by Mimi Cross
“I’ve tried lychee nuts. I don’t like them.”
“You tried lychee nuts—you never had fresh lychees? Chinese cherries?” He looks in the bag. “Although these fuckers gotta be from Mexico or something—Dee’s asshole connection probably brought ’em in with a load—her real connection. Still, not a bad parting gift.”
I cast a dubious look at the lychee. It is not something I want to put in my mouth.
“Here.” He plucks the bumpy red fruit from my fingers and plunges his thumbnail into its rough skin. He pulls part of it—including the stem and what looks like a seed—away.
Then he stops, so I stop, too. Swiftly, he brings the rough fruit to my lips—which part slightly as I start to protest—and squeezes.
The slippery, tender wet flesh of the fruit slides out of the skin and into my mouth.
The texture is that of a peeled grape, the taste—perfume-like, delicate, and sweet.
He laughs, probably at the expression on my face, which must be a cross between furious and ecstatic.
“Another,” I demand, like a child.
He tears the skin off another, tosses the stem and the pit, and before I can object—I’ll do this part myself, thanks—my nostrils flare at the fragrant, floral smell.
He slides another of the luscious fruits with its pearly pulp into my mouth.
We’re back to where we started now, and he waves me up the short flight of steps with a sweep of his hand. Standing behind me in the blue-black shadows, he pulls out a key.
“Excuse me,” he says, reaching around me.
I get this sudden feeling in my gut—like I should leave.
But I step back instead, and when he opens the door, I follow him in.
SOLO
DAVID
“Why are you here?” Bryn asks from her perch on one of the kitchen stools.
“I live here.” I eye the joint in her hand. “Or have you forgotten?”
“David.” My sister takes a hit off the joint, holding it in so that her next words sound as if she’s been pressurized, like a can of whipped cream. “It’s Saturday night—” Coughing, she releases the smoke.
“So?” I wave away the cloud.
“So.” Still coughing, she says, “I find it hard to believe that you’ve run out of willing volunteers.” Finally, her hacking concluded, she takes a big breath, wipes her eyes.
When I still don’t react, she cocks an eyebrow at me. “For your juggling act.”
As if on cue, the phone rings. Our mother refuses to activate voicemail—she says she doesn’t like the idea of “personal information being out there in space.” We let the machine get it.
Bryn and I listen, her with interest, me without, as the voice of the caller fills the room.
“David? I called you on your cell, but you didn’t answer, so I’m calling you at this . . .”
“Trish,” Bryn says as the voice prattles on.
“Tammy,” I correct.
“Same difference.”
“Maybe.”
“Why don’t you pick up?”
I just shake my head.
“Does this have something to do with why you’re home tonight? And remind me again, why are you home? I forget what you said.”
“I didn’t say.”
“Yeah, okay, so tell me now. Why are you home on a Saturday night?”
“I believe,” I say, taking an olive from the dregs of a martini that our mother has left on the counter—she likes a quick cocktail before a cocktail party, which is where they’re starting out tonight—“that my date has blown me off.”
Bryn laughs and lets out another cloud of smoke. I give her my best Disapproving Look, but since it’s relatively new, it’s not very potent and she only laughs again.
“Your date blew you off? Wow, that’s different. Who’s the girl?” Another fit of laughter overtakes her. It’s disconcerting, because it’s not really laughter but giggling. She’s out of control. I know this not because of the joint in her hand but because of the melismatic sound she’s emitting. Bryn is not, nor has she ever been, a giggler. Not until . . .
But I don’t want to think about the reason she’s always high these days, always slinking around, with her black-as-night hair. I miss my blonde, snotty-and-condescending-yet-somehow-always-popular sister, the one who wouldn’t giggle if you paid her.
Tonight, Bryn is the babysitter. Wrangled into the position by me, because I’d thought that Cate and I were going to go out for dinner, and I knew my parents had plans.
