The cabinet is a magnificent eighteenth or maybe nineteenth century armoire, deep, with a mirrored front, and graceful lines. It’s full of highly personal stuff and this is just plain wrong. Messed up.
There are letters from Linda, whoever Linda is, and family photos from when he was young. Such a cute little boy, but why does he look so sad? So very sad, even as a child. And older. Like a harsh, stressed forty-year-old and he can’t be more than ten.
Jeez, this must be a photo of Lillian, the terrible mother and magnificent agent. OK, not such a mystery why he’s sad. She intimidates the shit out of me pressed only on photo paper. Severe. No other word for her. Severe.
I rummage through the type of keepsakes that everyone keeps, little bits of this and that which only have significance to the person who retains them.
I pick up a small ceramic bowl that looks handmade by a child. It is lopsided and the colors don’t match and it makes me smile. What do they do to children? Teach them deliberately how to make awful pottery? I gave Jack a small bowl that looks almost exactly like this. I turn it over. Molly. I wonder who Molly is. Maybe Alan has a sister.
What I don’t find is a treasure trove of Polaroids. There are pictures, but none seem of a particular girl, and the collection has the feel of a friendship stack like Rene and I keep.
I’m lifting the pictures one by one, when suddenly I freeze. Why would Alan have a picture of me? God, and when was it taken? Maybe last year? I don’t remember the picture, I definitely don’t know how he got it, and I sure don’t know why he would have it.
I sink to the floor on my knees and turn the photo over. It’s a note from me to Jack. My freshman year photo, the one I gave to Jack to carry with him. But why would Alan have it?
Frowning, I tuck it back in its resting place on the shelf and then notice the cello case. Why would Alan have a cello? Does he play the cello? There is a note taped on it, and I open the note:
“Dear Chrissie, Please accept my apologies for ruining your Christmas Holiday. Regards, Alan Manzone.”
I set the cello case on the floor, open it, and my mouth drops. Oh my god. I’ve never seen one except in a book, and I can’t even imagine what it cost. This is Alan’s idea of an apology gift for ruining Christmas for a girl he doesn’t even know?
It is a Domenico Montagnana, from the seventeen hundreds. Yo-Yo Ma has one. They are extremely sought-after by collectors and musicians, but no one can afford them and you don’t ever see one unless it’s being played by a virtuoso or in a museum.
I lightly finger the wood and then quickly pull back my hand. I shut the case and carefully return it to its resting place. I tuck the note back in the envelope, and then slip it beneath the tape.
Why would Alan buy me a Domenico Montagnana cello before he even knew me? I haven’t called Jack in days. I’ve been avoiding the emotional confusion of that experience, the weirdness of calling my dad from the apartment of a guy I’m sleeping with.
I crawl onto Alan’s bed and reach for the phone. What time is it in California? I check the clock. Eleven here means eight California time, right? Good, Jack should be home.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Dammit, Maria, answer the phone. Don’t send me to the service. A call back number would be a crummy thing at present.
“Hello?”
Finally, Jack.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Baby girl, I was just getting ready to call you…”
I tense.
“…I wanted to see how you were getting along without Rene and if you changed your mind about flying back early.”
I relax. “I’m doing well. Catching up on my reading. Seeing the sights.”
“So long as you are doing well.”
“I’m doing well.” A pause. We’ve run out of chitchat. You are not going to learn anything unless you ask, so here goes nothing. “Can I ask you something, Daddy?”
Jack laughs. “Sure, baby girl. You can ask me anything. No boundaries. No limits. You know that.”
He always says that, but I’ve never felt that, so this is going to be one of those trial-balloon moments.
“It’s just…” I run my tongue along my lips to wet them and take a deep breath. “Why would Alan Manzone give me a Domenico Montagnana cello as an apology for ruining my Christmas?”
Silence. “Oh, shit.” More silence. “Chrissie, did you accept it?”
“No. It’s a Domenico Montagnana.”
Another pause. “Don’t accept it. I’ve already told Manny I won’t allow him to give it to you. Manny is in a rough place right now. He needs to learn new habits. The only way he will ever learn to deal with his issues is if the people around him don’t let him buy his way out of them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know, Chrissie. Just don’t accept the cello.”
“But…but, Daddy, why does he think he owes me an apology?”
A heavy sigh. “He’s the reason I flew off at Christmas. The reason you were left alone. The reason I haven’t been around as much as I should for you lately.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, I’m glad you called,” Jack says. “I’m glad you felt you could discuss this with me. You don’t tell me enough about what’s going on with you and you can tell me anything.”
I am plunged into that familiar anxiousness and whispering sadness. I can’t tell what my father knows, and if he knows everything, why won’t he just talk about it?
“Listen, Chrissie. Another thing. I would prefer you stayed clear of Manny.”
Now I’m cold and shaky. Jack being parental. “Why?”
“Manny’s got issues. He’s complicated, and he’s not ready for even a friendship thing with you.”
“I know about the drugs. About Rehab.”
Another pause. “Baby girl, drugs are a problem, a symptom, they are never the issue. And he’s got big issues.”
What could be bigger than drugs?
“He seems very nice,” I say.
More silence. It feels through the phone line almost like Jack is debating with himself how much to divulge.
“I can’t tell you the details. And this is in confidence, Chrissie. You tell no one. Somehow we’ve managed to keep it from the press. He wasn’t in Rehab. He went from detox to a lock-down mental hospital. He’s not ready to be in New York. He’s not ready for the circus. Manny tried to kill himself last year.”
Oh god…Alan’s voice whispers through my head: I lined it up and I snorted it all and I said, fuck it, maybe I’ll just stop thinking today. Oh god, I didn’t even realize what it was he told me.
I manage to hold it together through the remainder of the call, but long before I drop the receiver back into the rest I am shaking, and everything is running wildly loose through my body.
Oh god, what is wrong with me? Is that what I feel in him? Why I am drawn to him? I’ve touched a dead person before. My brother. It changes you. Death lingers in your flesh. It is not something you can shake off; it is metaphysically altering. Am I even more fucked up than in the ways I already know?
Oh shit, oh shit, of shit! There is more going on inside of me than ever before at any time, like a fast free-fall instead of a wave, fragments in my brain running and colliding, emotions accelerating. What is that pounding on the edge of my consciousness, fighting to get in? I am feeling it again, like I did at CBGBs seeing Vince Carroll, this horrible picture fuzzy and fighting to become clear.
I want it to stop. Oh, please make it stop. I realize I am sitting on my knees on the cold marble bathroom floor, in front of the vanity cabinet, unaware of how I got here. I jerk the heavy black lacquer box out and dump the contents on the floor: pills, so many pills, weed, pipes, coke vials, balloons, a tie off, needles…
I pick up the needles in my shaking hands, the world falls away beneath me and I sink to the floor. Oh god, please no! And the messy inside of me is no longer mess. It is dark and ugly, in focus and real.