That looked almost like a smile on her lips.

"What do you want them for?" she asked.

"They're funny."

She took off her gla.s.ses. She was was smiling. "Okay, Mr. Dubisee. If you don't mind sitting in the waiting room, I'll get you fourteen Socratic statements. That's two per day. Come back next week and we'll see about a refill." smiling. "Okay, Mr. Dubisee. If you don't mind sitting in the waiting room, I'll get you fourteen Socratic statements. That's two per day. Come back next week and we'll see about a refill."

"Can you make them random?"

"That's how they come," said Dr. Francis.

24.

On the bench at the bottom of the hill, sporting an orange coat made round by her girth, Sissy looked like a giant gourd displayed in a farmers' market. Mason waved as he approached, then felt foolish for it-even more so when she waved back.

"You look nice," he said, sitting down next to her.

"You look kind of like h.e.l.l."

"Thanks."

"Tell me about the guy."

"What guy?"

"The one you wrote the letters for."

"I'm not sure...."

"You can tell the next one about me."

That creeped him right out, and to fend off the feeling he told her about Warren coming to his hotdog stand.

"You sell hotdogs?"

"Not as many as I should ... but yeah." He told her about Warren's proposition, but left out the love letter part.

"So did he do it?" asked Sissy.

"Yeah. He did."

Mason expected her to ask how, but instead she said, "Did you like him?"

He looked down. There were three small daisies between his feet. He felt exhausted and queasy.

"Forget it," said Sissy. "You don't have to answer that."

11. It matters to me what other people think.

12. Potable water often tastes salty.

As far as Mason could figure it, Sissy wanted her suicide note to accomplish three things: to surprise people with the good things she'd done, to shock them with the bad and to make them feel shame for how poorly they'd treated her.

Listening to her, it occurred to him that the good things she'd done were not much better than what he might put on a list of his own, and the bad ones nowhere near as bad. Her maltreatment by the populace, however, was a whole other story. Or rather, it was the story he had to figure out how to write. It was subtle, brutal and seemingly unending-a string of scenes like the one she'd first described to him: young Sissy sobbing on the back of Venus, the Normal Six laughing with their mouths open.

"But don't write about that," she said, without offering a reason. In fact, each time Mason mentioned some story she'd told him, she said the same thing: "But don't write about that." It reminded him of the more frustrating magazine a.s.signments he'd been given: great sources who'd suddenly remember that this was going to be published, then start stammering and contradicting themselves. It seemed Sissy didn't want to give any individual tormentor the credit. And neither was she interested in figuring out the cause and effect-the tricky equation of her misery. She wanted those who read her note to experience awe and responsibility and a guilty pain. She wanted her memory and her act to burn on people like a never-healing wound.

Sissy's Letter-Take OneI've quit this world that treasures nothing so much as beauty (which I guess makes sense, considering all the ugliness out there). Sure, beauty's a rare thing-but really, I think most of you are digging in the wrong spots.And that's not just because of men like my father-who think striving for eloquence is somehow n.o.ble enough to make them good good. For all his poetic pursuits, higher and lower-"a man of the people and graceful aspiration"-he never really could look his baby in the eye, especially when he said, "You're beautiful." He said it a lot, then finally stopped, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. A real poet would have figured out the words, and how not to loathe his daughter.But really, Dad, it's not just you.It's Ms. Meir, who always singled me out (as if the rest of the cla.s.s was paying attention): "Dreaming of pie again, Circe?" she'd say, then send me home because the safety pins I'd used to fasten the busted zipper on my jeans were "obscene." When skinny Dylan asked what obscene meant, she wrote it on the board and we had to look it up in our dictionaries while waiting for the hall supervisor to come and take me away.It's Alphonse Lader, who stopped me in the hall on Valentine's Day my first year of high school, got down on his knee, and presented me with a large heart-shaped box tied with a red ribbon. I knew something was up. I wasn't that stupid. His buddies were there too, and I just stood there holding the heart in the hall. "Open it!" they said. I shook my head and started to shiver. "Please," said Alphonse Lader, "be my valentine." I hesitated, then pulled off the heart-shaped cover-inside was a jar of diet pills surrounded by two dozen packets of NutraSweet.Crossing a street on the way home, I thought, I can't believe he went to all that trouble I can't believe he went to all that trouble, then almost got hit by a car with all my laughing and crying.

"Tell me about your mother," said Mason.

Sissy laughed.

Mason was kind of strung out, and although he'd brought them both coffees she'd said she didn't drink the stuff, and then she'd started to sulk. But now a laugh-that was good, even if he was being serious.

"I was being serious. I know your dad's a famous poet...."

"And a jerk."

"Right, but what about your mom?"

Sissy couldn't come up with much. Her mother had the makings of an apparition: a waif-thin woman with incandescent eyes who died when Sissy was ten years old. It seemed like she'd never been there at all-omnipresent but totally absent.

"But it's weird," said Sissy. "I don't really remember one thing about her. Not anything that ever happened-just that she was always there, looking at me. I don't know how to explain it. I'm not even really sure what she died of. I guess you could say she was beautiful. And skinny, too. She got skinnier and skinnier until they put her in a coffin that was way too big. Maybe she had an eating disorder or something."

"Haven't you asked your dad about it?"

"My dad's rich," said Sissy. Not only was this apropos of nothing, but she'd already told him this shortly after they'd negotiated his fee. "Do you want to know why?" asked Sissy. Mason figured it had something to do with him being a famous poet. "Lattack," she said.

"Excuse me?"

"It's for getting rid of lice."

"And what? Your dad invented it?"

"Nope. He just wrote them an ad."

