Brecky’s face is tight, gray in the TV glow. She really is nervous. She made herself do this. Or Donnie harangued her into growing a pair and owning up. It’s dark outside. I shake my head; my vision shakes with it. “Hey,” I say. “It’s cool.” My mouth feels like it’s filled with oatmeal. I am incredibly stoned.
“I lost a chance I’ll never get back,” she says. “I want to rectify this. I want you to know, if there is anything you need, anything I can do, you got it. I want us to be friends. And that counts for whether or not you want to work together. That’s not an ultimatum by any means.”
I take a deep breath and, for the first time in days, say what I mean. “If it makes you feel any better,” I say, “you were kind of right.”
It’s the wrong thing to tell her, but I’m too stoned to correct the damage. Brecky tries to speak, sniffs, dips her head down. I freeze, not sure I’m actually seeing what I’m seeing. This is horrifying. Brecky Tolliver doesn’t cry.
I lean over and take her hand. We both pretend to watch TV. I think, Mel’s gonna shit when I tell her about this.
—
It’s the morning of the memorial. I don’t know what to do with this information other than curl up and throw the blankets over my head.
Donnie pats my back, softly pinching, trying to rustle me out. “I know, honey,” she keeps saying, “but you have to get up. You just do.”
“I can’t. Tell them I’m sick or something.”
“I won’t do that.”
“You don’t get it. I can’t.”
Brecky stands behind her, kneading her hands. They’re both in pantsuits again. Donnie has slicked her hair back, put on makeup. The TV honks. She huffs in frustration, snaps it off. “Up. Come on.”
My voice comes out piss-poor tiny. “Uh uh.”
Brecky speaks up. “Sharon, you’re going to hate yourself if you don’t go. It may not seem like it now, but this is what you really want to do.”
“Fuck that and fuck you.”
Donnie throws the remote down. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
I stick my head back under the covers.
Donnie rips the sheets from my body. “You will not do this to me godfuckingdammit get up, Sharon. Get up right the fuck now.” She’s red, crying. Leans over and picks me up like a little kid. Her arms are tiny, hot through the fabric of her jacket. My legs dangle down. I don’t fight her.
I haven’t climbed out of bed in three days. My limp nearly wings me into a wall. Brecky guides me to the shower, hands me a towel, a washcloth. “Don hasn’t slept in two days,” she whispers. “Her phone keeps going off.”
“Don’t care.”
“Sharon, if you do this, I promise you I will get you out of there whenever you want. Okay? Just say the word.”
I shrug.
She stands back, pats her pockets. “Do you have a cigarette?”
I look down. I’m wearing a T-shirt and underpants. Look back up at her.
“Right. Sorry.”
“You gonna leave, Brecky?”
“Are you really gonna shower?”
“Well, I’m gonna start stripping. Stay or go.”
Brecky leaves. I turn the shower on. Reach into my bra and fetch out the one-hitter and lighter. I smoke a bowl, watching the water hit the tile.
—
We drive to the Collective for Cartooning Arts in Brooklyn, a sprawling old mansion in Cobble Hill. The last time we were here, it was to accept the Newcomer’s Award. I slit my own girdle so I could breathe and Mel made out with a cocktail waitress in an upstairs broom closet. “Heh,” I say to myself.
Brecky and Donnie exchange a look.
The block is stalled with cars. Crowds cluster at the entrance. There’s a reaction when we arrive: groups parting, whispering. Lots of eyes on me. The high’s wearing off and I can feel my bum leg, heavy, dragging slightly behind me. Brecky and Donnie tug me through, sometimes exchanging words with people. There’s the interns: Jimmy the Fire Maniac, Indian John Cafree. Surly Cathie off to the side of the building, smoking a Black & Mild and twiddling with her cellphone. She uses it to salute me, a rueful little pucker to her lips. I think of her with the wild dogs in South Edgemere: Okay, cunts, who wants to be first? I am hugged and patted. My reactions are milky, on delay. The inside of my mouth is covered with fur.
We’re led to the front of the screening room, where a projector runs a slide of Mel photos. Mel as a kid, dwarfed in a Def Leppard T-shirt. Mel as a high school senior, hair long and stringy, giving a clamped little smile to a studio photographer. Mel at Ballister, craned over a drafting table, brow nearly touching the surface. Mel and me clinking beers. Mel and me in the studio, her pointing to the Cintiq screen, mouth open, me frowning. Mel and me. Mel and me again.
A polished clay jar is at the center of a long oak table. Donnie stops to speak with someone. I creep toward it, flick the lid open.
“Sharon,” Donnie calls.
I let the lid clang shut.