“I thought we’d go straight home,” I said as we got in the car. “I made a reservation for you at the Holiday Inn. We can go over there after dinner.”
They sat in the back seat, holding hands, not replying.
“I thought we’d go home and have dinner now,” I repeated. “Suzy’s on her way home from town. David’s already there.”
I was the only one talking. I plowed on about nothing, afraid to stop, afraid of what the silence would feel like. I chattered the whole way home.
As we slowed in front of the house to turn into the driveway, Nancy began to clap her hands like a little girl.
“See, Sid?” she exclaimed. “That’s it! That’s my house!”
“It’s a fuckin’ palace,” he gasped, genuinely awestruck by our housing tract colonial with its brick-faced first floor and aluminum-sided second floor—literally hundreds exactly like it spanning for block after block.
“It is,” he said. “It’s a fuckin’ palace.”
We pulled into the garage. Nancy jumped out of the car excitedly and dragged Sid inside by the wrist.
David waited in the foyer. His jaw dropped in shock at the sight of them. Nancy, totally unaware, hugged him.
“Sid, this is my little baby brother.” She giggled because David was about six feet tall. “This is David.”
David and Sid shook hands.
“Okay,” she exclaimed. “Now you have to see the house! This is the foyer, okay?” She dragged him from room to room by the wrist. “Here’s the living room, Sid. And here’s the den.” He went along, as if he were a docile child. “This is the kitchen. Now we get to go upstairs.”
They went upstairs. I could hear her guiding him from room to room. Then they came back downstairs and she took him out back to show him the garden and the pool.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Sid?” she asked.
“It’s a fuckin’ palace,” he replied.
“I better get going,” David observed. “Gotta pick up Suzy at Bethayres Station.”
“Oh, can we come, too?” Nancy begged.
David shot Frank an inquiring look. Frank nodded.
“Sure,” David said.
“Oh boy!” Nancy cried gleefully. “C’mon, Sid. We’re gonna pick up my baby sister at the station!”
The three of them got in the car and drove away. I began to get dinner ready.
“I think,” Frank said, “they’re going to be the biggest thing that’s ever hit Bethayres Station.”
“Frank, what are we going to do with them?”
“Maybe Sid plays golf,” he said, attempting to lighten my mood. I was not amused. “I sure don’t know,” he admitted.
They came back in about twenty minutes. Suzy rolled her eyes when she walked in the door—it was her way of saying she couldn’t believe how Nancy looked.
“Guess who we saw?” cried Nancy as she came in with Sid. “Aunt Susan and Holly. They were on the same exact train as Suzy. Do you believe it? Boy, did Holly grow up!”
The “Aunt Susan” Nancy referred to was my friend Susan, the one who had delivered the money to Nancy a year before in London. Holly was Susan’s daughter. Later Susan told me she and Holly had gotten off the train and noticed a tremendous commotion—a commotion caused by the sight of Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen leaning against the car, waiting for Suzy. Susan said Nancy had changed so much in the past year that she hadn’t recognized her. Holly had—from the pictures in the Philadelphia papers.
Nancy and Sid each requested a vodka and tonic. Frank made them. They sat on the den sofa and held hands, sipping their drinks. Suzy went into the den and presented her sister with a batch of chocolate chip cookies. They were a love offering from Suzy.
“Oh, my favorites!” cried Nancy. “Oh boy, oh boy!”
She opened the foil package and removed two cookies. One she popped joy fully in her mouth. The other she handed to Sid.
“You can have one, Sid,” she said. “I’m gonna wrap up the rest and take ’em back to New York. Oh, thank you, Suzy!”
“You’re welcome,” Suzy said.
Sid sat there on the sofa holding his cookie.
“Eat it, Sid,” Nancy told him.
He bit into it obediently. We watched as he chewed and swallowed it. He said nothing.
“How is it?” Nancy prompted him.
“It’s fuckin’ delicious,” he replied. He took another nibble. Suzy rolled her eyes.