"And ..."

"You don't remember."

Mason shrugged.

Sissy seemed excited. "Oh, this is good," she said. "He came up with dozens of slogans and catchphrases-but it was all too confusing, or self-aware or just plain creepy. Lice is a tough sell."

"I guess so."

"So, finally, at like meeting number six with the guys from the company, he threw up his hands and said, 'I don't know! Lattack. It kills the b.u.g.g.e.rs dead!'" Lattack. It kills the b.u.g.g.e.rs dead!'"

"Holy s.h.i.t!"

"Yeah. Yeah! You remember it now?"

"It kills the b.u.g.g.e.rs dead!"

"It kills the b.u.g.g.e.rs dead!" It was nice, in a strange way, to see Sissy engaged in something. Mason wanted to keep it going.

"That was huge!" he said. "It was like I've fallen and I can't get up! I've fallen and I can't get up! Your dad made all his money just from that?" Your dad made all his money just from that?"

"That, then Chase. It cleans teeth white ... AmiCard. It makes your money rich...." Chase. It cleans teeth white ... AmiCard. It makes your money rich...."

"Yeah, I get it."

"I figure I could take over the business. I've got a bunch of them. Check it out: Gin. It gets you good drunk fast." Gin. It gets you good drunk fast."

Mason laughed and took a sip of his coffee.

"Coffee!" she said. she said. "It fills you full of beans." "It fills you full of beans."

"That's pretty good."

"You try one!"

"I dunno ... Okay, how about this: Ex-Lax. It gets rid of all the s.h.i.t." Ex-Lax. It gets rid of all the s.h.i.t."

Sissy held up her hand and tilted it-like it was almost good, but not. "The trick is not to just be super obvious. It's got to be redundant, too. Like Ex-Lax: You can s.h.i.t out all the s.h.i.t." Ex-Lax: You can s.h.i.t out all the s.h.i.t."

"Yeah. I see what you mean."

Sissy beamed. "I got another one. Trojan. It keeps the unborn out." Trojan. It keeps the unborn out."

"Or should it be in?" said Mason.

"What?"

"Depending who you're marketing to ..."

"Oh yeah!" said Sissy. She blushed then started to giggle.

"Trojan. It keeps the unborn right where you want' 'em!"

Sissy laughed so hard she almost fell off the bench and Mason had to grab her, then he was laughing, too.

"Sissy ...," he said, as they regained their breath.

"What."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

She looked down for a moment at her large round knees. When she lifted her head the joy was nowhere to be seen-just anger flooding from her eyes.

"f.u.c.k you, man," she said. "You already took the f.u.c.king money!"

"No, I know ..."

"I swear: if you get stupid like this, I'll f.u.c.k you up. I will f.u.c.k you up!" f.u.c.k you up!"

"I'm sorry."

"Just f.u.c.k off, man ... I mean it."

Mason put down the coffee. Sissy got to her feet, then turned and began to climb the hill, staggering up like she was bearing the weight of a wounded comrade.

13. Sometimes I feel like more than one person.

14. Given the choice, I would buy a dress with patterns on it.

Sissy's Letter-Take TwoThere are too many of you.Hundreds of pretty girls who started giggling once they'd pa.s.sed me by.Two thousand peers who called me "'Circle."A half-dozen skinny equestrians who fell into the sawdust laughing when I couldn't mount a horse.Bus drivers, doctors, store clerks, pot dealers and people walking on the beach, who looked at me then looked away.But for G.o.d's sake, you're thinking, not everyone is such an a.s.shole!And that's true. But also this: in almost twenty-five years, the instances of kindness, fun and caring have been so rare that I can't wait for any more of them-or rather, I refuse to f.u.c.king wait. And this too: I can't help noticing that those nicest to me are always the beaten-down b.u.g.g.e.rs with nothing left to lose. I guess ugly is more acceptable when you're surrounded by it.

Mason felt bad for having upset Sissy. He wanted to make it up to her with a decent letter but it wasn't coming, and now he was almost out of blow. He flipped open his cellphone and gave Chaz a call.

The doorbell rang. Still holding his phone, Mason walked to the window, pulled it open. He looked down into the street. "Now that's fast!" said the voice on the phone. He could see Chaz on the sidewalk, mouthing the words into his handset. Mason hung up. A minute later, Chaz was in his apartment.

"'Bout time you dropped a dime. Started to worry you weren't a drug addict any more."

"Nice to see you, too." He was curious as to why Chaz had been standing outside his apartment, but wouldn't give him the satisfaction of asking.

Chaz sat down and started shuffling cards. "Oh yeah," he said, as if in afterthought, and pulled out a dime bag of c.o.ke. Mason handed him two hundred dollars. Chaz arched an eyebrow. "What's up, Marlowe? Sell another story?"

Mason nodded, then peeled off eight more hundreds. "Square?" he said.

"Like Steven."

Mason dumped some powder on the table and reached for a card.

"Before you get all sniffy," said Chaz, "there's something I want to show you."

"All right."

He waved for Mason to follow him: out of the apartment, down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. He took a few steps to the right and stopped in front of Harvey's, closed since 11 p.m. He pulled out a ring of keys, and unlocked the door. "I didn't know you were in the burger business," said Mason. They stepped into the vestibule. To their left was the entrance to the restaurant, presumably still locked. Right in front of them, however, stood a steel-grey door. "After you," said Chaz.

Mason pulled the handle. A bulb flashed on and he was descending a staircase, turning, down into darkness. The door clicked closed above. The flip of a switch. "Holy s.h.i.t!" Mason looked into the soft yellow light. "What is this place?"