As much as I’d still like to see Cate, Bryn has changed so much since that damn night that it may be a good thing I’m around. My sister is definitely not in babysitter mode. Not that she ever is, and neither am I, which is why my parents practically adopted Cate. But Cate—
“Cate stood him up,” Kimmy calls from the other room.
I’d thought that, at least, Kimmy was upstairs.
“Give me that.” Scowling, I pinch the joint from between Bryn’s fingers and run the lit end underwater. Then I hand it back to her. “Smoke outside if you’re going to smoke,” I say quietly. “Kimmy doesn’t need to see—”
“I can heeear you,” Kimmy sings out.
I blow out a breath. “Great.”
“Jesus. You going to play the good guy all night? It’s horribly dull. What’s with you?”
“I told you, Cate bailed on him,” Kimmy says from the doorway.
“Is that what the weird message was about?” Bryn asks. “The sorry-but-I’m-unavailable-for-Saturday-night message? That was for you?”
“Apparently.”
“Kind of a convoluted way to blow somebody off,” Bryn says. “I’m giving her points for originality and for firsts. Why’d she do it? You guys get your wires crossed? Oh wait, she’s always got her shit together. Well, almost always. But still. Let me rephrase that. What the fuck did you do to her?”
“Oh for god’s sake—nothing. I must have misunderstood. It’s no big deal.”
But it is a big deal, and Bryn, even stoned as a ’60s rock star, sees that it is. Sees right through me in that window-way of seeing that only siblings have.
“Sorry, but I still think it’s totally weird—you making the moves on her. She’s like—”
“Shut up, Bryn.”
“Oh, how quickly we regress.” She strikes a match, relights the joint. Kimmy’s eyes widen as she watches Bryn inhale.
“Bryn, damn it—”
In the pressurized voice she says, “Maybe you scared her off. Did you do something Dad-like?”
Kimmy looks startled, then tries to cover it up, undoing one of her braids, then the other.
Looking down, I place my hands on the counter, tap my fingers, try to hold my temper.
In the quiet that fills the kitchen now, Kimmy rebraids her hair with the focused concentration of an Olympic athlete. It’s never looked this perfect in her life. I’m tempted to grab a piece of paper from the pad on the counter, scrawl “9.7” on it, and hold it up.
“I don’t know,” I finally say. “She asked about Canada. And I just . . . I don’t know.”
Bryn looks at me like I’ve done something unforgivable, which is ridiculous.
“I was just a little short. It was nothing! She’s—overreacting. Although . . . I may have said a few things.” Damn.
But Bryn knows our father, and she knows me. She knows I don’t want to be like him, and the fact that I am sometimes is a hot button for me. Bryn knows that, hell, just talking about him or being around him these days is enough to set me off.
What she doesn’t know is that my anger now isn’t really about him, or even about me fucking up with Cate—because, yeah, I was short with her, and I made those shitty comments. But that’s nothing compared to Canada. The thing that’s really eating me. Eating me alive.
Both my sisters know that something happened in Northern Ontario, but I’m the only one, besides my father, who knows the details. So I’m the only one who really knows wha
t this is about. It’s about guilt and the awful hollowness that comes from knowing another person lost his life, because of me.
Bryn continues to pollute the air, looking at me as if I’ve done something awful, and I have, but it has nothing to do with Cate Reese.
Kimmy’s still busy playing with her hair, says, “Why didn’t you want to tell Cate about Canada? I know you got hurt, but how about before that? Didn’t you have fun? Canoes, campfires . . .” Kimmy trails off, probably because of the look on my face.
All at once Bryn says, “Dad told me.”
“What?” The betrayal is sharp. Deep. The last thread in the complicated weave of the relationship I share with my father, cut. “He told you?”
“Told you what?” Kimmy asks Bryn.
“Nothing, Kimmy,” Bryn says. Then she says to me, “Maybe you should tell Cate. She’s got it together. Usually. She might have something decent to say. Might make you feel better.”
“Yeah, because talking about our problems makes us feel so much better, right? That’s why you talk about yours?”
