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Overview
Becky, Hugh, Dahlia, and Max. Friends who have formed a dysfunctional but necessary surrogate family. Callie, the crisis-prone, vivid, manipulative chameleon whose friendship has damaged them all individually but who still haunts their waking and sleeping dreams.
Becky, orphan, survivor, caffeine addict, on the verge of 30 and hoping to become famous with her first solo show of dismemberment collages in New York's East Village. Hugh, now a CPA in California, once the most sophisticated undergrad and object of Becky's frustrated desire and rivalry with Callie. Max, all leather, brooding and disguise, the actor who Callie left Hugh for, and who also had an affair with big-hearted, victimized dancer, Dahlia.
For as long as they have known each other their common language has been Callie—past tense. When Dahlia plots a revenge drama to be staged at Becky's gallery opening, she unwittingly revives their nostalgia for the outcast Callie's seductive charm and sets in motion a plan that forces Becky and Callie to play out their lethal emotional rivalry to the end. Told from the point of view of Becky, Narcissus Ascending is an unputdownable debut. Karen McKinnon's dissection of friendship, and the manipulative rivalry of two strong women is provocative and disturbing.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466892644 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Picador |
| Publication date: | 03/24/2015 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 224 |
| File size: | 227 KB |
About the Author
Karen McKinnon was chosen by Francine Prose to receive the New Voice Fiction Award for her novel in progress. She has published in Global City Review. Narcissus Ascending is her first novel. She lives in New York.
Karen McKinnon is a writer, psychologist, and AIDS researcher in New York City.
Read an Excerpt
Narcissus Ascending
By Karen McKinnon
Picador
Copyright © 2002 Karen McKinnonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-9264-4
CHAPTER 1
ME
I'm over it. I don't have to obsess about it anymore. Everyone comes to me about it now because I'm strong. And I remember.
She smiled extravagantly at me from the wall. Hugh's wall at Berkeley was smothered in Callie. 28 poses. All happy. Lying. Straight black hair stuck behind big ears, big eyes gemblue and there for you. Unless a mirror was in range. She had unerring radar for anything reflective. Wicked Queen. And Snow White, so pale, with freckles lightly scattered across that nose which she'd touch her fingers to incessantly after masturbating. We always knew when she'd been masturbating. It was the only time she wanted to be alone.
When Hugh visits, Callie straddles us. Neither of us has seen her in a good long time, and reciting the reasons for this has become part of how Hugh and I reconnect after long absences. On the bus from Newark Airport we repeat the ritual. Have you seen her? he begins. Not intentionally. I ran into her in the Village a couple of months ago. I was having a bad last argument with Steve, the one I went out with for half a year too long. I was crying and I looked up from my shoes which I was staring at to keep from screaming at Steve. Callie was walking toward me, alone, her eyes were gleaming at my distress. I was mortified to be caught failing at a relationship with no help from her. She didn't take her eyes off me once to look at Steve, wrapping me in those long arms of hers, holding me tight against the padding of her breasts. You let her? Hugh demands. He is trying to decide if I have betrayed him. I am trying to decide if I have confessed something.
Hugh is tired. His greygreen eyes are redrimmed which is not becoming this early in the glaring New York morning. He takes the redeye so that when we reach my apartment he can slip into my bed. This time it could actually lead to something. I watch him sleep. From the boudoirchair in the corner of my room I take inventory of my favorite parts of Hugh. His eyes are shut but I know they're there under the long girlish lashes. His lips are slightly parted, the color of my chair. The pink velvet needs recovering. I like coffee and I'm careless.
Hugh is dreaming. I see his lids flutter and figure he's with Callie now. I'd like to see inside his dream, see if it's like mine. She stands in front of a mirror trying in vain to see her own profile. She catches your eye, says You can touch me if you want.
Hugh did touch her, the shimmering surface of her. They were supposed to be married but then she went to Paris and everything fell apart. Except my wanting Hugh. His visit's revived it. His mouth opens wider and he pulls my comforter over his face.
I dial Dahlia. I whisper He's here. Dahlia knows Hugh from high school. Is there anyone left in California? Hugh and Dahlia had exactly one date which she cried through. They saw Terms of Endearment, it wasn't her fault.
