The Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes

by David Handler

  Boyd smiled at her uncertainly. “I know all about you, too. I used to read about you and the Hoagster in the gossip columns back when I was in middle school in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Did you two really have sex on George Plimpton’s pool table in the middle of a Brazilian poetry reading?”

  “Can he swim?” she murmured at me.

  “I don’t know, I’ll ask him. Boyd, can you swim?”

  “Of course I can. Why?”

  “Too bad,” she said, sighing regretfully.

  “I placed a call to Monette as soon as I got to town,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly. “She promised me she’d try to get home from today’s taping as soon as possible and was kind enough to suggest I wait for her here. I don’t suppose you have any news for me, do you, amigo? Because Mr. Harmon Wright is really anxious to be kept in the loop.”

  “Well, I did just spend a fun-filled morning with Patrick Van Pelt.”

  Boyd’s eyes narrowed. “What for?”

  “He doesn’t want this project to happen, that’s what for.”

  “Really? I’d think he’d be loving the extra media attention.”

  “And you’d be wrong. If Richard Aintree chooses to reappear right now, he’ll shove Pat ’n’ Kat off the front page. As far as Patrick’s concerned that makes Richard an undesirable and potentially very expensive distraction.”

  “Fuck Patrick,” Boyd snapped. “What’s he gonna do?”

  “Just for starters, someone in a black Trans Am tried to run my short-legged associate and me over in Pacoima yesterday. Naturally, Patrick denies knowing anything about it. But someone in a black Trans Am also tried to run Monette off Coldwater Canyon the night before last.”

  “Damn . . .” Boyd took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Mr. Harmon Wright will be deeply, deeply displeased if Patrick screws up our project. But you know what? I can handle this.”

  “How? Do you have a professional hit man on the HWA payroll now? Wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  “I’ll convince Patrick’s agent to lean on him by making it clear that our Richard Aintree project is the single most important thing happening in HWA’s universe right now and that Mr. Harmon Wright will personally destroy the career of a certain ex–football player if he dares to mess it up. I can talk to Kat’s agent, too. Remind him that we’re one big happy family and we all pull in the same vertically integrated, synergistically aligned direction.”

  “I don’t like the way he talks,” Reggie said to me.

  “Didn’t think you would.”

  “I am on this, amigo,” Boyd vowed excitedly. “I am girding my loins for battle as we speak.” He opened his black Samsonite briefcase on a lounge chair and removed a mobile phone, then marched around to the other side of the pool with it and threw himself into the fray with Glickian zeal.

  “What’s with the walkie-talkie?” Reggie asked me, watching him.

  “All of the big kids and their loins play with them now.”

  Reggie tied her hair up on top of her head with a rubber band, dove into the water and settled into a nice, easy backstroke. Lulu ran alongside her, barking and barking, while Boyd shouted obscenity-laced threats into his mobile phone.

  Then the side gate opened and Joey and Danielle arrived from school with their book bags slung over their shoulders. Danielle was dressed for success in a navy blue blazer, powder blue sweater, pleated khakis and black suede slip-ons. Joey was dressed for disillusionment in a rumpled flannel shirt, jeans and work boots. He headed straight for the house with his eyes fastened on the ground, refusing to acknowledge me or the famous aunt whom he’d never, ever met.

  Danielle did no such thing. She made her way directly to the edge of the pool and gawked at Reggie until Reggie swam over toward her and climbed out.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed one of your bikinis,” Reggie said, toweling off.

  “You’re her,” Danielle said in hushed disbelief. “You’re Aunt Reggie.”

  “In the goose-bumped flesh,” Reggie acknowledged. “And you’re Danielle. Or do you prefer Dani?”

  “No, I hate Dani. It’s an ugly name.”

  “And you’re not ugly at all. In fact, you look just like your mother did when she was your age.”

  “I’ve wanted to meet you for as long as I can remember. I’ve always wondered what you were like. But you’ve never . . .” Danielle broke off, her brow furrowing. “How long has it been since you and Mom have seen each other?”

