Sometimes it was all a little too much. I’m going out for some air, Eleanor would announce to Grace. I’ll be right back.
No rush, Miss Delacroix. I’m here, the nurse would say.
At the Chase branch in Sheridan Square, Eleanor would withdraw a significant amount of cash. Then head over to Cleo’s apartment on Bedford to buy more blow to keep herself going. Cleo was recovering from a stroke and about to retire from a lifetime of dealing. I’ve been a faithful customer, Eleanor whined. How can you do this to me?
Sorry, hon. I’m moving to Staten Island to be with my niece and her kids. My heart’s a piece of shit, Cleo said. Look at me—I’m using a walker, for fucksake! The next stroke’s gonna leave me completely paralyzed and brain-dead, if I don’t quit.
But what am I supposed to do?
Cleo gazed at Eleanor in disbelief. What a narcissist you are.
Never said I wasn’t.
Cleo laughed in agreement. I can turn you on to some young, enterprising types. This city’s full of them. After a pause, she added: They deliver.
Thugs, Eleanor said. Not to be trusted.
Well, then maybe you should quit.
Over my dead body, Eleanor snapped.
Eleanor remembers following Cleo into the kitchen. Seeing the depressing pile of unopened bills, Social Security and AARP newsletters stacked on the kitchen table. A tacky brochure from some outfit called Catholic Cemeteries lay on top of the pile. “Complete The Circle Of Life In Harmony With The Church.” What the fuck’s this? Eleanor asked, picking up the brochure to take a closer look. The hits keep on comin’, Cleo said with a shrug. Do what I do, Eleanor said. Toss that shit in the garbage. Cleo waited before asking, How’s Yvonne doin’? Not really expecting an answer. Eleanor’s face an inscrutable mask of cool. She watched with keen interest as Cleo weighed the mound of white powder on the antique table scale. Funny, Eleanor mused out loud. How you’ve never needed a gun.
When you were doing business, I don’t recall you owning a gun, Cleo said. She was smiling when she said this. Her teeth—what was left of them anyway—hung loosely from inflamed, receding gums. Cleo who had once been sexy and bad-boy handsome. The James Dean of Bedford Street.
Sure that’s an ounce?
Gimme a fuckin’ break. After all these years, why would I burn you?
Eleanor put her money down on the table.
Cleo dipped into the powder with the talon on her pinkie and had herself a little sniff. Just like old times, she cackled, handing the Baggie to Eleanor. Give a kiss and hello to Yvonne for me, will ya?
She’s mostly out of it. Asleep.
I understand, Cleo said. You take care now, Eleanor.
Sometimes it was all a little too much. The stash of blow not enough to keep her dry-eyed and detached. She grew paranoid of Grace, wondering if the nurse had taken note of her frequent trips to the bathroom. The apartment—except for the room where Yvonne lay—had grown squalid. A sure sign of her drug-addled incompetence, Eleanor thought. She decided to hire Tibor de Lyn’s former housekeeper, a Serbian woman named Mattia, to scour the apartment and help with whatever needed doing. It’s going to be a constant battle, Eleanor warned her. My friend is terminally ill. Almost as soon as she said it, Eleanor was disgusted with herself. Friend. But was lover, wife, companion, or partner any better? Spouse, domestic like a mouse. Inadequate words. Hollow, despicable.
Mattia’s stare was piercing. Mr. Tibor and Miss Plum explain everything.
Anything can compromise her immune system, Eleanor continued. Every room, every surface has to be scrubbed and disinfected. Like a hospital.
The two women sat there for a moment without saying anything.
Can you do it? Eleanor finally asked.
Easy, Mattia said. Also I cook.
She was punctual and wore the same outfit every day. Baggy knockoff jeans, a maroon Old Navy fleece, white sneakers. A gold cross dangled from a chain around her thick neck. Eleanor couldn’t bear the constant smell of bleach and disinfectant, but Mattia did her work efficiently and, for a time, kept the germs and wolves at bay.