Dinner was served.
I barbecued a steak and served it with corn on the cob, salad, and garlic toast. We ate outside on the patio, under our green-and-white-striped awning, seated around our glass-topped wrought-iron table with its six matching wrought-iron chairs.
Nancy cut Sid’s meat for him. Apparently she always did. Then he dug in. He ate ravenously for a few minutes, his face in his plate.
“Fuckin’ good food,” he said. “Fuckin’ good, Debbie. Never have I had a meal like this. Never. Used to be I lived in a place with rats. Had to tie the food up in bags. High up, so they couldn’t get at it. Never have I had a meal like this.”
“I don’t cook much.” Nancy giggled.
“But that’s okay,” he said. “She’s so fuckin’ good to me.”
“That’s very nice,” I said.
We ate in awkward silence for a moment.
“So what are your plans?” Frank said.
“Well, we just got in,” Nancy said.
“First class,” Sid pointed out. “We flew first class. I paid for the tickets. Nancy should always fly first class.”
“We’re loaded.” Nancy smiled. “Money to burn.”
Sid stopped eating. He’d lost interest in the food after only consuming about a third of it. So had Nancy. They lit cigarettes and sipped at their vodkas while the rest of us ate.
“We’re at the Chelsea Hotel for now,” she said. “We’re gonna get a flat. I thought I’d see if my old one is empty. Our stuff is on the way. Our sofa and clippings and Sid’s gold record and his knives and …”
“Knives?” I asked uneasily.
“Wish I had me knives,” Sid lamented. “Never know when you might get cut. That’s how I got this eye, you know. In a fight.”
“Everything’s on the way,” Nancy said. “I had it sent here. Didn’t know where we’d end up, you know. I have to get my stereo and my records back.”
“Then what?” Frank asked.
“Once we get settled, I’m gonna promote my Sid,” she said. “I’m his manager now. I’m a professional. Oh, I’ll have to show you my portfolio after dinner! I’m a star! Can you believe it? I made it! I really did!”
We all smiled and nodded and continued to eat.
“Oh, and we have to find a methadone clinic in New York. We brought some back, but it’ll run out pretty soon. You know how we got it past the customs guys?”
“No,” I said.
“Guess,” she said. “I poured it in a bottle of dish soap. Fairy Lotion, it’s called. They didn’t think to look in it. Wasn’t that stupid of them? I knew they wouldn’t. They’re so unbelievably dumb.” She lit another cigarette. “So Suzy, how are you doing, love? You moved into the city?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Like it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s grand. Just grand. And David? You’re in private school?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“My brother’s very smart,” Nancy proudly informed Sid.
“I didn’t much like school,” Sid said. “Teacher used to hit me. I didn’t like school.” He turned to Nancy. “Have you a guitar?”
“Sid wants to play,” Nancy said excitedly. “David, do you still have your guitar?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll get it.” He went inside to get the guitar from his bedroom.
“Do you know our music then?” Sid asked us.
We nodded.
“Do you like it?”
We nodded yes.
David returned with the guitar, handed
it to Sid.
“Let’s go in the den, Sid,” Nancy said.
They grabbed their cigarettes and got up.
“Best fuckin’ food I ever ate,” Sid said.
“Thank you, Sid,” I said.
“Debbie?”
“Yes, Sid?”
“Is Sha Na Na on? On the telly?”
“Do you mean right now?” I asked uncertainly.
“Yes.”
“They’re on tomorrow, Sid,” David told him. “Saturdays at seven.”
“Oh,” Sid said. “Don’t want to miss Sha Na Na. They’re my favorites.”
He and Nancy went inside.
The four of us ate our food in silence, glancing occasionally at the remains on Nancy’s and Sid’s plates.
“She really looks awful,” Suzy finally said, breaking the silence.
“She treats him like a little boy,” David said. “She cuts his meat for him.”
“He is a little boy,” Frank said.
“And what’s with her stupid accent?” Suzy asked.
