The sisters gave each other a bewildered look.
Why the fuck would babies need those? asked Lucky.
I imagine they need them just as much as adults, said their mother primly.
Can they even control their mouth like that? asked Avery.
What? asked their mother.
Not to mention their tiny lungs, said Lucky.
It’s not for their lungs, said their mother. Obviously, it’s for their hearts.
Lucky glanced at her sisters, who looked equally perturbed. Even Bonnie, who had remained practically mute since her fight, cracked the slightest smile.
I guess music is always for the heart? she offered softly, and Lucky and Avery tittered.
Now, their mother frowned.
Music? What do baby heart monitors have to do with music?
The mass was long and, as to be expected, heavy on the Jesus-died-for-our-sins narrative. Whether in life or death, we belong to Christ, intoned the priest as he placed the pall and cross on the coffin. Lucky thought Nicky would have preferred to belong to a good co-op board or a country club, but sure, yes, she conceded bitterly, Christ was good too. She sat blankly through the homily, the Eucharist, and the Old and New Testament readings feeling nothing, she assured herself, absolutely nothing. Only when the priest reached the final commendation did she start to crack.
He waved the silver thurible of incense over the casket, casting smoke over the length of where Nicky’s body lay hidden, and Lucky watched as it curled over his hands and disappeared into the air above the nave. Grant our sister may sleep here in peace until you awaken her to glory. Lucky bowed her head forward. She will see you face-to-face and in your light will see light. She could feel her insides tearing apart, a physical sensation of ripping in her chest. Until we all meet in Christ and are with you and with our sister forever and ever. Lucky let out a gasp of pain. She was breaking under her grief. Beside her, she could feel Bonnie shuddering. Then Avery reached over to grab both of their hands, pulling them to her.
Baby harmonicas, she whispered and the three of them dissolved into a fit of giggles so inopportune and inappropriate, Lucky choked trying to keep them in. Their mother gave them a murderous look as they snorted into their hands, but they didn’t care. Nicky would have laughed too.
—
Lucky was wandering without direction. She turned left, then left again until she found herself south of where she’d started, near the basketball courts by the West Fourth entrance of the subway. Shirtless, sweat-slick players raced up and down the courts, their sneakers squeaking on the asphalt as they pivoted and pushed past one another. Should she learn some kind of team sport? Would that give her life purpose? She had endured a brief and humiliating stint on the volleyball team in middle school, after the coach had persuaded her to try out, convinced that her unusual height would make her a natural fit for striker.
Her first practice, the team had initiated her by huddling in a circle with Lucky at the center and chanting say what, what? to which Lucky was instructed to respond hot to trot! She had looked around at the ruddy, cheering faces of her fellow female athletes, all screaming with the kind of glee that translated visually to anguish and terror, and walked right out of the circle, pushing between their unyielding bodies with mute determination. She still remembered the relief of breaking out of that hellish sphere, out of the gym, out of the locker room, out of the school altogether, until, finally, she was thrust back onto the streets of Manhattan, where she was anonymous and free. Now, she looked at the streaking figures on the courts, their faces twisted in an ecstasy of concentration and communion she would never know. No, she would not take up a sport. Lucky was not, nor ever would be, hot to trot.
She needed to keep moving or the memories would overwhelm her; she was turning away to continue her wandering when she heard her name being called in a breathless male voice with great excitement. It was Riley, the southern model she’d met in Paris. Today, his floppy blond hair was held back by an elastic headband that left his innocent, handsome face on full display. He was streaming sweat, looking at her with delight.
“I thought that was you!” he called.
He had a slow, gliding way of talking, with drawn-out vowels that sounded like they were dipped in honey. In his mouth, I sounded like a sigh of satisfaction more than a possessive. Aaah.
Lucky glanced behind her, but it was too late to pretend she hadn’t heard him as Riley bounded over with puppyish excitement. He grabbed at the chain-link fence between them and grinned.
“Hot damn, I’m happy to see you again!” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“You know,” she said. “Just wandering.”
“Great shirt.” He smiled. “I love the Spice Girls. You’ve got Posh written all over you.”
“Actually, I’m Baby,” said Lucky. Nicky’s Posh, she thought but did not say.
Riley turned to gesture to his fellow players.
“Hey, guys! Look who it is! This is my friend Lucky.”
Friend felt like a generous term for the two beer-soaked hours they had spent together, but Lucky smiled graciously. The other players, many of whom she recognized as fellow models, waved at her, then returned to shoving and jostling one another, laughing with boyish high energy. Lucky waved back at them self-consciously. That was another thing she remembered from middle school: the watching. The boys had the big sports games, the boys were in bands, the boys played tricks in class, and the girls looked on. It was initially what had made modeling so thrilling, as well as terrifying: For the first time in her life, she was the one being watched.
“I tried to message you after Paris, but I couldn’t find your profile,” said Riley. “And Sabina said she hadn’t heard from you. You are one hard lady to track down.”
“You know me,” she said. “International woman of mystery.”
Riley laughed and shook out his hair.
“I believe it.” There it was again. Aaah. “So what you been up to?”
Detoxing about a decade’s worth of drugs and alcohol out of her system.
“Not much. Hanging out with family and stuff.”
“Right on.” If Riley was waiting to be asked in return, he quickly clocked that was not going to happen. “Hey, what are you doing right now?” he asked, eagerness all over his face.
“I…” She couldn’t think of an excuse. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“Can you wait here a few minutes? We’re just finishing up, then we’re gonna head around the corner for a drink. You gotta come.”
A drink. Lucky would kill for a drink right now. A drink would kill Lucky right now. She glanced up at the sky. Was this some kind of test? Did she even believe in those?
“Stay right here,” said Riley, sensing her hesitation. “Don’t move.” He trotted backward toward the other players without taking his eyes off her. He was beaming. “Oh man!” he yelled. “Lucky-Fuckin’-Blue!”
Fifteen minutes later, Lucky found herself wedged around a small circular table in the shady courtyard of a Belgian brewery nestled off MacDougal Street, surrounded by half a dozen sweating models in basketball shorts.