Bryn’s eyes shut like a door and, suddenly, I see our father—a younger female version of him. And that’s when I get it. Bryn nailed it. I had been acting like our father: I’d shut down and shut Cate out. Dismissed her. I’d put on my Jack mask and added a couple of ice cubes. Clink.
But I wasn’t the only one. Bryn, ever since that night, has been shutting out the world.
I don’t know if I can help her. But, man, I need to fix this thing with Cate. Fix myself.
The phone rings. The machine picks up. “David?” A girl’s voice begins tentatively.
“Tammy again,” Bryn says over the voice.
“Trish,” I correct.
“Same difference,” she says.
“Yeah.” I cross the room and turn the volume down on the answering machine.
This time, Bryn doesn’t ask me why I don’t pick up.
Upstairs, Kimmy slams her bedroom door.
LOFT
CATE
Up three flights, another door, another key. I’m not sure how long I’ll stay.
But when Dale Waters drops the bag of lychees on a coffee table between two low-slung sofas and says, “Sit down”—I do.
The loft is painted mostly white. One wall is a deep shade of gold. The space is a shotgun, the area where I sit separated from a desk, bed, and another sofa down near a row of windows by a swath of dark-blue velvet hanging from a rod that runs across the ceiling. The blue curtain has been pushed to one side. A large and very beautiful painting of an angel hangs across from the foot of the bed. There are other paintings as well—landscapes, portraits—and several floor lamps with beaded shades. The nearest lamp casts a red glow.
“So what’s with the drive-by produce guy? Seems like a weird way to shop.”
Dale laughs out loud, a full, head-flung-back laugh that catches me off guard. “You are so right,” he says. “So right, in fact, that I am never gonna get my lychees from that guy again.”
“No? You seemed kind of . . . intimate. Well, he did, anyway. At least it seemed like he wanted to be. Is he a good friend of yours?”
Dale’s smile fades. “No. He . . . is a former acquaintance.”
“Former? But you just saw him. You, um, took a bag of fruit from him? Remember?”
A smile plays at the corners of Dale’s mouth. “That I did. But it was the last thing I’ll ever take from him, including his shit.”
“Okay . . .” I tear open a lychee. Dale passes me a bowl. A painted dragon circles the rim. For a second, I just blink at it. Then, holding the lychee pieces in one hand, I touch the dragon’s scales with the index finger of the other. Trace the flames shooting out of its mouth.
“Chinese dragon,” Dale says. “Supposed to be a symbol of power and good luck—for people who are worthy of it.”
For people who are worthy of it. Like me? Like me, That Lucky Girl?
Dale looks at me quizzically. “For the pits,” he says. “The skin.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks.”
“So let’s celebrate,” Dale says. “My dealing days, which were few in number to begin with—I was only helping out your buddy, Dee—are done. I’m back to being an honest man. Maybe even honest enough for a girl like you.”
He leans over me and takes a lychee. He’s so close I can smell his leather jacket, the clean scent of his skin. He slips the jacket off now. Hangs it on a hook by the door.
“Dee’s not my buddy,” I say, feeling the need to clarify that as well as shift my focus from the way Dale’s T-shirt hugs his shoulders. “And wait.” I’m totally confused. “So, you didn’t get anything from that guy in the car? Any—drugs?”
Dale’s brows lift. He shakes his head. His phone pings and he checks it.
“Ha. Like I said. Trevor’s fine.” He shows me the screen.
Portland rocks dude we have to play here lots of snow tho my dick is frozen ps thx for the straight talk.
“But—” But I don’t care about his drummer. I press the nails of one hand into the palm of the other. It feels like the ferry, down below the Financial District, is far, far away.
The kitcheny part of the place is across from us. Dale goes to the fridge. Retrieves a beer.
“Want one?”
“I want what I came for,” I say carefully, unbuttoning my coat.
“Ah, yeah. I was going to say. You look hot.”
I glance sharply at him.
