by Kara Storti
“Trish, calm down. It’s nothing that can’t be fixed,” Pop says, wisdom is everything he’s about right now.
“No one gets it, do they?” she says, wild-eyed and breathless, her fingers clutching the collar of her robe. “No one does. I try to explain, but you wouldn’t understand, would you?” She lurches forward again, her nails out to scratch, but she misses.
“You’re not helping,” Pop says as he tows me away from her, I resist and struggle, because it’s a fight for the sake of fighting. He’s still strong, I’ll give him that.
Why is he helping? Why’s he on my side? Mom backs off, and I’m released, but his palm is pressed against my chest as my back is up against the wall. The rain stick drops and makes a final cascading whoosh. Forgot I was still holding it. Pop tells me to sit down.
He lets me move away from the wall, and my body drops onto the couch, I clasp my head in my hands, I’m not crying, I swear I’m not, and before Mom can come at me again, it’s no secret that stubbornness runs in our blood, Pop hauls her into the kitchen area, talks her down, and hands over a couple pills that will do her in for the night. I thought this QVC shit was only important to her up to the moment it arrives in the mail, but I guess not. She likes the graveyard of junk. She wants to hold onto the bones, her beloved inanimate objects, dead things, numb things. She moves with zombie gait into her bedroom. Faith appears, watching me. I should apologize, she knows I should, and that’s why she waits. When I don’t say those words, those simple words, her whole face changes—I’ve never seen her look so tired and well past her seventeen years. She backs away and disappears down the hall.
It takes us—me and Pop—a while to pick up the pieces (back in their coffins they go). When we’re done he puts a hand on his hip and says, “Okay?” and I say, “Okay,” and I think it’s the best question-and-answer exchange we’ve ever had as father and son. I sit on the couch until six in the morning, the rain stick back in my hands, still hearing the cloudburst even though I’m not swinging.
Friday, May 24
Chapter Thirty-six
“Okay, ladies, I’d like to introduce you to the cure for all your woes,” I announce.
Oooos and aaaaahs all around. I’m sitting in Claire Longwood’s living room surrounded by an overabundance of floral print on the wallpaper, curtains, throw pillows, and blankets. I’ve never seen so many goddamn sunflowers in my life. There are fifteen women in the room, fifteen, all in their forties and fifties, all wearing too much makeup and too-tight clothes, all wishing they were my age again. Well, here I am, ladies, and I’ve come to give you back your youth.
Orah calls them the indigo-go girls.
I’ve done my homework on each one of them, even after Claire and I had a reassuring talk that they would keep this little shindig to themselves. Amazing what you can find online. Claire is a stay-at-home mom with gobs of money and runs marathons to fund oncology research. Her husband is a financial advisor, and we all know without too much digging that her son is kind of a loser. But still, thank you to Spencer, for making this afternoon possible. There is a secretary who works at an insurance company, a hairdresser who styled my sister’s prom “up-don’t” (as Faith liked to call it), and a waitress who works at the D-Town Diner. Then there’s the mayor’s wife. When I found out she was going to be in attendance, I was this close to backing out of the deal, but Claire said she’s cool. Says nobody takes the woman seriously, and it’s no secret she likes her pills and martinis. I’m concerned that the mixture of perfumes in the room might set off the carbon monoxide alarm.
I present to them a giant basket, overflowing with grams of indigo carefully tucked away in adorable jewelry boxes, tied lovingly by Orah and me with colorful ribbons. Who knew I was an arts and crafts buff? I didn’t quite love the fact that I was in Hallmark for an hour trying to convince the cashier to let me buy in bulk those jewelry boxes you get with earrings or some shit. But it seemed worth it, to view them spread out in a neat line across Orah’s hardwood floor, waiting to be filled with the D-Town’s finest.
We prepared them all in the morning room when we knew Stacey was in school and her father was on call. Orah was pleased too, I could tell by the way she tilted her head when I tied the last bow.