I met Dahlia in New York, but we grew up 20 miles apart on The Left Coast, the one we left. Dahlia grew up fabulously. Her mother died of melanoma and her father consoled her with clothes and trips abroad and racehorses. We never would have met there. New York's good like that.
Dahlia's coming over. She'll grab a cab. She'll bring a box of orange juice because she doesn't want cancer. She wants me to give up coffee but I think I'll take my chances.
I wash my hair. I didn't wash it yesterday but I did the day before. It always looks best Day 2. Just the right amount of wave and not yet matted. I can't brush it. I'm not allowed. Dahlia says I brush too hard. I break my hair. Just run your fingers through it while it's wet is her advice. I listen to Dahlia. My hair's grown 6 inches since I met her. It falls down my back. It catches your eye. Dahlia says it's beautiful. I turn my back on myself in my steamy mirror, watch my ropey blonde waves roll across my back, wish I could see myself as Hugh sees me. I grab a hank of hair with each hand, face the mirror, let my hair fall over my chest, my breasts peak through the strands, I pull my fingers down their wetness. Will it happen this time with Hugh? Should it? I have to try to separate my longings. No one's seen me naked in months. I really miss being looked at, appreciated. I really miss being touched. No one's touched me that way in way too long. I'm turning into Dahlia. My intercom bleets. Dahlia's here. I buzz her in.
We watch Hugh sleep. Dahlia sits on the boudoir-chair and I sit on the rug with her fingers in my hair. She has huge hands and likes to rub my head with them. She keeps her fingernails short, for me. Dahlia's a dancer and also has big feet which I watch clench the rug as she rubs.
She whispers He's starting to lose his hair and I look up through mine which is thick and tumbled over. She's right. Hugh's careful do is undone on my big fat pillow. Maybe you should do him next Dahlia. My head is tingling.
I lean on Dahlia, let my head fall on her lap, let my muscles go all useless. She gives my head a push and I let it fall forward again, watch my hair cascade, feel it tickle my face. Blow. She keeps rubbing, kneading, using her tension to release mine. She acupressures me, forces me to find my life's pressure points. No one loves like Dahlia. We met through Callie so I didn't notice. Not till Callie was out of the way.
Dahlia's seen Callie but I didn't tell Hugh. That's between him and Dahlia. Dahlia has her own before and after with Callie which I hear about since I live here, but Hugh's stuck in California which is capital N nowhere in the realm of Callie.
Dahlia saw her at Lot 61. It was an accident. Callie was with a guy Dahlia knows from the Joyce and that's how it happened. Dahlia got stood up and Callie bought her drinks all night, telling Dahlia her date was an idiot. Callie was sweet. Dahlia wasn't expecting it so her guard was down and she confessed to thinking Hey, it's really good to see her.
She's out there and we just never know when it'll be our turn. And when it happens, I'm the one who has to remind everyone how much work she is, how much trouble.
Hugh stirs, exposes his chest. It's narrow and hairless and looks like it would be soft. I'm thinking we should wake him up and get on with it. But through a skein of hair I see Dahlia put a finger to her lips so I keep quiet.
Dahlia wants to invite Max over to watch Hugh sleep. Max is the actor Callie left Hugh for, the one Dahlia had an affair with while she was living with Callie. Max is a great guy but I've never gone for brooding and leather.
Max and Hugh haven't met but they probably dream about each other. Maybe Dahlia's right. Maybe it's time to get them together. It might help them come to terms with Callie.
By extension, then, I should also invite Liz and her husband Stuart who took Callie out on Valentine's Days because that's when she always broke up with her lovers. And my ex Fred who would never come after what she did to him, and Fred's roommate who met Callie when she was doing quantity over quality. Then there was the old guy who owned that little Italian joint on Callie's block, the one who told us over Chianti that I was smarter and prettier than Callie so she slept with him.
I'm not sure all these people will fit in my apartment. I think we should keep it just us for now. Maybe Max but we'll see how things go.
Dahlia lets go of my head and I pat her knee. Thanks, that was great. Shh. She's protective of Hugh. He does look fragile, and he's twitching. I nod and leave Dahlia on the chair. I'll make coffee. We could have a long wait for Hugh.
I should be used to it. When I got to Berkeley, Callie was gone but her effect wasn't. There were the pictures, sure, but that wasn't the worst of it. She'd made a lasting impression. People at the coop aka Institute for Cooperative Living were downright smitten. So many synonyms for vivacious. And funny and raucous. All the things I wasn't. That was a long time ago. I'm over it.