“She always picks them up,” I said. “Remember the time she got the southern accent from the boy at Avon?”
“When are they going back to New York?” Suzy asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“We can’t throw them out,” Frank said.
“I really don’t know her anymore,” David said. “That person is not my sister.”
We finished our meal in silence.
“Best fuckin’ steak I ever ate, Mum,” David concluded.
“Come inside!” called Nancy. “Come in and hear Sid play!”
We went inside to hear Sid play. He and Nancy sat close to each other on the sofa, fresh vodka and tonics in front of them. They’d left the last ones half finished.
“Sid has something he wants to show you,” Nancy said. “Okay, Sid. Go ahead.”
Sid proceeded to bang out two chords, clumsily and with great difficulty. Then he stopped and looked up, grinning crookedly. That was it. That was what he wanted to show us. Our cat could have played it.
The four of us just stood there, staring at the two of them.
“Ain’t that great?” asked Nancy.
We agreed it was great.
“Daddy used to play the guitar for us when we were little,” Nancy said. “Remember how you used to play for us, Daddy?”
“I remember,” Frank said.
Sid held the guitar out to Frank. “Here,” he said anxiously, “play.”
“No, I’m a little rusty,” said Frank. “Haven’t touched the guitar in years. David plays. He took lessons.”
Sid offered the guitar to David, who took it reluctantly, sat down, and began to strum the Beatles song “Eleanor Rigby.” He’d taken lessons for six months. At that, he was ten times the guitarist that Sid was.
“That’s grand,” said Nancy. “Sing, too.”
David shook his head.
“C’mon,” she urged.
He shook his head again. “I have a terrible voice.”
She looked to Sid for support, but he had begun to melt into the sofa, half asleep.
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “I should take you to the hotel.”
“Okay,” Nancy said. “No, wait. You haven’t seen my portfolio yet. You have to see my portfolio.”
She jumped up and went to the foyer to get it. Then she came back and cleared a spot on the coffee table. We gathered around the table to be shown her portfolio. Sid perked up, sort of.
Her portfolio was actually a scrapbook in which she had neatly pasted newspaper photos and stories about herself and Sid, as well as publicity shots of the two of them.
“Don’t I look beautiful in this one?” she asked.
In it, she was by Sid’s side, one fist clenched at the camera, teeth digging into her lower lip. Sid was shirtless and snarling.
“So beautiful,” Sid agreed, putting his arm around her proudly.
“It was taken at a press conference,” she said. “The photographer told me I could be a professional model if I wanted.”
She looked half dead in the picture. The statement was so pathetic I winced.
“I bought her those shoes,” Sid pointed out. “I bought her everything she ever had.”
She showed us the other pictures in her portfolio. Some of them predated Sid. There was the photograph of her with Debbie Harry, a picture of our cats, a picture of her friend Sable.
“Oh, Sid!” she exclaimed suddenly. “You haven’t seen my baby pictures!”
She went to the desk and got out her baby pictures. There was one snapshot of her curled up nude on our bed at seventeen months that was particularly cute. Sid gazed at it fondly. So did I.
“Wasn’t I adorable?” she asked him.
“So pretty,” Sid said. “So, so pretty. Debbie, may I keep this? I want it.”
Frank and I exchanged a look. Frank nodded.
“Sure, Sid,” I said. “It’s yours.”
He happily slid it into the pocket of his black leather jacket. Then he yawned. It was about eleven o’clock. I again suggested taking them to the hotel. Sid said he’d like that. I drove them while Frank, Suzy, and David cleaned up.
Nancy positioned Sid in the back seat, where he immediately began to doze. Then she joined me up in front.
“Great to be back, Mum,” she said as I pulled out of the driveway.
“Nice to have you.”
“Hated the bloody weather in England. Damp. House looks nice.”
“Thank you.”
“How come you have sliding glass doors in the kitchen now?”
“It’s easier.”
We drove in silence for a while.
“So when are you going back to New York?” I asked.
“Sunday night. That okay?”