  “A fairly decent interval of twenty or so years.”

  “You mean since before I was born?”

  Reggie nodded. “Since before you were born. And in answer to your next question—no, she has no idea I’m here.”

  “Will she be happy to see you?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “I’m here because I’m supposed to be here. How is your mom doing these days?”

  Danielle swallowed uncomfortably. “She’s kind of got a lot going on in her life right now.”

  “By ‘a lot’ do you mean your horny idiot of a dad knocking up his slutty little co-star?”

  Danielle’s eyes widened. “You say things, don’t you? You’re not at all like Mom.”

  Maritza came out to ask Danielle if she wanted anything to eat or drink. Danielle said she didn’t.

  “So where’s my nephew?” Reggie wondered.

  “Senor Joey is up in his room,” Maritza informed her.

  “Would you please ask him to join us?”

  “He will not come down, Senorita.”

  “She’s right,” Danielle said. “He doesn’t like to leave his room. His shrink calls it his cave.”

  “But I want to meet him.”

  “He will not come down, Senorita.”

  “Oh, he’ll come down,” I assured her. “Lulu, we’ve got a job to do. Please lead the way, Maritza.” We started toward the house, leaving Reggie and Danielle alone together. Unless you count Boyd, who was still standing on the other side of the pool shouting into his phone. “I spoke to Patrick today,” I told Maritza as I followed her inside toward the front hallway. “He warned me that you’re ‘private property.’ What does that mean exactly?”

  She led me up the grand curving staircase with its weirdly tacky gallery of framed magazine covers and photo spreads. “It means Senor Patrick thinks I belong to him,” she answered gravely.

  “Do you?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Maritza, has he ever forced himself on you?”

  “He tries to grab me when he drinks, so I make sure I am not alone with him. I am very happy he’s gone, Senor Hoagy.”

  The second-floor hallway was as opulently appointed as the downstairs. There were antique Persian rugs on the wide-plank oak floors, strategically placed urns, busts and side tables that were laden with fresh flowers and collections of ivory bric-a-brac and other assorted high-end dreck. There was no shortage of rooms. I counted seven doors. At the end of the hall was a set of massive mahogany double doors befitting a royal bedchamber.

  “The master suite,” Maritza said, following my gaze. “Would you . . . ?”

  “I wouldn’t say no.”

  There was a veddy British seating alcove with a pair of chintz-covered armchairs set before a fireplace and chintz-covered window seats built in beneath the row of windows that looked out over the rose bushes, babbling brook and a vast swath of electric green lawn. Floral-patterned curtains framed the windows. There was an old-fashioned canopied four-poster bed with frilly, white ruffled skirts, frilly, white ruffled everything. There were his and hers walk-in closets. Patrick’s was completely empty except for an extensive collection of wooden hangers. Monette’s closet, which was crammed to the ceiling with clothing and shoes, was bigger than my entire apartment on West Ninety-Third Street. The master bath had two antique sinks as well as a huge antique tub with clawed feet. It also had a thoroughly modern stall shower and a teak sauna.
Next to the master bath there was a service stairway down to the first floor.

  “That goes down to the hallway next to the kitchen,” Maritza explained. “So that I may bring the senora her coffee in the morning and carry the family’s laundry up and down the stairs without taking it through the main house.”

  I’ve stayed in historic manor homes in England. It’s standard to find a service stairway down to the kitchen. This one, I noticed, had a door at the top of the stairs that could be closed and locked for privacy.

  She led me back out into the hallway toward the second door on the right, which had a hand-lettered sign taped to it that read: stay the fuck out!

  “Senor Joey’s room,” Maritza informed me.

  I’d expected to hear loud rock ’n’ roll coming out of there, but there was only silence. When I knocked on the door, I was met with more silence.

  “He cannot hear you,” she explained, tapping her ear with a finger. “He wears headphones because the senora hates the thump-thump-thump.”

