Molly lets the door slam; she bought a month’s worth of beer, and her arms are full.
“Wayne?” A brittle, quavering voice from the kitchen. “Wayne, are you back?”
Shit. Literal worst case scenario. Karen Baldwin—probably a complete mess, from the sound of it—no Wayne to run interference, and she’s between Molly and the fridge.
Molly sets her jaw and pushes through the beaded curtain.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Karen, perched in one of the kitchen chairs, droop back over the table. “Oh,” Karen says forlornly. She’s wearing one of her prim little dresses with a neat little cardigan over it, but she’s bleary-eyed and swaying a little—high off her ass, Molly realizes. And still crying a little, though it looks like she’s forgotten about that.
Molly sets the bags on the floor and opens the fridge. Plenty of room once she moves all the leftovers to the right shelf. “Believe me,” she says grimly, “I also wish it were Wayne.”
“Instead of you or instead of me?” Karen asks. She’s slurring a little, but her tone is sharp enough.
Shelf space cleared, Molly turns. Karen lifts her chin and stares back. Still acting like she’s too goddamned good for Wayne and Molly’s place and isn’t sure how she ended up here.
Molly gets that it’s an act—she does get that, now—though she still can’t work out who the fuck Karen is performing for. Karen has been happening to end up here a few times a month for years now. And since all the stuff around Christmas it’s been more like a few times a week, sharing a joint with Wayne and weeping on the couch for hours afterward. Not that she—she gets it. Anyone who cared enough to have a kid in the first place would feel that way, or at least you’d hope so. But that doesn’t mean Molly wants to hear about it herself. Just listening to Wayne process it after Karen goes home is enough to set her to practically climbing the fucking walls.
So Molly shrugs, elaborately nonchalant, and starts unpacking the beer into the fridge. “Either one, really,” she says. “So long as I don’t have to talk to you.”
“You don’t have to talk to me,” Karen retorts.
“Great,” says Molly.
The bottles clink gently as Molly lines them up along the back of the shelf.
“I don’t need anything from you,” Karen says haughtily.
With her back safely turned, Molly lets herself smile. She can’t help being impressed by how Karen manages to keep that stick up her ass when she’s stoned. A woman of rare talents, that’s what Ed’s always saying. Of course Ed seems to mean shit like organizing picnics and bullying the neighbors, not maintaining her razor-sharp bitch edge under chemically altered conditions.
Molly closes the fridge and pulls over the nearest chair. “So where is Wayne anyway?” she asks. She knows it’s not one of his set-ups; he’s pretty much given up on getting the two of them to hang out when Ed isn’t around.
Karen doesn’t reply. She’s staring at the fake-wood formica of the kitchen table like she’s trying to scrub out the stains with her mind. Or maybe she’s just being Karen and that happens to be the direction her face is in.
Molly leans forward and snaps her fingers in Karen’s face. That does the trick: Karen jerks upward and glares at her.
“Wayne,” Molly repeats. “Where is he?”
Karen draws herself up primly. “He’s gone to buy lemons,” she says, and Molly puts it together, finally. Karen is completely fucking baked.
“Oh shit,” she says, and starts laughing. Karen looks extremely annoyed about it, which of course just makes her laugh more.
The thing is, Molly really does enjoy Karen when nobody’s asking her to like the woman. Besides, this is probably Karen’s first really bad trip, and it’s not like Molly’s made of fucking stone. She’s suddenly glad Wayne isn’t here: he’d see right through her.
“Did he give you the Colombian Gold?” Molly asks, once she’s done wheezing.
“I think that was it.” Karen’s back to staring at the tabletop, on purpose this time it seems like.
“Oh yeah, that shit’ll mess you up. I tried it for the first time last month. Wayne tried to warn me, but…” she shakes her head. “Whoof. I’m telling you, I was seeing shapes I did not know existed.” She turns and squints in the direction of the cabinet, which is conveniently open. “He getting crackers too?”
Karen nods, a little less stiffly this time.
“That good. Those’ll take the edge off a bit. But it’s really the lemons.” She glances at the clock, frowning, and then remembers: she had the car today, he’ll be on foot.
“You may as well settle in,” she says to Karen. “If he’s not back by now, it’s because Ziggy’s on the corner was out of lemons and he’s had to go to the Randall’s.”
Karen’s face crumples, and the last of Molly’s irritation vanishes. She’s sure Wayne meant well—he always does—but nobody should have to ride out their first bad trip by themselves. She goes to the sink, grabs a glass from the dishrack and fills it.
“Not the same without lemon juice,” Molly says, setting it down in front of Karen, “but a lot better than nothing. For now.”
Karen picks up the glass and begins sipping gingerly.
“In the meantime, you can just…” Molly shrugs. How do you talk somebody through this when they have no idea how to fucking relax? “Sit. Breathe.”
Karen nods again, minutely, and takes another sip of water.
“Thank you,” she says, almost too quietly to hear.
There are tears spilling down her cheeks, but she doesn’t seem to have noticed them yet. Molly has to look away for a minute. She swallows. Jesus.
