by Maria Semple
David finished his call and removed his headset. This was his element, making big decisions. All of them the right decisions, for his clients, for his record label, for his family. He never once let them down.
“Hey, look who’s here!” He jumped up.
Violet pushed open the heavy door. “Hi, sweetie. Sorry to bother you.”
“Of course not!” David gave her a hug and held the door open with his foot. “Kara, you’ve never met the beautiful Ultraviolet herself.”
“I have just now, Mr. Parry,” said Kara. “I mean, we’ve talked on the phone. And I feel like we’ve met —”
“Hold my calls,” David said, and let the door close. He took Violet’s hand. “I’m glad to see you. What’s the good word?”
The office had been the same for ten years. Shelves crammed with books, stacks of CDs everywhere. Good, not great stereo. Violet had resisted the wifely urge to storm in, decorator in tow, and put her stamp on his domain. Like her husband, the office was what it was: no airs, all business.
“I came upon something that might intrigue you,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“You know behind the Four Oaks, where that preschool is? Well, there’s a lot for sale that overlooks Stone Canyon Reservoir.”
“Okay . . .” David said.
“Not high above it like we are now. Just thirty feet above the water. There’s not another house in sight.”
“Are we in the market for a new house?” he asked.
“I was driving by and I saw the sign. Ten acres for one point nine.”
“How much is buildable?”
“About an acre. It’s the old George Harrison estate.”
“Really.” David blinked, big.
“You have that book here, don’t you?” Violet went to the bookshelf. “Remember, we were looking at that picture, wondering where it was, and I asked Barbara Bach about it?” David pulled out the Linda McCartney book. “That’s it!” Violet found the photograph of George Harrison sitting in a bay window. He had scruffy clothes and long hair, so youthful and at peace. Behind him were pine trees and a body of water.
David studied the photograph. “That is Stone Canyon,” he said. “We can see that curve from the bathroom. Son of a gun.”
“Isn’t that wild? There’s no house there now. Just the foundation. The city would probably make us build within the footprint.”
“So we’re buying the land?”
“It seems to happen any time I stop by,” Violet said. “Maybe next time you won’t be so pleased to see me.”
On his desk was a framed picture of Violet and David holding Dot. They had been on vacation in Lake Tahoe. Violet was smiling so hard her face looked like a fun-house distortion of happiness. Was there really a time when standing in the snow with David and Dot could have made her so happy? That was the last weekend in January. She had met Teddy on February 1, a Tuesday. Little did she know when this picture was taken that just three days later, she would desecrate a good life. Of all that Teddy had absconded with, that was the cruelest. Worse than her self-worth — he could have that! — he had robbed her of any proclivity to find joy in life’s simple pleasures.
“You keep saying fixing up the Neutra house almost killed you,” David said.
“I know.”
“One question. Why isn’t this that definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?” David studied her. He was direct. He was even. But he was saying something Violet didn’t want to hear, and this is what made him seem like an asshole. It wasn’t fair, but Violet understood the reputation.
“I know what you mean,” she conceded.
“I’m amenable to it,” said David. “We have the dough. If every five years you fix up a house, there are worse vices in the world. I just need to know you’ve thought it through.” The phone rang. One of David’s rules was to never go home without returning every call, which often meant staying in the office until late in the evening. Knowing the exigencies were piling up in the outer office made Violet anxious. “Don’t worry about the phones,” David said. He ran his finger along the grass bracelet around his wrist. “Do you understand why you want to do this?”