  “Does he lock his door?”

  “He used to, but the senora hired a locksmith so he cannot.”

  I opened the door and in we went. The wooden shutters over Joey’s windows were shut against the brilliant Southern California sunshine. It was quite dark in there, aside from a tiny desk lamp. Stuffy, too. Smelled strongly of old sneakers, dirty socks, sweaty armpits, Right Guard and Clearasil. Joey was hunched at his desk with his headphones on, tapping away at a Macintosh on what appeared to be a homework project. Two textbooks were open on the desk next to him. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I could make out a dozen or more posters pinned to his walls. A regular rogue’s gallery of the tangled up in tragic—Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin. Hanging directly over his unmade bed was that famous photograph of Charles Manson staring right at the camera with his frozen madman’s glare.

  “Is disgusting in here,” Maritza said, glancing disapprovingly at the dirty clothing that was strewn everywhere. “But he will not let me come in and clean. The senora, she says if he wants to live in filth then let him.”

  Lulu was looking up at me, waiting for my go-ahead. On my nod she made her way under Joey’s desk and clamped her jaws firmly around his ankle.

  He yanked off his headphones with a shriek. “Ow, what the fuck is she doing? Tell her to stop!”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t. We don’t have that kind of relationship.”

  “If she doesn’t let go I’m going to kick her.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Come outside and say hello to your aunt. She’s flown three thousand miles to see you.”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “I’m trying to finish a paper that was due two months ago, okay? If I don’t do it, they won’t let me graduate.”

  “Finish it later. Come on outside.”

  “Fuck off!”

  Lulu sank her teeth in deeper. Not deep enough to do any damage but enough for Joey to feel as if his ankle was snared in a steel-jawed trap.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll come! Make her stop, will you?”

  He followed us outside into the sunlight, blinking. Danielle was perched on the edge of Reggie’s lounge chair, enthralled, as Reggie chattered away at her. Boyd was still shouting into his phone.

  “Joey, this is your aunt Regina,” I said. “She answers to Reggie.”

  She stuck out her hand. “Hey, Joey.”

  “I don’t believe in shaking hands,” he said coldly.

  “Because you consider it an outmoded societal ritual, am I right? I can relate to that. Do you believe in having a seat?”

  He stood right where he was, peering at her. “Hoagy told me I should read your work. He says you’re a stone-cold genius.”

  “Hoagy said that?” She smiled at me impishly. “How sweet of him. But I’m no genius. Your grandmother was. Eleanor Aintree was one of the most important American poets of the twentieth century.”

  “What about our grandfather?” Danielle asked, her eyes gleaming at Reggie excitedly.

  “Your grandfather is someone who wrote one very fine book.”

  “It was okay,” Joey said grudgingly, frowning as he gazed across the pool. “Who is that?”

  “Boyd Samuels, your mom’s New York literary agent,” I told him. “He has a more formal title but I’ll spare you that.”

  “Every time I turn around there’s another total stranger here,” Joey complained. “And those yapping cretins are always outside the front gate with their cameras. This place is driving me nuts.”

  “I don’t blame you one bit,” Reggie said. “It’s driving me nuts and I just got here. So, Joey, what are you going to do when you finish high school?”

  “He wants to be a writer,” Danielle informed her.

  “Really? Most excellent! How about you, Danielle?”

  “Yale undergrad, Harvard business school, then a job in studio development. I plan to be running my own production company by the time I’m thirty.”

  Reggie looked at her in horror. “You poor thing. What are your plans for this summer?”

  “I have an internship lined up in Elliot Schein’s office. He produces Mom’s show.”

  “Why on earth do you want to do that?”

  “Are you kidding me? It’s a huge opportunity.”

  “It’s a waste of your time. You need to experience life.”

  “That’s what I told her,” I said. “But she wasn’t buying it.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather rescue wounded elephants in Kenya?”

  Danielle peered at Reggie as if she were utterly crazy. “Uh, no . . .”

