by Maria Semple
“Hi, is David there? It’s Geddy Lee.”
Geddy Lee. The name sounded familiar, but Kara couldn’t place it. “He’s not in yet. May I take a message?”
“I’m calling to razz him about my bass showing up on eBay. Tell him if he’s really that cheap, I’ll give his wife the money.”
Kara didn’t have a pen and her computer was asleep. There was no way she would remember what this guy had just said. “Do you want me to try him at home?” she asked, then gasped. David never wanted people put through to his house. “Or,” she said, “maybe he’s in his car, but I can’t reach him because it’s hard to get reception in the canyons.” Kara cringed at how lame that just sounded.
“Just give him the message when he gets in.”
“He’s usually in by now,” she said. “But he was at Coachella for a sound check yesterday and probably got back late to the —” Oh God! Kara had almost told this Geddy guy that David was living at the Beverly Hills Hotel! Even Kara wasn’t supposed to know. “I’ll give him the message,” she said.
“He knows my numbers.”
Now Kara was back at square one. Who was Geddy Lee? How did you spell Geddy Lee? And what was the message? Something about eBay and a bass. She so didn’t want to get fired for this.
“KNOCK, knock.”
Sally roused from an oozy semi-slumber and found herself back in the bridal suite.
“I’m sorry if I woke you.” Violet entered with a breakfast tray. “Egg white omelet with low-fat Jarlsberg, sautéed mushrooms, and ten blueberries. Everything low in sugar for my diabetic sister- in-law.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Sally sat up. On the tray were a vase of flowers and some gossip magazines.
“Your medicine is in the bathroom. Your mail is in the kitchen, and your clothes are there.” Two of Sally’s velour sweat suits were folded on a chair, along with her washed and ironed clothes from yesterday. Sally vaguely remembered having changed into Violet’s silk pajamas and giving her keys to her apartment.
“I really appreciate it,” Sally said. “I’ll be out of here this morning.”
“Don’t even think about it. You’re staying the night.”
Dot, the shiny-eyed force of nature, hurtled in. Nothing had ever gone wrong for this quizzical girl in the crooked pigtails.
“Hi, Dot.” Sally tried not to smile too big.
Last month, when she was planning the wedding, Sally had made an extra effort to connect with her niece. Dot had hidden her face in her hands and told Violet, Mommy, tell the lady to stop smiling at me.
“You read me a book?” Dot handed Sally a stiff copy of Goodnight Moon.
“What,” Violet said, off of Sally’s look. “You don’t like Goodnight Moon?”
“It was a little weird,” Sally admitted.
“Goodnight nobody. Don’t you love that? It’s so random.” Violet turned to Dot. “I’ll read it to you later, sweetheart.”
“Uppy, uppy.” Dot raised her arms. Violet scooped her up.
“Well, we’re off. I have errands and a playdate, then the realtor wants to meet me at that land we’re not going to buy. Be here when I get back.”
“I will.” Sally watched Violet leave and couldn’t resist. “Violet, those cargo pants . . .”
“I know, I know. They make my ass look gigantic, but I trekked to Everest Base Camp in them a million years ago and I have a sentimental attachment.”
“Wear them around here if you have to,” Sally said, “but get some low-rise jeans to wear in public.”
“I’m starting a new job next week. We can go to Barney’s and blow my paycheck before I get it. You can be my stylist.” Violet left.
Sally picked up a magazine. It was brand-new and didn’t have an address label on it. Neither did the other magazines. Violet must have picked them up especially for Sally. Maybe Sally had it backward: Violet was a nice person masquerading as a snob.
Sally ate her breakfast and took a shower. She carried her tray to the kitchen and tripped on something. An overstuffed laundry bag from the Beverly Hills Hotel had appeared in the hallway.
“Sally.” David stood at the kitchen counter. Violet had said he was out of town. “Are you feeling better? Violet left a note.”
“Hi! Yeah, I’m fine. I hope it’s all right that I spent the night.”
“I have to talk to you about something.”