Benjy liked showing up without calling ahead, a different girlfriend by his side every time. How’s my mother today? he’d mumble, brushing rudely past Eleanor. Making a point. Eleanor thinking, Oh how he hates me. O how he hates me, she wrote in her notebook. While Benjy sat with his mother, his girlfriend of the moment would wait in the living room. Often for hours. His women tended to be exotic, with names like music and poetry. Francesca, Daphne, Arabella. There was a brazen waif named Jasmine, who Eleanor caught in the act of stealing a small sketch of a pensive man smoking a cigar. The framed sketch hung in the living room, next to the window. If you look closely you’ll notice Yvonne did that on a cocktail napkin, Eleanor had said as she approached the surprised young woman. The napkin’s from the bar on the terrace of the Hotel Nacional in Havana. Yvonne was waiting for me, and of course I was late. Very late. Have you ever been to Havana?
No, Jasmine whispered, holding the framed piece against her bony chest and starting to back away.
I’m not going to hit you, Eleanor wanted to assure her, but she didn’t. Instead she extended her hand. Well, this ridiculous embargo or whatever they call it should end soon. Then maybe Ben can take you to Cuba. Now, may I have the drawing back, and will you please leave my fucking house?
And then Nneka came into Benjy’s life. A majestic and luminous presence, adored by all, including Eleanor. The effervescent supermodel had needed only one name. Nneka. Which, according to Benjy, in her native Igbo language, meant “supreme mother.”
Law & Order ends. Eleanor mutes the infomercial that follows and surveys the mess in the living room. Time for her to downsize and sell the apartment. It was much too big now, too cluttered with memories and lacking in joy. There was a hefty profit to be made, in spite of the current shitty economy. The Far West Village had been transformed into a highly coveted, family-friendly barrio of cupcakes and Labradoodles and faux-Parisian bistros, after all. Eleanor took pride in being a veteran of shitty economies. Nothing like being born in the Year of the Great Crash. She and Yvonne had bought their apartment back when AIDS was rampant and no one wanted to live among the derelicts and the drag queens and the butchers who plied their bloody trade. The owners were desperate and sold at a considerable loss, so there was still money left for Yvonne to purchase the shabby but light-filled loft on East Broadway to use as her painting studio. When Benjy grew old enough, he started crashing there. Benjy who in a drunken rage accused Eleanor of exploiting his mother’s fame and stealing her money. Eleanor remembers being so stunned she hadn’t even bothered to defend herself. With Yvonne dead, the firetrap in Chinatown is all his. Eleanor smiles to herself. Why not just give the West Village apartment to Benjy and Nneka as a gift? Where she was going next, to live out the last few hours of her life, didn’t really matter. If Benjy decided to take the high road and reject her gift, then so be it.
Soon the sunrise, the rumble and hiss of garbage trucks, the raucous banter and shouts of men with their cranes and forklifts. They would drill and bang and grind the day away as their work on the mammoth steel-and-glass condos continued. Eleanor peeks through the blinds, hoping to glimpse Mimi on her way home. The darkness slowly recedes into hazy morning light. She nods off standing up. Nods off thinking, Wicked cunt. I shouldn’t have fronted the wicked cunt all that money. The sharp sound of the doorbell jolts Eleanor awake. Through the peephole she sees a shadowy face. Eleanor decides it belongs to Mimi and opens the door. Did you blow all my money, cunt? Oh, jesusfuckingchrist, I’m sorry, Violet.
Violet giggles.
Violet?
Violet takes a deep breath and pulls herself together. She swaggers into the apartment. Can’t find my keys. Mind if I wait here for my mom?
Eleanor slides the dead bolt back in place. She does not know the fourteen-year-old well, feels slightly intimidated by her. May I ask who let you into the building?
Violet�
��s eyeliner is smeared. She stinks of cigarettes. I followed some guy in.
Not a wise thing to do. There’s been a string of—
I’m here, aren’t I? Safe. And . . . sound. Violet starts laughing again, stops herself.
It’s very late.
Or very early, depending on how you look at it. Violet collapses on the sofa, picks up the remote. A Project Runway rerun captures her attention. Heidi Klum in the midst of solemnly dismissing a flamboyantly costumed male contestant. Auf Wiedersehen.
Violet turns to Eleanor, her tone baiting. Think she’s hot?
Bit too Aryan. Not my type.
She’s hot. Violet has trouble finding the packet of Drum buried in her large bag. Okay if I smoke?
Go right ahead. But you’ve got to roll me one, too.
Violet takes forever to roll a cigarette. Why’d you call my mom a cunt?
Sometimes she acts like one. She’d be the first to admit it.
