The Rooftop Party

by Ellen Meister

Ari stood there for a few minutes without saying anything, and Dana could think of nothing to do but avoid his gaze. At last he repacked his box and headed for the door. But before he opened it he reached into his pocket for something and smacked it onto the table. Dana had to lean forward to see what it was. The key to her apartment.

  31

  “I know this seems like the end of the world,” Ashlee said, after Ari left. “But while he was talkin’ I got an idea.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Dana said. All she wanted now was to get into bed and shut out the world.

  “No, really,” Ashlee said. “I know how we can track down that Margaux. Then you’ll have your answers. That’ll be great, won’t it?”

  Dana was too bereft to even cry. She couldn’t see her way out of the mess she was in. Even if she found out she had nothing to do with Ivan’s murder, Ari would never forgive her for this breach of trust. She might as well be arrested for murder.

  “I don’t see how it matters anymore,” she said.

  “Of course it matters!”

  “He’ll never forgive me.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Dana said. “I’d like to get some rest.”

  Ashlee protested, but Dana shut her down by hobbling to the coat rack, taking down the white faux shearling jacket and holding it toward her.

  “I guess I can take a hint,” Ashlee said good-naturedly as she laid the coat over her arm. “But just remember one thing—that boy loves you.”

  She left, and Dana stood by the door for several minutes trying to decide what to do. But there was nothing. No work. No play. No love. And oh god, the apartment. It would be hers in just a few weeks, and a month after that her current lease would terminate. That meant she had no choice but to move in. Alone. And she would live there. Alone. All that space now seemed like a curse. The embodiment of loneliness.

  She knew there were people she could call now. People who loved her. Megan. Her sister. But the thought of listening to them try to cheer her up seemed exhausting. And she was so very tired.

  Dana considered the joint in her night table drawer. That was the only friend she needed right now. And maybe a Vicodin. Ari’s admonition not to mix it with weed made it even more appealing. Because fuck him. Fuck everything.

  She went into her bedroom and opened the pill bottle. There were only five tablets inside—doctors were so cautious about opioids now. Smart, Dana thought, as she took one, because it meant she would need to ration these. She took one more, and then lit up a joint.

  Dana considered putting on some music, but that would leave her mind free to wander, and she couldn’t have that. No, she needed some mindless TV. She put it on and turned up the volume, then clicked through the dial as she smoked her joint. She settled on some show about hoarding. A fat man in a stained T-shirt had made his house into a garbage can. It was shocking. Every surface was under piles of stinking trash with rats and roaches scurrying beneath it. So sad. The man simply couldn’t throw anything away. Pizza boxes. Magazines. Rotting food. The idea of parting with a single item seemed to break him. Why couldn’t he understand that none of it mattered?

  Then the crew arrived at the man’s house. An army of people with rubber gloves and surgical masks, ready to dig through the fetid mess and clean everything up. The man’s name was Roscoe, but at first Dana thought they said Oscar, like the Grouch who lived in a garbage can. She burrowed deep into thinking about Oscar. He lived the way he wanted. To hell with convention. And to hell with getting along with people. Oscar followed his own path. Fuck, yeah.

  Roscoe’s army of helpers cleaned out a path by the front door, filling up bags of garbage. He followed after them, and had a meltdown when they tried to throw out an old dishrack. As Dana watched, she wondered why they were so intent on fixing a guy who didn’t want to be fixed.

  It occurred to Dana that she would normally be on the air at this hour, so she switched over to the Shopping Channel to see who was filling in for her. It was Vanessa Valdes, pulling double duty. Dana listened to her pitch for a gemstone pendant as her eyelids grew heavy and she fell asleep.

  She woke up ravenous a few hours later. Dana lit up the joint again and took a few more hits before snuffing it out and trying to get out of bed. Then she remembered about her cast. The crutches seemed impossibly complicated, and so she held on to one surface and then another as she hopped into the living room, trying to remember what she had in her puny refrigerator. When she saw the deli bag on the table, Dana nearly combusted with joy.

  Ashlee had left the pastrami sandwiches.

  In Dana’s current state, this seemed like the one true answer to her existential angst—the pure sensual pleasure contained in this white bag. She sat down and pulled out one of the wrapped packages. The scent of pastrami was like something God had created with one express purpose: to deliver bliss. She opened the paper, grabbed the sandwich with both hands and bit into it. Her mouth filled with textures and flavors so magnificent the entire universe was concentrated into the sensations within it. The ooze of fat. The ting of salt. The punch of pepper. The bouquet of smoke. The zest of mustard. The wet fresh rye bread dissolving on her tongue. Dana was lost in it. She ceased to exist. The universe receded. The physicality of consuming this divine creation was the only thing.

  And then. It was over. Dana was back in reality, surprised to discover she had devoured two sandwiches and two cans of soda. She let out a long belch and rested her greasy hand on her distended stomach. Now what?

  She turned around to look at her empty apartment, and considered her provisions. Wine. Weed. Vicodin. She had enough to get her through the next few days. And right now, that was all she wanted.