Grinding the beans is my favorite part of making coffee. It's quickly violent and it smells good. And at this point in the morning it's all for me. When Hugh wakes up he'll have some. I'll have it ready for him.
I better ponder lunch. It takes some thought to cook for these people. Dahlia's a vegetarian and Hugh's lactose intolerant and if Max gets thrown into the mix we can't have fish. That leaves pasta and my repertoire's exhausted.
I sit down at my fake marble table. It looks like a black and white picture of Earth from outer space. It's a replica of the floor at MoMA. Callie gave it to me. When she and Max broke up I got all his stuff.
I sip my coffee. I look around my apartment. I wonder what Hugh will think of my minimalism. My room at the coop was maximalist in extremis. It suited my found objects mood. I never could understand why people threw away perfectly useful stuff, they'd just leave whatever on the street, abandoned chairs, VCRs, old clothes, imperceptibly chipped mirrors. What was the impulse? Disposable society? Recycling? I picked up everything, even things that were obviously damaged. Especially those. They made the best art. They were the most fun to transform.
Hugh loved my room. He'd come over, pick an album, play it over and over till the neighbors complained. I'd inherited 362 LPs from my parents, they'd loved the blues, they'd lounge to spinning vinyl with coffee or wine and me in their laps, I've seen photos, but Hugh and I mostly listened to Sentimental Walk from Diva. He bought it for me, we'd rented the video like 8 times. We'd listen to that last breathy high piano note and Hugh would stop whatever he was doing, go to my turntable, raise the needle arm, start it again from the beginning. He looked great in the dim green light of the neon tubes that ran through my car crash collages. It made his eyes greener. He knew it too. He basked in it. He sat with his back to the dangling Bay Bridge which was right out my window. I'd sit with my back to him, let him look at me. Let him wonder what I'd be like.
I'm more subtle now. And I don't do car crashes. My new collages are nude selfportraits in Kodacolor. I cut up photos and reassemble them with paint and Elmer's glue. Not a computer. I hate that pixilated flatness, that lack of depth. My pieces have been touched. My fingerprints are on them. My breath. My favorite is I of the Beholder. My head is severed from my body, tethered by a delicate black velvet ribbon tied around my bloodless neck. I'm Manet's Olympia in her own eyes. I'm lying on a silken bed, my torso illuminated with a harsh acrylic spotlight, my breasts are hollowed in places, plump flesh scooped out by chiaroscuro. The rest of the image fades to black, catless.
5 days till my first solo show. I need to work on a couple of pieces a little while longer. The rest I have to look at. I have the week off which is good and bad. I need to get my show together but I miss my job, miss The Archive, miss the rush of associating with genius. I match works of art to people's needs, magazine and book people, photo editors call, they ask for me, they tell me what they want to illustrate, what they want to portray. I find just the right image. I'm good at that. I have the entire archive in my head, the entire history of art. It makes me a superb artist. That's what I think.
I can't wait for my show. It's not a big deal gallery but I can use the exposure. And the dough. It's times like this I wish I had a real name. Who's gonna buy dismemberment collages from someone named Becky? Dahlia says I should use Beck but it's taken. At my last group show I was Becky S. which made me feel like someone in rehab. Actually I sold a lot. Not just to Dahlia.
I can hear the icecubes jingling in her empty juice-glass. She's coming up the hall. She walks with every inch of her long feet which produces a nice bounce in her stride. And the jingle. Her excellent posture doesn't collapse when she leans against my kitchen wall. Still out she reports. He could sleep all day Dahlia, then what? Just be patient Beck, what difference will a couple of hours make? Nothing gets me stressed like waiting. Whatever Dahl. This whole thing was your idea in the first place.
Dahlia goes I'm calling Max. She reaches for the phone on the wall behind me but I grab her wrist in motion. Wait a sec Dahlia. Her mouth is the same height as my eyes. I watch it flex into a smile. What's up Beck? I know what you're up to Dahlia, not the details but the gist. You think you do Becky but you don't. I'm still holding her wrist. Beck let me get Max before he leaves or something ok? he absolutely has to be here.