Violet’s heart skipped. For the first time, it occurred to her that David knew about Teddy. He sees it all, thought Violet. My ecstasy, my shame, my madness. It was so obvious that she feared she might explode in laughter. What else would explain the queer expansiveness that had befallen David since the yoga retreat? Was it part of a twisted game? Was he waiting to pounce? Would the dreaded confrontation happen here, now? Violet had rehearsed for this moment. “I fell in love,” she would say, “or thought I did.” “With whom?” he’d want to know. “A musician, no one you’ve heard of. It’s over now.” Violet wouldn’t attempt to gainsay any of her husband’s accusations. How could she possibly defend her swath of destruction? Nostalgie de la boue run amok? Sure, David had lost his temper every now and then, but that surely didn’t justify Violet’s going off and fucking someone with hep C and trying — unsuccessfully! — to buy his affections with David’s money. “It’s not your fault,” she would tell her husband. “It’s all on me. I went crazy or something. I developed a frantic attachment to the first person who showed some interest. I know how feeble that sounds, but I don’t know how else to put it. I love you, and I want our family to work. If you don’t, I understand. But please know I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you’ll let me.”
The glass door opened. Kara entered. “I’m sorry —”
“I’m talking to my wife,” David said.
“It’s just — I finally tracked down Yuri. He’s on his cell phone for the next ten minutes and then he’s getting on a plane —”
“Take it, take it, take it,” Violet said.
“I’m talking to my wife,” David repeated to Kara. She slunk away and shut the door, trapping Violet in the phantasmagoria that David’s office had become.
“So?” he asked. “Do you know why you want to buy this land? Yes or no.”
“Yes, yeah,” Violet stammered. “I do.”
“Okay, then.” David had chosen to spare her. She could breathe again. “Do you want me to call the broker and get into it?” he asked.
“I know what to do.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” he said.
Violet laughed. David was her salvation. Love would come. “You keep saving me, David.”
“Thanks for noticing.”
“I’ll see you tonight,” said Violet.
“Yeah,” he said. “Paul McCartney. Oh! I got us the fresh hookup.” It was something that had always endeared David to her. He was an accountant by nature, yet used phrases like “fresh hookup” with perfect ease. “If we go back before the show, Paul will take a picture with Dot.”
“You’re kidding!”
“LadyGo can bring her over for the photo op, then take her home. She’ll be going to bed late, but it’s worth it for a picture with a Beatle, am I right?”
“I love you, David.”
“I know that. And I love you.”
“I don’t know why sometimes. But thank you.”
“I knew you were complicated from the start,” he said. “You announced as much when you wanted that song sung at the wedding.”
Violet cringed. He was referring to Stephen Sondheim’s “Sorry-Grateful,” from Company. It was what she had been listening to on her Walkman outside the movie theater that day, so she always considered it “their song.” Violet had asked Def Leppard to play it at the wedding. When the band saw the lyrics, they checked with David. He confronted Violet and she quickly withdrew the request.
“That’s the best thing Def Leppard ever did,” she said now. “Not sing that song. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Violet was shaky as she walked out of David’s office and down the hallway. She took Gwen Gold’s card out of her pocket, then remembered she didn’t have her cell phone.
She opened the door to the conference room.
A couple of interns unpacked the day’s lunch. MR. CHOW , the thick glossy bags read.
“I need to use the phone,” Violet said. “I’m David’s wife.” Neither reacted. They wouldn’t get far in the business. She reached for the phone. Her fingers dialed a number.
310-555-0199.
“Hello?” It was Teddy.
“Happy birthday.” Violet panted like a sick animal. With dead eyes, she gazed at the rubber band on her wrist. GO, it said.
“I knew you’d remember,” he said. “You looking for that ride to the airport?”
CHAPTER TEN
Nam Myh Renge Ky The Bridal Suite
Everything Is Okay He Wants to Call Off the Wedding
The Cupcake Tower The Score 404
KURT SLITHERED UP ROSCOMARE IN HIS CHARTREUSE DODGE SATURN. HE had closed Mauricio’s early to get a chant on before the wedding. Kneeling at his altar, Kurt had chanted Nam Myh Renge Ky for an hour, then shampooed his hair. While his curls air dried, he chanted the Lotus Sutra ten times before heading out.
The song “Tiny Dancer” came on the radio.
Blue jean baby, LA lady,
Seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile,
You’ll marry a music man.