Violet concentrates on rolling another cigarette for herself. The old woman and the young girl light up and smoke in silence. They sit side by side on the sofa, but not too close. The loud, cheesy commercials go on for an eternity. Eleanor glances at the remote in Violet’s lap. Could you please mute the damn thing? Violet acts as if she doesn’t hear, eyes glued to the TV screen. Punishment, Eleanor thinks. The nerve, Eleanor thinks. Lucky she’s just a kid. Finally, blessedly, another episode kicks in. Scissors, needles, swatches, pins, ticking clocks, sleepless nights. Tears and more tears. Bitte verzeihen Sie mir, Heidi! Auf Wiedersehen. Violet entranced by it all, dark eyes brighter and bigger than ever, pupils dilated.
What about your mom? Violet suddenly asks, taking Eleanor by surprise.
I beg your pardon?
She’s dead, right?
Long ago and far away, Eleanor answers.
Was she a cunt?
It is Eleanor’s turn to stare at Violet.
Was she a cunt? Violet repeats.
Poor Ann was much too fragile and oppressed. A product of her generation, as the saying goes.
Ann.
That was my mother’s name, yes. Well, actually, it was Ana. Ana Rosario.
Doesn’t sound white. I thought you were white.
I’m a woman of mystery.
Word, Violet murmurs. She is trying hard not to be stoned and studies Eleanor with awakening interest. You loved her? Your mom, I mean.
Oh, yes. And hated her, too. While we’re on the subject of family, who are your grandparents?
Wha?
Your mother’s parents. Do you know them?
They’re dead. Long ago and far away, Violet adds, with a loopy smile. The kid’s actually quite endearing when she smiles, thinks Eleanor.
Your father’s?
They live in Houston, FYI. And they can’t stand my parents or me.
Eleanor rolls her eyes. Houston. That’s rich.
They are, says Violet. Mad rich. And très, très weird.
Slave
The woman is wide awake, curled inside a sleeping bag that smells of charred ash and sex. She is small and thin and naked, in the grip of a terrible fever. She glances at the concrete wall just a few feet away from her. She has enough strength left. She could crawl over there and bash her own head against the cinder-block wall. Keep bashing her own head until—
The woman knows that the silence is temporary, that wrathful demons are toying with her, that the man and his wife will be home soon, without the children. They have taken the little innocents somewhere, but she tries not to think about the man and his wife and what they are capable of, and think about death or escape instead. Is escape really possible? It hurts when she moves and when she thinks, but she must try. Try to get on her feet and run—or, if necessary, crawl and make her way up the basement stairs. Summon the strength (Dear God, Dear Albertine, Dear Mama, Dear Frank, Dear Jesus, Dear Blessed Virgin Mary) to break down the locked door that leads to the kitchen where she used to feed the twins. Two overfed, placid innocents who are really still babies, barely walking and too young to understand anything.
The woman slowly turns so she is on her back and tries to sit up, resting on her elbows. Her lungs feel as if they are filled with stones. In spite of her difficulty breathing, she feels an urge to laugh. She coughs a racking, phlegmy cough instead. Sometime ago (was it months? days?) the wife flew down the basement steps, a banshee wielding a flashlight in one hand. The woman in the sleeping bag shut her eyes and froze, expecting the worst. The wife never uttered a word, shining the powerful light on the helpless figure crumpled on the floor. This went on for some time. The wife walked around slowly, bending down to observe her victim closely and from various angles. The woman in the sleeping bag felt the intensity of the light through her eyelids and tried not to move. When the wife grew bored and finally left, the woman in the sleeping bag let go a stream of piss.
The man and his wife took her clothes away when they locked her in the basement. The basement’s what you’d imagine—a dank, subterranean wasteland of discarded furniture, file boxes, and broken things.
The woman in the sleeping bag coughs another deep, rumbling cough that seems to emanate from the soles of her feet and makes her shake. The last time the man checked on her (how many months, days, eternities ago?), he announced in a flat tone of voice that she had pneumonia. The woman who has always been a victim surprised herself by daring to speak. How long before I die? The man did not respond. He seemed worried, but angry with her, too. As if getting sick were her fault. The man—foreigner, husband, father, doctor—no longer found her desirable and could hardly look at her. When he did, his look was filled with disgust. The wife, on the other hand, visits often and seems more fascinated than ever.
Where have they taken the children? Have they killed them? The naked woman struggles to remember her prayers. And now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord their poor little souls to keep. Bless me, Father. For I have sinned.
