A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (72 page)

“
You wanted this. You wanted the attention.
”

“
Whatever. I
’
m just another one of the people whose tragedies you felt fit into the overall message. You don
’
t really care
so much about the people who just get along and do fine, do you? Those people don
’
t make it into the story, do they?
”

There
’
s a truck next to us, three kids in the bed. It will roll.

“
All to help make some point. I mean, isn
’
t it odd that someone like Shalini, for example, who really wasn
’
t one of your closest friends, is suddenly this major presence? And why? Because your other friends had the misfortune not to be misfortunate. The only people who get speaking parts are those whose lives are grabbed by chaos—
“

“
I am allowed.
”

“
No.
”

“
I am allowed—
“

“
No. And poor Toph. I wonder how much say he had in this whole process. You
’
ll claim that he had full approval, thought it was great, hilarious,
etc.,
and maybe he did, but how happy do you think he is about all this? It
’
s disgusting, the whole enterprise.
”

“
It
’
s too big for you to understand. You know nothing about us.
”

“
Oh God.
”

“
It
’
s enlightenment, inspiration. Proof.
”

“
No. You know what it is? It
’
s entertainment. If you back up far enough, it all becomes a sort of show. You grew up with comforts, without danger, and now you have to seek it out, manufacture it, or, worse, use the misfortunes of friends and acquaintances to add drama to your own life. But see, you cannot move real people around like this, twist their arms and legs, position them, dress them, make them talk—
“

“
I am allowed.
”

“
You
’
re not.
”

“
I am owed.
”

“
You
’
re not. See— You
’
re just not. You
’
re like a.. .a cannibal or something. Don
’
t you see how this is just flesh-eating? You
’
re.. .making lampshades from human sk—
“

“
Oh Jesus.
”

“
Let me out.
”

“
I can
’
t let you out here.
”

“
Let me out. I
’
ll walk. And I don
’
t want to be your fuel, your food.
”

“
I would do it for you.
”

“
Right.
”

“
I would feed myself to you.
”

“
I don
’
t want you to feed yourself to me. And I don
’
t want to devour you. I don
’
t want to use you as fuel. I don
’
t want anything from you. You think that because you had things taken from you, that you can just take and take—everything. But you know, not everyone wants to eat each other all the time, not everyone wants to—
“

“
We are all feeding from each other, all the time, every day.
”

“
No.
”

“
Yes. That
’
s what we do, as people.
”

“
For you it
’
s all blood and revenge, but you know, there is more, or rather less, to all this than that. Not everyone is so angry, and so desperate, and hungry—
“

“
You can have me.
”

“
Ick. No.
”

“
I
’
ll make you stronger.
”

“
I
’
m done with you.
”

“
You are not. You will be back. You will always need. You
’
ll always need someone to bleed on. You
’
re incomplete, John—
“

“
You just missed the exit.
”

Shalini
’
s party was huge. It had been a year since her fall, and she was out of the hospital, had gone home to L.A., to live with her mom and sister. She was improving daily, could do just about everything again, though her short-term memory was still jum
bled, unreliable. Everything from a year ago forward was gone. She could often not remember what had happened the day before, the hour before. She had to be told about the accident almost daily, and each and every time the story was told she was floored.
“
Wow,
”
she would say, as if the story were not about her at all. But her memory, she was working on it, had flashcards, had a tutor, a diary where she kept notes, the events of the day, a paper memory of things that had happened. She had come so far, and the prognosis was good, so for her twenty-sixth birthday, her family had planned a huge party at their house, all kinds of food, a DJ, dancing, torches around the pool, a hundred people, more.

Toph and I drove down. I didn
’
t know what to bring as a present, so did what I had been doing regularly at that point: I asked Toph to make her something. He had been making a series of Jesus figurines from colored bakeable clay—Jesus in a tuxedo and cane, mouth open (
“
Showtunes Jesus
”
), Jesus with a blond wig and pink woman
’
s suit (
“
Hillary Jesus
”
), and Jesus in a white sleeping bag with a red cross atop it (
“
Sleepover Jesus
”
) complete with a tiny can of itching powder. They were dead-on renderings, and were always appreciated by their recipients, but he claimed he didn
’
t have time anymore to make things for
my
friends. And my second idea was shot when he refused to give up the Book of Mormon he had ordered though a 1-800 number. Well.

When we got to L.A., I dropped him off with Bill in Manhattan Beach and drove on to Shalini
’
s, stopping at the mall on the way, where I bought a cat calendar, a book about Menudo, some paperweights—$54 for a few seconds of laughs. I found her house, high on a hill, on a wide dark street. There were cars everywhere, both sides of the road; I had to park blocks away. You could hear the music from five hundred yards, could see the lights in the backyard. I was terrified. I hadn
’
t seen Shal in months, did not know what to expect.

I knocked on the huge door and when I was let in there were
people everywhere, presents stacked on the table, on the floor, huge beautiful presents, there were people in the living room, and the family room, and back there in the dining room a whole crowd doing something, and then maybe fifty more in the back, on the patio, around the pool, surrounded by torches, the backyard bathed in fiery light. Her mother said Shalini was upstairs, resting. I walked up the carpeted stairs and followed the voices down the hallway. In a bedroom overlooking the pool there she was, sitting on her bed, looking bright and sparkly, completely the same.

“
Hello dahling!
”
she said.

We hugged. She was dressed up, a silk blouse, a miniskirt.

I told her about how my car broke down on the way to L.A.— it had—how I borrowed and drove Bill
’
s to her house, how great the party seemed to be going, all the torches in the backyard, all the people, the pool—

She looked out her window, down at the pool, glowing like a sky, the people silhouetted against it.

“
Yeah, but what
’
s it all for?
”
she asked.

She didn
’
t know why everyone was here. You could see her searching her memory for a reason, finding nothing.

“
It
’
s your birthday,
”
I said.

Her sister, Anuja, and I explained the birthday party.

“
But why the big deal? I mean, I know I
’
m pretty popular and everything, but really!
”
She laughed a little laugh.

Anuja and I sketched it out as vaguely as possible, mentioned a fall and a coma, an incredible recovery. And as always, when we were done with the story, Shalini was utterly amazed.

“
That is inrra/ible,
”
she said.

“
Yeah,
”
we said.
“
You were lucky.
”
No one mentions her friend who died, the one she came with.

“
I mean, thank you, GW,
”
she said, in her Valley way, rolling her eyes. God sounded like
Gawd.

Eventually she came downstairs, and she danced for a while,
on the parquet floor they
’
d assembled by the pool. They did the presents, and there was a dinner, and Carla and Mark were there, and everyone else from all those hospital days. The view, and the warm winds coming up from the ocean, made it as euphoric as it was meant to be. People walked around with tears in their eyes, especially Shalini
’
s mother, who I had seen no other way, for as long as I had known her. As things wound down, and Shalini was upstairs resting, I walked with her mother to the door.

“
You know, I went looking for the landlord,
”
I said.

“
What do you mean?
”

“
The landlord, the one who owned the building.
”
I tell her how I followed the trial in the papers, the trial of the landlord responsible for the faulty deck, how I went to the courthouse half a dozen times, looking for him, wanting to sit in on the hearings, wanting to see the man. I planned what I would do to him if given a moment alone—that, if I found myself in a dark vacant place with him, I would shove my fist through his head.

“
Did you see the trial?
”
she asked.

“
No, I kept going to the wrong room, or they would have rescheduled it. They were always rescheduling it. I kept sitting in empty courtrooms, waiting—

“
Tell Shal I had to take off.
”

I left knowing that I might not be back. I said I would be back—maybe next Thanksgiving—but I knew that we were leaving California, Toph and I, we were exhausted and felt hunted—

Everyone else was leaving or was gone. Flagg had moved to New York for grad school, then Moodie moved there for a job, and then Zev, and Kirsten went to Harvard with her new boyfriend—he was in law school, she was after an MBA, a nice couple, an untroubled couple, and I surprised myself by being endlessly happy for her— and we
’
re going, too, because going to work every day is starting
to tear me into little pieces, that stupid drive every day, the same roads, hills, and because I still don
’
t have health insurance, and we
’
re sick of that tiny, loud apartment, and living next to all those horrible people who don
’
t understand, who should be like us and understand but they don
’
t yet understand anything at all, and I
’
m tired of living across from that senior citizens
’
home, having to wake up and see them, puttering on their porches, getting dressed up to walk down to the community center, to put on their rubber caps and swim so slowly in that pool—

There are too many stupid echoes here, everywhere. Even a beach like Black Sands brings her back, how in her last half-year, she would watch from the car. At Toph
’
s flag football games, Beth and I would sit on the sidelines, cheering, making unkind remarks about the coach, while she stayed in the car, parked in the lot high above the field. We could see her, leaning over the steering wheel, squinting to see the action.