O-M-G. Had he and Brandy thrown sex parties? (“No rest for the wicked!”) Did his friends think he was still into that? (Was he still into that? And did he expect her to be a part of it?)
Claire droned on and on. “The women at this table are married to the daredevils: endurance artists, bullet catchers, blah blah blah. Over there are the Cruise Ship Wives. It’s more like a support group with them. Their husbands and boyfriends are gone half the time. They’re raking in the dough, but…”
“Mo’ money, mo’ problems?” Jessica asked.
Claire seemed pained by the question. “Sure, why not,” she answered at last. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”
Jessica was relieved to see Kaimi approach. At last, someone normal, who’d been thrown to the sharks as well.
“Hi,” she bubbled, “I am so glad you’re here. I can’t even tell you.”
“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, me too,” Kaimi said. “It’s nice to meet someone who’s new to this whole thing. So, what kind of magic does your husband do?”
“Mostly close-up, a bit of stand-up,” Jessica said.
Kaimi’s eyes widened. “Oh, very cool. Mostly cards, or coins?”
“A bit of both. How about yours?”
“Landon? Oh, he’s…he does magic, yes, but he’s mainly, a…motivational speaker,” Kaimi said slowly. “That’s how we met.” Her teeth seemed clenched.
“Are you okay?” Jessica asked.
“Here he is!” Kaimi chirped, and thrust her iPhone in Jessica’s face. On the screen was a photo of Kaimi with a seriously hot black guy. Kaimi smiled so hard in the photo it hurt Jessica’s cheeks to look at the image.
“You guys seem really happy,” she offered.
“We sure are,” Kaimi almost shouted. In a calmer voice, she added, “We should plan a get-together, just the two of us, so we can really sit down and chat.”
“I’d love that. Does tomorrow work?” Jessica knew she sounded desperate, but didn’t care.
“Sure, sounds good.” They traded phones and swapped numbers.
* * *
After another hour of mingling, the crowds dispersed and Claire stood at the fire exit, shaking hands and saying good-bye to everyone as they passed. “Don’t forget to pick up a pamphlet on alcoholism. More magicians die of it than anything else. Well, that and poverty. Know the signs; educate yourselves.”
Jessica found the PSA slightly contradictory to the general tone of the meeting, and apparently she wasn’t the only one.
The woman with the bird-feather hat murmured to a friend, “She’s one to talk.”
“That’s so nasty,” giggled the other lady.
The woman with the bird-feather hat leaned closer to Jessica, fairly dripping with schadenfreude. “She has to be absolutely blotto or she can’t speak in front of a crowd. That’s why Brandy always used to do the talking for her. One-on-one she’s okay but more than a few people and—pfft. And it’s why she never drives herself to brunches.”
* * *
“Looks like we’re the only ones left. Top up?” asked Claire, holding out a pitcher of gin and lemonade.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“You survived your first brunch. How do you feel?”
“‘Survived’ sounds about right.”
Claire seemed astonished. “That bad?”
“Just…a lot to take in.”
“You may come to find more value in it the longer you’re married,” Claire said.
“Oh, yeah?” Jessica asked wearily.
“Well, let’s face it, nothing you could possibly do or say will ever be as interesting as the fact that your husband’s a magician. Who would want to talk about anything else once that’s out of the bag? It’s easy to lose your identity. People here understand how that feels.”
“But the only thing anyone wanted to talk about was Cal,” Jessica groaned. And everyone he’s slept with.
“Next time we’ll make sure you mingle with other people, not just Table Six.”
Jessica wasn’t sure she could think about a next time just yet. But at least she had some job leads, and she’d met Kaimi. She had a lunch date with her to look forward to.
Claire was full-on loopy by that point, so Jessica was about to offer her a ride home when Claire asked, “Want to see the best part? Maybe this will convince you.”
“Sure.”