  * * *

  The next morning, Dana woke up to a dry throat, a pounding headache and a buzzing cell phone. Ari? For a brief moment a familiar lightness lifted her heart. But no. It was Sherry’s direct dial number at the Shopping Channel. She let it go to voice mail. Less than an hour later she called again. And then the calls from Megan began. Dana shut off her phone and got wasted.

  Later, when the intercom buzzer sounded, she was listening to music through her headphones at the same time that the TV was blaring. The only reason she even heard the damned thing was because it was so insistent. Buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz. Like a goddamned pest.

  She picked up one crutch, walked over to the intercom and pressed the Talk button. “New phone. Who dis?” she said.

  “Dana, let me up.” It was Megan.

  “I’m busy.”

  “I swear to god, if you don’t let me up I’m calling the police.”

  “Just go away.”

  “I’m serious. Buzz me in. Now!”

  Her voice was angry enough to break through the haze. “Okay, okay,” Dana said. “Don’t get so excited.” She smashed the button that unlocked the front door to her building. She was still holding it when her doorbell rang.

  “Oh my god,” Megan said, when Dana opened the door. “What happened?”

  “Nothing, nothing, nothing,” she said, almost singing the words, because her own voice sounded so strange.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Not that I care, but Ari broke up with me.”

  Megan embraced her. “Oh, honey.”

  “Also, I think I might have killed Ivan.”

  Megan backed up. “I thought we put that to rest.”

  “Rest?” Dana repeated, trying to understand.

  Megan studied Dana’s face. “Are you high or drunk?”

  It seemed like a trick question. There was Vicodin. There was weed. There was wine. “Very much,” she heard herself say.

  “When was the last time you showered? Or ate solid food?”

  Dana squinted at her. Another trick question. It was like a final exam. “At the same time?”

  “Have you even
changed your clothes?”

  “I can’t shower,” Dana said, catching up. She pointed at her foot. “Cast.”

  “Right,” Megan said, thinking. “Maybe we can fill up the tub and keep your foot outside.”

  A bath! It sounded like a magnificent idea. Dana clapped her hands together. “I have Reluven bubble bath crystals!”

  “That sounds great, honey.”

  “Oh, it’s better than great. It’s rich and luxurious. And did you know it’s one hundred percent natural? Plus, when purchased separately, something something something.”

  “Okay, Dana. Let’s get you soaking. And I’ll make some coffee.”

  A short while later, she was in the tub, surrounded by thick bubbles. Her broken leg dangled over the rim, with the cast wrapped in a plastic garbage bag.

  “Can I stay in here forever?” Dana asked. “It’s so relaxing.”

  “If you get any more relaxed you’re going to need a defibrillator. Tell me what happened with Ari.”

  “I did something bad and he caught me.”

  Her friend hesitated, taking that in. “You cheated on him?” She sounded incredulous.

  “I was looking at his files. His...murder notes. You know what I mean?”

  Megan considered it. “I guess. I always see him with those little pads.”

  “Exactly. They were in a box. I wasn’t supposed to open it. But I need to know. Because what if it’s me?”

  Megan tsked and shook her head. “Are you still hung up on that thing Sherry said? She’s a bitch. She was messing with you.”

  Dana picked up a handful of bubbles and blew on it. “But I remembered something,” she said. Then she immersed her hand into the foamy bathwater and lost her train of thought. The bubbles were so tiny it was easy to see them as a single organism. But no. They were separate entities, struggling against an unfriendly atmosphere that dissolved them as if by magic.

  “What did you remember?” Megan prompted.

  Dana looked up at her, and it came back. “I think I pushed him. Maybe. I don’t know. That’s why I need to talk to that bartender. She saw. She was right there.”

  “And maybe she saw nothing.”

  “If only I could talk to her.”

  “Dana,” Megan said, “I’ve known you a long time, and you’re not a killer. I promise you.”

  “But what if I was mad? Or what if I just wanted him off me? Maybe I did it by accident.”

  “You were drunk and doped. You wouldn’t have had the strength.”

  “Maybe.” She wiggled her good toes under the water. “I’m so tired.”

  Megan helped Dana wash her hair, then she got her into dry clothes, and gave her some toast and coffee. Despite the caffeine, Dana was nodding off at the table. So Megan helped her into bed and let her sleep it off.

  It was a blank, dreamless slumber, and when Dana awoke, she saw Megan sitting by her bedside.

  “You’re still here,” she said, feeling groggy but sober.

  “Settled in like pneumonia.”

  Dana was so grateful she wanted to cry. What would she do without Megan? “Thank you,” she said. “For everything. You’re a good friend.”

  “I won’t argue,” Megan said.

  “You never told me about this whole Mexico thing. You’re going away with Jamie?”

  Megan smiled, and Dana wasn’t sure she’d ever seen her that happy. “Have you heard of the Riviera Maya, near Cancun? His friend has a resort there, and Jamie got us reservations. And plane tickets. His mother will be staying with her sister, so he’s free and clear. We’re leaving the day of the Shopping Channel Christmas party, but we figured we could stop by and go straight from there.”