She said to me, “One of my patients liked wrapping presents so much I’d give him random things to wrap. Paper plates, toilet paper rolls, forks and spoons. One time he giftwrapped his shoes and presented them to me. It was very sweet. I taught him a class on the art of gift wrapping. I’ve never seen a person so passionate about folding paper in my entire life.”
“Obviously you haven’t met my friend Peter,” I said. Then I told her about his origami obsession. I’m sure she sensed from me an air of sadness. Peter. I couldn’t remember the last time we hung out, just him and me.
The morning room that day with Orah was how a space should be—uncluttered, functional, and nice. Just really nice. And now here I am in a living room murdered by sunflower wallpaper.
I pick up one of the boxes from the basket, and the bow bounces delightfully as I set it on the coffee table. Inside the box, bagged indigo is nestled in tissue paper that matches the color of the ribbon. This is some top-shelf work, if I say so myself.
“You see this?” I point at the green bow. The ladies all sit around me, a captive audience on the couch and on chairs with seat cushions. I’m squeezed in between the waitress and the hairdresser. Claire made sure the place is set up right, complete with crudités on the coffee table next to champagne glasses and Asti. The pizza delivery is on its way.
“Green means success. You’re going to relive a tremendous moment in your life of great achievement.” I wave my hand in the air with a flourish. They seem to appreciate the theatrics.
The hairdresser keeps touching my knee, like she and I are sharing some secret, and she’s reminding me of it. Her mane is that unnatural shade of red where it’s almost purple, but I can dig it. Kudos for being bold. I go on.
“This one here—this blue one—means clarity.” I hold up the box, so they all can see. “You’ll experience a time in your life where you and the world are best friends. And here . . .” I point to the red ribbon. “I think you all know what this one means. Love. Passion. Lust.” I say the words slow and soft.
I go through the other colors, yellow is happiness, purple is power, orange is energy. I’m under their skin, I know this, but not under Rory’s, the mayor’s wife, who looks about half in the bag on white wine. Her brown eyes are cold and unwavering and not buying any of my bullshit, or so I think.
I get up and sit (throw the petunia-printed seat cushion aside) next to the lady who’s a bank teller, no ring on her finger, no lipstick on her mouth, quite unlike the others. I place the red-ribboned box in her hands and close my own around them. Her skin is cold against mine, but she doesn’t shrink away from me.
“I think you should try this one first,” I say. “You’re in for a ride. An amazing ride.” I squeeze her hands; her shoulders tense up, maybe I’m taking this too far, but no, no, she’s still with me.
“I hope so,” she says shyly.
“It’s church. Sacred. Like seeing God. No. More than that. It’s like kissing Him. Isn’t that right, Claire? Want to testify?”
She nods with kind eyes; she thinks I’m kind of charming. Today a tiny gold wishbone adorns the gold chain around her neck.
“You all know I haven’t been myself this past year.” She squeezes her lips together, but she isn’t about to cry, she’s too hard for that shit.
The hairdresser takes her hand and whispers, “It’s all right, honey. We’re all here. We’ll always be here.”
“This,” she says, looking down at the box in her palm, “does not make me weak.”
The declaration. It floors me. The chills are giving me all they’ve got.
Murmurings, yes, of course, they all agree, and the support I feel, the support isn’t like anything I’ve felt in a while, these heavily perfumed, unassuming
women rally around Claire, holding shit down, for real, their will titanium, their loyalty as sure as my eyes are brown.
“You do crazy stuff, you know, when you face death and all,” she continues. “I spied on Spencer doing indigo.” She smiles back at me gently. “He’s never looked so happy, at least not since he’s been a teen. That’s when they turn, you know?”
They all nod in agreement. I pretend I don’t hear this comment, like teenagers are zombies or something. Maybe we are. I keep my head bowed out of respect, like I’m praying.
She closes her eyes. “So I tried it. Thought, hey, what do I have to lose? Sniffed it right up my nose, like I saw him do. I mean, how crazy do you have to be? But I was. And I don’t regret it at all . . . I . . . I relived a memory . . .” She opens her eyes and brings the back of her hand up to her nose, takes a deep breath in.
