The Children(14)

“Free pub—a girl died, Candy.”

“Girls die.” Candy looked at her head-on. “People die.”

Guin dropped her cigarette, stomping it as she stood. “Good talk.”

“Give me a minute.” Candy adjusted herself irritably. “I’m worried about the new show.”

Guin twirled a finger like, Hurry it up. Candy talked faster.

“I don’t know anything. Ennis got a space without talking to me. He picked a date, put out a release. I didn’t even know the show was happening until last week, and I still don’t know what’s in it. I can barely—sometimes I can’t even find the guy. I don’t know whether it’s the lawsuit or if there’s a girl or if he’s having some kind of a crisis. And . . . his hand.” She gave Guin a forbidding look. “When he’s stressed he gets, you know. Phantom pain. I can tell it’s bad by the way he’s holding it. I’m not expecting you to want to help me. I’m asking you to . . .”

“What?” Guin was fully smiling. This was more satisfying than she thought it would be. “What could you possibly have the nerve to ask me for?”

“The show. I know everyone thinks . . . but I can’t see him doing a show about her. He doesn’t talk about your mother. Ever. So the title has me, uh. Concerned.” Candy’s eyes, with those unsettling brown-black irises, bore into Guin’s. “Look, how much do you remember? Ennis told me once he wasn’t sure how much you understood. You were pretty young, and considering what happened after—”

“Shut up.” Guin said it so loudly a woman walking by with a shih tzu startled back a step. “You washed-up hypocrite. What did you say to me seven years ago?”

Candy’s gaze skittered away from hers, landing somewhere over her shoulder. “I’m an addict in recovery. I don’t live in the past.”

“How convenient. I’ve stayed away, like you told me to, haven’t I? I’ve left him alone.”

Candy reached into the pocket of her disgusting leather jacket, streaked like bacon by years of hard wear, and pulled out a heavy cream-colored card.

Why did Guin’s knees go watery before she’d even read it? Maybe it was the thickness of the stock. It looked like an invitation. Her mind was tugged to the opening chapters of The Ninth City. Guinevere and Ennis—the sanitized fictional versions—received an invitation, too. It detonated their lives.

In centered sans serif font, the first line set larger than the second, the card read:

MOTHER

ENNIS SHARPE





In minuscule print at the bottom was an address, a date, and a time: somewhere in Brooklyn, nine at night. Five days from now.

“These’ll be delivered around the city next Wednesday.” Candy gave a risible French shrug. “Maybe you go check it out first. Maybe Ennis is there, and you talk to him.”

Deliberately, taking her time with the creases, Guin folded the invite into fours. Then she flicked it off her palm. It thudded dully against ancient leather.

“No way,” Candy said. “You’re not just gonna fuck off. Listen, Guinevere. D’you remember what he said to you, right after the—”

Guin cut her off. “I fucked off seven years ago, at your request. Now you can do the same.”





Interstitial




Whirlybird (2018)

Ennis Sharpe (1991–)

Beekhof Museum, Amsterdam





It wasn’t the first time Guin tracked her brother to a likely location. Her attempts to find him once she got there had the flavor of British farce: near misses, right place wrong time, Ennis always exiting one door as she entered another.

This was too high profile for her to miss him, the kind of thing even a famously elusive artist couldn’t duck out of: the opening reception of his new solo show, Whirlybird.

Guin didn’t try to sneak in. She didn’t think she had to. But as she approached the entrance a large man in a crisp cerulean suit stepped into her path, turning her wordlessly away.

She hadn’t pegged him for a bouncer, despite his size. He was too beautifully dressed. Nodding, she started to walk away, then doubled back and took the entrance at a run.

The man folded startlingly at the waist and caught her under the arms, driving her into the narrow street. His breath was harsh in her ear. She could smell the mealy peppermint of his mouthwash. “Buy me dinner first, fuckstick,” she panted, boots skidding in the snow. It was an epithet she’d never used in her life, flushed out like a pheasant by surprise.

His beefy face was impassive as a golem’s. He dropped her and retreated, though not too far. Narrowly Guin kept her feet, preparing to scream her brother’s name. She’d already clocked a couple of people recognizing her. It wouldn’t take much to make a big beautiful scene.

Then Candy was striding out the door, clad in her usual black. She looked like a stagehand. Or a pit bull, dressed as one. They’d never met, but Guin knew who she was.

“You’re not welcome here,” Candy said.

“Arf arf,” Guin replied, making a barking motion with her hand. She was pretty drunk.

Candy shook her head. “He doesn’t want to talk to you. How many times does he have to say it?”

“Once.” Guin showed her with a finger. “One time, to my face, and I’ll go.”