The lazy smile appears. “In your coat. You should take it off, stay a while. We’re going to jam, right? And you wanted to talk, didn’t you? Although, I don’t know why we’d talk about music when, you know, we can play it.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I don’t take my coat off. Instead, I reach into the messenger bag slung across my body beneath the coat and pull out some money.
Dale presses his lips together for a few seconds. Then he says, “Sorry. Like I told you, I’m retired. But you’re going to stay, yeah?”
But suddenly the idea of talking about music with Dale Waters seems ridiculous, and the idea of playing in front of him? Impossible. I mean, there were record companies at his gig. Industry people. I’m not in that league. I’d never get a record deal playing Bach, or Brouwer, and my songs? They have, like, three chords each.
“I—I don’t think so. I mean, my song ideas aren’t really, well, they’re coming along, but they’re nothing like your songs. For me to stay, and . . . bore you?” (I’m pretty sure he knows I’m more afraid of making an idiot out of myself than boring him, but still.) “Why should I? You—”
“Hmm. Thought the many reasons for that would be obvious by now.”
He grins—it’s a light among shadows—looking like the model he was, maybe still is. I’ve learned a lot about this boy in a short amount of time, but that smile . . . it’s disconcerting. When I went to the show the other night—before I knew anything about Dale, before I’d seen him play, seen another guy kiss him—his smile had seemed less complicated.
Now he asks, “How long have you been playing around with K? You don’t seem like the type. Who likes to lose control, I mean.”
“You would know?”
“Maybe. What I know for sure is that except for a beer once in a while, I don’t touch anything anymore. Except—” He side-eyes me.
“I should go,” I say, “really.” But I take my coat off.
“Kitchen.” He points. “Bathroom.” Points again. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks.” I head for the bathroom.
The room is white and very clean. The tongue-and-groove ceiling makes me think of a boat. A claw-foot tub sits in one corner. A wardrobe stands open against the far wall. I’m surprised to see a tux hanging there alongside a bunch of shirts.
I’m not sure why I’m in such a mood.
Pick a reason. Then leave.
Closing the door behind me, I fumble, dropping my messenger bag and the money I’d been trying to stuff into it. The bills fan o
ut on the tiled floor. Two little packets stick out from between a pair of twenties, two tiny white envelopes.
Yes. Whatever the reason, there’s your out.
Picking up the bag, I shove the money inside, then tug the top flap. It doesn’t line up; I can’t secure the clasp. It looks like a notebook that must have been lying lengthwise shifted when I dropped the bag, and now it’s keeping the flap from folding over properly. I pull it out—
And see the orange-and-white-striped paper bag that’s been squashed beneath it.
“Take a listen. Tell me what you think.”
David’s Listen Up! bag from forever ago. I open it and pull out a CD.
Deep Dark Love—Dragon Fruit.
What. The. Hell.
It’s a conscious decision—to sit on the floor—and I consider the making of this decision to be a small feat, because my brain seems to have shut down.
I stare at the illustration of a red fruit with green spiked tendrils resembling a flame. Stare at the curved edges of the letters that spell out the band’s name and the CD’s title. Turning the CD over, I examine a picture of the same fruit, sliced open to reveal red flesh, black seeds. Then I read down the track list: “Dragon Fruit,” “Easily,” “Bluff,” “Chinatown” . . .
I’m dying to hear the songs, but also I want to pretend the CD doesn’t exist. Because I just. Can’t. Deal. With the weirdness. I was supposed to go out with David tonight, and now . . .
Actually, I can’t deal, period, and I kind of wish there was a door in the floor that I could just slip through. Maybe I’d wind up in the subway and take a train to . . . I don’t know where.
But then I remember. I have a destination.
So I wash my hands with Dale Waters’s grassy-smelling soap. Then I dump the powder from one of the packets into what I figure is his toothbrush glass, add water, and stir the mixture with my finger. Gagging slightly, I swallow it down.
Then I think, Crap.
I probably shouldn’t have used the whole packet.
Inspired by a couple of the cheerleaders at school, I kneel in front of the toilet and stick a finger down my throat.
I throw up, and hope it does the trick.