“My father. He would take us out on his boat, taught us how to sail . . .” she shakes her downturned head. The room is quieter than an indigo crypt. “My dad, he was a hard-ass. Barking orders at me and my brother, and would never let me take the reins because he always thought my brother did things better. Better grades, better athlete, better looking . . .” She smiles to herself. “Anyway, one day we were out sailing by Martha’s Vineyard, and Brian was goofing off. I was doing all the work, and doing it well. My father was sneaking glances at me, I could see how proud he was . . . he took me aside when the waves got calm, and the sun was straight above our heads, and said, ‘Ya done good, kid.’ Pressed his rough hand up to my cheek. He’d never given me that much affection before.”
She has her hand to cheek, we all have our hands in that position, even me, goddamn, it’s like we’re all feeling the bob of the boat.
“I came out of my memory, hair smelling like the sea, fingers hurting from the ropes of the jib.” She throws her head back and laughs. “Nothing short of a miracle.”
There is a moment of reverence, quiet, a peace that doesn’t come around often.
Then they all start talking at once. How much is it? Are there any bad side effects? Will my husband know? How long does it last? What if I don’t have any good memories? Rory isn’t saying anything, but she’s holding the box with the blue ribbon, and pressing her finger against one of the corners, frowning.
The doorbell rings.
“Pizza,” I announce. I pull my billfold out of my pocket along with a box I made special after I left Orah’s, tied with a silver ribbon. A Hispanic kid wearing a “Ti’s Pizzeria” T-shirt tries to shove three pizza boxes in my arms, but I motion for him to place them on the side table next to the door.
I wave some cash in front of him and say, “Come on in for a second, I’ve got a favor to ask you.” He looks surprised and hesitates. I gently take him by the shoulder and guide him inside.
The ladies are talking among themselves, opening up their boxes, putting them up to the light, smelling the indigo, touching it, not quite ready to fully dive in. For a second I admire Claire, the woman is glowing like it’s her job, happiness emanating from every inch of her. My stomach cinches in a knot, a benign one, feels like I might be doing something good, for once. Or maybe I should remember what’s happening to kids at school because of indigo. One thing I should remind myself of: it will all go to hell the moment I start thinking it won’t.
“What is it, man?” the kid says, all nervous. He’s my age, maybe a little younger. “I’ve got five other deliveries to make.”
“I know,” I say, handing him a hundred dollar bill. His eyes widen, slightly. “You see this,” I say, gesturing at the room. “It’s an indigo party. Take a good look. You’ve heard of indigo, right?”
The kid acknowledges me straight on. He knows about it. He has to know, red-eyed, sunken-cheeked kid like him. “Here,” I say, pressing a gram into his hand to sweeten the deal. “For your troubles. Because this I’d like you to give to your boss. Mr. Mario Coletti.”
That’s when I hand over the special box with the silver ribbon, containing a short message inside (wrapped around a small bag of indigo) asking for a meeting to discuss indigo distribution and a possible compromise. Nothing threatening, wholly respectful. I included the number of the new burner phone I bought. I know that this is exactly what Jason told me not to do, but I’m a firm believer in discussion, dialogue, and working shit out. Anyone’s capable of that.
“What do you want?” he asks. He regards the gram with disbelief and undeniable yearning. Need. I’m goddamn Santa Claus here.
“I told you. Mr. Coletti will want to see it. It’s in your best interest not to be late in delivering it to him.” I accentuate my words carefully. I pray that this is going to work, that even if Early has talked to Mike already he’ll want to talk with me too. But I don’t know this yet. I have no idea what’s going on behind the scenes and that doesn’t jive well with me. I’m taking control of the situation—at least I’m doing something. The kid starts to stammer and backs away from me.
“He’s never been to the shop, what if I can’t—” I pull him toward me, a firm hand on his upper arm. Rail thin, this one.
I say close to his face, “Well that’s not my problem, is it? Make sure he gets it. And make sure you say it’s from me, okay? It’s Finn. Phineas Walt.”
