Girl in Pieces

On the phone, Blue said she’d been out for three months and living in Madison with her mother. They weren’t getting along, she said, so she thought maybe she’d take a trip to Kansas to see Isis until things cooled off. Isis had wandered to Kansas from Minnesota with a man; now she was selling bags of jerky and jack-off magazines at a truck stop. Isis and Blue were sitting in a bar nursing gin and gingers when they thought of me, and the warm place I’d gone to, and my mother. “I called Creeley and talked to Bruce. He gave me her name—very thoughtful, Bruce, and not one for patient confidentiality. I know you two had your moments, but Bruce is a good sort, underneath all his bluster.”

Blue called my mother. “She’s actually very polite! Thought she’d be some kind of monstertron the way you kept clamped up in Group. Keeps abreast of you through the boyfriend. Or, should I say, not-boyfriend.” She paused on the other end of the line and I heard the click of a lighter, the yappy dog-squawk of Isis saying Oh, you shut your mouth to someone in the background. “He told her where you worked and, well, I found that number, too. Isn’t the Internet wonderful? It’s like a big old rock. All sorts of shit crawls out once you kick it over.”

She breathed in a long, almost relieved rush. “I miss you.” She began to sniff. “It’s so hard, Charlie. It’s just so hard. I need a freaking break.”

And now I’m waiting for her at the Greyhound bus station, ignoring leery looks by men with mullets and yellow teeth. I paw the ground with the toe of my boot. Riley wasn’t at his house last night when I went over. He wasn’t home when I woke up in his bed this morning, either, which made me a little worried. The day is warm, cooler than it has been, but still bright and lovely. It’s the beginning of November, and in Minnesota, people are already in winter jackets and boots, huddling against the wind.

I have to be at work in an hour. I buy a Coke from the machine and watch the parade of gray buses pull into the lot. The Coke makes my mouth sticky, too sweet.

She’s the last one off, tripping down the final step. She catches herself, blinking in the sunshine, shading her eyes with one hand.

Blue’s almost thirty but still looks like a teenager in her tight cargo pants and Lady Gaga T-shirt. It’s only up close, like now, that you see her hard life in her face, at the edges of her eyes.

Blue drops the duffel, grabs me in a tight squeeze. “Charlie! My favorite Bloody Cupcake.” She steps back, her eyes grazing every inch of me.

“Holy shit, you look good, Silent Sue. Your hair got so long! Tell me his name.” She lights a cigarette.

“Your teeth,” I say, surprised. “You fixed your teeth.”

“The Lumber King of Madison forked over the cash. He felt guilty, I guess, for fucking me all those years. And I can’t fucking tell you how fucking goddamn painful it was, either, getting these teeth. Anyway.” She digs in her purse again. “Shit. I’m out of cigarettes. Where’s your car? Can we stop and get some on the way to your place?”

Blue’s teeth used to be blunted little nubs. The meth had scrubbed them down, filmed them, made them as soft as Play-Doh. Now she has a full, gleaming set of square, white teeth. Her face is no longer blotched and bloated from meds, but smoothed out by facials and foundation and powder. Her hair is a rich gold color.

“I don’t have a car, but I don’t live very far, just a few blocks away. Here, I’ll carry your bag.”

Blue stares at me. “Are you serious? No car? In this heat? I’m freaking dying, Charlie.” She snaps on large black sunglasses. I shrug.

“Why didn’t you fly?” I ask. “I’m sure the Lumber King could afford it.”

Blue snorts. “Oh, no. No planes for me. Scared shitless. No way. We don’t belong in the air. That’s my personal opinion.”

She taps carefully alongside me in her heels. I sneak a look down: she still has the rings on her toes. For some reason, this makes me more comfortable. I point out things like Hotel Congress and the tiny movie theater that serves cayenne-and-Parmesan-flecked popcorn and shows black-and-white films featuring people with deep, sorrowful accents.

“So, where’s this rock star live? Can I meet him?”

We’re at the corner of Twelfth; I point vaguely down the street toward his house. “He’s not home now.” At least, I don’t think he is. Maybe he’s back now, sleeping whatever he did off.

“We’ll meet up later?”

“Maybe,” I answer noncommittally. I’m not sure why I’m uncomfortable with Blue meeting Riley, but I am. I wave wanly to Hector and Leonard on the porch. Hector sits up straight when he sees Blue and brushes at the sweat pool on his chest. He raises his eyebrows at me. Blue says, “I’m just a little nervous, you know? I need something to drank,” and I point to the liquor store next door, even though the thought of Blue drinking fills me with dread and disappointment. I was hoping she’d be clean. Cleaner than me, anyway.

“Gentlemen,” Blue says sweetly. She clicks off to the liquor store.

Leonard’s fingers tremble as he packs his pipe, bits of tobacco fluttering to his jeans. Hector helps him.

Leonard rasps, “No trouble, Charlie. Remember? I don’t mind your friend, but I don’t want any trouble.”

Oh, Leonard, I think. I’m in a heap of trouble.