Free Stone Arabia by Dana Spiotta Page B

Art Deco swirls of stitching and cording), we would continue talking. What did we talk about? She told me everything. And I listened. We were like college girlfriends.
    This time she was coming to LA for two nights. She had a documentary film project she was trying to raise money for. Her production partner, Lisa, had set up some meetings at the cable channels that supported beginning filmmakers. We sat on the patio and ate cheese and drank her favorite rosé champagne. Her early years of waitering in nice restaurants had left her with expensive tastes in food and wine. I delighted in pleasing her and strove to spoil her for the few weekends I had with her.
    “I drove over to Nik’s today,” she said.
    “I invited him to come by tonight, but he didn’t feel like it.” “He is so funny—he showed me his latest Chronicle entries and played the corresponding music for me.”
    “I’m sure he loved doing that.”
    Ada took a sip of her pink wine. She took a drag off her cigarette. I know this is an awful thing to say about your kid, but she looked good with a cigarette. I thought this, even knowing how my brother fell into long hawking fits every morning. And coughing fits throughout the day. Bronchitis every winter. But when a young person smokes, it is different. It just underlines their excess life. It looks appealing and reminds you they feel as if they have life to spare. They have such luxury of time that they can flirt with lethal addictions. They have plenty of time to heal and repair later. A young woman like Ada would eventually discard these things. When you are old, like Nik, when it is a very old habit, smoking looks mostly like a reckless delusion. But for Ada it was an abundance, a kind of fun, a kick off of a shoe, a sip of pink champagne.
    By any standard, reasonable light, I appeared to be a crappy mother. I had an inappropriately casual relationship with my daughter. Of course her father, Chris, saw it that way. Even Nik—
Nik,
for God’s sake, the least judgmental person on earth—thought I was too easy on Ada. It is all true. But Ada, somehow, still managed to become this wonderful, thoughtful young woman.
    “I think I want to make a movie about Nik,” she said. “You know, he really is like a folk-art genius. Not just his music but the whole deal, the whole constructed lifelong thingy. He would totally be a great subject. Don’t you think?”
    I thought about it. Nik might be a good subject. He was so eccentric, so hardworking, so unapologetic. But I didn’t think enough about it, or about what making a movie would do to the delicate balance of a secret life. I forgot, maybe because it was Ada, that I needed to look out for Nik.
    “He would be a great subject, and he would love it. But then again, he might not be totally receptive. Nik, he seems like he’s hungry for attention, but I’m not sure he is. Not anymore. Besides, he is used to controlling the whole story.”
    Ada glanced at me and nodded. She had short, shiny black bangs and long, straight black hair. Her eyes were heavily lined and the penciled-in arches of her brows precise. Her eyes looked enormous, even as (or because) her lids appeared halfway closed when she looked straight at you, sleepy kewpie-doll eyes.
    I poured myself more champagne. “We might have to talk him into it. Nik has his world, and I don’t think he even sees himself …Let’s put it this way: I think his whole life is a private joke that he doesn’t want to explain to anyone.” I took a sip of champagne and felt the bubbles fizz on the sides of my tongue as I swallowed. “And I think part of his pleasure, or at least his freedom, is he doesn’t think anyone will see it or judge it.”
    Ada nibbled at a cracker with a delicate sliver of cheddar on it. She had the eating habits of the relentlessly waifish.
    “I don’t know. Of course, it’s up to him—he will know if he wants to do it.”
    Ada nodded.
    “But what if people think the music isn’t