Took me a while to get out of the Jaguar. Stared through the windshield at the chrome cat on the hood in mid-pounce, practically ablaze in the light. What happened to you, Mother? I asked the cat. Did you fall down some well of madness? Am I following you now into the dark? The cat just shone there quietly like a sphinx.
From outside, the apartment looks impeccable, like Mother herself. Windows sparkling. Flowers bright. The place seems alive, awake, even. Like she might still be in there, she never fell from the cliff. Can’t I picture her inside, singing to herself right now? At her vanity table, maybe, before her three-paneled mirror. Smiling as she powders her face with her little white puff. Strangely, I hear music then. Coming from inside Mother’s place. Doesn’t sound like Mother’s music though. Not the ?dith Piaf variety. This is heavy, loud, psychedelic-sounding. And then I notice that the plants have already been watered. The soil in which the roses grow is black and damp and slick. The pots are going drip, drip onto the concrete floor of the veranda. I put down the box and grab one of them—a heavy pot, just in case—and open the door, already unlocked. Oh, I’m awake now. Heart beginning to pound. Potted plant raised.
Inside, the music’s so loud, Mother’s windows seem to tremble. No one in the bright living room apart from Anjelica on the couch, licking her paws.
When I get to the kitchen, I scream.
There by the sink stands a man with his shirt off. Bopping his head to the earthquake of sound.
For a minute I watch him, transfixed. The pot must have slipped from my hands, because there is a crashing sound. He sees me standing there in the shattered clay. He smiles. Lowers the volume on a little speaker on the table. “Hey,” he says. “You must be Belle. Nice to meet you.”
I just stare at him.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” this man says. He reaches out his hand. I stare at that, too. On his wrist is some sort of braided leather bracelet. Two black twisting cords. A feeling in my body. Coursing through it. Not the first time I’ve encountered a half-naked man in Mother’s kitchen. Not the first time they’ve known my name, said it’s nice to meet me while I just stood there like a psychopath. I almost expect Mother to come sauntering in now in one of her silk robes, glowing from sex and reeking of smoky violets. Oh good, looks like you two have met.
The man reaches forward and hugs me. Suddenly I’m enveloped in hard, beach-scented flesh. I can feel him patting my back with a large, friendly hand. There, there. He really wants me to feel this, but I’m rigid in his embrace.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Who are you?”
He pulls back, still gripping my shoulders with his very warm hands. “I’m Tad,” this man says softly.
Tad, I think. Of course he is. Did Mother ever mention a Tad?
“I clean your mother’s windows,” Tad says. “I water the plants and things too. Do a bit of landscaping.” He waves a hand vaguely at the rosebushes outside. I stare at tall, broad, shirtless Tad. Leonine hair. Tanned torso. Impossible biceps covered in oceanic tattoos. Apart from the tattoos, all of Mother’s favorite man-traits.
“My mother’s dead,” I say, a little shocked at myself.
But Tad just nods somberly. “I know,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” He’s got a beer in his hand now. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine, thank you.” I nod. But there’s a crack in my voice. My lip twitches. I look away.
“Cool,” Tad says. “I lost my father a while ago. And that really knocked me out.” He shakes his head. Dirty-blond hair. Sandy, really. “So I get it. You can just tell me to fuck off if you want to.”
He pauses here. I should say, Of course not. Thank you though. Sorry about your father. “Don’t fuck off,” I say.
“Honestly?” Tad says. “I just came over today because I didn’t know what else to do with myself, you know?”
On the table, I notice two roses floating in a martini glass filled with water. Tad must have done this. Clipped the flowers and set them afloat in the glass. There’s a bowl full of floating roses on the coffee table, too. Also Tad’s handiwork. Mother hated roses, I could tell him. For as long as I can remember. She even used to be allergic. I’m still allergic to cheap apologies, easy bribes, she always said. But shouldn’t Tad know that? I try to imagine him clipping the roses, whispering to them, perhaps. Cupping them in his hands like baby birds. Setting them afloat in a bowl to die. I’m going the way of roses, Belle.