“Sit down, Syl, catch your breath. It doesn’t matter who. At least right now it doesn’t.”
“I’d want to know. Wouldn’t you?” Sylvia tried to think of the signs she should have recognized. She missed the obvious somehow. “Why didn’t she tell me, Lana?”
“She’s having a hard time. Don’t get caught up in that. Be easy with her.”
“When am I not easy? I didn’t drag her out of JJ’s. I thought about it.”
“You should have taken me with you.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to go.”
“Why would I want to go anywhere?” Lana snorted. “If we’d both been there, we’d have talked some sense into her,” Lana said.
“I did talk to her. What could I say? Do your homework? I wish I’d left here years ago when I was still young enough to start over. My children would have had a better chance.” Sylvia and Lana’s parents had been country people, dirt roaders who wanted a better version of the life their own parents had led. A bigger house with indoor bathrooms, a desk job, a freezer full of good meat. They hadn’t and had not wanted to move farther than a strong man could throw them from their original home place. Had she wanted that life for herself? Had she had a choice?
“Let’s go up there, Syl? Let’s just talk to her.”
“What are we going to tell her? What did I ever do right with a man?” Sylvia had meant to encourage her daughter. Mothers tell their girls that they are too temperamental, unkind, not easy like boys. They remind them that someone must choose them and they are lucky to be chosen. Sylvia had tried not to say any of that to Ava. Had she failed in that too?
“You did good, Syl. She came to me because she didn’t want you to hurt.”
“I have done too much wrong. I can’t fix it.”
“Well I see right now you’re just going to feel sorry for yourself tonight. Why don’t you wish you’d been born the princess of England while you’re at it?”
Sylvia’s laugh sounded like a hiss. “There’s nothing funny. Don’t do that.” Sylvia closed her eyes. For her final trick, when she opened them back up she would have disappeared. She stood up to leave.
“Don’t go. Stay here a minute.”
Sylvia walked over to the roller cart and separated the mass of rollers into neat stacks: small green ones with green, purple medium ones and jumbo pink with pink. Lana watched Sylvia a moment but then turned her back to her sister and washed out the shampoo bowl. For a couple of minutes neither of the sisters spoke.
“You know what just came to my mind? You remember when I kept Devon for you that time and I took those pictures of him on the table with a bowl of oranges?”
“I remember.”
“He was about what, four or five? Where is that picture? That was such a nice one.”
“I’ve got it,” Sylvia said. Thank God for Lana who understood when Sylvia felt anything deeply she was reminded of her son. Good Lana. She filled the gaps. “I think he’ll come back.”
“What are you saying?” Lana said softly.
“I haven’t given up.”
“Here, put the rollers down and sit. Sit down,” Lana said. “You have to stop it. Do you hear me? You don’t get to go off the deep end. You don’t get to do that. Please don’t leave me.”
“I’m here. I’m here. I know he’s not coming. I’m just tired and keep shooting off my mouth. Let me get up and go to bed like old ladies do.”
“Not yet. Calm yourself. Sit with me. Let’s just sit. Okay?”
Sylvia hesitated but leaned back into the cushion of the couch. Lana sat beside her. They did not touch or even look at each other but Sylvia could hear the soft pant of her sister’s breathing.
“They said somebody in the county has rabies. A young person too. They used to scare us to death about rabies. You remember?” Lana asked.
“I had nightmares about bats,” Sylvia said. “Can you believe that? I lived eighteen years with our mother and I spent a second of worry on a goddamn bat.” Sylvia glanced over at Lana.
“You better stop,” Lana said and nudged Sylvia’s arm. She laughed too. “Rabid bats are amateur night compared to what we saw,” Lana giggled. “Rabies, my ass.”
“All the time I’ve spent scared of something.” Sylvia said.
“We’ll be all right, Syl. We are all right. You want to find some kids with crack?”
“What would we look like? Old as we are,” Sylvia laughed.
“Don’t you want to sometimes?”
“Crack? Have you lost your mind?”
“Not crack. Crack is whack. Haven’t you heard? Now a little weed.” Lana raised her eyebrows and put her fingers to her lips like she was smoking a joint.
“What are you talking about?” Sylvia said genuinely surprised.
“Who says I don’t?” Lana said, her eyebrows raised in question. “Not that much, but I do.”
In Lana’s basement years and years ago with their husbands, smoking like teenagers instead of the middle-aged fools they were, listening to music, there was always music, time like smoke undulated around them—elastic and easily bent to their will. She had laughed full-throated and loud. Sylvia had not recognized herself.
“Please, Lana. I’d know,” Sylvia said, but she wasn’t sure. “If I had some right now, I’d smoke it.” Sylvia laughed not sure if she teased or not.
“I got it.”
“Well what are you waiting around for, get it.” Sylvia wasn’t sure what to expect. It wouldn’t have shocked her a bit if Lana came back in the room yelling gotcha, Sylvia playing the straight man again.
Lana unrolled a small plastic bag, took out a joint already spun into a twist. She searched around a bottom drawer and found a lighter. “You ready?”
“I wouldn’t have guessed in a million years this was going to happen today. I should have known if anybody could surprise me it would be you. You know how many years it’s been?”
“You’ve been missing it, honey. Don’t rush now. This is different from what you remember.”
“It might be twenty years.”
“Well the stuff is different now. You might just feel slow for a minute or two. You might feel like you’re floating. It’s strong. When you get used to it, it feels good. Don’t rush.”
Sylvia put the joint to her lips and inhaled, like riding a bicycle, she thought. Both women sat in silence and looked out the window. “I feel dizzy, Lana. I don’t like it. I don’t like it.”
“Give it a minute. You’re okay.”
Poor Marcus, Sylvia thought. Another in a line of people she could not save. He’d been gathered up by the police with six other boys, too green, probably too terrified to remember what they all told him from the first day, at the first sign of trouble throw the drugs from your pocket as you run. Don’t get caught holding. “Twenty-one crack rocks,” Sylvia said.
“Crack rocks.” Lana laughed. “What are you talking about?”