House of Blues

she wasn't at work, she was either asleep or
just couldn't get up the energy to find the phone book. She couldn't
shop or cook either. She ordered greasy po' boys from the Verti Marte
or the Quarter Master, and her clothes got tighter.
    Her appetite was erratic, but she never lost it
completely.
    Mostly, she ate because she was hungry, not because
it gave her pleasure.
    Steve Steinman, worried and sure he could cure her,
came for a weekend and went home more worried. She did with him what
she did with her other friends, with Cindy Lou and Jimmy Dee, even
with the kids and Darryl—she listened politely, ate and drank at
appropriate times, even laughed at the proper places, but didn't
contribute much.
    "Darling, the sparkle is gone," wailed
Dee-Dee. "You do not shine and glitter from twenty paces. You
are no longer a walking Christmas tree, a spinning Ferris wheel, a
revolving klieg light.
    Quite simply, you are not Margaret Langdon. You are a
pathetic and flagrant impostor." He was begging her to take a
little time of! Everybody knew how to save her.
    But weeks went by and she
didn't get better.
    * * *
    Her doorbell rang one Saturday.
    Convinced it was one of the drunks who prowl the
Quarter pushing bells for amusement, she ignored it. But it rang
again and she came alert—the pranksters didn't break stride when
they rang, much less waited for an answer.
    She was sleeping as usual, but thought it might be
one of the kids, locked out or something. She roused herself: '"Who
is it?"
    " Tricia. Back from the dead."
    She was too disoriented to answer right away.
    Tricia said, "Are you speaking to me?"
    I can barely remember who you are.
    But she said, "Of course. I'll be right out,"
and remembered too late that Tricia was a drunk.
    Well, if she's drunk I'll send her away. It's the
middle of the day, she'll be fine. But she knew she wouldn't. She
would take care of Tricia if she needed her; caretaking was one of
the few things for which she could still find energy.
    Something about guilt, probably.
    "I brought you something? Tricia was holding a
beribboned package.
    Probably a peace offering.
    She looked good in a T-shirt and shorts that showed
legs shiny gold from the sun. Her eyes were bright and clear.
    Now she has her sparkle, Skip thought. She does
glitter at twenty paces.
    "You look wonderfu1." Feeling a surge of
warmth for her old friend, she held out her arms for a hug.
    "I do, don't I? I'm on a pink cloud."
    "What does that mean? You're in love?"
    "It's something we say in AA."
    "Oh. AA." Skip let it hang there.
    They walked back to the courtyard, where, for once,
there were no kids and no puppy.
    "Want to sit out here?"
    " Perfect."
    Skip left and came back with a couple of Diet Cokes.
"Tell me about the pink cloud."
    "It's that great feeling you get when you get
all the toxins out of your body." She spread her hands, as if
displaying her purified form. "And your life is going somewhere
again, and you're surrounded by nice, supportive people. Of course,
it doesn't last—we all know that—but it feels great for a while.
    "Clean and sober for a month. Congratulate me."
    "Tricia, that's wonderful."
    "I went through a seven-day treatment program.
On the streets three weeks—I'm a new person." She saluted with
her Coke. "And you were there when I hit bottom."
    " You mean the scene in front of Maya's?"
    "Oh, God, that was nothing. I bet I've thrown
ten of those fits in the last six months. I mean having you see
me—you know, in that place."
    "Maya's?"
    "I thought I'd die. I swear I did."
    " I don't get it."
    " You wouldn't think embarrassment would do it,
would you? You'd think having a wreck or beating your kid—now that
would sober you up. But there you were, my oldest friend, and you
thought I was sober and doing great, and there I was, holding onto
the chandelier for dear life." She shook her head. "I can't
explain it. All I know is, I thought, ‘What the fuck has become of
me?' "
    Skip laughed. "Rather unseemly for a McGehee's
girl."
    Tricia covered her head with her hands, as if to
hide. "Life is too silly, isn't it?"
    Skip was unconvinced; it had seemed deadly serious
lately.
    "Anyway, it was all your doing." Tricia
handed her the package.
    "So I brought you a present."
    It contained a framed picture, a pen-and-ink drawing
of a large, proud, black woman. With very few strokes, the artist had
captured a state of mind that said, "I am a goddess and don't
you forget it."
    In spite of herself, Skip was