and she wants to know.

  ‘I always thought it followed the coke,’ she says instead. ‘That it was cheaper, you know?’ Tara rarely bought, but she knew people were spending big bucks. Money they didn’t have.

  ‘“It followed”, like what? A stray looking for a home?’ Before Tara can respond, Min’s backing down. ‘Oh, never mind,’ she says. ‘I forgot who you were writing for there.’

 

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