She punches his number which is not on speeddial. I have to sit down. I walk the 3 inches to my livingroom, bring my coffee, slump on the couch. There's only 1 piece of furniture in my minuscule livingroom, a very long vinyl couch in pale pink, smack in the center of the room. I bought it with the money from my last show. Dahlia's money. She bought the collage called Dahlia, Remember When We Lived in Paris? We never lived in Paris. I grafted us into Brassai photos of prostitutes and Carnival dancers, I painted us Phthalo blue, intensely. We looked good that way. That was my Exile Artists period, when I still thought we were making our own Paris on the East River, when I still thought of my friends as artists.
Dahlia. Come sit here with me for a minute. I pat the vinyl next to me. Ok Beck but I'm not gonna tell you yet no matter how charming you are. Don't worry Dahlia, I will not be charming. She laughs and I almost believe whatever she's cooked up will turn out fine. You ok Dahl? Yes Becky. You know you can tell me anything Dahlia. I know. And I will. She just sits there. Looking at me. I twirl my hair, grin at her, say Dahlia remember when we lived in Paris? She smiles. I remember she says, beaming. We sit looking at each other. Dahlia starts wiggling on the vinyl. Oh no you don't Becky, you said you wouldn't be charming. She springs up and goes to wait for Max by my intercom, to muffle it with her wadded sweater so Hugh won't be disturbed. The second Hugh sees Max he'll be disturbed.
I lie down, watch the light through my dirty windows making shapes on the ceiling, wonder what's about to happen, how bad it'll be, how futile to bring them together. I picture Hugh and Max with their hands around Dahlia's throat, me trying to pry them off her. Maybe they'll like each other. Maybe Hugh will shake Max's hand and say No hard feelings. Maybe Max will charm Hugh with his actor's grin and Hugh will excuse Max because who wouldn't fall for that? Yeah sure. Can a man be friends with the man who took his lover away? Or whose lover he took? Can a woman who's not even in the picture anymore destroy all potential for The muffled intercom blare makes Dahlia jump. She pushes buttons, goes I'll be right back Beck, goes to the bathroom. All that orange juice. I get up, go to the door, open it, listen for the hollow echo of Max's footsteps on the stairs, let Max in. He's looking strangely alert. His eyes are shiny, bigger. He has a new facial hair configuration. He has a new one every time I see him. He has a black tuft under his lower lip. He looks deranged. I think he knows this, he goes cleanshaven to auditions. Max is rarely cleanshaven.
Hey Beck, how ya been? Good Max. He brushes by me, kisses me on the cheek but misses a little and nearly gets my ear. The tuft tickles or maybe it's his breath, the rush and tingle of somebody exhaling near that part of my face. Where's Dahl? he wants to know immediately. She's in the bathroom. Oh. Max throws his backpack on the floor by the door like in case he wants to flee. I can't remember the last time we were alone. He's always strange around me. He's edgy, looking all over, at anything but me. Got any coffee Becky? Help yourself Max. He escapes to my kitchen. Go ahead and hide I want to say.
I met Max in New York. I'd been here 2 days. He was working lunch at a sushi restaurant. Mainly he stroked Callie's hair and watched us eat. Callie wouldn't let me leave a tip. She called him Love. He said I'll be home by 4 to help with dinner. We took off, Callie showed me St Mark's, Astor Place. Her New York didn't seem so big, more like she'd traded one Berkeley for another. I thought we were having a great time, walking arm in arm past all the wacko clothes store windows, Callie taking in our reflected selves, flipping her hair noir as she talked to me, admiring her pale arms, her breasts in profile. Then she goes Uh, Becky, I kind of want to be alone for a little while, do you mind? I didn't have anywhere to go so I wandered around the East Village with hurt feelings, bereft and ashamed that I was incapable of holding her attention. I just kept walking, hit Tompkins Square Park, got scared, pictured a grimy smelly guy cutting my throat with the broken glass I was walking on, walked west toward the Bowery, looked for a bookstore, found a cafe. I got coffee and thought up stuff to say at dinner, not lies, just ways of framing my life before New York to seem less lonely. I'd grown up deflecting pity, I knew what I was doing.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Narcissus Ascending by Karen McKinnon. Copyright © 2002 Karen McKinnon. Excerpted by permission of Picador.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Copyright Notice,
Dedication,
Epigraphs,
Me,
Hugh,
Dahlia,
Callie,
Max,
Me,
Acknowledgments,
Copyright,