Sally opened the dishwasher. “Sure, what?”
“I was looking through the mail, and before I realized it was your mail, I saw this.” Swinging between his thumb and index finger was her bankruptcy letter. “You declared bankruptcy?”
“Oh, my God —” Sally dropped a glass in the sink.
“The creditors listed are credit card companies,” David said. “What do I need to do?”
“Nothing. It’s over. The bankruptcy went through. Isn’t that what the letter says?”
“How were you able to file for Chapter Seven? After the Bankruptcy Act a couple of years ago, didn’t they make that more difficult?”
“I get paid in cash, so most of my income didn’t show.”
David considered this and nodded. “Remember that correspondence course I took to get my accounting degree?”
“Yeah.”
“Here’s what it taught me. Those who understand compound interest earn it; those who don’t, pay it. Got that?”
“Yes.”
“Next time, come to me, will you?”
“There won’t be a next time,” she said.
David handed her the discharge letter. “On another unpleasant topic: my wife called me last night, none too pleased that I never told her about your diabetes.”
“Oh.”
“You made me promise not to tell anyone, right?”
“Right.” She had, but that was way back in high school.
“Could you clarify that fact for Violet next time you see her?”
“I’m sorry,” said Sally. “I just assumed, because you were married, it would come up.”
“A promise is a promise, unless I’m instructed otherwise.”
“Well, what do you tell her when the bills come?” Sally asked.
“What bills?”
“My doctors’ bills.”
“I’m paying your doctors’ bills?” David’s head jerked back ever so slightly. She’d forgotten he did that.
“And my insurance.”
“That’s news to me.”
“Wait,” Sally said. “You didn’t know?”
“I believe you,” said David. “Anyone who screws in a lightbulb around here ends up on my insurance.”
The phone rang. David answered it. Sally held herself up, both hands on the counter. Her insides stung as if she’d just been eviscerated.
David handed her the phone. “Dr. Naeby, for you.”
“Oh,” said Sally.
“Okay. I’m going to the office. See you later.” David left. She waited for the door to shut, then took the call.
“Hi, Sally,” said Dr. Naeby. “How are you this morning?”
“Fine.”
“No cramping or excessive bleeding?”
“No, everything’s fine.”
“That’s the good news.” Dr. Naeby changed gears. “Now, about your blood test. Something of concern showed up in the first one, and that’s why I wanted to run another. . . .”
KARA stood proudly before David. Not only had she pieced together Geddy Lee’s message, but she’d also found the eBay auction and e-mailed David the link. David seemed unusually interested in it and had asked her to get Geddy Lee on the phone. David had just hung up and called Kara in.
“The bass?” he said.
“Yes?” Kara had pen in hand, ready to take notes.
“Pay for it with cash. I want that bass, the seller’s name, and where he lives on my desk before lunch.”
It took Kara a second to realize she was committing the number one cardinal sin of an assistant: standing there with the deer-in-headlights look. She
had to say something, but all that came out was “Muawh —”
“Get it done,” David said.
“Of course.” Kara calmly walked down the hall to the office of the guy who did the bookings. “Hi, would you mind covering David’s phones?” she asked his secretary.
“Sure,” said the older Hillary, who had no choice. As David’s assistant, Kara outranked her.
Kara returned to her computer and found the auction. There was an option that let you “Buy It Now.” Which was a whopping $10,000. The actual auction had only reached $1,200 and it closed at five. It seemed stupid to pay $10,000 now, when David could probably buy the bass in a few hours for much less. Kara rose from her chair to point this out, then sat back down. It wasn’t her job to second-guess David. She bought the bass, contacted the seller, and got his address. He wanted to know more about her, but she said nothing. Any information was too much information.
The messenger from the bank arrived with the cash, and Kara walked him into David’s office. David tore open the plastic envelope, counted the money, and signed for it.
“I have the address and I’ll leave now to get the bass,” Kara said.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Really close: 8907 Sunset Boulevard.”
