18 Chapter 18: Flawed Copies, Part 1

To Elisabeth MacHale, Greenwich Village was an advertisement for one grand, Bohemian party. Every bar, restaurant, and store seemed to promise music, theater, and artistic fellowship, if only she had the money to attend. The asphalt of the streets, in contrast to this bonhomie, was hard and rough through the paper-thin soles of her sneakers. Her tendons felt like elastic on the verge of snapping. She squinted up at the sun through the traffic of hovering cars. She wanted nothing more than to be in her room at the Burgundy House, with the curtains closed and a pillow over her head. But Fran had summoned her, and she had no choice but to obey.

Because of Anne.

A puppy chained outside of a brick-faced cafe barked and yipped as she passed. She knelt to scratch the top of its shaggy head. The miniature poodle licked her calloused hand in return. "Sorry, girl," Elisabeth muttered, "nothing good there."

"He's a boy," a voice said from behind her. Elisabeth turned. The girl was in her teens, probably just a few years older than Anne, with flawless skin the color of honey. She was one of those new brands, one Elisabeth was not familiar with, possibly a Bechdel. She wore clothes Anne would never be caught dead in: black spandex pants that clung to her walking stick thighs, covered at the top by a self-illuminating eggshell sweater. She looked like the kind of person Anne would shout obscenities at. The thought made Elisabeth's stomach hurt. She swallowed.

"Excuse me," the maybe-Bechdel said. Her chocolate eyes darted up and down West Fourth Street. Elisabeth shuffled a few steps away from the dog as the young woman undid its chain from the post. She shot Elisabeth a look over her shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said, "I don't have any change."

The tightness in Elisabeth's stomach rose to her throat. She made a choking sound, and then turned away. What would be the point?

It was almost two-thirty. She did not have to be back at the Burgundy House until nine. Tuesday was one of her two days off from the pizzeria, what the Burgundy people called "gainful employment." Maybe, Elisabeth thought, if she never left the home, and her meals consisted of her daily free slice of cheese. Her other day off was Thursday, but she had to go to Group on Thursdays, so that did not count.

She entered Washington Square Park. She tried not to look at the Regressives that slept on the benches. Her jaw twitched every time she passed one. Their stench, like rotting meat, assaulted her sinuses. They were corpses that had not figured out how to die. They keep clinging on, she thought, while Chloe killed herself. Where's the justice in that?

She made her way to the chess tables. A tall woman in her sixties sat alone, her gray hair dyed back to the trademarked MacHale shade of red, her freckled features twisted into a frown. To Elisabeth, it was like looking into a mirror that foretold the future.

Elisabeth clenched her teeth as she approached. She wanted nothing more than to tackle Fran where she sat, to knock her to the ground, and grind the look of smug superiority off of her face and onto the cement.

"Come on, leave her alone. She's been through hell."

"I don't care, she's been walking around in a fog the last two weeks. I can't have that on my job. What if she falls off the deck?"

"It's probably her meds."

"She needs medication. No wonder her sister killed herself, living with a freak like that. I wonder if there's Weight Watchers in heaven."

"Heh - oh shit!"

Elisabeth would forever savor that moment, when one Tarnowski had glimpsed her over the other's shoulder, the pimply carpenter's eyes going wide as Elisabeth clutched the forewoman's thick, greasy hair in her fist, spun her around, and smashed her moon-like face into the nearest I-beam.

Stop it! She tore herself away from the delicious memory, her body electrified with adrenaline. That's how you got here. Do you want to go to prison instead of Burgundy?

Elisabeth thrust her hands into the pockets of her sweat jacket, and squeezed them into fists. Her jagged nails cut into her palms. She should have taken her medication, but it made her feel like she was wandering at the bottom of the ocean. She forced herself to take long, slow breaths until the pounding in her ribcage subsided. She saw Fran watching all of this, judging and damning her with a glance. Elisabeth closed her eyes for a long moment, opened them, and approached.

"Hello, Elisabeth," Fran said, extending a perfectly manicured hand. Elisabeth shook it. She held her grip firm as Fran's fist squeezed hers.

"Hello, Mother," Elisabeth said. "Where's your set?"

"Set?"

Elisabeth gestured to the checkered table before them. "How are we going to play?"

The corners of Fran's mouth turned down, as if cranked to her chin by wires and gears hidden inside her cheeks. "I didn't call you here to play games," she said. "I want to talk about Anne."

Elisabeth ground her teeth. She heard them scrape against each other. "How is she?" she asked.

"Much better," Fran said. "Her grades have improved. At least she's stopped hanging out with her dirt-bag friends."

"You mean you won't let them in your house," said Elisabeth. "I'm sure in the last six months her life has completely turned around. Let me guess, she goes to church on Sundays as well?"

"Whatever it takes," Fran said. "Would you rather she was on the streets?" She paused to let the jibe sink in. "You have no real income, no home, and nothing to offer her."

"Forgive me," Elisabeth said, "I was in the hospital. If I don't have an apartment anymore, it's because you terminated the lease."

"I co-signed for it," said Fran. "What was I supposed to do, pay your bills until you got out?"

"You could have," Elisabeth said, "for Chloe's sake."

Fran remained silent for a long moment, her face like a statue. "Don't push me," she said at last. "You're lucky I was able to have you committed instead of incarcerated."