So, what made us real friends? Brandon, during a rare extended period of good health, took me to a Queens of the Stone Age show at the Troubadour in West Hollywood, since none of my girls were interested in “white--boy rock.” After the opening band, Brandon went to the bathroom and when he came back he told me he’d seen me out in the hall. It was Candy, of course. What was this spaz bunny doing at a QOTSA show?
I ran out there to find her all by herself, looking completely comfortable alone. That struck me—-I needed a gallon of beer and some chronic to get my balls up, but here was this girl, who I thought was a total suck--up, just into the music.
“Hey,” she said when she saw me, delight in her eyes, even though we were sworn enemies. Maybe it was because we weren’t surrounded by our posses—-she hung out with the good black girls. I found out she partied too, but she said something I’ll never forget: “You know, you can have a good time without ruining your life. You can party without making it your whole identity. You can do well in school at the same time. You can do both.”
“Maybe you can,” I said.
“You have to decide what you are. Are you a stoner slut? Or are you a Queens of the Stone Age fan and a writer and—-”
“A writer?” I said, incredulous.
“You read some of your poetry in comp class, remember?” She smiled at me. “You never miss comp class. You’ve got some talent. And I’ll bet you read a lot too. You can’t be a good writer without reading.”
She was right, about the reading part anyway. I know I don’t have any great talent at writing. I’m ser-viceable—-that’s about it.
After that, we became inseparable, as the saying goes. We called ourselves the Glimmer Twins.
I can’t do any more tonight, but I will force myself to write my second--biggest regret regarding Candy.
That we ever met.
Chapter Six
Thursday, June 2
NESSA HAD ANOTHER nightmare about John. They were on the Big Blue River in the canoe, fishing.
“You know I hate to fish,” Nessa said in the dream, but even as she said it, she looked around at the early--morning light, the spring--green banks, and felt happy.
“But we’re going to catch something really special this time,” he said, and cranked on his reel. He pulled up what she thought was a supermarket frozen turkey at first, but then Nessa realized it was a baby.
A dead baby.
He turned to her with a ghoulish smile.
She woke up with her heart battering her chest wall, sweating, out of breath as if she’d climbed five flights of stairs.
Damn you, John.
Nessa’s dreams were often so obvious they could be used in a psych textbook. Her relationship with John was like a tiny, helpless baby. And like a baby, if you didn’t feed the relationship, if you gave it drugs, it would die.
What we have on our hands is a dead baby.
It took her a few moments to realize she’d been awakened from her dream by the front doorbell. Nessa rolled over and saw it was only eight--thirty A.M. She heard the dead bolt slide, the door open, and a male voice. She listened.
“No,” Isabeau said. “He’s not here.”
A muffled voice saying words she couldn’t make out.
“She’s asleep,” Isabeau said.
More words.
“Well, okay. Would you mind waiting out there?”
Nessa groaned. She suspected siding sales, The Watchtower Bible and Tract Society, or some other equally irritating intrusion. A large No Soliciting sign hung by the doorbell, but the folks who were able to actually find this property eight miles south of Manhattan, Kansas, surrounded by dense woods always suddenly lost their ability to read when they finally made it.
She heard Isabeau take the steps two at a time and then knock on Nessa’s bedroom door.
“Nessa?”
“Yeah,” she called. She rolled out of bed and pulled on some shorts and a long--sleeved T--shirt.
“There’s someone here to see you.”
Nessa opened the door and whispered, “Is it a salesman?”
“It’s a cop.”
This made Nessa’s heart pound. She stepped into her sandals and followed Isabeau down the stairs. As she descended, more of the stranger was revealed. Cowboy boots and jeans. Plaid shirt, sport coat. No tie. Dark, cropped hair, full eyebrows, large forehead.
“Mrs. Donati?” the man said through the screen door.
“Yes,” she said.
The man pulled a shiny gold badge from his pocket and held it up Iron Man–style, as if ready to blast a hole through her chest.
“I’m Detective Rob Treloar with the Riley County Police Department.”
Oh, shit. John must be in jail.
It was times like these when Nessa was grateful that nowadays she reminded -people of a Mormon missionary. It typically made law enforcement relax, speak courteously, and look for a reason to apologize for one thing or another. Her childlike, high--register voice only added to the effect, causing -people to pause and make a mental adjustment before continuing. But currently, she was speechless.
Nessa closed her mouth, staring at the badge, which confirmed his name and title, and added another piece of information: he was with the general investigations unit. Not vice. Which confused her. She turned to Isabeau, who stood right behind her looking concerned, and said, “Could you take Daltrey upstairs?”