She’d done plenty of drinking in the days right after Patty’s death—drank until her hands were shaking and she couldn’t even give into the recklessness of driving herself home. But she’d stayed away from weed, because a little buzz is one thing but tripping balls when you’re fucked in the head like that is bad news.
“Listen,” she says, haltingly. “I’m not Wayne. Obviously. But. Do you, uh, want to talk about—”
Karen shakes her head, pressing her lips together.
Molly nods, relieved, and picks up Karen’s empty glass.
The minutes tick silently by. By the time Karen has finished her second glass of water, her eyes and her breathing have steadied a bit.
“There you go,” Molly says, quiet and matter-of-fact. She picks up the glass again and then stands there like an idiot, half out of her chair, as Karen collapses weeping onto the table.
Molly plunks the glass down in the sink and herself back in her chair, caught somewhere between fuming and unnerved. This is what she gets for being so fucking nice.
She fights the impulse to leave the kitchen—take yet another stab at The Power Broker, get in the bathtub, something—but she wouldn’t be able to escape the feeling of Karen still sitting here, letting herself tumble.
Fuck it, she can’t do this sober. Molly goes to the fridge and pulls out a beer, then thinks better of it and goes for the bourbon.
When Karen’s sobbing finally subsides, Molly pours herself a second glass and then leans forward over her folded arms. Karen raises her head, finally, and meets Molly’s gaze with bloodshot eyes.
“Karen,” Molly says. “Karen, you gotta move on.”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” Karen folds her arms and looks away. She’s beginning to even out, Molly notices: still glassy, but not slurring anymore.
“I’m not talking about… about Shane, I’m talking about everything else.” Karen starts at his name and glares at Molly, but Molly keeps going, unrelenting. “You’re in a rut. Four months ago you could barely be in the room with Wayne when he was smoking up, and now you’re over here twice a week getting high….”
“That’s…. that’s…” Karen swallows heavily. “I don’t do it for fun, I’m just trying to…”
“Oh for God’s sake, get over yourself,” Molly says. “I don’t care how much weed you smoke. I don’t care if you get stoned every fucking day. My point is that you care, or at least you used to.”
Karen drops her head into her hands. “I don’t know if I’m that person anymore,” she says, very quietly. “I don’t… I don’t know who I am. Without him.”
That’s stupid, Molly almost says. And of course they talk back: It’s not stupid, Wayne says, it’s your feelings and you need to honor them. Or maybe give them their space. Wayne’s been reading some new Indian mystic lately and everything is about giving space all of a sudden. It’s not stupid, says Aunt Carlene. Our losses make us who we are. And then—Molly flinches at the voice— Stupid or not, Patty says, they’re your feelings, you gotta deal with them at some point.
“That’s stupid,” Molly says, to shut the rest of them up. “You’re still you,” she says to Karen. She says that because it’s what she said to herself in the days and weeks after—when it seemed like the program would be shut down again—and throws back the rest of her bourbon.
“So look, uhh…” Molly twiddles the empty glass in her hand. “So what do you do for fun, to get yourself out of your own head? Because this shit’s clearly not doing it.”
Karen doesn’t say anything back. She just keeps sitting with her head in her hands.
“Maybe you and Ed could go out dancing, or you could come golfing with us, or, or….”
She’s just talking now, talking to fill the space, keep the ghosts away. But Karen just sits there like a goddamn statue.
She glances up at the clock. If Wayne gets lucky and there aren’t lines at Randall’s, he’ll be back in about half an hour. Shit.
Molly pulls her chair closer and pats Karen on the back. She opens her mouth and closes it again. She’s sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, but it’s hard when you know how to fix a thing and you’re talking to someone who doesn’t seem to.
“You should try having more sex,” she says sagely.
Karen goes completely still. Well, at least Molly knows she heard. Ed’ll be pissed if he ever finds out that she’s been sticking her nose in their business. But if it works, what’s he got to be mad about?
“I’m sure you all have your every Sunday afternoon after church routine or whatever, but you don’t have to–”
Karen abruptly shakes Molly’s hand off.
Molly shrugs to herself and gets up for another glass of bourbon. Well, who knows. Karen has always seemed the type to get mad about advice and then maybe take it later anyway.
Karen doesn’t move when Molly sits back down at the table, but Molly can feel her attention. She takes a sip and waits.
“We’re—” Karen’s voice hitches— “not… right now.” She turns to Molly with sudden venom. “Ed didn’t tell you?”
Molly feels it in the gut, that little break in Karen’s voice. Ed generally gets pretty quiet when the sex jokes start, and he sure as hell doesn’t join in when the other guys razz Gordo about all of the tail he gets down at the Cape. That’s just the kind of guy Ed is; Molly has always known that. It’s strange to think that maybe Karen doesn’t.
“Ed doesn’t talk about stuff like this with me,” she says quietly.
