The frenzy had burnt itself out as suddenly as it had flared up. She was standing over Sheila, panting, sobbing; she felt as if she were on the very brink of madness . . . that she might do, and be allowed to do, something irreparable.

But the attack was over. The studio was quiet except for the women’s harsh frightened breathing.

(And this incident was never again mentioned by either of the women. In her fury Monica crumpled the yellow receipt and threw it down, and, afterward, when she was alone, Sheila must have picked it up to examine it; but she never mentioned the “Argus Investigative Services” to Monica, and she certainly never apologized.

Very likely Sheila simply forgot, as the wisest and most practical of all procedures.)

8

Monica, disgusted, smarting with hurt and anger, stayed away from Edgemont for a day or two, Monica had after all (she told herself) her own life; and when she saw Sheila again she was alarmed at the change in her . . . wondering perhaps if it was her fault.

Sheila did look sick; vague and dazed and exhausted.

Her skin was a dull dead white, yet mottled, as if with teenage acne; the soft flesh about her eyes had grown puffy. In her speedy state (speedy being Sheila’s own term) she gave off an unnerving radiant heat, sheer energy; in her other state (for which there was no appropriate term) her voice was slurred and her bodily movements uncoordinated.

“She’s killing herself,” Monica thought, staring.

And then: “She will not kill herself.”

Sheila quite saw the humor of the situation, Sheila wanted no particular pity, out of self-respect, she said, and to do her small bit toward purifying the world, she really ought to slash her wrists: but she couldn’t spare the time.

“Do you think that’s amusing!” Monica said, “—I don’t think that’s amusing.”

Sheila said defensively, avoiding Monica’s gaze, “Look: in my family suicide isn’t that significant. My mother allowed herself to die in a way that wasn’t altogether ‘natural’ yet wasn’t a melodramatic gesture of any kind, it was in fact ruled an accidental death, sparing us a good deal of nuisance; and no suicide note. One of my uncles died by simply blowing most of his brains out at the age of forty-nine, and two of my cousins killed themselves, no, please, don’t look so distressed, as you can see it isn’t that significant, it’s simply a way of asserting control at the proper time. When you’ve lived through all there is for you to live through, when you’re burnt out, thoroughly, and the mere notion of returning to life, and doing it all again, the seasons, the years, the decades, O dear Christ. . . . When you’re balked, nullified, stalled, it isn’t a significant gesture, it isn’t at all emotional, it’s just something, you know, you do. And then it’s over.”