Burnaway

[cont.]
Mutual friends told her about the humiliating review her last film received. As they told it, everyone had been really impressed by Barbara’s documentary about the four artists. The sarcasm had everyone laughing and the footage of Alex’s storage area was the highlight of the entire film. The buzz was so good that grad students and a producer came to the first screening of her next short documentary. Barbara’s subject matter was a highly regarded art and music critic who became a DJ after being “let go” from the weekly paper. This film was uniformly trashed as disjointed. The montage technique she used undermined any narrative point she might be trying to make. And how could she create a documentary about a man known for his wit and humor by completely eliminating any hint of them in the film? Barbara mumbled that she was rushed and was still editing. Maggie, hearing the stories, realized she apparently had been a good editor, posing the necessary questions, telling Barbara honestly what did and did not work, suggesting what to discard, where to focus. Maggie’s contribution was thus necessary for Barbara’s success. Besides, a live-in lover apparently didn’t have to be included in the credits. They all thought Barbara very clever for the footage of Alex’s storage unit. She didn’t tell them that she was the one who shot it.
Barbara kept pestering for them to hook up again. Maggie, trying to figure out a way to end it gently before it got too embarrassing for Barbara, agreed to talk in person. That should be more considerate, right? It backfired.
They met at a burrito stand in the Grove. Barbara brought back the silver key chain complete with apartment keys and supplemented it with a large box of chocolate truffles. Quite unlike the extravagance of their first date with that ridiculously wonderful buggy ride through Central Park. The box of chocolates made it feel like an exchange of services. And perhaps it was.
All relationships are an exchange of services. Someone who listens, a shoulder to cry on, activity buddies, mentors, connections, lovers, muses. When Barbara told Maggie that she loved her and wanted her back without even once mentioning she was sorry about the betrayal, Maggie leaned forward in the wire chair and asked, “You’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t actually like me or respect me. You told me repeatedly that I embarrass you. Why would you want me back?”
“That’s not true. I do care for you.” And then Barbara stopped.
Maggie looked at her with such sadness. “I’m not your kind of person,” she told Barbara. “I did help you organize your thoughts and I am an honest sounding board. You need someone like me but you don’t actually like me.”
Barbara just blinked at her. Who knew blinking could be such an angry gesture?
“I heard about the review of your last film and I’m sorry it was so rough on you. I think that what you are really missing is my input. Every creative person needs someone to bounce ideas off. Someone you respect, someone to tell you the truth, someone to share a different perspective. That person is no longer me. I’m sorry, truly sorry, because I loved playing that role with you but you need to look elsewhere.” Maggie pushed the key chain and the box of chocolates back to Barbara. Then Maggie stood up, bent over Barbara to kiss the top of her head.
She so loved the smell of Barbara’s shampoo, the fineness of her hair, the fierce way she took in every breath. Walking away was a lot harder than she thought it would be.
The next morning she saw how her good intentions were received. The text from Barbara read: “ur rite I don’t like u.” That would have been enough, but Barbara followed it up with a Facebook rant, visible to all their mutual friends and over two thousand complete strangers, calling Maggie an opportunist, a gold digger, trailer park trash with delusions of grandeur, a backwoods leech incapable of anything remotely creative. Barbara ended it with “I don’t need a mouth breather in my life.” One thing about Barbara: when she wanted to burn down a bridge, she was very thorough.
To shake off the sting of that attack was why she insisted on going for a walk with Odessa that Monday. The best cure for a burn is ointment and the best ointment was being with someone who loves you.
As they stood in front of a shop window displaying the cutest baby clothes, Maggie tried to cheer up Odessa by telling her about the New Yorker cartoon where two women stood next to the large bed covered with baby outfits with the caption: “I thought I wanted a baby but realized I only wanted the clothes.” Odessa started laughing so hard she got the hiccups. So as they went through the store, lifting up and admiring all the little matching outfits in stripes and checks and plaids, the miniature sailor suits and tubby bright floral dresses with matching frilly shorts, Odessa was holding her breath, pinching her nose, trying to get rid of the hiccups. The biggest hit was the little shoes, particularly the tiny pair of tennis shoes with little skeleton heads on them. Tibby would have to wait for adolescence before she wore anything like that. The children of control freaks at some point rebel. Maggie planned to help with that. The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but everyone expects mischief to cause fireworks.