  Dana propped herself up on her elbows and listened. But when Megan got to the part about another Shopping Channel party, a thread of anxiety snaked its way back into her consciousness. No, she thought. I can’t. She opened her night table drawer and began rummaging around.

  “It’s not there,” Megan said.

  “What?”

  “I threw out your weed.”

  Dana stared at her, stunned. “And the Vicodin?” she asked.

  “One flush for the weed, and one for the pills.”

  “Bitch,” Dana said, only half kidding. She was crushed with disappointment. It would be so damned hard to get more weed. Her dealer lived in a second-floor walkup and didn’t make deliveries. How would she get through the day? Through the weekend?

  Megan stood and approached the bed. “You just said I was a good friend.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “You want something to eat?”

  Dana sniffed the air. “Do I smell pizza?”

  “I ordered in.”

  There was pizza. In this very apartment. It seemed too good to be true. Dana realized she’d been so deep in sleep she hadn’t even heard the doorbell.

  They went into the living room, where they sat on the couch eating pizza. Dana wanted a glass of wine with it, but Megan insisted they drink water.

  “I think Sherry was trying to reach me,” Dana said.

  “I spoke to her,” Megan said. “She wanted to know if you were coming to work on Monday.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That you needed a week off.”

  “What? No! I’m fine. I can go to work on Monday. They need me.” She couldn’t bear the thought of a whole week off. What would she do with herself?

  “Don’t sweat it. Next week is Thanksgiving anyway, so you’re not even missing that much. They’ll manage.”

  “What am I supposed to do with myself?”

  “Chelsea could use some help.”

  Dana blinked, surprised. “Chelsea?” she echoed. “You spoke to my sister?”

  “Apparently her nanny skipped town and she needs you.”

  “But I’m lame,” Dana protested. “What can I even do? It’s not like I can chase Wesley around the playground.”

  “I trust your resourcefulness.”

  Dana squinted at her. “You think I’m the one who needs a babysitter, don’t you?”

  “She said she has a spare bedroom on the first floor. It’s a win-win. You won’t have to worry about cooking and shopping, she gets a hand with Wesley.”

  “The suburbs,” Dana moaned. She had spent the first eighteen years of her life on Long Island, and had vowed she would never move back.

  “It’s not San Quentin.”

  “Might as well be.”

  “You mean because there’s no liquor store in walking distance?” Megan asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

  “Couldn’t I just do community service or something? I don’t want to leave Manhattan.”

  Megan folded her arms. “She said your father and Jennifer have an extra bedroom. I’m sure they would be happy to—”

  “I almost forgot how lovely Long Island is this time of year.”

  32

  The days went by in a lazy, languid blur, like she was a Thorazined zombie in some nineteen-fifties sanitarium. Only Dana wasn’t drugged. Or lobotomized. Yet her senses were dulled, her emotions existing at the bottom of some milky pool. She knew they were there, but had no desire to dive through the lacteous bog to find them. No thank you. Better to stay right here on the surface, reading stories to a four-year-old in between setting the dinner table and watching reruns of Say Yes to the Dress.

  Ari hadn’t called or texted. Not once. But even that didn’t send her into an emotional tailspin, because as long as she was living this limbo life, it didn’t count. There were times she considered reaching out, but she didn’t want to risk the anxiety of waiting for a response, or the heartache of dead silence. And so she coasted.

  Dana understood, now, why they used to send people away for a “rest.” When you plucked someone
from their life and delivered them to a place with no responsibilities or worries, their spirit could simply float untethered.

  “Oh for god’s sake,” Chelsea had said one night as they sat in front of the TV watching a bride try on an outrageous ball gown. “Those feathers! She looks like an exploded chicken.”

  “I guess,” Dana said.

  “And she wants to wear it with high-tops!”

  “That sounds comfortable,” Dana said.

  “Seriously? High-tops? With a wedding gown?”

  Dana shrugged, and Chelsea’s brow creased. During the commercial, she muted the volume and studied her sister. “Are you still planning to go back to work next week?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think you need more time off?”

  Dana exhaled, already exhausted by the conversation. “Can we talk about it later?”

  * * *

  On Thanksgiving morning, Chelsea asked Dana if she could keep Wesley busy while she and the housekeeper got dinner together.

  “Don’t you need me in the kitchen?” Dana said. “I can sit at the table and slice or dice or mix or whatever.”

  “You’ll be more useful with Wesley,” Chelsea said. “Brandon is at a friend’s helping to set up a new big-screen TV—god forbid he should have to watch football on a regular television—and Wesley needs some attention.”

  That’s how Dana found herself on the bed in the guest room, her sweet-smelling nephew tucked under her arm as she read from Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White. Dana was certain she had read it as a child, but didn’t remember much beyond something about a spider who could spell and a little pig named Wilbur. So when she began, and the beautiful sentences washed over her like a cleansing tide, something stirred.

  “What’s the matter, Aunt Dana?” Wesley asked.

  Dana touched her cheek and realized it was wet. This wasn’t good. She didn’t want to feel anything. “Sometimes grown-ups cry when they like something a lot,” she explained. Or when they’ve been suppressing emotions so much that a few tender words break their heart. She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose.