novels which did okay for a while, well enough to help with the mortgage payments andbuy groceries. There are nine of them so far. The Rodeo Rhonda series. But it’s time for Rhonda’s world to change, according to my publisher. More teenagers live in cities now and can’t relate to barrel racers and broncobusters. My editor is being very patient with me these days while I work on my “literary book.” She said she’s quite happy to wait for Rodeo Rhonda number ten while I “expand my oeuvre.” The new owner was in the process of painting a thick layer of austere white over the original red and yellow that Dan and I had painted it years ago on a goofy whim when we were broke but happy and fearless and oh so confident in our love, our future, the kingdom of our newly minted family and our unshakable footing in the world. The fence hadn’t been repainted yet, it glowed a cheerful yellow in the dusky light, and I could still make out the decals that Nora had stamped all over it, sweet images of frogs and cars and half moons and blazing suns with happy faces. A little metal sign we’d bought on some family road trip that said Beware: Peculiar Dog Lives Here was still screwed to the gate. Sometimes people say at this point: I don’t know what happened. I don’t know where we went wrong.
I went to Nic and Elf’s house and parked in their driveway. It was finally dark. I watched Nic through the window for a minute as he sat, also in darkness, staring at his barely glowing computer. It was time for us to talk about Elfrieda, our nightly conference that would leave us no closer to a solution but would at least reinforce our solidarity in the cause of keeping her alive. We sat in the living room among piles of music books and Mandarin novels, Nic’s latest fascination, sipping herbal tea from the last of their clean cups, and exchanged thoughts like: She seemed slightly more upbeat today, more willing to engage in conversation, didn’t you think? Well, yeah, maybe … Whatabout that fresh cut? That fall? Do you know, is she taking her meds? She says she is but … The nurse told me today that we weren’t supposed to bring her food from the outside, that if she was hungry she was supposed to get out of bed and walk to the communal eating area at regular mealtimes. Yeah … but she won’t. She’ll just starve. Well, they won’t let her do that. No, you’re sure? Hmmm …
We still hadn’t heard back from the “team” of psychiatric home care workers and were beginning to wonder if it actually existed. We wanted to know how often the team would be able to visit or how much it would cost. We agreed that the cost didn’t matter and Nic said he’d call the contact person again the next morning from work and I offered to try once again to meet with Elf’s psychiatrist, which was like trying to meet with the head of the Gambino family. I wasn’t even sure if he existed. Or at least, I said, I would talk to one of the senior nurses who was familiar with Elf’s case history, and basically beg anyone who would listen not to let her go home until we had this other plan in place or until she really, seriously had turned a corner, as they say.
And what about the tour? I said.
Fuck the tour, said Nic.
Yeah, I said. I agree with you. But we’ve got to deal with it. She’s worried about letting everyone down.
I know. Nic stood up and grabbed a piece of paper off the piano. Messages for Elfrieda, he said. Jean-Louis, Felix, Theodor, Hans, Andrea, I don’t know half these people.
Have you told Claudio?
No. No … He’s been leaving messages though. The Free Press wants to do a profile for a music anthology, and
BBC Music Magazine
wants to do something as well. Ha!
Nic returned to the table and leaned his chin on folded hands. His eyes were bloodshot. His whole face seemed kind of bloodshot. He smiled, because he was brave.
Tired? I asked.
Epically, he said.
He got up to put on a record, vinyl was his
I went to Nic and Elf’s house and parked in their driveway. It was finally dark. I watched Nic through the window for a minute as he sat, also in darkness, staring at his barely glowing computer. It was time for us to talk about Elfrieda, our nightly conference that would leave us no closer to a solution but would at least reinforce our solidarity in the cause of keeping her alive. We sat in the living room among piles of music books and Mandarin novels, Nic’s latest fascination, sipping herbal tea from the last of their clean cups, and exchanged thoughts like: She seemed slightly more upbeat today, more willing to engage in conversation, didn’t you think? Well, yeah, maybe … Whatabout that fresh cut? That fall? Do you know, is she taking her meds? She says she is but … The nurse told me today that we weren’t supposed to bring her food from the outside, that if she was hungry she was supposed to get out of bed and walk to the communal eating area at regular mealtimes. Yeah … but she won’t. She’ll just starve. Well, they won’t let her do that. No, you’re sure? Hmmm …
We still hadn’t heard back from the “team” of psychiatric home care workers and were beginning to wonder if it actually existed. We wanted to know how often the team would be able to visit or how much it would cost. We agreed that the cost didn’t matter and Nic said he’d call the contact person again the next morning from work and I offered to try once again to meet with Elf’s psychiatrist, which was like trying to meet with the head of the Gambino family. I wasn’t even sure if he existed. Or at least, I said, I would talk to one of the senior nurses who was familiar with Elf’s case history, and basically beg anyone who would listen not to let her go home until we had this other plan in place or until she really, seriously had turned a corner, as they say.
And what about the tour? I said.
Fuck the tour, said Nic.
Yeah, I said. I agree with you. But we’ve got to deal with it. She’s worried about letting everyone down.
I know. Nic stood up and grabbed a piece of paper off the piano. Messages for Elfrieda, he said. Jean-Louis, Felix, Theodor, Hans, Andrea, I don’t know half these people.
Have you told Claudio?
No. No … He’s been leaving messages though. The Free Press wants to do a profile for a music anthology, and
BBC Music Magazine
wants to do something as well. Ha!
Nic returned to the table and leaned his chin on folded hands. His eyes were bloodshot. His whole face seemed kind of bloodshot. He smiled, because he was brave.
Tired? I asked.
Epically, he said.
He got up to put on a record, vinyl was his
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