accidentally slit both his wrists? At which point, what…he thought to himself, ‘Well shit, this sucks. I guess I’ll wait for all my blood to slowly leave my body and if it still hurts after that point, I’ll call 911.’”
“I don’t know,” Mary Ann said. “Maybe he passed out. Maybe he was embarrassed….”
“Right, that must be where they got the expression ‘embarrassed to death.’”
“Okay, whatever. I still say it could have happened. If you’ll excuse me, I have to use the little girls’ room.”
“Be careful you don’t accidentally slit your wrists while wiping yourself.”
“You are so crude,” Mary Ann said as she made her way down the narrow hallway.
I finally allowed myself to give up the battle for self-control and broke into a fit of giggles. When I caught my breath, I unsuccessfully tried to give Dena my most stern look. “You were kind of harsh, weren’t you?”
“I’m sorry, but there are times when her immense ignorance tries my patience. And what does she mean ‘the little girls’ room’? She’s so fucking delicate she can’t even call it a bathroom for Christ’s sake.”
I shook my head. I knew Dena loved Mary Ann in a big-sister kind of way. My mind wandered back to the time when a boyfriend of Mary Ann’s had slapped her across the face. Dena had repaid him by breaking his nose.
Mary Ann emerged from the bathroom, an experience she seemed to have managed to get through without incident, and began to search my refrigerator for a more fattening alternative to the popcorn. She settled on a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. I eyed her size-four form enviously before refocusing on Dena, who was now examining the Blockbuster rental we had originally planned to watch. “I have a big shipment of vibrators coming to the shop first thing tomorrow morning, so if we’re going to watch this we should do it soon.”
Mary Ann made a face. “And you’re embarrassed to be related to me.”
“Don’t knock it before you try it. If those Neiman women you wait on started using vibrators, they wouldn’t have to spend so much money on face cream to look rejuvenated.”
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe Lancôme should make it their next gift-with-purchase.”
Mary Ann started giggling and even Dena broke into a smile. She waved the movie in the air. “So should I put this in?”
I tried to muster up some enthusiasm for a movie night, but after reviewing the details of Tolsky’s bloody death I no longer felt in the mood for Hannibal Lecter. Maybe I could use the rather vivid images floating around my head to add some realism to my crime scenes. At least that way I could feel like I was accomplishing something instead of sitting around idly after some razor-loving depressive screwed up my career.
I repositioned my chair so that I could easily address both of my guests. “Would you hate me if I ended things early this evening?”
Dena did a quick double take. “You want us to leave now? Thirty-five minutes for parking, Sophie!”
“I know. It’s just that the whole Tolsky thing has kind of knocked the wind out of me. I promise to make it up to you next week. We’ll do a double feature or something.”
“Don’t even worry about it, Sophie.” Mary Ann put the popcorn and peanut butter back in their respective places. “It totally makes sense that you would need some alone time.”
Dena let out an exacerbated sigh and reached for her sixties-style handbag. “Fine. I didn’t even get to fill you in on the intimate details of my date last night.”
“Anyone I know?” I grabbed the mailbox key before accompanying them to the lobby.
“No, new to the city. But I tell you, if last night was any indication, I’ll be adding another notch to my bedpost by the end of the week.”
Mary Ann’s color rose, and I let out a short laugh.
“What, I’m not entitled to a little fun?”
“You’re entitled.” I paused by the glass door. “But if you keep this up you’re going to have to break in a new post.”
Dena grinned. “Hell, I’m already on the fourth one. Soon I’m going to need a whole new bed.” She smoothed the lapels of her jacket and gave me an exaggerated wink. “If you really want to make tonight up to me, promise me that after you’ve finished with this manuscript we’ll celebrate with a bottle of wine at the Bitches’ Circle.”
“Oh, oh, I want to come this time!” Mary Ann flung her hand up in the air like a schoolgirl trying to get her teacher’s attention.
Dena looked at her through lowered lids. “You can’t, you’re not a bitch.”
“I can be a…I can be mean.”
Dena’s shoulders sagged at the evidence of her cousin’s impenetrable sweetness. Dena and I had been visiting our affectionately named Bitches’ Circle periodically for the last fourteen years. It was a little spot in the Redwood section of Golden Gate Park Botanical Gardens that consisted of a cluster of benches surrounded by high brush. There was a small podium made out of a redwood trunk, from which we surmised that the area was either designed for poetry readings or séances, but Dena and I used it as a place to drink and get catty.
“You’ve taken Sophie’s hairstylist.” Mary Ann stuck out the lower portion of her heart-shaped mouth. “It’s only fair that if he went, I should get to go.”
“Marcus? Oh, please, that guy could put Joan Rivers to shame. You, on the other hand, could barely hold your own with Marie Osmond.”
I stepped between the two of them. “I promise we’ll invite you. Just practice your swearing.” I took Mary Ann by both hands. “The word is ‘bitch.’”
I heard the unpleasant sound of Dena’s teeth grinding together, and I knew when the time came she would find a way to take me to our spot without the presence of any unwanted guests. But for now Mary Ann was pacified. She waited as Dena fished out her keys.
“Do we have to listen to Eminem again in the car? I just got a great new CD and I brought it with me….”
“We’re not fucking listening to Britney Spears.”
I held the door open for them and watched their backs retreat into the darkness. Why was I bothering with screenplays when two of my best friends were a sitcom ready to happen?
Before heading up to my flat, I inserted my key into my box and pulled out the mail I had neglected to pick up the day before. Fairly standard stuff—two credit card applications, one postcard from Macy’s announcing yet another “biggest sale of the year” and…and what? I studied the last envelope as I absently closed the apartment door behind me. No return address, just my mailing info typed neatly on the front. Weird. I opened it and read the one-sentence letter. “You reap what you sow.”
That was it. No greeting, just one typed turn of phrase. Okay, so we had moved from weird to downright freaky. Of course, I was used to getting a certain amount of fan mail from people who were a little whacked. Most of them were sent to me care of my publisher, but an occasional
