He turns away. “I’m just always interested in how creativity works.”
“It’s not like I do no writing. I do write in my journal.”
“That doesn’t count,” Peter says. “Not to belittle journal-writing, though. I wish I could keep a regular journal. I’ve tried it, but I can never stick to it for more than a few days. I should give it another shot at some point.”
We invite him to join several more of our Nights of Creation. He seems delighted.
Peter Marrick
Sunday, 12 November
I started showing up early for the Nights of Creation, hanging out with Barb in her kitchen, just talking. She’s a fascinating person. I’m charmed by her focus on her work and by the wildly imaginative drawings that result from that focus. I’m charmed by her sense of humor. I’m amazed by how much she cares for her friends and by how much they adore her.
Now that we’re becoming closer, I know I should tell her I’m the one who found Georgia’s laptop in the taxi — that I know she’s wearing a fat suit and a wig, and that underneath it she’s drop-dead gorgeous. But I don’t want to hurt or frighten her, and I don’t want to make her angry. More than anything, I want to keep spending time with her.
Barb
Peter Marrick comes early to our Nights of Creation, week after week, and he stands in the kitchen with me. I don’t know why. He’s subtly flirtatious, yet doesn’t ask me out on another date. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in his mind, no idea what he’s feeling. He’s a mystery.
Georgia, too, has noticed his strange air, and she remarks to me in private one day, “He seems a little tortured.”
“I know,” I tell her. But I have to admit I enjoy his company.
Lily hasn’t been making much progress on a piece of music that will beautify her for the man she loves. She works on it all the time, including every time we meet for our Nights of Creation. As the days pass, she gets more frustrated and depressed.
I know that the killer promised never again to try to kill Strad, but every time Lily exhibits extreme sadness I worry that the killer won’t be able to resist the urge.
Midway through Peter’s eighth Night of Creation with us, when we’re focused on our work and Penelope has just broken, very gently, yet another small pot, Lily gets up, lifts her piano bench in the air, and lets it drop on the piano. She smashes the sides and back as well.
We stare at the spectacle in utter shock.
Without its mirrored coating, the piano is ugly. Its surface is matte brown with patches of exposed glue.
After we’ve cleaned up the mess and everyone has gone home, I call Lily before going to bed to make sure she’s okay. She doesn’t answer but calls me back a few minutes later and tells me I just saved her life. She explains that she was playing at her piano, feeling in the pits of depression, and her hands started turning reflective again. It began spreading up her arms and she knew that this time she wouldn’t have the strength to stop it and it would kill her and she didn’t care. Hearing my voice leaving her the message is what gave her the strength to stop the progression.
THAT EVENING, PETER calls me. He says he was very disturbed by the incident of Lily smashing her piano and that he’s worried about her.
This is not the first time he has seemed caring about my friends, which is something I really appreciate. He’s kind and gentle and strikes me as a genuinely good person. I’m particularly touched that he is concerned about Lily’s well-being, as she is the one I’m the most anxious about.
“I wonder if there’s anything anyone could do to help her snap out of it,” he says.
“If you get any ideas, let me know.” And then I remember he doesn’t have much imagination.
We move on to more pleasant topics. Peter is in no hurry to get off the phone. He seems to enjoy talking to me and getting to know me. But our conversation ends with no suggestion that we get together outside the group.
He probably can’t overcome his lack of attraction to my appearance.
“AN INTERVENTION,” PETER declares. That’s the idea he comes up with a few days after our conversation.
“Like for addicts?” I ask.
“Yes. Because that’s what she is. She’s addicted to a person.”
It’s true. The day after smashing her piano, Lily went right back to trying to beautify herself through her music. She worked on this impossible project not only on her home piano, but on her now ugly, naked piano at my apartment. Gone is the energy she was infused with when practicing on Jack and then on herself. She plays slow, melancholy pieces. Now that every reflective surface of the piano has been shattered, we’re afraid she’ll treat us as her mirrors and ask us for progress reports on her looks. The last thing we want is to have to say, “No, you don’t look any prettier yet.”
MY FRIENDS AND I decide to give Peter’s idea a shot. On the day of the planned intervention — the first Monday after Thanksgiving — Lily is sitting at her ugly naked piano, striving for the impossible, as usual. She thinks this is one of our regular Nights of Creation.
As a group, we approach Lily. I put my hand on her instrument and say, in a formal voice, “Lily, we would like to speak to you.”
“Yes?” she says, looking at me without stopping her playing.
“On the couch.”
“Really?”
I nod.
The music dwindles and stops. “What’s it about?”
“Come this way.”
She takes a seat on the couch. Peter and I sit on the ottoman cubes in front of her. The others sit on either side of her.
Peter will be making the speech. He told us in confidence that he prepared one, so we decided to let him be the main speaker, since the intervention was his idea. I hope it’ll be good.
Leaning toward Lily, his elbows resting on his knees in a casual pose, this is what he says to her: “You know, in my line of work, I’m out and about in the world a lot. I go to fancy dinner parties and I see women who dehumanize themselves, who treat themselves as though they’re pieces of meat. They objectify themselves. And as if that’s not bad enough, they don’t even do it for themselves, they usually do it for someone else: for a man. It’s really sad.”
“Okay,” Lily says, appearing uncertain as to what he’s getting at.
Peter remains silent, until she says, “And? What? You think I do that?”
“Only you know,” Peter answers.
“I don’t do that,” she says.
“These women see themselves as merchandise.” He pauses and looks at her meaningfully, letting his words sink in. “They get facelift upon facelift upon nose job upon cheekbone implant upon breast augmentation upon liposuction upon lip enhancement. It seems to me the only way these women are able to subject themselves to so many procedures is by viewing their bodies as nothing more than material possessions. Can you imagine how hard that must be on their spirits, to see themselves as nothing but meaningless, lowly objects? They may not realize it, but consistently thinking of the external appearance as both supremely important and also as an object whose uniqueness and differences are not valued or appreciated and must therefore be butchered and uniformized has got to wear the spirit down on some deep level.”
His words express how I feel so perfectly, they make me want to cry.
I have to admit I’m intrigued by him. And I’m starting to like him very much: for this speech, for his effort, for recognizing Lily has a problem, and for caring enough to do something about it. I like that he took the initiative on this, that despite knowing her less well than we do, he took a more forceful step than we have ever taken with her. He’s the first person outside of our group that I’ve been drawn to in a long time, since before Gabriel died.