I woke in the late afternoon, fuzzy and unsettled. I couldn’t remember much of the night before. I checked my purse and my pockets for clues. My cigarettes were gone. I’d either lost them or smoked them. I checked my phone and saw a voice mail from Sally, plus the café had called four times. I had completely missed my shift. My manager would be gone by now. I’d have to go in and talk to him. I hoped I wasn’t fired.
I listened to the message from Sally. I’d never heard her voice shake like this.
“Charlotte, honey, it’s Sally Reeves. I guess you heard what happened. If you’re free this evening could you stop over? We need to talk. It’s important.”
I didn’t want to see Sally ever again. But what could I do? Her daughter was dead. I showered and dressed, still feeling like shit. I went outside and discovered my car wasn’t there. Okay, I must’ve left it at the bar. I rode my bike to the corner store for cigarettes and smoked one on my way to the Harp. My old Nissan sat alone under the magnolia at the rear of the lot. I angled the bike into the trunk and drove to the Vietnamese deli on Travis for coffee and a banh mi.
Cars on Milam Street whirled light through the plate-glass window. I finished my sandwich, even the jalapenos, the heat of the peppers waking me. I smoked and flipped through the paper. Danielle’s murder was on the front page and in the Metro section. They had printed a photograph of the motel where Danielle died, an old, shabby place. I wondered why she had gone there. Another photo of an interior had the caption, “A room in the Astro Motel similar to the one where Reeves’ body was found.” It didn’t look particularly special—a bed, a lamp, a mirror, a sink. No blood anywhere, no indication of the gore in those other photographs, the ones the detective showed me.
I turned to the inside of the Metro section and saw an old picture of Danielle that I remembered from high school. She wore my shirt in the photo, a thrift-store T-shirt with a silk-screened swing set on the front. She stretched it out—her boobs were bigger than mine, even before she got them done—so I had let her keep it. Next to that was a family photo I hadn’t seen before, taken when Danielle was about twelve and already pretty in a sultry, grown-up way.
I left the paper on the table and stopped on Fannin to buy flowers, a white bouquet of lilies and some tiny round buds, I forgot their name. I spent a lot. It was Sally’s money, after all. I wondered if Danielle would have liked them. If she even liked flowers. We never bought flowers, or talked about flowers. Flowers weren’t exactly a part of our lives.
I took Montrose to West Gray and made my way to Sally’s. The house rose behind a giant lawn with a walk that led straight from the curb to the front door. Before Danielle, I’d never met anybody who lived in River Oaks. Their house was a medium-sized mansion with a gray stone façade. As a kid I was dazzled by it. The rooms appeared to multiply, another and then another; I couldn’t retain the whole floor plan in my mind at once. A housekeeper came every day and kept the kitchen stocked with artisan breads, nice cheeses, and olives. The fridge always contained fancy leftovers from some catered party—duck quesadillas, wilted kale, smoked salmon. I wore Danielle’s clothes, which the housekeeper washed and hung in the closet. I loved the food and how clean everything was. The art on the walls cost a fortune.
Now Sally answered my knock in stocking feet, no jacket, her blouse tucked into her suit skirt.
“Thanks for stopping by, sweetie,” she said. “Come on in.”
The house looked the same as I remembered it: huge and clean, a little sterile. And way too big for one person. How did Sally feel, moving around in her expensive house, alone? I handed her the bouquet.
“Oh, they’re lovely, Charlotte,” she said. “I’ll get a vase. Can I offer you a drink? I’m having wine.”
“Sure,” I said. I could use it.
“Sit down.”
She gestured into the adjacent parlor, furnished with antiques and a woven rug that matched the drapes. Danielle and I had never spent time in this room. We hung out by the pool, mostly, and upstairs. Sally returned with the wine bottle and handed me a glass. She sat opposite me in a wing chair, the coffee table between us. Her toenails were painted a red that showed through her stockings. For some reason the toes bothered me. It was too intimate, seeing her without shoes, like she was half naked.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, and grimaced at the cliché.
“Well, you lost her, too,” Sally said. “It’s a difficult time.”
“Yes,” I said.
I wanted to gulp my wine but I wasn’t sure she’d refill it. I sipped it, replacing my glass on the coaster.
“I’m glad you came,” she said. “There are a couple of issues we need to discuss.”
I wondered if she wanted the money back. I didn’t have it all; I’d spent a lot on drinks.
“Charlotte,” she said, “how did this happen?”
“I have no idea.”
“You must know something. Who did this, Charlotte? Who did this to her? She’s dead now, you can tell me.”
“Why are you asking me?”
“You girls always kept secrets from me. I’m not an idiot. She must have brought this on herself.”
I gaped at her, heard the disgust in her tone. She hated Danielle, even dead. She always had.
“I deserve to know the truth,” she said. “I’m her mother.”
“No,” I said, louder than I meant to. “I don’t know what happened, I wasn’t involved.”
She glared at me and I looked back, unblinking. I imagined her business rivals crumbling under that gaze. She was nothing but a bully.
“I need a cigarette,” I said.
I stood and carried my wine towards the door. I closed it behind me and stood under the enormous lantern to smoke. In a minute Sally came out, carrying the bottle.
“Charlotte, forgive me,” she said. “That wasn’t fair. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
She looked broken now, confused. I wished I hadn’t raised my voice.
“I can’t believe it either,” I said.
“Let’s go around the side,” she said. “There’s the outdoor living room. It’s new, I don’t think you’ve seen it.”
We walked through an iron gate to a courtyard she’d had built, a copper fire pit surrounded by cushioned wicker couches. I lit another cigarette.
“Would you mind?” she said, gesturing towards the pack.
“You smoke?” I said.
“Not normally.”
She lit the cigarette and took a few inexpert puffs. She held it carefully. Her feet were still in stockings and I kept thinking the tiles would snag them and make a run. Holding a cigarette, her hands reminded me of Danielle’s. I thought, Danielle is gone and Sally is the ghost.
“I needed you here because I have a favor to ask,” she said. She sounded so vulnerable, struggling for composure. I felt guilty now.
“What can I do?”
“Are you aware that this matter is getting a lot of media attention?”
“I saw the paper today,” I said, thinking, This matter? Is that what we were calling it?
“There are elements that Danielle would have preferred to be kept private. It’s important that we respect her memory. You more than anyone can understand that.”
“Elements? What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on, Charlotte. What she did for a living. Lord knows what else she was involved in. Imagine that splashing all over CNN.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t talk to any reporters.”
“I see.”
“I’m glad you understand.”
“Did the cops tell you?” I said.
“Tell me what?” she said.
“That Danielle made porn.”
“I’d rather not talk about that,” she said. “I don’t think Danielle would want us to.”
“She never was good enough for you,” I said, angry. “You never cared how she felt or what she wanted, only how things looked.”
Sally paled. Amazed, I watched the color sink from her face. I’d scared her. How often did anyone scare her? It made me feel reckless and powerful.
“Charlotte, please. You have to understand. She’s dead. My daughter. I’m asking you this favor.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know she’s dead. You don’t have to keep saying it.”
“Think of all I’ve done for you,” she said. “I took care of you, all those years.”
“And now you’re cashing in,” I said.
“Charlotte, I don’t mean it like that. Please. I’m sorry, I’m not myself.”
She was bad at begging, bad at needing help from other people. I could tell she hadn’t had to do it much in her life. She struggled to keep the frustration out of her words. Her phone rang from inside the house, and she tossed her cigarette in the fire pit.
She looked tired and old, and I felt sorry for her, disgusted at my cruelty. I hated how Sally always tried to spin everything, always tried to manage Danielle. Still, I remembered Danielle’s embarrassment about the porn, her reluctance about telling me. She hadn’t even wanted me to know. Sally went in to get the phone and the outdoor lights came on—lanterns along the path, a garland of golden bulbs strung on the trellis to my left. It was getting dark.
I had a flash of memory from the night before, of Ash bending over me in the car. Suddenly the whole night resurfaced—the holding cell, that woman screaming in the corner, the girl who pulled my hair. I felt sickened, and sickening, like I was a poison I couldn’t stop swallowing. Paralyzed by shame, I stared at the floral pattern on the cushions until my focus went soft. I gulped my wine, lit a new cigarette, and sucked the smoke deep inside. I wanted anything that came from outside myself. Any foreign substance.
Ash. I had never let another person see me that pathetic. Not since middle school, anyhow, when everybody knew my mom took drugs and my clothes were always wrinkled. Fury at myself brought on a sudden vertigo, a starting and stopping, as in a dream of falling. I imagined myself in a car crash, a violent death, going over a cliff. Through a barrier and into empty air, to shatter on the rocks below. Not that there were any cliffs in Houston. This place was so flat you could see the curve of the earth.
I looked at my hands in my lap. With my nails I pinched the webbed skin between my thumb and forefinger. A tiny crescent of blood grew. I licked it. The skin on my hands had always been thin, fragile. Like my mom’s. She complained about it. If she was feeling okay, she was diligent about moisturizing. She kept tubs of cocoa butter in the kitchen, the bathroom, by the bed and the TV. When the pain increased she took the Oxy and it knocked her out for days in a row—sometimes weeks. Her hands would get scratchy and dry. She lay there and gazed at the ceiling until it was time for her pills. The smell of cocoa butter always made me miss her. Made me nervous.
Sally appeared, the phone in her hand. She had slipped on a pair of ballet flats. I stood.
“You don’t have to worry,” I said. “I’m not going to talk to reporters. I wasn’t going to anyways.”
“Oh, Charlotte, I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” she said. “Thank you.”
I shrugged.
She said, “The memorial service is tomorrow. You should be there. Will you come?”
“I guess so,” I said.
“Good. It’s at the Episcopal church on Alabama. Three o’clock.”
“Okay.”
“I’m glad. Lord have mercy if her other friends show up. I can’t imagine what they’ll be wearing.”
“What they’ll be wearing?” I said. “You’re afraid the other porn stars will embarrass you.”
Her face crumpled and she made an involuntary sound, the beginning of a sob. I watched her regain control, and she stared at me, smooth and full of rage.
“I don’t deserve this,” she said. “Not any of it.” Her voice was icy.
“Neither did she,” I said.
We watched one another for a long moment. Her hands shook, I noticed. I was shaking, too. Finally she turned away, to face the pool and the privacy fence beyond.
“I’m going,” I said to her rigid back.
“Wait,” she said, turning. “One more thing, please.”
“What?”
“I know you saw her, you spoke to her.”
“Yes.”
“Did she say anything about me?”
“Not really,” I said.
“What does that mean, not really?”
“She asked what you wanted,” I said. “That’s pretty much it.”
I could have told her about Danielle refusing the money, but I didn’t want to get into it. I walked around the house and let myself in to get my purse. I drove and got lost in the curvy River Oaks streets, then headed west on Memorial, past the park and the Loop, through subdivisions. I kept driving, hoping to dislodge the film of sorrow and anger that clung to me, clutched at my heels, my hair. Hoping to get away from the difficult world. I drove until I didn’t feel anything anymore. I drove and drove, the radio silent, the windows open to the soft wet air.
The air had a sound as I moved my car through it. I listened and thought of physics, the behavior of sound in outer space. It must be different, faster or quieter, maybe. If sound had no atmosphere to travel through, did it arrive more quickly or did it simply die? Maybe the emptiness trapped it so it couldn’t go anywhere, forever stuck at its source. I couldn’t remember how it worked, though I’d surely learned it in school. The question was like a koan, except that it was science; I had simply forgotten the answer.
This one night—it was maybe junior year—Danielle and I took some pills, I don’t remember what, and cruised around. I’m surprised we didn’t wreck. We were on the east side, near the ship channel, a part of town I never went to. Danielle turned on a side street near a big refinery and we parked facing it, watching the flames atop the towers. It looked like a miniature city, futuristic and menacing. Its smoke lit white in the sky before fading into general smog.
“It’s cool, isn’t it?” Danielle said. We walked over the weed-cracked asphalt and tar seams still soft from the day. We stretched out on the hood of her car, leaning against the windshield, smoking a joint. We’d left the radio on. Contaminants laced the air.
“Too bad it smells so weird,” I said.
“My uncle used to bring me out this way, to the Ninfa’s on Navigation. We’d get dinner the nights Sally worked late.”
“I didn’t know you had an uncle.”
“Sally’s brother. He moved to Colorado. I used to go to his house in the afternoons. He picked me up from school my sixth grade year, it was right after my dad left. They knew us there, at the restaurant. I always got the kids’ meal. Fajitas and a queso puff.”
“I love queso puffs,” I said. “I could eat one right now.” I was high.
“I think Sally paid him to take care of me. She was always at work. He didn’t have a job.”
She sounded strange, like her words came from far off.
“You keep in touch with him?” I said.
“He sends me a birthday card with twenty dollars in it every year. I always throw it out.”
“Even the money?”
“Yeah. I don’t need his fucking money.”
“Shit, you should give it to me,” I said. “I’d take it.”
“Ha. Too late.” Her birthday was a month ago already.
“You’re a spoiled brat.”
“Yep.” She laughed.
“Why do you throw the money away?” I said.
“He used to fuck me.”
“What?” I said.
She pointed at the refinery, the pipes interwoven, going every direction.
“I loved driving past here. You can see it from the freeway. I used to pretend fairies lived in it. They made the fires with their magic.”
“Are you serious?” I said. “It’s not funny.”
“Give me a cigarette.”
She wasn’t smiling. We sat smoking, listening to the car radio. I was shocked.
“Does Sally know?” I said.
“I told her, after he moved away,” she said. “It’s weird, though. I don’t think she remembers.”
“How could she not?”
“It was a long time ago. There was a lot going on.”
“Danielle, that doesn’t make sense.”
“She was such a freak after my dad left. It would have upset her and caused problems. She didn’t want me home alone. Without Uncle Alex I would have to take the bus home from school and be by myself in the afternoons.”
“But maybe if you’d told her sooner—”
“She wouldn’t have cared, she was fucked up already. The divorce was bad. My parents were both such jerks. She worked late, she got drunk every night on her fancy bottles of wine. I basically stayed in my room and watched TV.”
“Danielle, my god. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing? It should be her. She should apologize.”
“Well, he should,” I said. “Fucking bastard.”
“He came to visit, at Thanksgiving. I guess it was a couple of years later. We had a bunch of people at our house. And he showed up.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing. He ate dinner. I didn’t talk to him, I was at the kids’ table in the breakfast room. They gave us that sparkling apple juice that comes in a fake champagne bottle.”
“Why didn’t she throw him out? Or call the police?”
“I don’t know. I figured she must have forgotten. How could she invite him to Thanksgiving?”
She was crying then. I hugged her.
“God, I hate her,” Danielle said. “I fucking hate her.”
Later, after she started dancing, she talked about the abuse openly, like it wasn’t a big deal. She mentioned details, coloring books he’d bought her. He used to close the curtains and make her undress in the middle of the living room. He liked to sit in this big recliner while she watched TV naked. She liked this show, an after-school soap opera for kids called Tribes. I remembered it; I’d watched it, too. Danielle said a lot of the dancers at the club had been molested. She joked about it being a prerequisite for the job, that they might as well ask about it in the audition. The recliner, she said, was blue.
It was all such a long time ago. As I drove I thought, No one cares about that now.
I kept driving, longing for a silent, dark place, beyond the streetlights and the lights of the city. But the city never stopped, it reached and reached. There was no sky beyond the hovering, staining smog. I killed my headlights, as a test, and I could see the road easily, lit by the air. The grid stretched endlessly, inescapable. I made a U-turn on the wide road, headed to the center of town, wishing there was somebody who could help me, tell me what to do.