I walk out of the room as she begins miming maracas. Or should I say myming.
*
“So, what do people call you?” asks Jacky.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You have a nickname or something?”
“Well, my mother calls me Ellie,” I say. “And I used to have this boyfriend who called me Nor, which I hated because I thought it made me sound like a Viking. But mostly people call me just Eleanor.”
“What about Lee?” she asks. “Mind if I call you that?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Suits you.” She nods. “Kinda masculine.”
*
My mother and I are planning to spend Thanksgiving at That Home with my father. There’s no point traveling, and anyway, there’s nowhere I can think to go. The wing of That Home my father lives in is called Memento Gardens, though I’ve heard the staff call it Memory Loss Gardens. Every time I think of that I want to grab my father’s hand, douse the place in gasoline, throw a match over my shoulder, light a cigarette on the flames, and run and run with him without ever looking back.
*
“Do you know where I can buy weed?”
Frank and I are walking back from the falafel place. It’s gotten cold all of a sudden.
“Whoa.” He laughs. “Big plans for Thanksgiving?”
“Just family stuff,” I say.
“Sounds like you feel about family stuff how I feel about family stuff,” he says. “Sure, I can put you in touch with my dealer.”
“I appreciate it.”
“What are bosses for? But I should warn you. Don’t go to his apartment.”
“Why? Is he dangerous?”
“God no! He’s a kitten. But he’s a hoarder.”
“I’m going to need more context.”
“The context is that he doesn’t throw anything away. Yellow newspapers to the fucking ceiling. He has, like, twelve old TV sets, none of which work. And once you’re in there he’ll want to show you everything. I got trapped looking at his collection of chipped old teapots for twenty minutes. Do yourself a favor and meet him on the street.”
“Okay,” I say. “Hoarder. Noted.”
Frank gives me a sideways glance. “I can go with you if you like.”
I try to suppress my smile. “Wouldn’t that be a little inappropriate?”
“I think we passed appropriate about two blocks back.”
“Two blocks and two months back,” I say.
“No.” Frank clutches my arm. “Have we only known each other that long?”
One month, three weeks, and five days.
“Round about,” I say.
Frank says something, but a crowd of schoolchildren barrel between us as we turn the corner. He pivots to let them pass, and I miss the words.
*
Frank arranges for us to meet the dealer after work on a corner near Gramercy Park, the least suspicious of all the parks. As we walk up, I see a man wearing a T-shirt that reads “99% ANGEL” under a baseball jacket. He spots us and jogs over. He and Frank embrace. He puts his hand in Frank’s pocket, and Frank puts his hand in his.
“Brother,” he says.
“My man,” says Frank. “How are we doing?”
“Blissful,” he says. “You?”
Frank grins. “Haven’t killed myself or anyone else today.”
“This will help with that,” he says, nodding toward Frank’s pocket.
“This is my friend Eleanor,” says Frank.
The dealer gives me his hand to shake.
“What’s the other one percent?” I point toward his T-shirt.
He turns around and slides his jacket down his shoulders. The back of his T-shirt reads “1%?”
“We’ve all got one percent question mark,” he says, winking at Frank.
“I need to write that down,” Frank says, laughing. “That’s a tagline right there!”
My eye catches on something near the bushes by the railings of the park. It’s partially covered by brown leaves, but it is unmistakably a dead piglet. Its little body is curved like a C. There’s a red brand on its side. I can see the white hairs on its pale pink skin, its limp, dark trotters.
“Oh god,” I say. “There’s a dead piglet behind you.”
“What the fuck?” The dealer spins around.
“Where? Where?” Frank is clutching my arm.
The dealer starts laughing. “You scared the shit out of me,” he says.
He walks over to the railing and kicks it with his foot. I watch the piglet float into the air. It is a pink shopping bag. I stare at it. Red logo, black handles.