I was certain that Eddie would take a special interest in the nonexistent six-dollar carpet cleaning special. After all, that’s just the sort of thing the head of the fraud unit at the Hollywood Police Department would want to know about.
“Oh, dawling!” Aunt Bernice cried with joy. “You’ve given me such a laugh today. This is exactly the sort of thing Rita would have done if she were alive. I have such a good story for tonight’s bridge game.”
I smiled, thrilled by both my ability to make my aunt happy and the sheer rush of mischief.
* * *
“Hey, honey, we’re home,” Jack said as he and Adam walked through the door. Guess what we found today?”
“What?” I asked.
“I bought a junked car at a garage sale. It’s an original VW bug. Doesn’t work, but the body’s in great condition. We’re gonna have some fun with that.”
“What, may I ask, are we going to do with an immobile old car?” I asked.
“We paint the car!” Adam answered.
Jack confirmed. “When I was in San Diego, I saw this old car at the Children’s Museum that kids would paint. They had like four open buckets of paint beside it at all times, and the kids flipped.”
“You and Adam are going to paint the car?” I asked, envisioning the mess this would make.
“We’re gonna make a party of it. We’ll invite his friends from preschool and let them go to town. It’ll be a blast.” Ten kids with paint did not sound like a blast to me, but Jack seemed so thrilled, I didn’t have the heart to discourage him. “Think about it, we can park it in the front yard and paint it a different theme for holidays. For Halloween, we’ll paint it orange and make it a pumpkin. Thanksgiving we can make it into a turkey. We can make it into an Easter egg. Every month, we can do something different.”
“I’m sure the neighbors will appreciate that,” I said.
“Luce, this is why you wanted to leave New Jersey. Besides, you know no one can see our front yard unless they drive on to the property. We won’t offend anyone’s sensibilities.” Except mine, I thought. I looked at my husband, filled with life and excitement that he shared with my son who was shouting about painting the car.
“The car is soooo fat, Mommy!” Adam told me. I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the round top of the VW Beetle or if had learned some new ghetto jargon at preschool.
“Luce,” Jack said, smiling at me. “I know it sounds crazy, but trust me, you’re going to love it when you see how creative we can be with it. We can open the doors and make it into a Nativity scene next Christmas.”
“Can we make it a menorah for Chanuka?” I said, warming up to the idea of my husband’s wild happiness, if not the thought of having a piece of junk on our front lawn.
“I’ll find nine huge electric candles and everything!” Jack said. The things that made this man happy.
“Okay,” I shrugged, knowing that the damned thing was being towed over anyway.
Jack sidled up to me and whispered, “I checked out the back seat.” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s a tight squeeze, but on our own property, no harm, no foul.”
Chapter Fourteen
By May, I no longer startled at the sound of breaking glass. In fact, I didn’t even flinch. It was now simply part of the normal background noise at our home.
My mother’s cousin had lived in London during World War II and said that the first time she heard bombs drop she would frantically duck and cover, but within weeks, the noise no longer alarmed her. She continued her strolls utterly unfazed by the distant explosions. This was how I felt in my home.
Unlike Maxime, Randy the glass sculptor began working as soon as he arrived at our place. Unfortunately, he developed a case of slippery fingers, which is a serious problem for someone who works with glass. At least twice a day, I’d hear the thunderous crashing of glass breaking in Randy’s studio. He complained that not only were his creations being shattered, but that the windows in his house were cracked as well. We checked it out, and he was correct. Every piece of glass looked as though it had a cobweb in the center of it.
“It’s strange,” Randy said. “The first night I got here a window broke, then the next night the one next to it cracked. It’s like someone comes around and smashes it with a rock. Look at the pattern here. There’s some sort of an impact right at the center. It’s freaky that they’re all breaking in order too. It’s like my place is having a tantrum or something.”
I wondered if we had vandals or if perhaps Randy had pissed off a girlfriend. He would have to be a pretty fast operator to have a love affair go sour the same day he arrived in town, but it wouldn’t have surprised me too much if that were the case. He was, after all, that good looking.
Maxime still hadn’t produced a single work of art and wept inconsolably every day. Not that anyone was rushing to console him. Jacquie was gone most of every day, seemingly on a mission to single-handedly purchase the entire state of Massachusetts. Now Chantrell was crying, too. It appeared as though she and Maxime called off whatever relationship they had because she stopped visiting his home during Jacquie’s outings. Her new routine was bringing her cello outside next to the vegetable garden and weeping into the soil. I don’t know whether it was the salt water from her tears or the fact that she only played music for ten minutes, but Chantrell’s zucchini garden looked a lot like undernourished jalapeños.
Our arts colony had become a creative vacuum for our guests, but Jack’s painting was flourishing. He completed three pieces that were so dynamic, I hated to see him price them for sale. Not only was Jack filling canvasses, he invited Adam’s preschool class over to paint the VW bug. The kids dipped their hands in buckets of pastel color paints and were so thrilled to be able to leave their mark on the “crazy car,” as Adam called it.