Karen nods, her shoulders collapsing inward. Her chin is trembling, and Molly sees it all of a sudden: the broken bird, the thing about Karen that makes Ed feel like a hero. Karen’s always been part of the deal, being friends with Ed, but something about it clicks into place for the first time.
“In fact, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t say it to anyone,” she adds.
Karen nods and folds her hands together neatly. A minute later she’s fidgeting again, knitting and unknitting her fingers. She’s got nice hands, Molly notices.
Molly’s beginning to learn the signs. She waits, sipping her bourbon. She needs to take this one slowly anyway—she didn’t have much lunch, and the alcohol’s hitting hard.
“Ed’s… not…living at home right now,” Karen says finally.
Molly wipes a hand over her face. These repressed fucking people. Three hours at the Outpost last Friday and Ed never said a goddamn word.
“Well, believe me,” Molly says. “It would help.”
Karen is sitting erect, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. “I don’t, um, I don’t know that we can…”
Jesus Christ. When did Molly become a fucking marriage counselor? And why is she stuck doing it for Wayne’s Baldwin instead of hers? She downs the rest of her bourbon and sets the glass down as far away as she can reach. It might not stop her from going for more, but at least it’ll slow her down.
“Look,” she says. “You just need to get out of your own head.”
“I know!” Karen snaps. “That’s why I…” she flaps one hand around the kitchen, as if being here somehow stands in for getting high. “The first few times it really helped, it really – it’s like I was still sad, but I also knew that some day I’d be okay again, you know? It was even like I was visiting that place, that time, when I was already okay again. But now it… now I just bounce off my own walls.” She shakes her head. “Wayne tells me I just have to let myself feel it.”
Molly snorts. “Yeah, he would say that.”
“I just don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried everything.” Karen buries her face in her hands again. Her long-fingered hands; Molly’s been trying not to look at them. She wishes she had more bourbon. Not that she needs it. But at the same time she really needs it. Christ, what’s come over her?
“Look,” she says. “Can I suggest something that might help?”
“For the marijuana or for my life?” Karen asks dully.
“Maybe both,” Molly says.
Karen doesn’t reply, which seems to be agreeing.
Molly thinks about doing it four or five times before she actually does it, before she picks up her hand and rests it lightly on Karen’s leg.
Karen tenses momentarily.
“What…” Karen swallows—Molly can see her throat working. “What are you doing, Molly.” There’s a tremor in her voice, but Molly knows that sound, and it's a green flag, not a red one.
“Helping you get out of your head.” Molly brushes her fingers gently along the inside of Karen’s thigh, feeling the grain of the fabric under her fingers, then reaches forward and slips her hand under the skirt.
Karen draws in a sharp breath but doesn’t say anything.
“This okay?” Molly murmurs as she draws her hand along the inside of Karen’s thigh, feeling the skin prickle. She’s fascinated by it somehow, by the sight of her own hand disappearing under Karen Baldwin’s clothing.
Karen says nothing. Molly feels a stab of doubt and stills her hand.
“Yes,” Karen chokes out.
But Molly can’t move somehow. She’s frozen, feeling the tingle of Karen’s skin on her fingertips.
“Please.” Karen says. “Please.”
Molly sneaks a glance at Karen’s face. Karen is staring intensely off at nothing, lips parted, eyes damp. Molly quickly looks away. Not her business.
By the time she reaches Karen’s crotch, Karen is gasping, and the fabric of her panties is soaked. Karen cries out lightly the moment Molly touches her through the fabric. Molly brushes up her fingers there again, feeling Karen’s little birdlike gasp singing in her blood. She’s just starting to get a little breathless herself when Karen cries “oh!” and then the fabric under Molly’s fingers is soaked.
Molly pulls her hand back and curls it into a fist to keep it still.
For a minute it’s just their breathing, their breathing and the ticking of the clock. Then Karen sits up straight and tucks her hair behind her ears.
“I’m sorry,” Karen says. “I’m so sorry. I’ve—” her forehead creases as she peers down at her own lap—“I’ve made such a mess.”
“It’s okay to be messy sometimes,” Molly says. She glances down at her own hand, damp down to the palm, and wipes it on her pants. “Besides, these chairs have seen worse.”
“I… wish you hadn’t told me that,” Karen says, her nose wrinkling.
Molly shrugs. “You can go somewhere else if you want to.”
But Karen doesn’t move. Molly picks up the glasses—hers from the table, Karen’s from the sink—and fills them both with water. Karen takes half the glass in one gulp then sets it down on the table. Molly sips hers more slowly, teasing out the tiny little note of bourbon under the water.
“So what is it about lemons?” Karen asks.
“Beats me,” Molly says. “It’s just one of those things they say.” She takes another bourbon-hinted sip. “It works though.”
Karen nods slowly, then picks up her water glass and joins Molly in sipping slowly. It’s quiet other than the kitchen clock. Wayne might be home soon; or it might be another half an hour. But it’s okay—Molly’s not feeling as impatient as she was. So she sits, with her bourbon-flavored water and with Karen Baldwin, waiting for Wayne to come home with the lemons.