Agnes has sinned and is a fool, a whore, and a liar. Her own mother embraced her lies, reveled in how well she was doing, and was careful not to pry too deeply about the exact nature of her new job. And all the other jobs before that. Dear blind Mother, who can no longer work and lives in a constant state of emergency. Money, send money, more and more money! The older her mother gets, the more she needs. A new roof, a water buffalo, insulin. Agnes was happy to accommodate her mother and sent her every bit of money she made. Until they stopped paying her, until they took her passport and cell phone away and she was forbidden to leave the house. Every sheet of paper, every pen or pencil was removed. The husband took the computer to his office. Agnes was still living upstairs, in the back room next to the children’s bedroom; there was still a semblance of routine as far as the children went. The wife promised that everything would be returned to her, as soon as certain conditions were met. She should’ve tried to escape back then, while there was still a chance. She should’ve threatened to kill those children if they didn’t let her go. What a fool she was, what a gullible whore. Before she grew weak and sick and even more confused, the husband and his wife sometimes said they loved her. Then they locked her in the basement.
If she breaks down that door and runs outside screaming, the neighbor—what was his name? Rocco something. Sir Mr. Rocco Something would help her. Sir Mr. Rocco was retired and seemed to be the only one in the prosperous, picture-perfect township who was curious about her. Before she was forbidden to go outside, the woman would take the children in their double stroller for walks in the long, boring, quiet afternoons. How ya doin’, pretty Agnes? Sir Mr. Rocco would call out. Everything copacetic? The old man would glance at her chest and tell the same old story about going AWOL during the Vietnam War. He had fled to her country. Paradise, he called it. Anything goes. The heat, the women, the dope, the beer, the sex. Lost my head, got thrown in the brig. My God, Agnes. Gotta say, it was worth it. The children whined and squirmed in their stroller. The woman tried not to show her unease and listened politely to what S
ir Mr. Rocco was saying. He would save her if he could, she was sure of it.
Don’t ever talk to that horny old son of a bitch or go near him again, the wife had said about Sir Mr. Rocco. The wife who spoke perfect English, without the slightest trace of an accent. Rocco’s undercover DHS! He can have you deported! Which means trouble for us, you understand?
But Sir seems like a nice man.
What? What did you say? The wife slaps the woman, hard. The force of the slap takes the woman by surprise and brings tears to her eyes. She swallows her tears. The wife slaps her again, then again. The wife’s eyes are bright and hard. She seems to be enjoying herself.1
End of the World
It would’ve been so easy, Eleanor thought, to pick up the phone and ask the fancy liquor store with the clever name—Spirits Something—to deliver an entire case of gin right to her door. Why had she bothered with Mimi? Eleanor, who knew the answer but nevertheless enjoyed beating herself up, then went on to beat herself up even more for allowing Violet—Mimi’s daughter, no less—to so rudely invade her apartment. Eleanor’s delicious self-flagellation was interrupted by a rather melodramatic burst of lightning and crackle of thunder. Violet, roused from her TV trance, rushed to the picture window and pulled up the blinds. Shrieking gusts of wind followed another deafening explosion of thunder. Then a barrage of hail.
Roll me another smoke, would you, Violet?
Check it out, Violet said, ignoring Eleanor’s request. All this stuff’s, like, flying around! Are there tornadoes in New York—in the winter?
This planet’s fucked, dear. I wouldn’t be surprised by anything.
Whoa, Violet murmured, enthralled by the furious spectacle swirling just a few feet in front of her. You gotta see this, Eleanor!
Eleanor muted the volume—they were into reruns of Dog Whisperer by now—and joined the young girl at the window. She could barely move her neck, and her lower back was throbbing from sitting on her ass all night in front of the goddamn television. Doing nothing, nothing doing. Forgive me for turning into such a cliché, Yvonne. Eleanor tried not to think of the biscuit tin full of dope hidden in her bedroom. Should she try acting like an adult and offer to cook breakfast for the girl? She vaguely recalled an unopened package of bacon and a half dozen eggs in the fridge. A bag of Sumatran coffee beans that had been in the freezer for years. Surely all rotten by now. She used to know her way around a kitchen, used to love cooking for Yvonne and their friends. But in these dreary, tedious days of nothing, food was no longer a pleasure or priority.
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