He paled.
“If it’ll make you feel better, let’s do a little doobie. Can’t hurt,” Marie cajoled. She and Pam shared a conspirators’ look. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small baggie. “Here’s the good stuff. You ready to roll?”
“Roll?”
A small packet appeared in her hand. “Roll. Rolling papers. Get it?”
“This is not happening in my home,” James groaned.
“You’ve never, ever smoked marijuana?” Marie asked, giving him a look that said, I know otherwise.
He closed his eyes.
“Not in thirty-plus years.”
“You mean not since you got high with me in my loft.”
He snorted. “Loft? You call a rat-infested warehouse I owned your loft?” Gerald knew the two had dated decades ago, but this was new information.
“Yes.”
“You are delusional.”
“Not yet, but three hits and I will be.”
“What does your husband think about this? He lets you do illegal recreational drugs with wanton abandon?”
Marie halted mid-roll. “Let? Did you just say let?” She cackled, deeply amused. “First of all, no man needs to let me do anything.” She licked the edge of the paper, continuing to speak. “And second, who do you think gave me the rolling papers?”
Gerald just watched. It was his job. Some days were boring.
And then there were days like this.
He’d done his fair share of toking, so he wasn’t judging. Marie rolled a fattie and pulled out a hot-pink lighter. The snick of the flint making the flame took him back to a time when a few hits off a bowl were the only solace he and his fellow soldiers had.
It wasn’t his go-to for escape, though.
Sculpting was.
His hands itched to get into the studio, back at home, and just throw himself into a sensory world where he made his way through curve and angle, bump and swell, through the tenuous connection between mind’s eye and tactile pressure.
Instead, he busied himself by walking into the kitchen and starting a pot of coffee. While James McCormick didn’t have the stomach for it, he knew the two women loved their cup o’ joe.
“I know how to take a toke of the devil’s weed, Marie,” he heard McCormick bluster, followed by the natter-chatter of Marie prattling on about proper inhalation technique.
“It’s about the ratio of THC to CBD,” Pam said. “It needs to be right.”
Whoooooo.
The unmistakable sound of a deep inhale through bud, stems, leaves and seeds filled the air.
And then a strong scent followed. But it was odd. Huh. Must be skunk weed.
As the coffee gurgled, Gerald checked the time. 12:40 p.m. He had to leave by 1:30 to get to his two o’clock appointment at Suzanne’s law firm.
Suzanne.
Inheritance.
Artifact. Harrison Kulli. The words took shape in his mind, gaining texture and topology, form and spirit. He integrated with the shape, becoming an extension of whatever he touched, finding freedom in sculpture.
Only through making the shape of something he created in the connection between mind and eye could he find his own boundaries.
The coffee nearly finished, the machine’s noise was diminishing, though Gerald had been able to hear each toke they’d taken. He poured coffee into a thermal carafe, arranged cups on a tray, pulled cream from the refrigerator and grabbed a sugar bowl and spoons.
“Are there any downsides to huffing the wacky tobbacky?” James asked after exhaling his third hit, just as Gerald walked in with the coffee.
Pam frowned. “Other than short-term memory issues, the only negative research I’m aware of involves erectile dysfunction.” She smiled at him and insisted on pouring.
James McCormick’s eyes bugged out of his head.
“Pam,” he gasped. “You could have mentioned that before I inhaled!” He looked down at his crotch, worried.
“What kind of music do you have on your stereo, James?” Marie asked, poking around the large floor-to-ceiling oak cabinets.
“The good kind.” Gerald could sense a shift in his tone, a lessening of tension. Pam looked at McCormick, her hand on Spritzy’s head, her eyes evaluative.
Marie pressed a button.
The Carpenters came on. The opening chords to the song “Just Like Me” filled the room.
“EWWWWWWW,” Pam and Marie called out in unison.
Marie pushed a button.
Barry Manilow’s “Can’t Smile Without You” started.
Pam and Marie turned on the old man, both of them frowning.
“Seriously, James?” Pam asked, as if he’d personally offended her.
“What?” he asked groggily, opening his eyes slowly. “Pammy, you look good when you’re angry.” He licked his palm and reached for Spirtzy, slicking back a shock of hair that stuck up.
“Please tell me you have some kind of music other than easy listening,” Marie moaned.
Pam pressed a button on the complex stereo. It looked like the control panel for a 747. Gerald hadn’t seen a stereo set-up like that since he’d visited a Vietnam vet’s house for a BBQ and gotten a lecture on all the electronics he’d brought back from Japan in 1973.
“So help me God, if ‘Girl from Ipanema’ comes on, I’ll—”
It did.
“You’ll what, Pam?” Marie asked.
Pam just laughed.
Rummaging through vinyl album after vinyl album in a long, thick row that constituted James McCormick’s record collection, Marie squealed with horror until she perked up, clutching a familiar release.