I heard the crashing of glass from Randy’s cottage and wondered what he’d broken now. He hadn’t completed a single sculpture to show for his entire month stay with us.
I glanced at my watch. Thirty more minutes until I had to pick up Adam from preschool. I decided to lie down for a few minutes and recharge with a nap. And perhaps while I was at it, I’d imagine what it would be like to feel Randy’s hot glass-blowing body pressed against mine during a senseless romp in the woods. I eased back on to my fluffy comforter, closed my eyes and pictured Randy walking toward the house to borrow the dustpan so he could sweep shattered glass from his floor. My eyes shot open as I remembered that I needed to pick up Windex next time I was at the store. Okay, back to Randy. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and imagined him walking up to the house in his well-worn Stanford t-shirt and torn Levi’s asking if I had an extra light bulb. Hmmm, that wouldn’t work, I realized. I couldn’t have a tryst with him in my own house. Cut! I rewound the video tape in my mind and watched Randy walking backward down the path toward his own home. Action! I saw myself walking down to Randy’s house to bring him a light bulb. Argh! Enough with the light bulbs already! Back to Randy and his well-worn jeans and t-shirt. He opened the door and flashed a smile. “Thanks for the light bulb,” he said. Lose the goddamned light bulb already! Strike that. “Thanks for the masking tape,” he said.
“My pleasure,” I replied demurely. A gentle breeze blew back my hair, skillfully keeping it out of my lip gloss.
“Would you like to come in for lunch?” he asked, connecting his eyes with mine.
I looked at my watch and realized I was due at the preschool in twenty minutes. Earth to Lucy! This is a sexual fantasy. You do not have to pick up anyone at preschool. You do not need to buy Windex. No one needs friggin’ light bulbs. Walk in the house and allow this man to seduce you!
I did not look at my watch. Instead, I smiled coyly and walked inside the glassman’s house. “Can I offer you some wine?” Randy asked.
“No, thank you,” I said. “Too many calories.” My eyes shot open.
Why do I bother?!
I put on my jacket and shoes and drove to the preschool to get Adam. I looked
out the window and caught a glance of Randy working in his studio. If only I could focus my attention for ten minutes, I could have some real imaginary fun with that guy.
* * *
“Darling, I am going out of my mind with this dog!” Anjoli announced through the phone.
“Hello, Mother,” I said.
“Hello. Listen, I need to vent. I am simply seething with negativity.”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking. Just heading to the preschool to pick up Adam.”
“Not only am I going out of my mind with this neurotic animal, they’re moving them in early! Do you understand what a devastating week this has been for me, darling?”
“Moving who in?” I asked.
“The girls!” Anjoli said as if I were an idiot for not knowing. “I saw the little giggle gaggle Tuesday evening. They’re going to be so noisy, I can tell.”
“What’s going on with Paz, um Spot, I mean Mancha?”
“I took him to a flotation tank to help him relax, but the salt water irritated his chewed-up paws and now they’re all red and scabby.”
“How awful!” I cried.
“Tell me about it, darling. It’s hideous.”
“Mother, I mean it’s awful that your dog in pain.”
“He’s never going to win any dog shows with paws that look like ground round!”
I sighed. “Do you ever fear that Animal Protective Services is going to take him away from you?”
“He has a gorgeous life, darling!” Anjoli shot defensively.
“Mother, you put him in a salt water isolation tank. Didn’t you think that might freak him out a bit? And it’s so, so eighties, anyway. Where did you even find a flotation tank?”
“At Alfie’s house,” she told me. “He bought it on eBay.”
“Mother, I’m here at the school. I need to run.”
“So, you’re on your mobile. Go in and get him. I want to update you on Kimmy. I’m very concerned about this professor she’s seeing. And the sorority thing has me in knots. It’s going to ruin the quiet feeling of the block.”
“The quiet feeling on the block?” I said, laughing. “PS 41 is on the block. How much of a quiet feeling does the elementary school provide?! Mother, I need to go in and talk to Adam’s teacher. I’ll call you later.”
“I’m sorry, is he studying for his SATs this week, darling? I need to talk. I’ve made a lot of sacrifices for you. I think you can take time from your oh-so-busy life and listen to your mother who is in triple crisis.”
“Mother, there’s nothing I can do about any of this right now. I’m not sure I can do anything to be helpful, really.”
“You can listen, darling. Let me be heard. Let me feel that I’m not so alone in this world.”
“Where is this coming from?” I asked. “Do you really feel alone in this world?”
I watched a mother emerge from the preschool, holding the hand of little Tyler, who I last saw with his nose in a bucket of blue paint.
“I have always felt alone,” she began. “When I was growing up, my parents never heard me. They never saw who I really was. They had an idea of who a good Italian girl from New Jersey should be and tried to force me into that mold. But it couldn’t be done. I would not become who I was not meant to be,” she said dramatically.
Out came Whitney, who I remember placing her hands in dull yellow paint when she visited out home for car-painting day.
“Since then, I have always felt alone in this world, darling.”
