How to Be Lost (7 page)

“W
HAT THE FUCK
?” I said to Madeline, when my mother told us she was heading to bed at four in the afternoon. Madeline shrugged. We were watching television in the kitchen. It had been a year since Ellie’s disappearance, and my mother had worn a bathrobe for most of it.

My new motto was “What the fuck.” I wrote it on all my notebooks, which were in my school locker. I had not been to school in weeks. By taking whatever drugs they gave me and paying for them, I had gathered a group of friends around me. We went to each others’ houses and ate mushrooms in our parents’ wood-paneled basements. We snorted lines of Ritalin, cutting it with our fathers’ razorblades on our mothers’ decorating magazines.

That night, I went out on Hugh King’s boat. I liked the way the boat slapped against the water as Hugh drove it too fast. I liked the warmth of Hugh’s father’s Glenfiddich in my mouth. Hugh dropped me off late, and I walked around to the side of the house, planning to slip in the sliding glass door. Usually, my parents were both dead to the world by then, but that night, they were awake. I was walking past the den window when I heard them talking. I slid down to the grass, crossed my legs, and listened.

“I have one question for you, Isabelle.” My father’s voice was slow and slurred.

“What?” said my mother. She sounded empty.

“Was she even mine?”

My mother said, “Of course! Joseph, my God!”

Again, there was a silence. Suddenly full of energy, I stood and ran across the lawn. I cartwheeled, and landed with my cheek to the grass, breathing hard. There were no stars in the sky. I said, I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

The next night, I went to a party in a hotel room in White Plains. There was a game, and when you lost, you drank a shot of vodka. Vodka didn’t taste like anything. The nothing taste slipped down my throat. I went into the bathroom, a hotel bathroom with a thick bathmat to rest my head on. I woke up in the hospital.

My ribs hurt; the paramedics pounded hard enough to start my heart. Soon afterward, I was sent to boarding school, where I learned to dip tobacco and give blow jobs.

from the desk of
AGNES FOWLER

Dear Louise,
Thank you for clarifying your relationship to my departed father. He certainly did love shopping at Rockin’ Rudy’s Record Store. I plan to keep his collection as it is for now. I like to listen to his records and think of the way he’d sing along. I sang along, too, and sometimes he’d stop singing and just look at me. Did I mention how much he loved me?

I will contact you if I do decide to sell. But I doubt it.

All best,
Agnes Fowler

P.S. Thanks a lot for the flowers.

“W
ELL, SOMEBODY GOT
some booty,” said Winnie, when I walked into The Highball on Wednesday.

“What?” I said, sipping my takeout coffee from CC’s.

“I can tell a million miles away, sister,” said Winnie, “and as soon as I serve this mo-fo, I want to know every dirty detail.” I shook my head, laughing, and went into Jimbo’s office.

“I’m back,” I said. Jimbo was drinking from a Christmas mug.

“Good thing,” he said. “How was the Big Apple?”

“I’m from the suburbs, actually,” I said.

“Hmph,” said Jimbo. He wore a three-piece suit, as usual. “Now listen, Caroline,” he said, “are you listening?”

I nodded.

“I’ve got a potential buyer coming in for New Year’s,” Jimbo said. “Some fashion model and her husband. They want to redo the place, make it a movie star hangout.”

I looked toward the group coming in the door, about twenty people wearing sun visors and T-shirts that said weight watchers new orleans. “It’s pretty glamorous already,” I said.

“Ha ha,” said Jimbo dryly. “Now, Caroline, are you listening?”

“Yes, Jimbo.”

“New Year’s Eve, I want you glamorized to the max,” said Jimbo. “Is that clear?”

“Glamorized to the max.”

He leaned back, pleased. “I’m ready to retire,” he said. “Spent my whole life in this shithole of a city, in this shithole of a bar. A revolving shithole. I’m getting out. I’m going to buy a condo in Celebration, Florida. Did you know that, Caroline?”

“Yes, Jimbo. You told me.”

“Designed by Disney. The whole city planned out. Organized. Clean.” He leaned back in his chair. “No tourists,” he added happily, and then he poured more whiskey into his Christmas mug.

Winnie offered to buy Peggy and me drinks if I would share the dirt. I agreed. After work, we headed to Bobby’s Bar in Winnie’s Cadillac. Peggy had never been to Bobby’s before. “I told Len I needed a night out with the girls,” she said. “Fancy drinks. Nice clothes. Like Sex and the City. I’m Samantha.” Peggy was so skinny we all wondered if she ate, but her shoulders were huge from doing headstands at yoga class. She wore leotards and tights much of the time, as if on the way to aerobics class, and not a bar.

“I don’t think they have fancy drinks at Bobby’s,” I said.

Winnie raised an eyebrow. “They’ve got Courvoisier,” she said. “Damn!” Winnie wore her winter coat, which was aqua-colored. On her finger, a new ring from Kit flashed. Kit screwed up often, forgetting to come home, dancing with the wrong woman, buying beer with the rent money. To gain Winnie’s forgiveness, he bought her lots of jewelry, and Winnie liked to wear all her jewelry at once. Winnie had four children, one of whom was Kit’s. Kit had two children of his own. They all lived in a big ramshackle house over the border in Mississippi.

