Dana Spiotta - Stone Arabia

Nik turned fifty. We met at Nik’s apartment to celebrate. Ada brought her cameraman. I brought a cake and an envelope with a thousand dollars in it (borrowed at 18 percent interest). Ada had wanted a record release party and a concert, but Nik finally refused. It was just Ada and her cameraman, Nik, and me. I took this as an encouraging sign — no dramatic farewells. Nik handed us each a copy of The Ontology of Worth: Volume 1.

Ada held it up for the camera. I looked at the cardboard double CD case. I handed it back to Nik.

“What?” he said.

“Autograph, of course.”

Nik smiled and took a marker to the inside of the gatefold. “That will be worth big money someday,” he said with a wink. “The worth of Worth.”

“Sounds like your next album title,” I said. He put his finger to his nose to indicate right on the nose and smiled at me. Ada filmed us and we pretended she wasn’t.

“Do you want to sing a couple of songs from the CD?” Ada said.

Nik picked up his guitar. “No, that would be kind of difficult. But since it is my birthday, I will perform something for you. One song. An oldie.” He sat on the edge of his couch. He started a slow, acoustic rendition of his teenage “hit” “Versions of Me.” He closed his eyes, and he stretched the song, pulled it down low until his boy anthem of alienation turned into something else. It turned serious, slow, the declarations made wise and ironic; a reprise that made his age suit him for a moment.

When he finished, he looked up at me and I sniffed. “It’s not a sad song,” he said.

“But you made it sound — you changed it.”

“Phrasing. It is all in the phrasing.” Nik winked at me. No meaningful stares, no dark hints at all. He was happy, almost cheerful, for the rest of the night. Still, deep down, I knew what was coming.

After watching Nik drink many — closing on three — bottles of wine (with only a little help from me and Ada) and smoke many cigarettes, Ada and her cameraman cleared out to attend a friend’s party in Santa Monica. I cleaned up and did the dishes. Nik watched me. After I finished, I sat down on the couch.

“Are you staying?” he said.

“I might. Is that okay?” He shrugged. He looked a little drunk and haggard. However, he spoke with precise sobriety. I wonder what it felt like to be him. Did he never actually get drunk? Is that why he drank so much? He lay back on the other end of the couch and stared at the ceiling.

“How does it feel to turn fifty?”

“Oh for God’s sake.”

“Sorry.”

He got up and went into the bathroom. I could see a volume of his Chronicles sitting on his desk. I don’t know why I was sneaking, but I thought I should look at them while I had the chance. I opened the neat, thick binder. I opened it to the end, to the last page inserted. Then I read what was typed on white paper and pasted in:

Nik Worth, Pop Star Turned Eccentric Innovator, Dies at 50

It was unfinished, just a headline. I heard him washing his hands. I closed the book and I sat back down on the couch. I rubbed my finger back and forth across my lower lip. I was at a loss. Nik came out of the bathroom.

“Hey, you gotta go. I’m beat,” he said.

“Okay, but maybe you can make me some coffee? It is a long drive home.” There was a near-catch in my voice.

“You should go now.”

“Okay.” I got up, then I sat back down. He exhaled noisily. I was really pissing him off. “Here’s how it is,” I said. “I’m scared. I’m worried something really bad is happening.”

Nik shook his head. “You don’t need to worry about me. It doesn’t do a body any good.”

“You’re not going to do anything dramatic, right?”

“Denise, I’m fine, okay? Just because I turned fifty doesn’t mean I’m going to off myself, you know?”

I nodded, unconvinced.

“You are making an error in your calculus of causality. You are misreading the signs. Seriously. Like the man said, the correlative is not the cause.”

I started crying again. He went to the door and opened it. I continued to sit.

“I’m too tired to reassure you or explain things to you tonight. You are just going to have to trust me. Now please get the fuck out so I can go to bed.”

“Okay, okay.” I got up and left. And the next morning I called him.

“Still here,” he answered the phone.

I laughed. “You are such an ass,” I said.

“Yeah.”

I stopped by his work on my way home (of course it wasn’t vaguely on my way home). He smiled and waved me over. He had a few customers drinking at the bar. I sat at the end by the service station. He pointed a beer bottle at me and I nodded.

“How’s it going?”

“Better,” I said.

He looked over his shoulder at his customers and then looked at me. “Sorry I was such a dick last night.”

I shook my head. “Let’s forget all about that.”

Nik nodded, and then leaned in over the bar toward me. It felt so intimate, I laughed.

“I mean, I feel the love, you know? I just want you to know that, all right?” he said.

“Okay,” I said.

“You are the only one who ever really got me, you know? Of course you know.” Then he held up a hand and limped down the bar, replacing beers and making change. He was starting to get busy. I finished my beer and stood up to leave. I waved at him. He walked over to my end of the bar and leaned to kiss my cheek.

“Goodbye,” he said.

“Good night,” I said. And I left.

There it was, the terrible decision I have to live with. I left him there, we said goodbye. I knew I might not see him again. But I had some very good reasons, reasons only a sister could understand. I knew that I could not stop him. But that wasn’t it. I could have decided not to leave. I could have begged him, told him I couldn’t live without him in my life. That wasn’t it.

I didn’t stop him. I admit it; I did not. And it wasn’t just because I loved him so much I would give him up if I had to. If that was what he required for himself. I would support his decision, which I knew was not made lightly, but was planned in advance and gave him satisfaction. Although that is all true, that is not why I left him to his plan that night. I left him to it because I knew something, something true. Something maybe only I knew. He would go and I would stay. I would stay and watch as my life wound down. I would watch the decay and the quiet. I would endure the dregs and the hangover. I would stay till the end, to the slow slipping and gradual dropping away of my life. This was what I did: I endured. Nik would leave, and I would endure. It was always going to be this way. I knew it all along, didn’t I? When I left, I felt liberated and even happy. He was done, and on his own terms, which was the only thing important to him. I would stay, waiting for the terms to unfold around me. That’s the price you pay for staying around. That was okay for me, but it wouldn’t do for him.

I’m not sure I really believe that, but at the time, for that moment when I left the bar, and for my drive home, this idea about him and about us was right. Maybe no one else would get it, but leaving him gave me a feeling of love and comfort. It felt generous, even if no one else would ever understand how.

I arrived at my home. I didn’t watch the news or a movie. I called Ada. I emailed Jay. I took a lovely sky-blue pill, went to bed, and right away fell into a deep sleep.

I woke up at five a.m. in a panic. I got out of bed, and I knew something dreadful had happened. I called Nik and got no answer. I pulled on some clothes and rushed to my car. I considered calling the paramedics. But I didn’t. I knew it would be too late. It didn’t feel right or good anymore. I had made a mistake.