Last year, before Kurt kicked his chanting up a notch, this song would have made him go postal. What the fuck was “Tiny Dancer” doing on KLOS? Since when did some fruit’s B-side take over for “Stairway to Heaven” as the quintessential classic rock anthem? The dudes next door at Duke’s Diner would blast “Tiny Dancer” just so Kurt would come over and honor them with his genius rant.
But now “Tiny Dancer” played and Kurt had equanimous mind. Nam Myh Renge Ky once again delivering the goods. In a videotaped speech, President Ikeda had said the universe’s offerings were abundant. Most people walked around in delusional states and couldn’t see what was theirs for the taking. Only by chanting Nam Myh Renge Ky could they transform their karma.
If someone had told Kurt a year ago that he’d one day drive to David Parry’s house and not seethe with revenge fantasies, he would have told them to take another hit of crack. When the custom leather jacket business didn’t take off, Kurt had a brainstorm. He’d introduce a cheaper line of ready-to-wear and sell them at rock concerts. He had dragged his sample case to David’s office for a meeting. The deal was simple: Kurt would set up a booth at David’s gigs and kick him twenty percent of his profit. But before Kurt even got a chance to unlatch the trunk, David shook his head. “Kurt, it doesn’t fly. I have an exclusive agreement with my merchandiser. I’d have to pay you and him. That’s just not gonna happen.” Kurt said, “You don’t understand —” But David cut him off. “As a favor to Sally, I’ll give you an internship if you’re interested in learning how the music business works.” Kurt knew how the business worked. For the past ten years, he’d seen it firsthand from the boot shop. He wanted to be David’s partner, not the guy who brought him coffee!
But, like President Ikeda said, painful experiences were necessary to motivate us. Once you devoted yourself to the Mystical Law, the hidden connections of the universe started working for you. And he was right. Kurt had chanted for months to live in an apartment without roommates. One day, he saw a giant balloon that read CONDOS FOR SALE, ZERO DOWN . It was a brand-new building with a pool on the roof. Kurt took out an interest-only mortgage for three hundred dollars a month more than his rent. Within a week, he had moved in, set up his Gohonzon, and hung the letters WISH and DREAM.
Turned out, three hundred bucks was more of a dent than he’d imagined. After a couple of months, things were getting dire. In order to make the April mortgage, Kurt had been forced to sell all his CDs, disconnect his Internet, and never set foot in a Jamba Juice. He kept chanting, but with a fierceness he’d never before applied to anything in his life. He’d show up for work barely able to speak, his voice was so hoarse. And then what happened? Crazy Sally Parry walked through the door. At first, Kurt was terrified. He knew he’d stuck her with massive credit card bills. He had been haunted by the prospect of the cops coming after him, or worse: her brother. Every time the sleigh bells on the shop door jingled, Kurt jumped, fearing it was David Parry coming to kick his ass. Kurt’s paranoia had consumed him to the point where he had to take codeine cough syrup to get the edge off. But what did Sally do? Invited him to her wedding. Nam myh renge fucking ky.
Kurt stopped at the light at Mulholland and checked his hair. His curls always looked sharpest two weeks after a perm. And the goatee was a nice addition. The single gold hoop earring was pure inspiration, which came to him while chanting. This Captain Morgan look was a keeper.
Hold me closer, tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
You had a busy day today.
The light turned green. Kurt trusted that the universe was leading him to David Parry’s for a reason. He just needed to stay openhearted when the opportunity presented itself. He turned off the radio and chanted the rest of the way there.
“Nam Myh Renge Ky, Nam Myh Renge Ky, Nam Myh Renge Ky. . . .”
WHEN Violet had offered Sally and her entourage the “spare bedroom” to use as her bridal suite, Sally couldn’t picture it. That’s because there was nothing to picture! The room was the size of a postage stamp, barely big enough for the measly twin bed shoved in the corner. Here Sally sat, having her hair ironed by Clay, a ghoulishly Botoxed, brow-lifted, and spray-tanned hairdresser.