Claire practically skipped past the bar toward a large golden door labeled WARDROBE. She swung the doors open, revealing an enormous walk-in closet filled with beautiful gowns, as well as shelves filled with hats, gloves, shoes, and handbags. Although most of the items befit black-tie gatherings and cocktail parties, there was a selection of cute, casual day dresses, plaid scarves, thin leather belts, chunky necklaces, drop-leaf earrings, miniskirts, and kitten-heeled shoes that looked perfect for lounging.
Jessica danced over and clasped her hands in delight. “This. Is. Awesome.”
“I know.” Claire giggled. At last they felt like equals, drooling over fashion.
“The rules are simple. Leave a dress, take a dress,” said Claire.
This she could get behind. “Like the penny dish at 7-Eleven!”
“…Right. This is our lending library.”
Claire’s phone buzzed and her face lit up when she saw who was calling. “Sorry, it’s my daughter, away at school.” She answered and said, “Hey, baby.” To Jessica she whispered, “Go nuts. Try on anything you like.”
Jessica couldn’t resist running her hands along the dresses and fabrics, which seemed to come from several different eras and explained the variety of colorful outfits she’d seen earlier. Silky, floor-length gowns, velvet and lace, beaded fringe, rayon, cotton, fleece and fur…The genuinely vintage pieces—hairpin sets, beaded headbands, elbow-length satin gloves, a lone, pearl-buttoned cardigan—looked brittle yet delicate (What if I wreck them?), so for the time being she limited herself to modern materials.
Then she saw it: a Bill Blass ready-to-wear coral-red halter-neck dress with a center split. It was loose and flowing, and would nicely showcase her bare shoulders. It didn’t need a bra, and would look perfect with a pair of gold, peep-toe slingbacks and matching gold bracelet.
Jessica slid the dress on, tied a knot at the neck, and admired herself in the mirror. Presto-Chango. Best of all, it reminded her of the red scrap of silk of she’d worn the first time she and Cal made love back in Chicago.
“What are you doing?” Claire demanded.
Jessica whirled around, startled. “You said I could try on any dress I wanted.”
“Take it off. Just take it off.” Claire’s fingers reached out and attacked, pulling on the knot at Jessica’s neck, tugging the fabric loose. “That’s not for you. You don’t wear that. Ever.”
Jessica backed away, almost tripping over the open boxes of shoes behind her. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you being totally sus?”
“‘Totally sus’?” Claire roared. “Are you speaking a language from earth?”
It reminded her of Cal repeating her words as though they were nonsense words, as though Jessica were incomprehensible; from a less intelligent generation.
“Totally sus means suspicious,” she said, not backing down. “Shady. Not cool. Your daughter would know what I meant.”
Claire was stone-faced. “Take the dress off. Now.”
“Why should I?”
“Because it was Brandy’s. She started this group with me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you parade around the club wearing it.”
The ex-wife again! “Why didn’t you just say so?”
Claire was silent for a long time, staring into space. Jessica wasn’t sure if she’d even heard her. Then, to Jessica’s shock, she slid down the wall onto the floor and put her face in her hands and cried. Her entire body shook.
It turned out Claire was not a mean drunk or a happy drunk; she was a lonely one. Why else would Jessica be the last one here with her instead of women she’d known much longe
r? Despite the fact that Claire had manufactured a sorority in which to belong, none of the other wives could take the place of its co-creator. Least of all Jessica.
She stood rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do. The best course seemed to stand completely still. Any word or movement risked unleashing another tirade from hell.
Finally Claire raised her head. Her face was wet and her eyes dripped. No longer a goddess of any kind, just perfectly, imperfectly human. “Please take it off.” She sniffed. “I’m asking you, okay? I’m imploring you.”
When she’d changed back into her original outfit, Jessica sat next to Claire on the floor.
Claire had spent the time alone composing herself. Her mascara was smeared, but other than that her face was bone-dry, pale as sand.
“Are you okay?” Jessica said.
Claire’s green eyes were red-rimmed but clear, and her voice was calm and detached. “My best friend’s husband married a foulmouthed, tatted-up trophy wife. How am I supposed to feel?”
