(painting courtesy Leigh-Anne Eagerton)
She has never met a fellow pedestrian along this stretch of sidewalk where the lawns are as stiff and green as Astroturf and studded with perpetual cheery blossoms, topiary with surgical edges, and fountains gushing nowhere, forever. The heat of the mica-flecked cement penetrates her stocking feet. She picks a sprig of jasmine for her hair and pauses to observe the pair of blonde Chihuahuas bouncing and shrieking at her from behind their vaulted leaded-glass window. By the time she reaches Mae’s house she’s slick with sweat. She retrieves the keys she hid behind the brass lion to get the mail from the mailbox and the large box from a florist and lets herself in.
It’s always chilly at Mae’s. On her way to the kitchen she pauses outside Holly’s door to listen, then stacks the mail neatly on the threshold. She arranges the flowers in a vase while the microwaves hums and then carries the bowl of popcorn back to her makeshift office in the living room. On the coffee table there is a note written in Holly’s tight script.
- Chapter 5 will do fine.
- Please strike any mention of that fellow from chapter
- Unnecessary to dwell in something so short and forgettable and don’t let his head get any fatter.
- Think you will agree with suggestions in the margins.
- She will be home for weekend. Please be here Sat. and Sun. to let yoga in and for var. deliveries.
- Remember, you’re job is to make it all sound good. Intelligent! Talented! Unique and beautiful! Make it shine!
These notes from Holly are always simultaneously annoying and flattering. First, there’s the small thrill of finding a hand-written letter and for a moment Drew might have a secret admirer, someone who’s noticed her from afar and who’s been snooping around in her papers. Then she reads its patronizing passive voice, the gall and poor grammar and Drew is tempted to rip it up and toss it like confetti. What the hell does “will do fine” mean? Does that mean it’s good or not? And who told Holly that any of this was her business, anyhow? Who does she think she is?
Drew knocks loudly three times, then stands looking at the portrait of Mae beside Holly’s door. It’s an ostensible Lichtenstein, a close-up of Mae’s lip-biting caricature under a cartoon balloon filled with an asterix, an ampersand, a dollar, a percentage sign, a question mark and an exclamation point.
She knocks again.
Nothing.
*&$%?!
She crumples the note into her pocket.
Maybe she should call Mae.
The other night on the phone when Drew asked her what she looks for in a man, Mae had said, “Someone who doesn’t get in my way.” They had both laughed. Then her voice got small and distant. “I feel so alone,” she had said.
Drew had been standing by the Lilien’s living room window. “No you don’t. Mae Beacon never feels lonely. Mae Beacon doesn’t need anyone. She’s her own best friend. She’s a village unto herself, a vastly populated city full of diverse and interesting individuals living fabulously. ”
Mae said, “But I am lonely today.”
Drew had flopped down on the sofa and tried to sound chipper. “Maybe that’s what you should be feeling now, then. I mean, for your role. Just remember, Edna thought she was alone but she wasn’t. Remember what we talked about? How she wants to get away from society and never realizes how society’s distractions and deceptions save us from ourselves?”
“But Edna’s friends don’t take her seriously. They only like one part of her, they don’t like the rest. They don’t like her serious side. What’s so wrong with taking things seriously?”
“Nothing, of course. You have to take things seriously. But you can’t get sucked under. I mean you shouldn’t get depressed or something. It would be stupid to ignore or forget all the people who love you.”
There was a long pause before Mae said, “Edna is depressed, though. Isn’t she?”
“Well I’m not a doctor so I don’t really feel comfortable making that diagnosis. But probably today, they’d have her pumped up on all kinds of pills. Mommy’s little helpers.” From the Lilien’s window, Drew could see the tips of Mae’s well-coiffed and uplit palm trees nodding in unison in the evening breeze. “Maybe it would help if you told yourself she’s not depressed, she’s just artistic. Maybe lonliness is selfish, in a way. Sometimes I think depression is a form of narcisissm. Remember when Edna was laughing at herself? She felt two opposite things simultaneously. Maybe one can feel lonely and still resist the false illusion of aloneness. Maybe one can laugh at one’s own depression.”
Mae said. “That’s why I like you. You’re just so smart.”
In Mae’s bathroom, Drew splashes her face with cold water. Her face in the mirror looks pale and thin, wraithlike. In the medicine cabinet she finds a pot of moisturizer and some lipstick. The lotion smells like rain, like Mae did when she hugged Drew goodbye. Drew massages it into her cheeks, her neck, her arms, her legs: an ablution, a cleansing, a second skin. She coats her lips with the pink gloss and smiles. It’s not her color but it doesn’t matter.
Of course the book is good. It’s fabulous. It’s the greatest thing she’s ever written. How could it be anything less than fabulous?
