—Joan, Jesus. It keeps getting worse.
—This night in question, I wore a very pretty green wool dress, long-sleeved, wifely, you could say. I felt aware of everything. When I saw Big Sky at the table, I was happy but I was also ready. After all that time I felt strong. He told me I looked beautiful. I could see in his eyes, he had that fear about him, when a man hasn’t seen you in a long time and worries he no longer has his thumb over you. That was the look he had, and I savored it. We ordered fried zucchini blossoms and a bottle of expensive wine. His hair was long and I loved it but I didn’t say anything. I was clever and restrained. He spoke vaguely of some problems in his marriage. By the time our entrées arrived, I felt like he was feeling all the things for me I’d always wanted him to feel. God, I felt so happy. And then Vic walked in. I saw him come in, I saw him the whole time, and I knew I wasn’t seeing things. I told you how he hated that I lied to him, that he once said that was the worst part. And there I was with the man whose existence in my life had almost killed him. And Vic thought it had been put to bed and likely he thought there was still a chance for me and him. That one day I’d grow older and Vic would be there for me. And sometimes I thought that, too, that eventually I’d be too tired, too wrinkled. A woman like me can’t exist past a certain age. And Vic must have dreamed about that day. He’d get us a condo in Sayulita with white stucco and a little Jacuzzi on the balcony and he’d buy me high-cut bikinis and we’d eat plantains and just live out our days. But I think seeing me there with Big Sky, seeing me wearing a wonderful dress, looking more beautiful than I’d ever looked with him, I think it was a concentration of every raw hurt he’d ever felt at my hands. I could see his face melt from the inside.
And he pulled out a gun. I was barely shocked to see it because I could feel it, I’d been feeling it for years. I didn’t close my eyes. I felt I should die, anyway, it would make sense. I thought of the imminent freedom. A woman at another table screamed and Big Sky turned to look behind himself. But then something switched again in Vic’s eyes and I thought he would point it at Big Sky and in that moment I felt I didn’t care about anything, about anyone. I figured how natural it was for my life to go this way the first night I felt happiness. The screams around us were muted. Everyone was frozen, waiters with two bowls of pasta on each arm. And then Vic turned the gun on himself and it went off and his face blew through itself onto the wall behind him.
—Oh, Jesus Christ!
—That’s the reason I left New York, I said.
I wanted to tell her that it was to see her. I wanted to know what only she could tell me. The thing I didn’t expect was that telling her about me would force me to look at myself, at the way I craved the love of men who would never love me. At the way I could not abide women who needed me. At the way I destroyed some while allowing others to destroy me. I felt sick with myself and, at the same time, unburdened. I thought I’d been honest with myself. But I hadn’t. I’d been telling myself ghost stories my whole life.
Alice rose and hugged me. All afternoon we’d been performing the little acts that women must perform when they come together after high school. The extreme politeness of gesture. The focus on being both feminine and its opposite. And with this embrace it was no different. We were trying to exude kindness without being overly effusive. I wished she would never let go.
—There’s more, I said. She let go of me and sat back down. I told her about Vic’s wife, Mary, and his daughter, Eleanor, who was apparently on her way to find me. I showed her the text messages, the latest one, its crazed length, its capital letters.
—No, Joan, Alice said in a tone of what I believe was genuine anger. No, she said. This is enough of this.
I laughed, trying to make light of the absurdity.
—From beyond the grave, he finds me.
—Is this crazy girl thinking she’s going to kill you? This is insane.
—Maybe she has a point.
—Oh, no. She doesn’t. Her father is—was—a bloodsucker, and that’s that. She needs to learn from that and move along.
—I don’t know. I think maybe she’s justified. You think she wants to kill me?
—Clearly she comes from a line of sociopaths. You haven’t spoken to the mother since that text?
—No.
—Nothing will come of it. It’s so stupid. Shall I pick you up tomorrow? We can go to Cold Spring Tavern, flirt with Harley men, and get food poisoning. You need to put this ridiculousness out of your head.
I used the bathroom as she began clearing the plates. I tried to help but she refused. I hated when people didn’t refuse, when they gave you something to do. Julienne these carrots.
The bathroom was tiny and there was mold in almost every line of caulk. There was a Tasmanian Devil mud flap, the kind you see on an eighteen-wheeler, on the floor of the tub. I pressed a piece of toilet paper to my forehead and nose to blot the oil.
—Sorry for the heavy afternoon, I said before I left. She ruffled my hair. I kept my hand pressed to the same
