Lena reached for my crotch. I swatted her hand away, stumbled out of the smoky shed. The sun was high and warm, the grass lush, spongy. Some students talked beneath the portico of the biology building. There was a humming sound, which I tracked to a vent in the bricks. The stench of the experimental dead blew out of it. I thought of the rats and guinea pigs and gerbils in their cages, studied my hands.
Soon I would not remember what Lena had said. Already it seemed kind of jumbled. Lena just really made no sense. Past the biology building, on a bench beneath some poplars, I could swear I saw Purdy. Was that Purdy? Yes, absolutely, it was Purdy, on a stone bench with a woman I did not know. She was pretty and sat straight with her hands on her stomach, as though protecting it, and she looked up at Purdy, who seemed to be laughing, laughing incredibly hard, so hard that even from this distance I could see a vein rise in his neck. Though maybe Purdy wasn't laughing. Maybe he was shouting. I had never seen Purdy shout.
What the hell had Lena been talking about back there? Loopy slut. But she had a good eye for my work. Couldn't deny that. Funny and sly, she'd said. With a newfound urgency. Wasn't that the gist of it? It was Art. I was an Artist.
Fifteen
I took the train out to Jackson Heights, didn't even bother to call. If Don wasn't home, I'd grab some samosas at one of the Indian buffets on Roosevelt, read some general-interest rag, chortle at the lurchings of the normie mind, hate myself to the very core, choke on fennel seeds. I hoped he wasn't home. The prospect of loafing in a different Queens neighborhood excited me. But when I reached his building, a grim brick five-story near the subway, and pressed the bell, I got buzzed right in. I didn't even announce myself. I guess Don Charboneau didn't care much who dropped by.
The heat was thick in the hallways. Pipes clanged in the walls. A young woman stood at Don's open door, a redhead in a purple halter. She held a slim metal canister, some kind of sprayer, or mister, pointed up toward her chin. Mist rose, enshrouded her. Her cheeks and freckled shoulders shimmered. Her eyes rolled back, drugged and piggy. It was sexy, but then I'd always considered piggy women sexy. Because of Muppets, maybe.
"You're not the food," she said.
"No, I'm not the food."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Milo," I said. "You must be Sasha. Is Don home?"
"Don's out. Hey, how do you know my name?"
"I'm a friend of Don's dad. I've heard nice things about you."
"Like what?"
"Oh, lots of things," I said.
"Don thinks I'm stupid."
"I don't think that's true."
"How would you know?"
"Just based on the conversation we're having now."
"I have an IQ of 136. That's verifiable. If anything, I'm on the autism spectrum, just a trace of assburgers, which is fairly rare in a girl. Do you know what assburgers is? Anyway, Don's dad's friend, come in. Sorry it's so hot. The boiler just goes crazy sometimes."
I followed her into the cramped studio. There was a futon on the floor, a card table with an old laptop on it that looked more learning toy than computer, some folding chairs. A breakfast counter split the main room from the narrow kitchen.
"I'd offer you some food," said Sasha, shut the pitted door behind us, "but I don't have any. I thought you were the food."
"Right."
"Oh, I said that already."
"I'm sorry I wasn't the food," I said.
"Have a seat."
I sat down at the table, rested my arm on a stack of papers.
"Hey, watch those," said Sasha, slipped the stack from under my arm. "The Todd Wilkes files. Can't mess those puppies up."
"Oh, some important paperwork?" I said.
Sasha did not seem to notice the sneer in my voice. Maybe she was further along the autism spectrum than she realized. She still stared at the papers.
"That Todd Wilkes," she said.
"I don't know him."
"You don't? I thought everybody did. Don thinks everybody does. Don collects everything he can on Todd Wilkes. He went to high school with Todd. They both went to Iraq but Don just hates him. Hated this whole act he put on when he got back. Writing articles in the newspapers about how proud he was to be an American. Shaking everybody's hand. Going on TV. Saying the soldiers shouldn't whine. It was five years ago, but Don's still got a big bug in his butt about it, says Todd Wilkes will be president someday. And that when that happens, Don will have to shoot him."
"Well," I said, "I don't really know about any of that."
"What do you know about, Mr. Not-the-Food?"
I couldn't tell if she was flirting or not. It could have been the heat, or the spectrum. She misted her neck, her knees.
"Do you think Don will be back soon? I have something for him."
"Yeah," said Sasha. "He should be back. He's out pounding the pavement. The pave-o-mento. He said he was going to go out and pound it. He says it every morning. He made me lick his legs the other day. They tasted like a Barbie doll I had when I was a girl. Do you think that's weird? Maybe Todd Wilkes is right. Maybe the vets all whine too much. I don't know where Don goes, but he's usually home around now. It's hot out there, right? But hotter in here. Nabeel, the super, he says the boiler is possessed. He's pretty funny, Nabeel. Mind if I smoke? Even though it's my own motherfucking apartment?"
"Go ahead."
"Thanks. For the permission."
"Maybe I should come back another time."
"How much is in the envelope?"
"Which envelope?"
"The one you must have brought."
I slid it out of my pocket.
"I should really give it to Don."
"I just want to know how much is in it."
I told her how much was in it.
"Good. That's a nice number. Tell me, for real, how long do you think Don can keep this up? Because he's starting to freak me out a little."
"Keep what up?" I said.
"Come on," she said.
The door buzzed and Sasha went to the intercom. She did not speak, pressed a button.
"You know," I said, "it's probably a good idea to ask who it is first."
"I know who it is. It's the food."
"You thought I was the food."
"How many times can I be wrong?"
A moment later a delivery kid was at the door with a plastic bag. Sasha asked him the price a couple of times. The kid shrugged, pointed to the receipt. Sasha handed him some bills and he stood there and stared as she closed the door.
"It's like they want a tip," she said.
"They do want a tip."
"Fuck that. What did that guy do to deserve a tip?"
"He bicycled across the neighborhood to bring you your food."
"That's his job. Don drove a Humvee across fucking Iraq to bring you your freedom."
"They don't really pay them that well around here."
"Like they did Don? You got some kind of bleeding heart? My heart bled out a long time ago."
"I'm sorry to hear it."