The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [80]
They ordered lunch and sat outside, at a black picnic table shaded by a striped umbrella. “What I can’t fathom,” Wolf said as the waiter brought their sandwiches, “is why you forced yourself to come to Europe at all. I mean, Christ, why put yourself through that?”
“I didn’t force myself,” Phoebe said. “I wanted to.”
“But why?”
“To find out what happened.”
“You know what happened!”
“I don’t.”
Wolf looked bewildered.
“And besides,” Phoebe went on, “in the postcards it sounded so intense, everything she did.”
Wolf stared at her. “Phoebe, she killed herself.”
Phoebe lifted her sandwich and ate, avoiding his gaze.
“She killed herself,” he repeated. “I get this feeling you don’t really understand that, like you think—I don’t know what you think.”
“You don’t know what happened,” Phoebe said.
Wolf pushed away his untouched food and lit a cigarette, swallowing down the smoke like nourishment. Phoebe tore into her sandwich, gulping whole mouthfuls unchewed, nearly choking herself.
“Yeah, but you’re forgetting, Phoebe, I was on that trip with her,” Wolf said. “When she was writing those postcards, I was there, okay? Me.” He knocked a fist against his chest.
A wisp of anger rose in Phoebe’s throat. She ate more quickly. “So tell me,” she said, not looking up.
Wolf rubbed his eyes. The energy seemed to leave him.
“Was it drugs? Was it heroin or something?”
“Sure it was drugs. It was everything that came along, that was Faith. No, it wasn’t drugs.”
“Then what?” Phoebe pressed.
Wolf threw back his head as if consulting the air. “The problem is, you do something crazy for long enough, it starts seeming normal,” he said. “To hold that edge you’ve got to go further and further out, and Faith had no trouble with that. But it changed her. Made her something else.”
Phoebe held his gaze, listening.
“Only one thing I ever saw her scared of: stopping. Like in that quiet, I don’t know, like something terrible would happen. All it took was one person egging her on—everyone wants a show, and Faith was usually willing to provide one. But she’s the one who suffered. Like the guy wearing the lampshade, the life of the party till everyone goes home, then he spends half an hour puking blood in the toilet.”
Phoebe looked away. Her sister in the amusement park, heaving over a trash can. Wolf had kicked the image to life. Faith thrashing in their father’s arms, the violence of it.
“All that energy, that incredible hope—it just turned. In the end she was one more person looking for kicks, anything that would take her someplace she’d never gone before. And me,” he laughed bitterly, “talk about arrogance, I was arrogant enough, fucking idiotic enough to think I could control this.”
Phoebe stood up. She couldn’t listen, was physically unable to hear her sister described in these terms. She left the table without a word, a funny ringing in her ears. “Hey, wait,” Wolf said. “Phoebe, don’t just—hey, come on!”
She kept walking. She heard Wolf leap to his feet, then the anxious protests of the proprietor, whose bill they hadn’t paid. By the time Wolf caught up with her, she’d reached the grassy slope of the riverbank. High on the opposite side stood a church, its twin onion domes oxidized blue-green and crowned with crosses, spindly as weather vanes. “Phoebe,” Wolf said from behind her, breathless.
He moved in front of her, catching Phoebe’s arms and forcing her to stop. She waited, eyes toward the grass, knowing he would apologize.
“What kind of shit is this?” Wolf said.
His grip hurt her arms. Phoebe looked into the angles of his face and found the narrow eyes full of rage. She tried to squirm away but Wolf held her fast. Phoebe thought he might hit her, half hoped he would.
“If you don’t want to know, don’t ask,” he said softly. “Hell, I’d rather you didn’t ask. But don’t ask and then run away and expect me to chase you.”
He let her go. Phoebe stayed where she was, swallowing dryly. A piece of cheese was stuck near the top of her throat.
“You remember