  “I can get you on an oceanographic research vessel that’s heading to the Galapagos Islands. Wouldn’t you like to do that?”

  “Not really.”

  Reggie shook her head at her. “Young lady, you need to reassess your priorities. Find yourself a bad boy with a motorcycle, go riding off into the desert with him and don’t come back until you’ve seen the light.”

  “Light?” Danielle frowned at her. “What light?”

  “And you, young sir, need to ride the rails,” she informed Joey. “Catch a freighter that’s heading north. When you make it to San Francisco, find some cool people to hang with. Tell me, when’s the last time you laughed?”

  Joey took a very long moment before he said, “I don’t remember.”

  “Both of you need to get out of this mausoleum—and I mean pronto, as in before it gets burned to the ground. Come the revolution this whole place will be nothing but charred rubble.”

  Joey tilted his head at her curiously. “There’s going to be a revolution?”

  “Oh, hell, yes. It’s a millennial thing. All the signs are pointing to it. The America that we know and don’t love won’t exist after the year 2000. Come the year 2001 everything will change. And I, for one, say bring it on.”

  I heard a huge amount of shouting from the paparazzi now as the front gate swung open. Two vehicles came cruising up the driveway and parked. Two car doors opened and closed, then Monette strode briskly up the rose-lined path toward us followed by Elliot. Today, he resembled two very large marshmallows stuffed inside of bright orange Nike warm-up gear.

  Boyd dashed around the pool and made straight for Monette. “How is my favorite client doing?” he exclaimed, beaming at her.

  “How do you think?” she responded coolly.

  “What’s bright boy doing here?” Elliot demanded, glaring at Boyd.

  “Mr. Harmon Wright asked me to take personal charge of the situation,” Boyd informed him. “And that’s all you need to know.”

  “Guess again, bright boy.” Elliot stabbed Boyd in the chest with a pudgy index finger. “Everything that goes on in this lady’s life is my business. You and me need to have a conversation.”

  “So we’ll have a conversation,” Boyd said. “Lighten up, will you? And get your
fat finger out of my chest while you’re at it.”

  “Why don’t you make me?” Elliot blustered at him.

  Monette paid no mind to their turf squabble. She was too busy staring at Reggie seated there poolside with Joey and Danielle. Staring at her sister as if she couldn’t believe what her eyes were telling her.

  “Hey, Olive, love what you’ve done with the place,” Reggie said to Monette super casually—all except for the quaver of emotion in her voice.

  “No, you don’t,” Monette responded hoarsely. “You hate it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you don’t hide your feelings very well. You never have.”

  “Maybe that’s because I don’t try.” Reggie got up from her lounge chair and walked slowly toward Monette, looking incredibly tiny as she stood before her sister barefoot. Monette towered a foot taller in her pumps.

  The estranged sisters faced each other in charged silence.

  “What are you doing here?” Monette finally asked her.

  “Just passing through town. Thought I’d say hey.”

  Monette considered this, her lower lip clamped between her teeth. “Do you . . . have you a place to stay?”

  “Relax, I won’t impose on you. I know you’re cramped for space.”

  “I have five empty bedrooms upstairs. Maritza will prepare one for you. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “I got a letter from Dad,” Reggie said. “It’s addressed to both of us.”

  She studied Reggie guardedly. “What does it say?”

  “No idea. He asked me not to open it until we were together.”

  “Well, where is it?”

  Reggie fetched the express mail pouch from her knapsack and set it on the patio table while the rest of us gathered around her. She removed the sealed envelope and showed it to Monette. “See? It’s addressed to Olive Oyl and Sir Reginald. Nobody but Dad ever called me Sir Reginald.”

  Monette smiled at Reggie faintly. “My God, I haven’t thought of that name in years.” She stared at the envelope. “Shall we . . . ?”

  Reggie tore it open and unfolded the plain white sheet of typing paper that was inside. A brief letter had been typed on it. Same old Hermes 3000, it appeared: