Maggie Terry

by Sarah Schulman

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “What’s happening?” She loved this. She loved being down. She loved the knowing and the recognition and the sharing of the secret, she loved that no one could stop her, and she loved . . . the ritual.

  “I got C and D, Coke and Dope.”

  “You choose,” she said, giddy.

  She gave him the money, a young man. He seemed bored and nice and distracted. He gave her a folded piece of paper. The pass-off was expert. Two experts. Their flesh never touched. He walked away. She walked away. And clutching the end of her failed sobriety, the end of the recovery that was never recovered, the end, the end, she started walking back to her apartment where hopefully they would find her dead the next morning, to snort whatever it was and let it all go.

  End.

  “Maggie?”

  She kept walking.

  “Maggie Terry?”

  She turned. It was a lady cop in uniform.

  “It’s Tina Constanza.”

  “Heyyyyyy.” She stopped, plastered a smile. “Hey, Tina.”

  “Everything okay?”

  They were standing over a subway grate. The sidewalk was rattling, stale dirty heat swirling around her ankles. Maggie was inside an earthquake.

  “You at the projects?” Tina knew.

  “I was taking a shortcut back from the High Line.”

  “It’s late.”

  “Yeah.” She swayed with the vibrations of the train passing below. “You know the Artichoke Pizza place?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well, sometimes you just . . . have to have it.”

  Tina smiled.

  “Tina, you look great.”

  “Thanks, I put on some weight.”

  “Looks good.”

  Standing still was strange. It was like she was flying, or more like hovering over the concrete. Over herself. It was cool outside. She’d just noticed that.

  “Hey Maggie, sorry to hear about your troubles.”

  That was sweet. Someone knew she was in trouble and decided to rub it in. Tina was sorry.

  “Thanks.”

  “How ya doing? Going to meetings?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Me too. I’ve been sober, now, four and a half months.”

  Maggie tightened her grip on the C or D, but something in her shoulders relaxed.

  “Eighteen months,” she said. “And three, no four days.”

  “Congrats.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Maggie, it’s kind of late for you to be walking around out here.”

  “What time is it?”

  “After three. And Artichoke Pizza closed a long time ago.”

  “I’m on my way home, I had a bad date.”

  Tina smiled. She wasn’t a smart girl. She wasn’t a good cop. She was dirty and everyone on the force knew it. She took kickbacks and held on to cash and drug seizures and went on dates with women who should have been off limits.

  “You’re a nice girl, Maggie. And you had a bad time. Take it easy. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you can have better.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  What did Tina think she was doing? Service?

  “Whatever you got in your fist, just open up your hand and let it go.”

  Maggie squeezed her hand tight.

  “Just drop it.”

  The whole range of options ran through Maggie’s mind. She could say Don’t tell me what to do. She could run away. She could walk away. She could say You’re sick. You’re the one who’s sick. Nothing is going on here, nothing. She could try to get Tina to break her sobriety, and stand in a shadow, snorting the white stuff together. It would be fun. They could be friends.

  “Whaddya say?”

  “All right,” Maggie said.

  Maggie opened her grip, let the dope fall beneath the iron grate.

  “We gotta stick together,” Tina said.

  We, we dirty cops, we addicts, we white people. We of the special treatment and the double standards. “Who’s we?”

  “Everyone who needs a fifth second chance.”

  And Maggie knew Tina was talking about herself. And that if they ever saw each other again, they would do coke and fuck.

  She nodded. It was over now.

  Silently, they waved each other on, and empty-handed, Maggie headed home down a quiet side street. Redeemed but destroyed.

  DAY FOUR

  SATURDAY, JULY 8, 2017

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  8:00 AM

  It was pouring out and, as usual, Maggie had no preparation. She would buy an umbrella at Nick’s. Running between raindrops, she felt a kind of comfort at having a regular first stop. Maybe it was working, this re-creation of a new set of habits, of places, of people, of things.

  Darting in and out of awnings and construction overhangs, Maggie turned the corner, and then suddenly, something was very wrong. Had she gotten lost? It was only a block? Was she stoned? She racked her memory: Did she actually get high the night before? Why was she so confused? Where was she? Was this a dream?

  And then that moment of shocked realization occurred, like when a person goes to feed the dog, but the dog is dead; when a man comes home from work, and the apartment door is open and the place has been ransacked; standing on the sidewalk holding groceries watching one’s building burn to the ground; trying to remember where the car was parked to suddenly realize it has been totaled, or stolen. Maggie looked up at a dark, padlocked deli and read the hastily scrawled sign taped to the window.

  Can’t Pay the Rent. Thanks for Thirty Years of Business. —Nick

  He was gone.

  Are there ever real goodbyes?

  Her witness had ended. She was aloft.

  Finally understanding that she was really and truly alone now, Maggie let go of the last person who had known her before. The last caring, intimate, friendly face. She crossed the street to the cold-pressed juice place, and bought a cheddar scone, a soy latte, and a kale juice. And an umbrella. The check-out girl asked for twenty dollars. Maggie’s old world was completely dissolved.

  Saint Paul’s was not as full as usual because of the rain. The weather sucked. It was daunting. Thunderstorms meant symbolic umbrellas that broke and twisted, rain ruined plans, outfits, haircuts, and brought stress, steamy sweat, discomfort, and mess. Some people make deals with themselves every day about whether or not they are going to go to meetings, and those people did not go when it rained. They could run out in the snow in their pajamas to score, but staying sober required good weather. Her plan for the afternoon was to buy a futon, and only use the sleeping bag as bedsheets.

  New slogan: One Half Step, Every Other Time.

  Omar was there. Martha was there in another sharp, corporate outfit. This one was canary yellow with a black silk blouse and a green scarf tied elaborately. Ramón’s mustache was thickening. His eyes looked sad and his chin soft. Ronald, Alan, Karl, Charles, and a newcomer, Toshi, all appeared somewhat at peace. Even though Alan’s share was whiny, it was calm. Monica had cut her hair into a wild shag that was supposed to telegraph life and alive, but she still seemed sad and tentative. Katarina, Sheila, Clifford, Chris, and Suzanne sat somewhere on the continuum from tired to contemplative, each with a puddle gathering underneath their dripping umbrellas. Marva was qualifying.

  “Whenever someone really loves me,” she said, “I flee. I blame them. I demonize them to justify destroying the relationship. Then, when my blame becomes unbearable and they respond, I use that to justify the blame. Retroactively. I forget which came first: their reaction, or what I did that created it. If I could really love you, I run. I hide in people who are as shut down as I am, or with whom the relationship can only ever be superficial. I fear equals. Not being seen is easier.”

  Maggie nodded. Then she realized what she was doing. Identifying.

  Even though it was Saturday, Mike wanted them to
all to stop by and celebrate. So Maggie’s colleagues showed up in their weekend attire: Baseball cap for Craig, designer exercise pants for Enid. Sandy in an Indian print. At the office, there was a party underway. Fresh-squeezed peach juice. Trays of deviled eggs with caviar, blini with caviar, papaya salad, warm home-baked bread with freshly churned butter. Bowls of gray, red, and black caviar. Someone who wanted to show that they could afford to share caviar. Someone for whom caviar meant love.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s a party,” Sandy said like it really was.

  “Is it Mike’s birthday?”

  “No, no. He would never do something like this. Lucy Horne sent over a catered luxury breakfast for the whole office to thank us for cracking the case.”

  “But we didn’t find anything.”

  Was that true? The real truth was that Maggie had passed up two chances to save Steven Brinkley. She could have had dinner with him, and she could have listened to his pain rather than making up a story about herself being the one in danger. She’d been around suicide before. She knew. She knew. She knew . . .

  And the whole world stopped.

  Her mother, of course.

  Of course, her mother had killed herself. Of course, Maggie had devoted her career to other people’s corpses. All that was long known.

  But now, there was a . . . kind of enlightenment . . . an opening of understanding. Maggie’s poor mother had ended her own life, rather than spend it with little Maggie Terry because . . .

  Because she was drunk.

  Her mother’s life was unbearable, but so was Maggie’s and she was still living it.

  Why was it all making sense now, when it was . . . oh God . . . so obvious. Like a photograph coming to life.

  Could she really have lived to the age of forty-two without ever actually realizing that her mother was drunk. She was drunk when she had committed suicide?

  Her mother was drunk when she died. Maggie was only seven, and her mother had been drunk all the time. Her father was out fucking someone, and her mother was alone, sloshed, with the little girl, and Maggie wasn’t cooperating—she was acting seven. Her mother was so overwhelmed, there was no one to call who hadn’t already been called too many times, and she was angry about it. People weren’t calling her back because they figured it was hopeless. No, actually they just didn’t care. They were not thinking about words like intervention or about that little girl named Maggie. Her mother was so pissed off, so unable to bear it, so unable to integrate the information that her husband was a bastard and also a drunk, and instead her mother had become convinced that there was no way out.

  In her drunkenness, she had become convinced that she would be stuck in that house with that kid for the rest of her life, always feeling as terrible as she felt that very second. So filled with drunken rage that it had all come to this. So filled with hatred that all her potential, her dreams, her trust . . . So drunk that she needed it to end right then and right now, she pulled open the kitchen drawer, the one closest to the liquor cabinet, and grabbed the knife they used for the Thanksgivings that had disintegrated into waves of cruelty, and she stabbed herself in the heart with that kitchen knife. That fury.

  In a locked room, her final gesture of consideration toward her child. Locking the door. Leaving the mess for her drunken, satiated husband to come home to with his satisfied cock and satisfied balls and have to deal with his wife’s intact face and torn bloody body below.

  And yet, for some reason, Maggie had—all these years—thought of this intentional, delusional catastrophe as an accident. Some kind of accident. What is the definition of accidental? Something occurs that no one wants to occur; it is just an act of fate. It is not deliberate; it’s a sidebar. A consequence unforeseen. Maggie’s mommy didn’t really expect her life to end. She was drunk. She couldn’t think it through. It was an accident. She just didn’t have anyone to talk to.

  Did Maggie have someone to talk to?

  She had those fucking 12 Step meetings. She had a sponsor.

  It sucked, but these structures did exist. They were paltry and in so many ways impersonal. There was no romantic love there. There was no sex. There was no sleeping together, and holding hands. There was no using. There were no drinks. But there was still some place to go.

  Maggie knew she would not have to kill herself. She was staying alive to protect Frances and Alina. She was helping them by staying alive. She would never have to do to them what her mother had done to her. Didn’t they see that? She was refusing to shatter them while Frances was shattering her. It was a favor. That was what refusing to negotiate was like. It caused division and pain. It had consequences that never end and suicide was the ultimate refusal to solve a problem. And Maggie would never refuse to solve this one. She would live for the solution.

  “Maggie? Maggie?”

  She looked up into a sea of petals.

  “And she sent these flowers.” Sandy buried her face in the giant white lilies, just as Maggie had done with the roses she never took home. “Smell, Maggie.” How did women learn to dive into flowers?

  Maggie brushed her cheeks along the petals. She inhaled the scent of life, the natural world, its delicacy, its temporariness. How could people be so intractable when there are flowers? Why did she refuse to let Steven tell her his pain? Selfish. Asshole.

  “And Lucy sent big presents. For each of us. Even me. Here, have some lobster quiche, it’s amazing.” A good receptionist is a caretaker. She handed Maggie a plate. “There is so much lobster.”

  Feast in hand, Maggie walked into Michael’s office. She needed him to know what had really happened. That Brinkley’s death was proof of her guilt, not his. It was her job now, to be accountable.

  “Mike?”

  Before her was the spectacle of Michael, Craig, and Enid eating caviar.

  “And here is our girl!” Michael had a linen napkin on his lap, protecting his Armani suit. He had this air of I’m doing it right about him. A kind of salvation that can only come from exterior recognition.

  “Maggie, wait until you see your gift basket.” Craig had never shown her such enthusiasm before. Apparently, all was forgotten because of some gourmet products. And she realized that presents were very, very important to Craig. He had given her a phone, after all.

  Enid resumed her conversation. “Can you believe, Mike, that he sent Ivanka to represent the United States of America at the G-20?”

  Mike did not want to talk about it at the office, but he understood that Enid did. “It is all beyond anything resembling belief.”

  “They actually made Angela Merkel sit next to her. They should have sent that Barbie doll home to satanic Ken.”

  “I have a new name for her,” Sandy piped up. “Ivanka Marie Antoinette Romanov.”

  “Well,” Enid added. “I hope she meets the same ending.”

  “Listen, I think there is more to this case.” Maggie was careful.

  “Like what?” That was Mike, chewing on oysters but pretending to be open.

  “No, there is not.” Craig did not want her to fuck everything up, which was the only thing he had ever seen her do.

  “I don’t think Brinkley is the killer.”

  “Okay.” Mike was listening.

  “Whatever.” Craig had already tuned her out.

  “What is your evidence?” Enid was actually taking her seriously. That was the thing about Enid, she actually wanted to know what was true. That was her strength and her value. She looked at Maggie, waiting for her to present proof.

  “I think he wanted to take care of Jamie and couldn’t forgive himself that he had failed.”

  “That’s not evidence.” Enid returned to her peach juice.

  “We have to keep the case open.”

  “Maggie.” Enid had made up her mind. “I don’t see any grounds.”

  “What is wrong with you?” Craig was finally exploding. All these examples of her ridiculous impulses, wrong guesses, and inept actions, and her
e they had won and she wanted to make it a loss. “You have been a liability from day one, and this is day four.”

  Liability.

  “She has?” Enid turned to him like a parent to a nursery school teacher. “Has she been drinking?”

  “I have not been drinking.”

  “I don’t know,” Craig said, finally putting down his fork. “She has inappropriate expectations outside the boundaries of office hours. She has bad judgment.”

  “That’s how her partner got killed, you know. When they kicked her off the force. Showing up drunk at work. He died.”

  Maggie was teetering. Enid knew about that?

  “All inquiries showed that I had nothing to do with Julio’s death. It was not my fault.”

  “You were drunk on the job. And your partner died.” Enid was on her now. “Do you think we’re idiots?”

  “Died?” Craig was trembling with rage. He finally realized how much danger he had actually been in.

  Enid nodded. “A police officer. Drinking on the job, and who knows what else!”

  This is how it works, Maggie knew. She did things that were very wrong, and there were consequences. But she did not do everything wrong. And every consequence was not caused by her and by her alone. These people were turning her into a specter, just as NYPD had done, just as her lover had done. Maybe if she had showed up sober that night in the Bronx, maybe she could have talked Julio out of his mission, but she doubted it. And she never would have been able to turn up sober. Most likely she would also have gotten shot, or even killed. Or perhaps her presence would have extended the fight and Julio may have murdered Martin Scott Bond, or maybe she would have become a murderer too. Or maybe they would have “succeeded” and intimidated the witness into illegally repressing evidence, and then they would have been real criminals, just like Eddie. Or maybe she, in her intoxicated, grand, distorted state, might have miraculously saved Julio’s life, but that would have been an unlikely outcome since she was too out of it to have any realistic common sense. But no one could ever be sure if Julio Figueroa died because she was an addict, and in the process of being coercively hospitalized, and therefore did not keep her word. To her friend. Her beloved, sad, grief-stricken, desperate, confused friend who was worried about his son. His son who killed Nelson Ash-ford in cold blood, lived through a suspension, lost his father to murder, and then had the charges dropped by a racist in the DA’s office and now was back on the beat. One thing did not equal the other.