A Ship Made of Paper

been entered into Beautiful Baby contests when she was an infant, and her parentsdidopenly grieve when her hair turned from blonde to brown, and they did give her Clairol rinses when she was nine years old and send her to bed with her hair wrapped in a scarfsoaked in lemon juice, and when, at thirteen, a birdshot spray ofpimples appeared on her forehead, her father, a doctor himself, sent her to a dermatologist inWashington, D.C.—but not, as it occurred in the novel, all the way to Zurich.The other indignities visited upon the novel’s teenage narrator—how she wakes up one day with virtually a full mustache, the involvement with a Santeria cult, her entire body being en-cased in defoliating wax, the liposuction performed at midnight like a backstreet abortion—were entirely fictional, as was the section in which the mother’s bridge club accidentally drops the narrator’s diet pills into their coffee, having gotten them confused with saccharin tablets, and the subsequent freak-out, during which the ladies go after each other like wildcats and one ofthem ends up dying ofa heart attack.

“You’ve struck a chord with all women with unfortunate looks,”

Daniel said.“And when they see you they feel ripped off, like you’ve tricked them into believing you’re one ofthem.”

To Kate’s immense relief, the woman she found waiting for her at the RussianTea Room was completely presentable, in fact, great-looking—with short black hair, bright-green dramatic eyes, the serene, commanding face and ample bust ofa figurehead carved into the prow ofa whaling ship.

”Oh, look at you,”Lorraine exclaimed upon first seeing Kate.“You’re gor-geous, you bum.”She clutched her heart.“How could you do this to me?”

The accusation was made humorously and it might have been meant to flatter Kate.Yet she felt she had just been slapped in the face, and de-spite the fact that their rapport soon moved beyond what Kate consid-ered the hallucinogenic stage—a kind ofjokey alternative reality in which Lorraine pretended Kate was ravishing and she herselfwas homely and doomed—and onto a truer rapport, that first remark cre-ated a shadow presence in their friendship.This shadow presence insisted that Kate was the fortunate one and Lorraine, despite her well-paying job, numerous sexual adventures, supportive family, and brownstone apartment with a fireplace and two skylights, was the hard-luck case.It meant that Kate was somehow beholden to equalize things between them, by deferring to Lorraine.

Tonight, Lorraine has a cold, and she uses the first part oftheir phone time complaining about it.Lately, Lorraine has become a little screwy about her health.As she approaches thirty-eight, the age her own mother died of cervical cancer, Lorraine is more and more putting herselfin the care ofnot only doctors but also an acupuncturist, a masseuse, an aromatherapist, two nutritionists, and even a psychic whose specialty is disease.

“I spent the day in bed,”she says.

”For a cold?”Kate asks, hoping her disapproval isn’t apparent.

”Yes, for a cold.And I was in a major O.J.mood.I really wanted to watch the trial in the privacy ofmy own home.Watching it at the office sucks, so many interruptions.”

“So? Did anything happen?”Kate could not watch today’s proceedings because, oddly enough, she was too busy finishing an article about the trial—an article that Lorraine herselfhad commissioned.

“I just had this wild premonition that he was going to crack, and stand up in the middle ofthe court and confess.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I realize that.How’s the article going?”

“I should be done in a couple more days.”Kate feels the subtle change, she is suddenly in her writer-fending- off-an-editor mode.“Three at the most.”

“It’s not going to do us any good ifthe trial’s over.”

“The trial has got months to go.”

“Not ifhe confesses.What about Daniel?What’s his take on this whole thing? I mean, doesn’t he see it as a kind ofindictment ofthe le-gal profession, this guy who has so obviously assassinated his poor wife and now he’s just dragging out the proceedings, thanks to the efforts of a team ofhigh-priced lawyers, all ofwhom have probably entered into pacts with Satan.”

Kate is silent for a moment.“Daniel’s starting to make noises as ifhe believes O.J.is innocent.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He thinks racist cops might have tampered with the evidence.The Fuhrman thing.He thinks all sorts ofthings.”

“He actually thinks O.J.is innocent?”

“I don’t know.”Here is the hard part.“Let me take a sip ofwine and tell you what I really think.”

“Sip away.”

Kate finishes the entire glass, dabs her palm against her chin, where a single red drop clings, and then refills her glass.

“He has a wicked crush on this black woman and I think he’s tailoring his O.J.opinions to suit her fashion.”

“Oh, Kate, are you sure?”Lorraine’s voice sounds warm, motherly.

Lorraine’s compassion always comes as a sort ofpleasant surprise, though she never fails to show it.

“No, not really.But…I’m pretty sure.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“Oh, just some local mom, a perpetual grad student, with an absentee husband.”

“I’m not getting a clear picture.”

“Her name’s Iris.I really feel like killing her with my bare hands, I feel like O.J.-ing her.She’s reasonably attractive, in a freckly sort ofway.

She hasAdored Daughter Syndrome, she just sort ofsits there and ex-pects all this attention.She has some demented kid who Ruby likes, so there’s all these occasions to get together, Daniel and Iris.You should see them together.Daniel’s entire body becomes one big boner.”

“And you?”Lorraine asks.

”What do you mean?What about me?”

“Are you going to let this temptress take your boyfriend away?”

Lorraine is being far too lighthearted about this, and as a way of telling her so Kate lets that last remark hang in the air for a few extra moments.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Lorraine.When I first started noticing how fixated on this woman he was getting, I thought to myself: Oh well, who cares, live and let live, screw and let screw, whatever.”

“And now?”

“It’s getting to me.It’s having a perverse effect.”

“Oh yes, I know how that works.You’re starting to fall in love with him again, right?”

“Something like that.I don’t require a lot ofcare and feeding, you know.I don’t need to be adored, or ravished, I don’t need little poems slipped under my pillow, or a rose on my breakfast tray.But, I really do notwant him to leave me.That really doesn’t work for me.”

“We’re such idiots.”

“It’s not as ifI felloutoflove with Daniel.”

“I know.”

“I’m used to him, with all the good and bad that implies.Anyhow, we had sort ofan arrangement.We’re both moderates, you know what I mean?We hate excess, neither ofus even likesRomeo and Juliet.I feel be-trayed in that way, too.Suddenly, I sense this willingness in him to be crucified on passion’s cross.Ugh.He’s becoming a different person.”

“And then there’s the small matter ofRuby,”says Lorraine.“I thought he was so devoted to her.”

“I’m not even thinking about that.He’s not going toleaveme.He would never do anything to upset Ruby.He worships her.”

“What’s the cafe-au-lait absentee husband like?”

“His name is Hampton.”

“Oh God, they have the best names.Hampton what?”

“Welles.He’s Ivy League, Wall Street, so bourgeois he makes Martha Stewart seem like Karen Finley.”

“And does he think O.J.is innocent, too? It would be interesting to find out.”

“I don’t know.O.J.may be a little dark for Hampton’s taste.”