David’s head shot back. “That’s on the strip, right?”
“A place called Mauricio’s Boot Shop.”
David blinked. And blinked again. “Mauricio’s?”
“Yeah.”
David stood up. “I’ll get it myself.” He started out. The brick of hundreds was still on his desk.
“Don’t forget the money!” said Kara.
“Go to the bank and deposit it back into the account.”
“Of course,” said Kara.
Now she’s fucking Kurt Pombo! David fishtailed onto Sunset Boulevard. All he could figure was that Violet had moved on to Kurt Pombo and was funneling him rock memorabilia to sell on eBay. Had the great Violet Grace Parry truly stooped this low? It was impossible to fathom. David double-parked outside Mauricio’s and left the front door of his Bentley open. He flew into the boot shop. If he had a baseball bat he would have been wielding it.
The joint was empty. But not for long. Kurt entered from the back room. “Hey, David,” he said with a yip. “What’s up, bro?”
“So that’s how you wanna play it?” It must have come out pretty fucking menacing, because Kurt fled into the back like the little bitch he was. “You want to fuck with me?” David charged him. Kurt had nowhere to run in the tiny workroom. He cowered in the corner. David grabbed him by the Hawaiian shirt and threw him against the wall.
“I’m sorry,” Kurt yowled. He slid to the floor. “I’ll give it back. It’s right there —”
“I don’t give a fuck about the bass.” David kicked Kurt in the gut. After two lonely months of Saint David, kicking the shit out of a wannabe lowlife sure hit the spot. “I’m here because of my wife, you asshole. But I don’t want her back, either. Whatever the fuck you two are doing together, she’s all yours.” He kicked him again.
“I swear — I didn’t — I swear. I’m not the one fucking your wife.”
David stopped.
“I just stole that shit from the car.” Kurt stood up. “I took the shit she was about to give to that other dude — the guy in the Stones cover band.”
David cocked his head and walked himself through the logic of this new information.
“I promise you, man,” Kurt said, “I never touched your wife. Take the bass. And the phone and the golf clubs. It’s all there. And your kid’s cough syrup.”
On the cobbler’s bench, among cowboy boots in various stages of finish, sat Dot’s eczema medicine. David had to smile. He extended his hand to Kurt, who recoiled. David grabbed his daughter’s medicine and left.
VIOLET sat in her car at the bottom of George Harrison’s former driveway, flipping through the escrow papers. Gwen had insisted on meeting at the property before Violet made any “rash decisions.” Violet had finally acquiesced. She felt a strange tenderness toward this older divorcée, her very own Ghost of Christmas Future. Violet then noticed that David had forgotten to sign the middle of page four.
“Shit,” she said.
“Shit,” said Dot.
“No, darling, we don’t say shit.”
“Mama? Out. Out.”
“We can’t get out.” Violet turned on the stereo.
Bobby . . . Bobby . . . Bobby . . . Bobby . . . Bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-Bobeeeee.
Violet checked the rearview mirror. Dot was mesmerized, as always, by the opening number from Company.
Bobby, baby. Bobby, Bubby. Robby. Robert, darling. Robbo. Bobby, baby. Bobby, Bubby.
Dot whispered along, keeping up as best she could. Violet smiled. It was never too early to indoctrinate Dot into the glories of Stephen Sondheim. Dot, named after the artist’s muse from Sunday in the Park with George. David was dismissive of Sondheim, saying, He can’t write songs. Violet fervently disagreed. She didn’t care if other children grew up to the Wiggles or Dan Zanes. Hers would adore Sondheim. Violet had declared it that joyous day of the first ultrasound. David conceded her Sondheim if she’d give him the Mets. They shook on it in front of Dr. Naeby, who raised his brow and went about his business.
There was a knock on the window. “Ooh, you brought the munchkin!”
“Gwen, hi.” Violet turned down the volume.
“I have my walking shoes on!” Gwen lifted a hiking boot to the window. Perhaps she’d been a dancer once.
