World Enough

by Clea Simon

  ‘Min.’ Tara’s not hurt, exactly. But twice in one night … ‘That’s unfair. You know I want to do a good story.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m just remembering.’ Min is herself again. It’s been a long day. A work day for her, and she’s sad. ‘Remembering and regretting, I guess. Poor old Frank.’

  ‘Hey …’ Tara catches herself. She’d been about to say something stupid. Something like, ‘at least he got the girl’. She closes her eyes, musing on her own blindness. On her friend’s unacknowledged loss. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks, at last.

  ‘I’m good.’ The voice on the other end of the line sounds tired. Sounds old. ‘As good as I’m likely to be.’

  Chris was hardly the only junkie on the scene, even if he was the best known. Not that Tara knew it at the time.

  ‘What’s with the thermals?’ She had been poring over contact sheets in the Underground office. Trying to find a cover shot that would actually look good. For the January issue, probably, which meant it would have been December fifteenth, more or less. Not that you could tell from the weather. Before that deep freeze set in, the winter had been unusually warm. Even the zine’s crappy office had been comfortable, despite the cracked window and the radiator that the landlord never fixed. But as she and Scott went over Flicka’s contact sheets, all she saw were bands dressed for winter.

  ‘Did Mass Surplus have a sale or something?’ Grunge hadn’t yet hit the East Coast. Not like these guys would ever be fashion plates. But they weren’t lumberjacks or longshoremen, either, and Tara was at a loss to explain the preponderance of waffle weave before her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Flicka grabbed the loupe and pulled the sheet over. ‘Oh, yeah. You’re right.’ Picking up a red grease pencil, she crossed out a photo.

  ‘What’s wrong with that one?’ Tara had thought it had personality.

  ‘Too many closed eyes.’ Flicka slid the magnifier again, her brow furrowed as she examined the next shot. ‘I must have been high myself. All these guys are nodding out.’

  ‘They are?’ Tara nudged the photographer aside for another look. Leaning over the scarred Formica graphics table that served for layout and paste-up both, she examined the quartet. The Fitzhughs – more garage than punk, with a growly singer who almost made up for the rudimentary musicianship of his colleagues. Under the little magnifier, she saw them, leaning back against the brick wall outside their practice space. It was a nod to the Ramones, of course. But she’d thought it fit them. That it looked street. Rough. Only, she hadn’t grasped the full extent.

  She squints to see better. To see their faces. ‘I thought …’

  ‘You thought, what? They were all sleepy from the cold?’ Flicka took the loupe back and made another cross. The third shot she circled. ‘There. They look like proper thugs in this one.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Scott pushed between the women to take the lens. ‘Yeah, that works. You think you can get a story out of them?’

  That was to Tara. She peered at the photo Flicka had chosen. The tiny photographer had a good eye. Here was Dougie, leaning over to spit. Stu holding a cigarette to his lips. She was right: this shot made the band look more interesting than she had thought them.

  ‘Sure, boss.’ She stepped back, ceding the sheet to Flicka, who had moved on to another sheet. ‘I’ll find something in my notes.’

  When Scott had first proposed she cover them, she had complained about how dull the band was. How derivative.

  ‘Maybe,’ he’d said. ‘But everyone goes to their shows.’

  He was right. In a way, they’d taken over the Aught Nines’ slot as the band who nobody really liked, but everyone went to see. The guitarist tended bar around town, the drummer worked as a bouncer. That afternoon, in their practice space, they’d answered her questions in monosyllables. She’d wondered if they resented her for some reason. If they sensed her poor opinion of them. In retrospect, their unresponsiveness made sense.

  ‘Mr Friendly,’ she said, musing to herself. ‘We could use that as a headline. “Everybody’s Best Friend”.’

  ‘I don’t know if you want to do that.’ Flicka, still bent over a contact sheet, didn’t usually get involved in story discussions.

  ‘Oh?’ Tara asked. Scott was being uncustomarily quiet.

  ‘Everybody’s connection would be more like it.’ She still didn’t look up, but at that Tara turned toward Scott, who only shrugged.

  ‘Come on.’ Tara had heard the rumors. ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘Really?’ Flicka reached up to adjust the lamp. Scott had retreated to his desk. ‘Weren’t you the one just asking about all the long sleeves?’

