Wasted Beauty (26 page)

AGAIN FRANK. OF ALL THE PEOPLE TO GIVE ME THE NEWS,
why does it have to be Frank? He says, “Rena, you’re gonna have to come up here.”

“No, Frank. I have a lawyer now. He said he can deal with everything from the city.”

“This isn’t about the house. This is about Billy. He showed up.”

“Showed up?” Is Frank saying Billy is up in the country? After the hospital said that Billy ran away, Rena assumed that he was in the city. She figured he would call her apartment or she’d hear from the police. She never thought he’d head for the farm.

“Some kids found Billy in the house.”

“Billy’s living in the house?”

“No, Rena. Not living.”

She breaks the phone when she hurls it and cries for fifteen minutes. She calls Frank back, thinking he’s at the bank but he’s not. Instead, she gets Annie, who tells her most of it. It’s easier getting the news from Annie.

Kids had been pitching rocks at the windows and had discovered the open bulkhead. They found Billy at the kitchen table with his rifle. He had died instantly. The body had been in the house for at least a week.

Annie gives Rena a number and she calls the funeral home. They treat her like an old friend. For the third time in four years I’m talking to these folks. Rena mumbles a credit card number to pay for the embalming, the casket and the plot. She pays extra to have Billy buried in the section of the cemetery where Mom and Dad are.

After she gets off the phone, Rena calls the car service. Forces herself not to call Rick. She has to think about clothes for Billy. He has lost so much weight, none of his old stuff will fit him. She has the Turk buy her a bottle of Stoli and drinks her way to the farm. She comes to as the car rolls up the gravel drive. Weirdly sober, she holds her breath as she rushes upstairs where she finds some things for Billy. She and the Turk take the clothes over to the funeral home. She sees Billy’s body and he looks a lot like how he looked at Creedmore. It’s not a shock.

The wake and the funeral are a blurry two days. It’s easy to find alcohol everywhere and just in case she can’t find a drink, Rena keeps refilling airplane bottles that clink together in her purse. Vodka gets her through the afternoon and evening of the wake. She sits as straight as she can on the folding chair, Billy lying before her. There aren’t many flowers and she doesn’t know most of Billy’s friends who come by to say they’re sorry. Everyone remarks on how the funeral home did a terrific job. Folks treat Rena like a celebrity. Even when she dresses down, her glamour clings to her like haute couture. But her new career is an indictment as well. What happened to Billy is her fault. She left him behind, didn’t she?

After the wake, the Turk drives Rena to the Ramada Inn out on the interstate. She doesn’t know or care where he goes afterward, maybe he sleeps in his car. No one calls her at the hotel. She leaves a message for Marissa telling her what happened. She drinks until she passes out.

At the funeral, Rena sits numbly under the eyes of the same Jesus who had gotten her through so much. She tries to conjure his love the way she used to, but it doesn’t work. She tries to think about all the things that have happened, but her mind won’t settle. So she stares at the casket and no one speaks to her, which is fine with her. After the short service, the old buddies of Billy’s lift the coffin and walk it out of the church.

On their way to the cemetery, she gives in and calls Rick from her car in the funeral cortege. He’s guarded until she tells him what has happened. Then he confesses that he has missed her, that he was hoping she’d call.

Rena says she can’t talk much right now, but when she gets back to the city, they should see each other, to discuss the situation. Rick agrees. Then for about thirty seconds neither Rick nor Rena speaks. They don’t hang up, either. They listen to the breath on the other end of the line. Finally, Rick says, “OK.” And Rena says, “OK” and she gets out of the car and buries her brother.

IN THE COFFEE SHOP, THERE IS NO HAND-HOLDING. NO
kissing. No deep gazing or shy smiles. Rick tells Rena he’s sorry about Billy. It’s his fault in a way. Rena says, “It’s not your fault.” A fine line bisects her brow.

“If I had gotten him out of there.”

“Rick, everything isn’t about you.”

Rick thinks, she’s being critical of me. This is new. “I’m still sorry.”

“How’s Laura?”

“She’s good. Kids are back in school.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup. Everything’s back to normal.”

“Not everything.”

“Are you working?”

“I’m not going to work for a while. I can’t.”

“OK.”

“Rick, I want to see you. As a friend.”

“Yeah. See, I don’t know if I can do that. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“Oh.”

“You think this is easy for me? Being near you this way?”

“Someone said to me once, if you want to know what’s important in your life, make a list of what you do every day. That’s what’s important in your life.”

He says, “You’re not being fair.”

“Life isn’t fair.”