“Fine.”
“We have to find a methadone clinic on Monday.”
We said nothing the rest of the way to the Holiday Inn. We really had nothing to say to each other.
The parking lot was deserted. Businessmen usually stayed there, but not on weekends. I pulled up right next to the front door.
“Come on, Sid,” Nancy commanded. “We’re here.” She got out, clutching Suzy’s cookies, and opened the door for Sid, who followed us inside groggily.
The desk clerk stared at them, incredulous.
“I registered you under your real name,” I told Sid. “I thought it would be better.”
“That’s fine, Debbie,” Sid said.
I filled out the registration form for them. For their address, I put down “Chelsea Hotel, New York, N.Y.” Then Sid signed it. I paid for the room. The clerk handed me the key, still staring at them. They seemed not to notice. They never did.
“Do you … do you want a bellboy?” the clerk stammered.
I said no. Then I turned to Nancy and Sid.
“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow,” I said. “What time should we pick you up?”
“Wait, Mum,” she begged. “Walk us to our room. Please.”
They were like two lost, frightened children standing there in the Holiday Inn lobby. I wondered how they had survived for so long on their own. I helped them find their room. Then I unlocked the door for them and put the key on the bureau. I half expected Nancy to ask me to tuck them in.
Sid immediately started to get undressed for bed. Off went the leather jacket. As I mentioned, he had nothing on underneath it. He had a hairless, concave chest. His ribs stuck out. There were a couple of long, thin scars on his back and side. Knife wounds, possibly.
“So what time should we pick you up tomorrow?” I asked.
“Call us at noon, please, Mum,” Nancy said.
We kissed each other good night.
Sid started to take off his pants. I headed for the door.
“Wait, Mum,” Nancy said.
“What is it, Nancy?” I asked.
“You forgot to kiss Sid good night.”
I went over to him, averting my eyes from his
unbuckled trousers. I turned my face. He kissed me lightly on the cheek. I shuddered.
“Good night, Mum,” he said.
“Good night, Sid.”
Then I drove home.
The dinner dishes were all cleaned up.
“So when are they leaving?” Suzy wanted to know first thing.
“Sunday,” I replied.
“Early?” she asked.
“Late,” I answered.
“He’s not nearly as threatening as I thought he’d be,” David observed. “He’s too zonked.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Frank said. “If he can make a million dollars with that guitar-playing of his, I should be able to make a hundred million.”
“At least she’s calm around him,” I said. “Motherly, almost.”
We went to bed. As he turned out the light Frank said, “Every time I look at the two of them, I keep thinking the same thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That neither one of them looks like they’re long for this world,” he said sadly.
I couldn’t sleep. I just lay there in the darkness, thinking, groping toward some kind of grasp on Nancy’s relationship with Sid, her only lasting relationship.
They were two lost souls who had found each other. Their relationship came out of their inability to find what they wanted in the outside world. They were on the same wavelength. They fit each other’s needs.
Both had trouble getting along with most people. Both were troubled and angry. Sid had the capacity to lash out in anger at others. Nancy tended to direct her anger at herself. She needed to have everything her way. Sid needed to have somebody tell him what to do. She was bright and aggressive. He was, seemingly, withdrawn and not particularly verbal. If you’d have asked Sid what sort of social statement he was making by the way he performed and looked, he’d have been hard-pressed to articulate a response.
They were dependent on each other. They cared for each other. To them, what they had together was genuine love. It was the only time for Nancy. Sid was the one great love of her life. She was twenty years old, he a year older. They were basically the same age Frank and I had been when she’d been born. That was hard for me to imagine. They seemed like children to me, immature and incapable of taking care of themselves—much less another human being. Maybe Frank and I had been, too, when we were that age, and just hadn’t known it.
No, I refused to believe that. We had not been Nancy and Sid. We had devoted ourselves to building, not tearing down.
And I Don't Want to Live This Life : A Mother's Story of Her Daughter's Murder (9780307807434) Page 34