“Maybe he’s my trophy,” Jessica snapped. “Ever think of that? Maybe my life thus far fucking sucked and he’s the prize I get for leaving it behind! I’m sorry about your friend, but he’s my husband now, not your friend’s, or any of those swinger chicks’, so get over it.”
Claire got up and slowly walked inside the bathroom.
Jessica closed her eyes and waited for the sound of retching to stop.
Then she followed Claire into the bathroom, placed several paper towels under the faucet, squeezed them out, and pressed them gently to Claire’s forehead.
Felix
Monday after work, traffic was worse than usual, and usual was already a dolor en el culo, pain in the ass.
His cell phone rang but he let it go to voicemail. One of his exes looking to hook up. He didn’t have time for any foolishness if he wanted to get his magic career launched.
Desperate to escape the 101, Felix exited at Cahuenga and took a circuitous route toward Edgecliffe Drive. He considered stopping by the Frederickssons’—maybe the hot-as-hell missus was home again and could help him with his dollar-bill trick—but when he saw Jonathan’s SUV in the driveway, he passed right by and continued home to Glendale. It’s prob’ly not a good sign when you avoid knocking on your mentor’s door because your mentor is there.
He’d used Claire’s finger-strengthening device all last week at the shop. His tendons ached but he could already see improvement in his card passes and coin work. He was even considering adding pool balls to his collection of props; those were heavy and dangerous but so cool when used right.
He wanted to let her know he appreciated the help, give her an update on his progress, and ask for more advice. Who knew what other tips she’d throw his way, if he could arrange to see her again? He liked replaying their time together in his head, especially the way she’d tossed him the bottle of beer behind her back, trusting him to catch it. She was sort of a bombshell, and sort of terrifying, but there was something more to her that defied characterization, something sad underneath her toughness. It was a sorrow he wanted to lighten.
He couldn’t decide if he’d rather kiss Claire or make her laugh. Her incredulity-turned-laughter when he’d punked her into thinking he didn’t know the correct word for clubs had lifted him to the ceiling. Getting another laugh out of her would require effort, and he liked planning how he would do it.
He’d never wondered about those things before. Never asked himself what a girl might want from him, instead of what he could get. Never weighed the goal of sex against a higher, longer-term objective. (It’s still a good goal, he reassured himself. But Claire is so much more interesting than that.)
She made every one of his exes seem duller than dirt.
As usual, his housemates had a few people over around nine o’clock. A few people turned into ten, then twenty, then thirty, and by two a.m. it was a bangin’ house party. The five-bedroom, twenty-four-hundred-square-foot house on Hillside had no neighbors, so the Pussy Palace (“Party Palace” if girls were around) was free and clear to rock the night away, every night of the week, which it happily did. The spare bedroom held two fridges filled with beer, and its wall was covered in lipstick kisses from anyone who wanted to leave one.
Felix locked himself in his room and put on his noise-canceling headphones, but it was impossible to get any practice done. The first few months he’d lived there, he’d joined the carousing; it had felt like a continuation of his baseball days, a necessary transition into “civilian life,” but now it made him helpless and angry.
Despite his unusual profession, Felix had the closest thing to a corporate job of anyone living there. Cousin Paco had inherited his dad’s successful turboscape company (mulch refills and soil erosion) but paid a manager to run it while he designed graffiti-based T-shirts on the side. Chicks dug the free merch he had lying around. Aspiring actor Jamie, a good-looking white boy from Riverside whom Felix had roomed with at Cal State, spent all day calling the Central Casting hotline and all night partying. Scooter was a DJ who traveled back and forth among San Diego, LA, SF, and Vegas for club gigs. He partied for a living.
In comparison, Felix was a suit, and suits needed sleep to function. He appreciated the rent-free living arrangement, but he also felt handcuffed by it. If he didn’t move out, he’d never enjoy the peace and quiet necessary to become a “worker,” the term for a magician who made a full-time living. But his hourly wage at Merlin’s Wonderporium would never pay enough cash to leave.
The vicious cycle continued.
* * *
The next morning, Tuesday, was his day off. Felix slept in late, pulled on some boxers, grabbed his cell phone, and ventured downstairs. A couple of guests from the night before were sprawled outside on deck chairs by the pool, or passed out on the living room carpet. The sound of laughter rose up from the kitchen. When he walked through the swinging double doors and he saw why, his stomach dropped.
His housemates had gone through his mail, and plastered the kitchen walls with pages from Clowning 4 Cash magazine. Tuning out their cackles, he walked past them to the fridge for his eggs, but they were all gone—well, eleven out of twelve were. He slammed the fridge door shut.
“What the hell, cabrones,” he groaned, “I bought those yesterday.”
Cousin Paco pointed an accusatory finger at Felix. “Payaso,” he hissed. Clown!
“Dude, why do you have this?” Scooter said, chucking the magazine at Paco.
“‘The hottest source of information for today’s clowning professional,’” Paco quoted from the cover.
“I hope it’s the only source of information for today’s clowning professional,” added Jamie.
They tossed around what remained of the issue like a game of hot potato. (“Get it away!” / “Burn it!” / “I don’t want it touching me!”)
“Does this mean you’re giving up on magic?” Jamie asked. “Because this is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen, man. For real. But, you know, do what you gotta do…”
As a fellow performer, Jamie understood the bizarre ups and downs that came with creative work. Jamie’s own career had stalled three years back after he was cast as a customer who orders the riblets platter in an Applebee’s commercial. But even Jamie didn’t want to align himself with a clown.
Paco wrapped an arm around Felix’s shoulder. “I want to cry, primo. You were my hero when you played ball. Then you get into magic, fine, whatever, sort of weird, but I hook you up with this sweet pad, never knowing I’m living with a payaso! Does Tía know about this?”
“You got one of those flowers that when you lean in to smell it, it shoots water at you?” asked Scooter. “I want to see it.”
“Dude, Pennywise haunts my soul,” Paco said, and everyone paused to agree.
Felix went around pulling the articles off the counters and wall.
“Ugggh, I’m not a clown.” He crumpled the pages and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “And that’s no joke, man, you can’
t go around calling me that or throwing that word around. The c-word’s not good for business.”
Jamie laughed. “The c-word ain’t what you think it is, bro.”
“It’s for my insurance, assholes. I had to join the AAC, American Association of Clowns, so I could get an insurance plan.”
“Whoever heard of clown insurance?” Jamie howled.
“Does it protect you from death by clown?” Scooter asked.
“Look, there’s no union for magicians, we don’t have a choice but to join up with the clowns. You gotta have insurance if you want to play at like Hotel Bel-Air and those places. If something goes wrong with a fire trick or someone gets hurt, you need protection.”
“Since when are you doing magic at Hotel Bel-Air?”
“It could happen! And they won’t hire you if you don’t have it.”
“Yeah, but that still doesn’t explain this shit.” Paco tore out a particularly upsetting page from the magazine (an opinion piece with the clown’s profile picture in the upper corner), threw it to the ground, and stomped on it.
“The subscription comes automatic when you join,” Felix explained.
“I don’t want this in my place, primo,” said Paco. “You got to, like, intercept this shit from the mailbox and get rid of it before it comes through the door.”
I have to get out of here, he realized. It’s not just the parties; everyone’s up in my business all the time. Plus whenever he brought groceries home, his housemates gobbled them all up and never paid him back. Paco’s right: I’m never going to get gigs at Hotel Bel-Air or even freaking Motel 6 if I stay here a minute longer.
Absurdly, he thought of the apartment at Club Deception, used by visiting lecturers. What a dream it would be to live there, surrounded by magic day and night.
Felix’s cell phone rang.
Scooter was closest and snatched it up. “Is it one of your overflow honeys? Let me talk to her.”
“No,” said Felix, reaching over. “C’mon.”
Scooter held the phone out of reach and hit ANSWER and then SPEAKER so everyone could hear. “Yo.”
Club Deception Page 10