Rick thinks, I can’t be friends with her. What is that? Defeat? No, realism. “I just wish I could hold you right now.”

“No one’s stopping you.” A trance descends over them.

He takes her hand. “Jesus, Rena.”

Rena says, “You wanna come over to my place?”

Rick says, “Yes.”

In the cab, they don’t speak. They enter the apartment like condemned prisoners climbing the gallows steps. Rick touches her back and she slips away into the bathroom. He’s left standing in the midst of her life. A vodka bottle sits unopened on the kitchen table. If I walk out the door right now, thinks Rick, she can have her vodka and it ends.

In the bedroom, Rena pulls the drapes shut and lights a dozen candles. Wax and magnolia scent the air. She smiles a weary smile and opens her arms. “Come here.” Rick moves toward her and they hold each other, absorbing the blood warmth, the smell of each other. “You think I’m angry at you. I’ll never be angry at you.”

Later, as he’s leaving, Rick says, “I can’t hurt my children. I can’t hurt my wife.”

Rena says, “It’s what you want.”

They don’t kiss good-bye.

BUZZ THE BUZZER. THE GOOD OL’ BUZZER, HASN’T
changed in all this time. Talk into the box. “It’s me.” Pause. The longest pause in the world. Maybe he’s not up there. Maybe he’s up there with someone else. Maybe he said come over just to mess with my head. Sure. Torture me. I deserve it. I fucked with you now it’s my turn. Come on. Just open up. You fuck-head. Stop! Don’t think that or he’ll read your mind. Doesn’t matter. He already knows what I think of him, that I think he’s slime. Because he knows he’s slime. And what does that make you, little girl? Lower than slime. But I’m not slime. I’m not. This all really happened. Like an avalanche. Rick knew what he was doing. And now look. Now look. Don’t cry. Get your shit together.

The door clicks open. As Rena ascends the stairs, she can hear the locks sliding and scratching on the other side of the portal of hell. And here he is. “Rena!”

“Am I interrupting? ’Cause if I am, you know, it would be okay with me if you just, you know, sell me some shit and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You’re not in my hair, baby. I don’t have enough hair to get into. Come in, sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Why are you in such a good mood?”

“Because you came by.”

“Barry.”

“What, honey?”

“Cut the shit, OK?”

“What do you need? A bag? A bundle?”

“How good is it?”

“I was just about to find out.”

On the table lies a pile of tan powder. Sets of syringes. A tiny scale, some glassine bags.

“Can I have some?”

“You can be my official tester. Here.” Barry flicks out his pinkie, shovels a tiny heap of heroin onto the tip of his long fingernail and holds it under Rena’s eager nostril. “Go for it. But careful.” She sniffs. He makes another tiny dip. She sniffs again.

“Oh God.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. Thank you, Barry. You are such a great guy. You’re the only person in the world I can depend on.”

“I know. That’s why I knew you’d be back, sooner or later.”

“You don’t know shit. Mmmmmm. Really needed that. I’ve been so wound up.”

“Let me guess. You fell in love?”

“My brother shot himself in the head with a hunting rifle. Do you have a cigarette?”

“Whatever you need, Uncle Barry’s here.”

“Maybe I can lie down.”

“You can lie down. Sorry about your brother.”

She rises at ten in the evening and knows exactly where she is. A very hungry badger is clawing its way through her guts. In the meager light, she reels into Barry’s squalid bathroom. Her stomach clenches and spasms, wringing itself out like a wet sheet in a washerwoman’s hands. Her bowels erupt as soon as she gets her jeans down.

Barry finds her doubled over, unable to get off the bowl.

“Hey, you OK?”

“No, I’m not fucking OK!”

“I’ll fix you up.”

“Get out of here, Barry! I’m sick. I have no pants on. Get out of here!”

“I’ll get you something.”

It has never been like this before. She cleans up and pulls her clothes on while her stomach flips and flops. She finds Barry in the kitchen. He holds the tinfoil up to her and she inhales the smoke.

Instantly she is well. Better than well, good. She takes another hit. Her belly calms and relief flows through her shoulders, down through her torso into her legs. She dissolves into a chair as Barry fills a syringe. He meticulously cleans the back of his hand with alcohol, then inserts the needle with surgical precision. He leaves it stuck in his hand, poised to shoot. “You see, kid, all that shit about tracks and all that, that’s because people are sloppy. Not hygienic. You think diabetics have tracks? No way. You always use alcohol, sharp needles. Then you’re cool. And never shoot in the same place twice.”

“Why am I so sick?”

“You know what they say in NA? Your disease has been doing pushups. You come back to it and it’s stronger than ever.”