We drove out of the business district toward my house. “Have you ever heard of the Red Lounge?” said Peggy. “Maybe we should go there. They have roses on all the tables.”

Bobby’s Bar was on the outskirts of Tremé, next to an underpass. Winnie parked the Cadillac and affixed The Club to the steering wheel. “Where are we?” said Peggy. Nobody answered.

From the outside, Bobby’s looks like nothing much. There are a few neon beer signs in the window, and the bobby’s bar sign is falling down. On the inside, it looks like nothing much filled with very drunk people and a great jukebox. “I get it,” said Peggy. “We’re in the black part of town. I’m with you. It’s cool. Are we going to hear some jazz?”

Winnie was a regular at Bobby’s. Kit was already at a table with three men and four bottles of Seagram’s VO. He stood up when we walked in, and Winnie touched the collar of her yellow blouse. “Ladies!” called Kit.

“Oh God,” said Peggy, taking in the broken tables, the remains of the Wednesday Catfish Fry on the bartop.

Winnie sashayed over to Kit, planting a big one on his mouth. “I’m with the girls tonight,” she said.

“Winnie the Pooh!” said Kit.

“Caroline got some nookie,” whispered Winnie, though I could hear, as could the rest of the bar. “And I gotta get the details. I’ll tell you later.”

“Nookie, huh?” said Kit.

“Winnie, Jesus!” I said. I sat down at an empty table, and Peggy sat next to me. Winnie, after making out with Kit for a while, bought six tall boys and joined us. Peggy cracked her can open with resignation.

“This is nothing like Sex and the City,” she said. “This is like staying home drinking beer with Len.” Peggy’s boyfriend, Len, was a self-proclaimed artist. He had not yet figured out his medium, however, and spent his time getting stoned on their front porch and strumming a broken guitar. Peggy fed stray dogs and cats, and the Bywater house she shared with Len was full of fleas.

“Do you have a jukebox at home?” asked Winnie. She was getting angry, I could tell.

“No,” said Peggy.

“Here,” said Winnie, handing Peggy some change. “Go on,” she said. Peggy walked with trepidation to the jukebox, where she was quickly approached by a thin boy wearing a telephone headset that was not attached to anything.

“How could you tell?” I whispered.

Winnie threw her head back and laughed. “Honey,” she said, “you are oozing sex-u-ality like a sponge.”

“Yuck,” I said.

“Spill it,” said Winnie.

“His name is Anthony,” I said. “He owns a liquor store.”

“Score!” said Winnie. “I like him already.”

I blushed. “He’s tall. He has blue eyes. His wife was killed on September 11.”

“Jay-sus!”

I nodded. “He’s…I don’t know.”

“Sex?” said Winnie.

“Sorry?”

“Sex!” said Winnie, loudly.

From his table, Kit said, “Winnie the Pooh!”

I put my hands to my face. “No,” I said, “not yet.”

“Did you make out with him, at least?”

I peeked from between my fingers. “Yes.”

“Score!” said Winnie. “Tongue?” I nodded. “Tongue!” cried Winnie happily. Men began to gather around our table. Music spilled from the jukebox: the Mardi Gras Indians. The Mardi Gras Indians were men and boys who dressed up for the parades and played music. The tradition of the Indians had begun as a way to get in on the snooty Mardi Gras festivities. Each year, they made elaborate beaded costumes, sewing by hand on bartops and kitchen tables. Peggy rushed back to us.

“I figured I’d play the Indians,” she said. “You know, it sort of fits in.” She began to move her shoulders to the chanting beat. Suddenly, the music stopped. Someone had pulled the plug from the jukebox. It was a large black woman, who plugged the box back in and then filled it with quarters, lining up ten Barry White songs in a row.

“Did somebody say tongue?” said Kit, coming up behind Winnie and leaning in toward her.

The phone woke me the next morning. My head felt like cement. Next to me, Georgette stretched out, yawning. My next-door neighbors had taken good care of her while I was gone for Christmas—she looked to have gained ten pounds. How had I gotten home?

I reached for the receiver. “Hello? Hello?”

“Caroline? It’s Anthony.” My breath caught. “Um, from the Liquor Barn?” he said.

“I know,” I said. “Sorry, I had a late night. I’m a little discombobulated.”

“Discombobulated, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do?” he asked.

“Oh, just went out with some girlfriends.”

“Well, I just wanted to, um, make sure you got home safely.”

“I did. Thanks,” I said.

“And how is everything at The Cue Ball?”

“The Highball?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Hey, Anthony?”

“Yes?”

“Could I call you back when I’ve had some coffee?”

He laughed, a rich sound. “Actually, why don’t you think about something while you have your coffee,” he said.

“Shoot.”

He drew a breath. “I miss you,” he said. “So I bought a ticket to New Orleans. For New Year’s.”

I felt a burning in my stomach. “What?”

“I’m booked in a hotel downtown,” said Anthony. “Don’t worry. In fact, if you don’t want to see me, that’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, but I….” There was a pause. “I’ve decided recently to become an impulsive person,” he said, “and I’ve always wanted to see New Orleans.”

“I’ll, uh, let me call you back,” I said.

“Oh,” said Anthony. I could tell he was disappointed. “OK. I’ll, well, I’ll be waiting here by the phone.”

I laughed, but it sounded fake. “Bye,” I said, and hung up. Outside my apartment, I heard a wail of horns, and then a crash. “Fuck,” I said. I opened my front door, grabbed the Times-Picayune, and slammed the door without seeing the accident. I went into the kitchen and poured water in the coffeemaker, added six spoonfuls of coffee. I put food in Georgette’s bowl, and then opened the paper.

I couldn’t concentrate, and my stomach was queasy. The phone rang again. Jesus, I thought. I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Care?” It was Madeline.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

The coffee was ready, and I poured a black cup and sipped it. “Are you OK?” I asked.

“Not really. No, I’m fine. You know. I guess it’s the hormones or something.”

“Hm,” I said. Madeline never called me to chat. I waited for the reason.

“Look,” said Madeline, “I met with Ken Dowland yesterday. I know you don’t want to deal with this. But Ken’s going to trial in March and Mom won’t help him.”

“Oh,” I said. I made a face at Georgette. This was too much in the morning! I looked at the clock. It was two p.m.

“Care, I know she showed you the picture. I’ve seen it, too.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Caroline, come on. How could Ellie have possibly…I mean, Montana?”

“I don’t know, Maddy.”

“Well, none of us do,” Madeline’s voice flared in anger. “Then go find her! I don’t care, but this has got to end someday. Jesus.”

I stared at my fingernails. Finally, Madeline spoke evenly. “Look. My therapist says I need closure. I do. She’s dead, and we all know it. I can go to the courts without Mom, and I will. I wanted you all to be involved. I thought….”

“What?” I said. “You thought what?”

“Did it ever occur to you that your whole life is on hold?” said Madeline. “Have you ever taken a look at yourself? You’re just…treading water, waiting for Ellie to come back.”

“That’s not true.”

“Think about it,” said Madeline. “I’m sorry to be harsh. You need to do what you need to do, and if you want to wait forever, I guess that’s not my business. But I have to do this, so I can move on.”

“What? You don’t think I want to move on?” I said shrilly.

“Caroline, there are people right here who need you. And she’s never coming back.”

My eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know,” I said.

After a cheeseburger at the Camellia Grill, I walked to the levee, hiking along a trail to the water and sitting down on a tree stump. People walked their dogs along the riverbank, but it was blissfully empty midday. The sun beat down on me, and I watched a barge on the Mississippi. I was next to some sort of junkyard, filled with broken metal parts, but if I looked straight ahead I saw only the water rolling past. I could pretend it wasn’t polluted, filled with oil.

Of course I knew what might have happened to my baby sister. I didn’t like to think about the worst possibilities: a strong hand yanking at her hair, a palm against her throat. A hard body against her soft one, invading her, a knife, her blood spilling. Everything burned but her bones. I saw visions of her open mouth, fear inside her eyes.

When my father turned James O’Hara away at the door, I ran upstairs and wept. I cried, convulsing sobs, knowing I would never be normal, and my father’s grip would never fade. Ellie came upstairs and heard me. She lay next to me and pressed her body along mine, her arms around my waist.

If she had lived, she would have called me. For sixteen years, I had waited. Sometimes, I knew she was dead with a certainty that felt like truth. But sometimes, I stood at the window, willing her to turn the corner, to knock on my door.

My mother phoned when I got home. She told me all about the Randalls’ party, the roast beef, the baked brie. “I had a bit too much vino,” she said, “but what the hey, it’s Christmas.”

“Well, not anymore, technically,” I said.

“Don’t be a sourpuss,” she said.

“Who, um….”

“Yes?”

“Who was the bartender? Was he from the Liquor Barn?” I asked.

“No, it was some Randall cousin. But I’m going over there today. Can I give a message to Anthony?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mom!” Her coy tone infuriated me. “Actually,” I said, “there is something I’d like you to tell him. Would you tell him I have a boyfriend?”

“You do?” said my mother.

“No,” I admitted, “but I don’t want Anthony to get the wrong idea, you know?”

“The wrong idea? Are you crazy? He’s a fine boy, Anthony. Honestly, Caroline, what’s the matter with you?” I was silent. “OK, whatever you say,” said my mother. “I’ll tell him to give up on you.”

“Thanks.”

“Honestly!” said my mother.

“Well, have a good New Year’s,” I said. She jabbered on about the new outfit she had bought at Saks to wear to the party at the golf club—a dress with feathers—and then she got off the phone, telling me to buck up.