“I really can’t,” started Violet. “I have the baby. You know how enthusiastic we were, but the geology report leaves us no choice but to cancel. You understand.”
“Oh.” Gwen’s face came crashing down.
“Mommy?” said Dot.
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Shit.”
“I’m ignoring that,” Violet informed Gwen. “Thanks for everything, but our decision is made. Here are the papers. David didn’t sign page four, but he signed everywhere else —”
Gwen swung her hands up, as if avoiding being served. “Nope. Can’t accept those. No point in trying. Papers gotta be signed. No can do.”
It was impossible to hate Gwen. Violet would send her a check, or a client, even see if there was a one-line part for her in the new TV show.
“I understand,” Violet said. “I’ll fax them to your office by five.” Gwen pivoted, climbed into her car, and drove off.
“Out!” said Dot. “Mommy, want out!”
Dot had been a trouper all day, plus it would be good to burn off energy before the nap. “Just for five minutes.”
A green car crunched up the dirt road and stopped. “Green car,” said Dot.
“Yes,” Violet said. “That’s a green car.”
“What dat man’s name?” asked Dot.
“I don’t know,” Violet said. “Now run around and then we’re going to go home and take a nap.”
A door slammed. The green car’s trunk was open. Behind it was that guy Sally used to date, with the hair and the Hawaiian shirts.
Violet’s instinct was to protect Dot. “Honey, don’t go far.”
Then, this guy — Kurt, she thought — loaded his arms with Geddy Lee’s bass, the set of Callaway golf clubs, and the bag from the Apple store. He walked over and dumped them at Violet’s feet.
“Take them,” he said. “Get them out of my life. I don’t need the karma.” He turned around.
“Where did you get these?”
“I took them out of your car.”
“Oh.” Violet said. “Wait —” She glanced at Dot, who was climbing the nearby hill. It was rocky and steep, but thanks to RIE, Dot had good balance. Violet turned to Kurt. “How did you know I was here?”
“I went to your house and Sally told me. I’m sorry. I’m a fucking moron. If suffering serves as a springboard to expand your life state, then I’m going to have the biggest life state in the universe.” His Hawaiian shirt was torn, his h
and bandaged, and one eye was starting to swell.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Ask your fucking husband.”
“Oh God.” Violet’s stomach roiled.
Dot was squatting, completely absorbed in some discarded strawberry baskets. “Bobby baby, Bobby bubby,” she sang to herself as she filled a basket with rocks.
“He thought I was fucking you or something,” said Kurt.
“Why would he think that?”
“Don’t ask me. What goes on between you and your husband is your business. My only business is to chant until I transform my destructive tendencies from poison into medicine. I’m like Pigpen with a black cloud of bad karma following me everywhere.”
“Hang on a second.” Violet frantically tried to calculate the bits of information. “How did you even know this stuff was in my car?”
“I overheard you telling the guy you were fucking.”
“Is that what you told David?!”
“I really don’t remember. I was too busy trying not to get my face kicked in.” He turned to leave.
“No — you can’t go — tell me.” She grabbed both of his arms. “What did you hear? What did you tell David —”
“I told him I’m not the guy you were fucking.”
“What?!” Violet’s whole body throbbed. “What did he say? What did you tell him —”
A shriek echoed across the canyon. It was Dot. No Mommy, no Mama, just one cry, then silence. It was what Violet had always feared the most, silence.
“Dot!” she screamed. Her daughter had vanished from the hill. Blades of grass and fragile California poppies swayed in the breeze. It was silent and idyllic, like the day-after scenes of Chernobyl.
“Shit,” Kurt said. “She was right here. Where did she go?”
“Dot! Baby! Say something!” Violet fought her way up the hill. “Dot! Mommy’s here. Dot! Where are you?!” Violet screamed to Kurt, who stood at the bottom of the hill, “Help me! Maybe she’s down on the street. Or in a house. Knock on the doors. Oh God —”
Violet thought she might vomit: the reservoir. “No, no.” She scrambled to the top of the rise.
