House of Blues

touched. "Carol
Leake. I have one of her watercolors."
    "You're kidding."
    "I'll show you." She realized that her
oldest friend had never been inside her home.
    Tricia exclaimed appropriately over its adorableness,
the tastefulness of its decor, and the beauty of its artwork,
including the aforementioned Carol Leake, which, upon inspection,
proved to be a study of the same model who'd sat for the drawing.
    The warmth she felt for Tricia was increasing by the
moment, as the broken bond mended itself, as she remembered the
things they'd been through together, over so many years. Somehow the
fact that Tricia had picked this drawing by this artist, whom Tricia
couldn't possibly have known she admired, made her feel known.
Understood.
    Part of something ongoing; something that might last.
    But it wore off.
    They hung the picture, Tricia advising on the exact
right spot, and settled themselves once more. And after a while
Tricia began to annoy her.
    She's so pleased with herself, so damn smug, so
thrilled with her little achievement.
 
Skip
remembered her screaming, out of control in front of Maya's, and
thought, What the hell is she thinking? This is never going to last.
She was so out of sorts, her nerves so frayed and raw, that she
blurted it out: "Come on, Tricia, you've done this before. What
makes you think it'll stick?"
    And then she thought, She'll go right out and scare
drugs. She'll get strung out and it'll be all my fault.
    " God, Tricia—I'm sorry. I don't know why I
said that."
    But Tricia smiled, apparently unoffended. "It's
okay. I ask myself that all the time." She leaned over and
patted Skip's hand. "Don't look so miserable. It's okay.
Really."
    Skip was still mortified. "Want another Coke?"
    Tricia didn't acknowledge that she'd spoken. "It's
worse than you think, Skip. I've done it twice before. But to answer
your question, I have no idea whether I can make it stick. You know
what we say in my religion—one day at a time."
    It's so fucking pat.
    " You want to know what? I'm hanging by a thread
here. But today I'm okay.
    "If I get loaded tomorrow, so be it. But today
I'm okay." She shrugged. "And I feel like I've got my life
back."
    Skip felt a surge of envy. "You seem . . .
almost happy."
    " I'm delirious. I'm trying to be a writer, but I
don't write because I've been so out of it lately. Instead, I'm a
cocktail waitress. I haven't had a date in two years that you could
actually call ‘a date.' I mean I might have slept with a few guys
whose names I can't remember, but nothing—you know—resembling a
relationship. I've only got a month's sobriety and I'm already a
two-time loser—in short, I'm a mess. But I'm thrilled out of my
mind. I'm beside myself with delight. Life's crazy, huh?"
    Skip thought of the night, weeks ago, when Steve had
been with her and they were at dinner with Cindy Lou and Layne and
Jimmy Dee, and she had been so happy she wanted to preserve the
moment in amber. It was the same night Toni had read her palm; the
night before Jim was shot.
    " Yeah. Life's crazy." Skip tried to keep
the bite out of her voice. "Uh-oh. Something's wrong."
    "You don't know, do you?" Tricia must have
been in rehab when Skip was front page news. Skip didn't feel like
dancing around it: "Somebody killed my partner, and I ended up
killing him."
    Tricia was quiet. Finally, she said, "How are
you handling it?"
    " Poorly. Damn badly." Here was someone
she'd known her whole life, who probably wouldn't think she was nuts
if she mentioned that she herself was hanging by a thread. She told
her everything, ending with the part that was consuming her. "The
worst part is, I feel like it's all a big zero. I can't figure out
what the fuck it means."
    ''What it means?"
    " Did I have to go through this for nothing?
Isn't there something to be learned from it? There's got to be
something. But so far no. Everyone tells me I'm a hero and I did a
great job. And I know I did a great job. He'd already tried to kill
me by the time I shot. He fired first, and he probably would have got
me if I hadn't seen his reflection—so see, I did a good job, and
not only that, I was lucky. " She threw out her arms in
frustration. "So I'm here and he's not. What the hell does it
mean?"
    "Why was he trying to kill you?"
    "You know, you're the first person to ask that?
Even Cindy Lou never asked. I don't have the least idea why he was
trying to kill me. I didn't stop to ask him."
    Tricia sat back on Skip's striped sofa. "It's
got to give