“Wow, Mother. I had no idea. Listen, Adam is going to have similar hang-ups if I don’t go inside and pick him up. Let me call you back in a few minutes.”
“I’m having a chemical peel I need to leave for in ten minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll call you later then. Hang in there.”
* * *
That afternoon, I left a message on my mother’s voicemail, then decided to take a nap with Adam. He smelled like peanut butter and vanilla cookies. His baby lips moved as if they were suckling. I stared at him for a half-hour before drifting off to sleep myself. He looked exactly like his father. I couldn’t take my eyes off of my baby who was growing up far too quickly for my comfort. In the time I watched sweet Adam sleep, I never once thought about where I had to be next, buying Windex, or goddamned light bulbs.
Chapter Fifteen
Looking back, it was ridiculous to think that my mother’s crisis would last longer than a few minutes. When I called her home that evening she wasn’t there. I left a message and decided to give her a try on her cell phone. I don’t know if I expected Anjoli to be sobbing as she wandered aimlessly through the streets of Manhattan, but I didn’t think she’d be raging at a seventies party with her theater friends. In the background I heard “Funky Town” and dozens of people singing along, “Won’t you take me to Funky Town.”
“Hello, hello, who’s there?” she shouted into the phone.
“Mother, it’s me. You sound busy.”
“Lucy, is that you, darling?” Anjoli shouted.
“Yes, Mother. I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right. Are you okay?” I shouted to make myself heard.
She laughed at something going on at the party. “Lucy, I most certainly am not fine. I’m fabulous. Haven’t you heard?”
Throughout my entire life, Mother. “Listen, if you’re okay, I’m going to let you get back to your party. Jack and I are heading out for dinner.”
I heard a howl in the background. “Darling, Kiki is wearing the most retro outfit. Rainbow-striped bellbottoms and an eighteen-inch afro. Kiki, that is absolutely hilarious, darling. Where did you get that wig?!”
“Mother!” I shouted, trying to get her attention.
“Hold on a sec, Kiki. My daughter is on the phone. She’s concerned about my situation. It’s sweet, really, but I keep telling her Mummy can handle her own life.” Her voice now spoke into the receiver. “Darling, you are a gem for calling, but everything is under control. I just met these producers who are putting together an off-off-Broadway show merging two classics in sort of a southern Jewish dysfunctional marriage thing. Fiddler on the Hot Tin Roof. Isn’t that fabu?”
Mother typically invests in gay shows like Oklahomo! and The Queen and I , but she was apparently starting to venture into the world of bizarre straight productions as well.
Anjoli continued, obviously cupping her cell phone for privacy. “Kimmy brought that Nick character to the party. I’m trying not to allow his presence to ruin my evening. Anthropology. Have you ever heard of anything as ridiculous?” My mother was all over the place, as was her usual party mode. “I dated an anthropologist once. He was a complete bore. How is Kimmy supposed to live in the manner I’ve taught her to become accustomed to if she takes up with this rock digger?”
Rock digger?
“Is he an anthropologist or archeologist?” I asked.
“You’re missing the point, darling,” she snapped.
There’s a point?
“What’s the point, Mother?” I asked, not sure why I was allowing myself to get sucked into this discussion.
“Those Ivory Tower types are all the same. They think they’re better than everyone else. They’re so smug and self-righteous,” Anjoli explained.
“So are you and most of your friends, Mother. Why don’t you give the guy a chance?”
“He gives me the creeps.”
Then I got it. I was familiar with Kimmy’s taste in men. It wasn’t as though she was one of those beautiful women who picked loser after loser, one worse than the next. I was sure that Nick was not a scary guy. But that didn’t mean my mother wasn’t frightened. Any time she sensed that one of her primary relationships would shift due to the addition of someone new, Anjoli freaked out. The day before I married Jack, she begged me to back out of it, crying that it would “alter the balance” of our relationship. Upon this realization, I wondered if Anjoli said anything to Kimmy before she jilted Geoff at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
* * *
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br /> When Wendy the babysitter arrived, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her tongue bar. It glistened as she spoke. She walked around our home commenting about how “rad” the artwork was. I had to agree. Jack was producing like a madman these days. When he found the VW bug, he also bought all of this scrap metal and car parts, which looked like a pile of junk to me. I kept nagging Jack to get rid of it already, but he told me he was going to make a sculpture. Sure enough, we now have a truly unique life-size man made from hub caps, a radiator, spark plugs, and miscellaneous other crap one finds at a junk yard. “This place is the bomb,” Wendy proclaimed, her tongue lighting off and on with every syllable she spoke.
At dinner, Jack and I shared our concerns about the arts colony. “We’ve got a show in three months and no one’s done shit,” Jack said. “Maxime is depressed, Chantrell hasn’t played a note in days much less composed anything, and Randy’s trying, but everything keeps breaking.”
“And how ‘bout Jacquie?” I asked. “She’s just a breath of fresh air, isn’t she?”
“What is her deal?” Jack said, laughing. “That first night, I thought she was terrific. What a bitch she turned out to be.”
The Queen Gene Page 10