  That’s when it hit her. Min in the bathroom. The huddle outside. ‘Where’s it all coming from?’

  Flicka had shrugged, still glued to her loupe. ‘You’re the reporter. You’re in the clubs. Maybe you can figure it out.’

  THIRTEEN

  Drugs and who did what way back when are not what she’s going to open with. Tara knows that as she makes the drive out to Medford the next morning. Min’s comments have stuck in her head. Peter’s too, if she’s being honest about it. His implication that she’s unrealistic and immature. That she idealized the music world and all its various players. Romanticizes it still, twenty years on.

  She tries to shake it off. It’s not like she had been equipped to investigate anything back then. She’d been a music critic, writing for a ’zine in an era when cocaine was giving way to cheap brown heroin. When nationwide, smack was moving out of the inner city to ruin the lives of white kids, too, and the hard-partying rock community was fertile territory. No, she’s not denying that substance abuse was a problem for too many musicians. Too many of the fans, as well. Heroin helped destroy it, her little world. She knows that, even if she doesn’t know how it happened, the exact route it took. What Peter doesn’t get – never got – was that what mattered to her was the music – well, that and the camaraderie. The family of choice she found, she’d thought she’d found …

  What was it Nick said? That they were all misfits? Maybe that’s why so many fell prey to the drugs or the drink. Why there were so few of them left. She’s thinking of the other night, when the Whirled Shakers were playing. She’d been happy then, despite it all. And then she’d heard about Frank.

  Was this a mistake? Trying to interview Frank’s widow barely a week after his funeral? She shakes her head as she cruises through the unfamiliar suburb, the directions in her lap. It’s too late to call and cancel, but part of her hopes she won’t find the turnoff. Won’t find the blue split level that Neela’s daughter and son-in-law, and now her new grandson, call home.

  Scott is pushing too hard, and she should have pushed back. In the old days, he’d urge her to try things. Jolly her into stories, like the one on the Fitzhughs, half the time simply because he needed eight hundred words to finish an issue. Though looking back now, she wonders about that story at that time. The guitarist had been working at the Casbah. Could Scott have been angling to get in with Jonah Wells even then? No, that was crazy. Her old friend has simply changed too much. It’s not the weight loss or the new clothes. He’s bought into the whole glossy lifestyle, and now he’s pressuring her to deliver.

  She catches a street sign and pulls a hard right, leaving behind the strip malls for a residential area. The subdivision Mika and her husband live in is one of the older neighborhoods. The houses are small, by current standards. But the trees on the street are mature, their shade making up for the peeling paint and cheap siding as she slows to look for a number.

  The setting is peaceful, and Tara finds herself musing on how different life must be here. From the tense crowd at Neela and Frank’s, after the funeral. From the upscale sleek of Scott’s urban roost. From her own cluttered, makeshift home. She should get a cat.

  If it weren’t for the ambulance, she would have missed the house. As it is, she slows, waiting as two EMTs roll out a stretcher. She can’t make out whether the figure being lifted into the ba
ck is male or female, but she sees the blanket folded down, an oxygen mask over the face, and feels an almost superstitious rush of relief. That’s when she notes the house – blue, with shingles – is Mika’s.

  ‘Oh my God, What happened?’ Tara pulls up to the curb. Rushes out the door. One tech turns toward her and then back to his partner. The figure on the stretcher is still. ‘Neela?’

  ‘Excuse me.’ The tech blocks her with his body. Turns back to the house. ‘Ma’am?’

  A petite brunette is gesturing – her neat pageboy, no-nonsense slacks and blouse at odds with the panic on her face. Her face is white. ‘I … my baby.’ She makes a feeble wave back toward the house.

  ‘Go,’ says Tara to the EMT driver, the situation clear. ‘I’ll take her.’

  The tech waits only for Mika to nod in confirmation before climbing in beside the stretcher. In a moment, they are gone.

  ‘Mika, I’m so sorry.’ Tara follows the younger woman into the house. Watches as she begins to pack up a bag. Diapers, wipes. ‘Can I help?’

  What she wants to ask is what happened. Why is Neela – for it must be Neela – in the ambulance? And did she – her questions, her arrival – have anything to do with it?

  ‘Here.’ Mika shoves the diaper bag at her as she collects bottles from the fridge. For a small woman, she seems able to hold a lot. She works systematically, checking labels and choosing from among five. In the other room, a baby starts to fuss. ‘Oh, honey, I’m sorry.’

  Tara follows the young mother into what is clearly a nursery. The yellow walls are bordered with trains and teddy bears. A glossy white crib takes pride of place, before a changing table and cabinet, flannel clothing – blankets, perhaps, or onesies – all looking as soft to the touch as their pastels are to the eye.

  Only the industrial-looking scale and a shelf lined with prescription bottles seem out of place. Tara steps toward these as Mika bends over the crib with a coo.

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘That was loud. That was scary.’ The bottles are for liquids – ‘pediatric formulation’, Tara reads. The labels all have long Latinate names.

  ‘Thanks for this.’ Tara turns. Mika has the baby dressed. Everything is covered except for the round face that stares at Tara with blatant curiosity. ‘I didn’t want to hold them up, but getting Henry ready to go takes time.’

  ‘No problem.’ Tara raises her car keys, the diaper bag over her shoulder. ‘Anything else you need me to grab?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t need you to drive.’ Mika breaks into a smile, as unexpected as a snowstorm. ‘I just couldn’t go with the ambulance, and you broke the spell, I guess.’

  ‘You sure?’ Of course. A suburban mother has a car. She’s an adult, with a baby.

  ‘Well, if you wouldn’t mind driving my car.’ Mika’s smile softens her face, with its sharp angles. The short, sharp haircut. ‘I’m a little shaken up, I’ll confess.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tara swallows, wondering what she’s gotten herself into. How long she’ll be at the hospital. Reminds herself she can afford cab fare. Escorting Mika is the humane thing to do.

  Besides, as she follows Mika out to the SUV, this will give her a chance to find out what happened. It’s not like she had other plans for the day.

  ‘Mercy,’ says Mika, as she buckles herself into the passenger seat. Henry, strapped into his child seat behind her, chortles with apparent delight.

  Tara waits, turning to the younger woman. Unsure how to respond.

  ‘Sorry.’ The hand to her face doesn’t hide Mika’s embarrassed giggle. ‘Mercy Hospital. On Beacon?’

  ‘Got it.’ Now it’s Tara’s turn to be confused, but Mika gets her started and soon Tara is driving through the subdivision. The SUV is big. Tara feels like she’s looking down on the parked cars as she drives by. On the houses and their shady lawns. But it handles smoothly, and soon she’s acclimated.

  ‘So, I’m sorry.’ She begins with another apology. That seems to be the order of the day. ‘But what happened? Did Neela – your mother – did she have an attack or fall?’

  ‘Mom? No.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Tara sees Mika look out the window. Sees the muscles in her neck work as she tenses and swallows. ‘I shouldn’t of …’

  Another swallow. Mika’s long neck would look graceful under other circumstances. Like a swan’s. From this angle, all Tara sees is the tension, the sinews shifting through the delicate skin.

  ‘Don’s away this week.’ Mika shifts to stare straight ahead. The better to talk, it seems. ‘With all the time he took off with Henry, he really couldn’t say no. He’s in sales over at CepCo. And so after Dad – well, it just seemed like a good idea to have Mom come stay with me for a while. I don’t know.’ She turns toward the side window again. The houses have given way to the strip mall, where she told Tara to make the left. ‘Maybe it was just selfish of me, wanting a little help. Wanting to have some normal mother–daughter time.’

  Tara glances over. Mika is no longer smiling.

  ‘I knew Mom was in a bad way,’ she says. ‘I shouldn’t have put any pressure on her. I shouldn’t have left her. I tried to get her to go to church with me. I thought it would be good for her. I was raised in the church. She and Dad took me every Sunday, not just holidays, and Father Ray – he’s a good guy. He’s been a rock.’ She chuckles. ‘Sounds biblical, huh? But really, he’s been great, when we thought we were going to lose Henry and then, after I heard about Dad. Don wasn’t raised Catholic.’

  She turns to face Tara and even with her eyes on the road, Tara sees how she lights up when talking about her husband. ‘He used to tell me how square my parents were. How strict.’ She laughs again, but it sounds a little sad now, and she shakes her head. ‘I told him about Dad being in a band. About how Mom used to dance on the bar.’

  Tara glances over quickly. ‘Yeah, I heard about that.’ Mika is grinning. ‘Mom’s old friend Gina told me. You must know her, right?’

  Without waiting for an answer, Mika continues. ‘Right at the light, then you’ll see it. Anyway, he knew about my dad being in the program. His father is too, so I guess that made sense. And I like that he doesn’t drink either – not really. I mean, he’ll have a beer sometimes, with his friends. But it’s not something either of us grew up with, and I like not having to explain that. I thought that meant we were healthy. That we’d have healthy babies …’

  Tara sees the hospital up ahead, but there’s a light. She turns and looks at Mika. The young mother appears lost in thought.

  ‘How is Henry?’ Since they’ve pulled out of the drive, Tara hasn’t heard a gurgle from the baby in the back seat.

  ‘Oh, he’s fine now.’ Mika twists to look. ‘He loves this car. Thinks his dad bought it for him. But, I’ll tell you, it was rough for a while. And I think – I think Mom took it to heart. She blamed herself. She thought, I don’t know, the drinking or maybe there were drugs …’ Tara bites her lip. ‘Anyway, you’d have thought that when we got the diagnosis, that would’ve helped.’

  ‘He has – Fabry’s?’ Tara struggles to recall what Min has told her.

  A vigorous nod. A hand goes up to smooth the hair. An automatic gesture. ‘Genetic,’ she says. ‘Not because his grandpa might’ve drunk too much or his grandma got wild. Over here.’ Mika points and Tara guides the big car into a small lot. ‘I got to know this hospital very well, what with Henry and all.’

  ‘I should check and see if they’re admitting her.’ Mika is out of the car. She has the back passenger door open and is unbuckling the car seat. ‘The EMTs said Mom will probably be kept overnight. I mean, considering her condition, and everything. But she was doing better even by the time they arrived. When I came home, I didn’t – I just, you know. You see things on TV and in the movies.’

  Tara stands beside the young mother, thoroughly confused.

  ‘I told them, when they arrived.’ Mika takes the diaper bag from Tara’s hand and slides it over her shoulder. ‘I’d gotten her to sick it all up.’
<
br />   ‘Sick it up?’ She should be carrying something, only Mika appears to have this down. To have everything under control.

  ‘You know, vomit,’ she says, over her shoulder. She is walking toward a glass door. The door slides open, welcoming them inside. ‘While we were at church, Henry and me. I came home, put Henry down for his nap. I thought she was napping too. And, well, she was. But I’m used to watching people sleep. To hearing them, and something just seemed off. I went into her room – the guest room – and she was just too still.’

  Mika pauses. Turns back toward Tara. She looks so young, suddenly. Baby and all. ‘It was pills,’ she says. ‘My mom took an overdose of pills.’

  FOURTEEN

  The weather should have warned her: the winter thaw ending with a deep freeze that almost kept Tara at home. It wasn’t the party itself she dreaded. The Whirled Shakers’ loft would be crowded enough so that its draftiness, its general lack of heat, would be a good thing, and Tara knew she’d end up sweaty and red-faced, especially once the dancing started. It was the drive there. The sudden plunge in temperature had frozen the slush into something treacherous, and she knew her old Buick wasn’t up to black ice. Even though she’d begun to freelance for the Dot – two record reviews and the editor had invited her to pitch a feature – she still couldn’t afford new tires. By next winter, maybe. If the staff job that the editor had hinted at came through. If she could keep the Skylark on the road till then.

  It was the thought of the Dot that forced her out into the cold. She’d already semi-promised Scott that she’d write up the party – the party and the local compilation it was celebrating – for the Underground. The Whirled Shakers, easily the best band on it, had recorded a track, and they’d be the natural hook. But the Crudz had a cut too, and she could pitch them as the focus instead, if she had to. She hadn’t heard their song yet, but the power trio was reliably high-energy, with a grinding guitar and bass sound that mined deep metal for its gut punch, and this was their first outing on vinyl.