“Ouch! That burned my scalp!” Sally swatted his hand away.
The door opened, knocking into a tiny Vietnamese manicurist who carried a pan of swaying soapy water. A caterer, balancing plastic-wrapped cookie sheets, entered and zeroed in on a small dresser piled with purses. “Whose are those?”
“Mine,” offered the old-lady makeup artist from the bed, where she lounged on her side, recovering from “the altitude.” Her name was Fern and she smelled musty. Who knew where Pam had dug her and the rest of these clowns up?
“I’m going to need to move them,” announced the caterer.
“Wait a second!” Sally jumped up and accidentally flipped over the pan of water.
“Oh no!” squawked the manicurist.
“This is the bridal suite!” Sally blocked the caterer from the flat surface. “You can’t put those here.”
“Is that sushi?” asked Fern, coming to life.
“Soft-shell crab rolls,” said the caterer. “Have one.”
“No!” Sally said. “Stop that! They’re all about to touch me. Put those somewhere else! Where’s Pam? Could someone get Pam!”
“Honey, I need you to sit down,” said the hairdresser.
“Is my scalp burned?” Sally patted her forehead.
“Your scalp is not burned.”
“It’s still stinging.” Sally went to the teensy bathroom and examined her hairline in the mirror. She could make out a faint red mark. “There it is,” she told Clay, not a little triumphantly. “A burn.”
“So Fern will fix it with powder,” he said.
“Hunh?” Fern looked up from her deteriorating sushi roll and touched Sally’s face with roe-speckled fingers.
Sally yelped. “Wash your hands! They’re covered in fish!” She felt her face. Tiny orange fish eggs stuck to her fingers. “Oh, my God! Where’s Pam? Or Maryam or anyone? I need help! Did someone call Pam?”
“Everyone looks so beautiful,” hummed Fern, perched at the window.
“My guests are arriving?” Sally jumped out of her chair.
“I will burn you next time you do that.” Clay slung the curling iron over his shoulder.
Sally peeked through the blinds. A familiar Escalade pulled up to the valets.
“Nora and Jordan Ross are here!” Sally cried.
Nora emerged, draped in yards and yards of chiffon. Sally prayed that Nora would identify herself as Sally’s friend, not a Core
-de-Ballet student. Sally wanted no accountability for that body. Nora had some kind of Band-Aid on her cheek. Why was it that you reached a certain age and you suddenly had no qualms about leaving the house with Band-Aids on your face? The passenger door opened, and out climbed Nora’s son, J.J.
“I didn’t invite him!” Sally’s eyes widened. “Where’s Jordan? Don’t tell me that boy is Nora’s plus one!” The valet got in the car and zoomed away.
“Relax!” laughed the hairdresser.
“You have no idea!” spit Sally. “That boy is autistic.”
“He looks very sweet,” said Fern.
“Yes, but he could throw a fit and ruin everything!”
The manicurist, ready with a pair of cuticle scissors, tapped one of Sally’s feet. Sally would be wearing closed-toe pumps, of course. Still, she wanted her feet to be beautiful underneath.
“No cut cuticles,” Sally said. “Only polish.”
The hairdresser opened the door and shouted into the hallway, “Can someone please tranquilize the bride? And me, too, while you’re at it!”
“That is not funny!” Sally fought back tears. She had made a special trip to the foot doctor yesterday to get her nails cut. “I just want nail polish.”
“Polish?” asked the Vietnamese woman. Her accent made it sound as if she were talking around a big ice cube in her mouth.
“Polish only. No cutting.”
Finally, Pam traipsed in, swinging a glass of champagne. “The peach Bellinis are to die for,” she said. “I’m taking orders.”
“Get us all doubles!” said the hairdresser. “With a Valium chaser.”
“Pam!” Sally grabbed the wedding planner. “We’ve got to move Nora Ross. She brought her son instead of her husband.”
“No Jordan Ross?” Pam pouted. “Boo-hoo. I hear he messes around.”