“I want to smoke some more.”

“You hold on for a sec. My turn.” He presses the plunger and his lids lower. He licks his lips. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m still sick, Barry.”

“Something you gotta understand, sweetness. Your body has adjusted itself to the presence of opiates. And now you gotta do a little more just to get straight.” Barry sinks back, uncoils.

“No. I’m going to quit. But I need some more now.”

“See, that’s what I’m saying. You need more. And if you want to get high, you need a lot more.”

“I don’t want to get high.”

“Oh. OK. Well then, you just sit there for a minute.”

“I’m fucking sick, Barry. And I’m in a bad mood.”

“Baby, you’re bringing me down. Give me some space here.”

Rena gets up and opens the fridge. She scans its rank insides. Orange bottles of methadone are tossed in with foil-wrapped burritos and lemons shriveled into brown balls.

“See, I’m trying to explain something here and you’re not listening. If you want to be efficient, you have to let every molecule of the drug into your beautiful body. You have to let it have its way.”

“I’m not shooting up. I promised myself.”

“Who said anything about shooting up? You can skin-pop.”

“What’s that?”

“Try it once and tell me you don’t love it. Here, I’ll set you up.” Barry tears open a B-D envelope, taps out a fresh needle, cooks a spoon of heroin and fills the syringe. “See this? Nice hot junk, ready for you. Now come here.”

“Barry.”

“One time. You don’t like it, it’s the last time.” He swabs her shoulder with alcohol. “Look at the wall for a sec.” He spears the needle into her deltoid. “That’s it, a little mosquito bite. You’re all set.”

She thinks, what’s the big deal? Then the high hits like a Louisville slugger. The kiss of God. But not like smoking it, not like “here it comes, there it goes.” No, it keeps coming and coming. Her chin droops to her chest.

Barry talks through her nod: “Did I ever tell you you are an angel? You are the most beautiful angel I have ever seen. You are. My whole life I have pestered and pondered the female race, and I have had my share. Remember old Gina? In the day, in the fuckin’ day, she was a veritable Mona Lisa. But you, Rena, you are the angel of mercy herself. You redefine the word beauty.”

She slurs, “Shuttup.”

“I can’t, baby, I can’t. Because you are the thing itself. You are the thing. Itself. The thing itself.”

“God.”

“Feel that hit? How nice is that? You like that, right? I made you a good one.”

“How come you won’t shuttup?”

“’Cause I’m doin’ speedballs, beautiful. You want one?”

“What?”

“I just lay a little coke in there with the dope? Get you right like you never been right.’Cept you gotta take the mainline.”

“I feel, uh, pretty good right now, Barry. Thank you. Thank you…”

“Any time, sugar.”

They lie on Barry’s bed and watch TV until Rena falls asleep. This time when she wakes up jonesing, she reaches out to Barry. He’s still awake. A rerun of
Hawaii 5-O
is on the tube. “Barry, I don’t feel good.”

He stubs out his cigarette. “You gotta sleep, baby.” He makes up another shot, gives it to her and she falls away.

In the late morning, they manage to head out for breakfast. For some reason the claws of the badger retract for most of the morning. But by noon, she’s in withdrawal again. Baby animals grow fast when they’re fed.

It takes two days for Rena to try hitting up in the vein. It only takes Barry one day to get her to beg him for more. He says he doesn’t want things to be this way, but after all she rang his buzzer. And the way the world works, a girl like Rena would never do that unless a guy like Barry had something she wanted.

Barry confesses to Rena that he’s loved her since she first walked in his door. He tells her he wishes she would come to see him because she wants to, not because she wants to get high. Barry weeps in front of her. Finally, Rena gives in and lets him have sex with her.

There’s no point in thinking about it too hard. She needs the drugs, he has the drugs and as far as Rena is concerned, the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

Later Barry explains what he calls “the Philosophy of Barry.” With girls who are like Rena, it’s always a trade. Sometimes it’s junk, sometimes it’s money, sometimes it’s attention. But it’s still a trade. This for that. Junk for sex, attention for sex, money for sex. And in any trade, there’s always some bad feelings. Resentments. Resentments cause resistance. If there’s enough resistance, well, this creates pain. But pain can go both ways. Barry’s in pain, Rena’s in pain. They both want the pain to go away. That’s what life is, making pain go away. The thing about pain is, pain always beats thought. Ask any torturer. Rena thinks she can walk out the door, but she can’t. She thinks she’s free to do what she wants, but she can’t. But see, neither can Barry, because he’s in pain, too. That’s why he does what he does. And so everything has to happen the way it happens. Simple physics.