His hands are shaking as he pockets the money, the gram, and the special box. I push him toward the door. “I don’t want nothin’ to do with this.” Yet the indigo in his pocket he can’t stop touching, making sure that it’s still there.
I shut the door on his face and turn to the ladies, who don’t have any interest in eating. They’re asking more questions, so I go through the prices, just throwing numbers out there, ridiculous numbers, and they all want five or six boxes, one of each color, and it’s so out of control I have to go to my car and dig into my backup reserve. When I return, I give out what everyone wants, and silence falls over the room. They all look to me.
“How do we do this?” Rory asks. Her voice is surprisingly high. I was expecting a husky, radio-talk-show voice.
“Forgive me, ladies.” I apologetically place my hand over my heart. “As Claire described, you can snort it, or you can dip your finger in and give it a taste. Never smoke it. It hits faster through the nose.” I pour them each a glass of champagne and then show them how it’s done: I cut a line with a razor blade on a hardcover book on the coffee table, and bring a rolled-up one hundred dollar bill (just for the wow factor) to my nose. I don’t snort; they ask me why. I tell them someone has to be the responsible one. Laughter. They ask me to stay put, just stay through their hallucinatory trip down memory lane, and Claire insists.
Cheers. They clink glasses; they jump in. I hold my breath. Watching them takes that very breath away.
Chapter Thirty-seven
They all look ten years younger in an instant, cheeks a brighter shade, closed eyelids a soft pearly pink. But something changes; with a single tick of the grandfather clock in the corner a darkness, a dark feeling, an evil spirit, what have you, swoops in and takes me over. I don’t get it: just a few minutes ago, I was flying high on the excitement of making contact with Early and looking forward to the ladies flying high on indigo. How did this darkness transpire so quickly? It seems that my life is one big back-and-forth mood swing, unpredictable and mercurial. I’m not sure what’s real anymore—is there anything or anyone reliable out there? The high of the eight-ball of coke in my pocket—now that I can consider a loyal friend. The women are all swooning, unaware of the night-black aura, there without reason. I’m desperate to yank them back to reality, pull them from the past. Maybe the foreboding I feel is isolation from the women’s experiences, or maybe Faith got it right—indigo is some voodoo shit.
Rory comes out of her memory first. She throws her head back, lets out a long exhale that ends with a sweet-sounding giggle, and claps her hand over her mouth with embarrassment. Her reaction relaxes me a notch. Something prompts her to check the pockets in her dress, and when she does, she exclaims in utter shock.
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“What? . . . Wait, why?” she asks me, dumbfounded, gazing down at a small amount of sand in her palm. The dark shadow in the room seems to lift as Rory brushes off her hands, her wedding ring blinging all over the place in the afternoon light.
I approach her. “You need some water? You hungry?” I point to the pizza. “Just want to make sure you’re feeling all right.”
She’s up on her high-heeled shoes, giggling to herself, expression on her face that could mean a number of things: (a) she’s blitzed out of her mind, (b) she’s kind of lost it, (c) she’s flirting with me, or (d) all of the above. This is not good—I don’t much like multiple choice tests. There’s no time to think because she’s taking my hand with her long fingers with rougher skin than I expected. She’s got a post-trip charge so intense I can feel its electric fuzz around her.
I say to Rory, hey, what’s going on? Where we going? This is all happening way too fast, and it’s probably a terrible idea. Everyone loses their shit a little after giving indigo a go. Mike acted all wonky, his mind was frayed, his senses were jumbled, Faith said Peter was talking nonsense, and just think of Bryce being so whacked-out after the Gatorade incident. But indigo isn’t running through my bloodstream, so what’s my excuse? I follow her anyway.
Rory senses my reluctance, and smiles a single choice smile, pushing me down a hall and into a bedroom, a really big, nice, suburban bedroom with billowing drapes and a king-size bed. Hold up now, I didn’t ask for this. Not looking to get laid. Not looking to get laid by a middle-age mayor’s wife. Shit. This isn’t her house, but she knows it well. The carpet is thick, expensive looking. She backs me up toward the bed.