The Queen Gene

by Jennifer Coburn

  Anjoli muttered, “All of those crosses and she calls it a goddamned house.”

  “What’s going on out here?” said Jacquie, who had only been in her own home for a moment.

  “Someone’s been in my home, and I demand to know who before I call the police!” Chantrell shouted. A few shopping trips with Jacquie and she was a regular protégé.

  “Chantrell, calm down,” I said as I watched Shelia shuffle uncomfortably. Mancha sat upright in Anjoli’s purse, an eager audience. “We were inside for a few minutes to make a few repairs.”

  There, that should settle it.

  “Repairs?! What kind of repairs did you need to make?!” she demanded.

  “Look, this is my home and I need to do maintenance on it,” I said firmly. “None of your personal items were touched, so there’s no need for the drama, Chantrell!”

  She flew toward me with a hand raised in the air as if she were going to throw a punch. “This is the worst vacation I’ve ever had!”

  “Vacation?!” my mother and I shouted simultaneously. “Now you listen here,” I took over. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re living here rent-free so you can compose music and do your cockamamie cello research on vegetables. So far, you haven’t put together two notes other than the ‘ows’ and ‘ahs’ that have been coming from you and Maxime.”

  With that, Jacquie gasped. “You swore that was over, Chantrell!”

  They discussed it?! When, over red wine and cigarettes at an outdoor café with French accordion music in the background?

  “It is over!” Chantrell defended. “She’s trying to take attention away from her breaking and entering.”

  Anjoli opened her mouth to yell at Chantrell, but before she could speak, we all gasped at the sight of a blaze of red hair falling down the front steps of the guest house. Chantrell screamed when she landed at the bottom and sobbed weakly. “My ankle,” she sniffed. “It’s broken, I can tell.”

  Before we could react, a thunderous crash of glass came from Randy’s house. “Crap!” he shouted. He came outside with his hand wrapped in paper towel to stop the bleeding. “What happened out here?” It was appalling to think that this wretched Irish woman’s shouting jarred Randy to the point where he broke more glass. No one responded. We were interrupted by Maxime who came outside to announce that he was going to kill himself.

  “Get me to a friggin’ hospital already,” Chantrell demanded.

  “I’ll take you to the hospital,” Randy said as he moved toward Chantrell to help her up.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Randy,” I said. “Your hands are bleeding. I’ll take her.” I felt noble and good. Then I remembered that I’d be spending several hours alone with Chantrell, and I just felt sick. “Mom, will you run upstairs and tell Jack what’s happened? Tell him I’ll be home as soon as I can. Will you take care of Shelia please? And remind Jack that Adam has Kinder Music this afternoon.” Turning to Chantrell, “Oh, right, you need help getting up.” I held out a hand.

  “Why don’t I come with you?” Randy asked.

  With me? Or with her? Can we rewind tape so I can see who that comment was directed toward, please?

  “That’s sweet of you to want to help Chantrell, but I can manage,” I said to Randy.

  “I was thinking you could use a hand,” he said. Bingo.

  “Excuse me, but I am going to kill myself!” Maxime repeated. “Does no one care that I’m going to die?”

  Jacquie walked inside and shouted to us, “Is there a morgue at the hospital? Take Maxime there for me, please.” I was shocked. The woman actually knew the word “please.”

  I overheard Shelia tell my mother that there were multiple ghosts in my home and they were angry at our attempts to remove them. “It happens sometimes. You can’t leave it like this or you’re going to have a ghost revolution. Who knows how many of them are here?”

  * * *

  We waited about three hours in the hospital emergency room before Chantrell was seen by a doctor. I declined to go into the exam room with her, and instead asked Randy if he wanted to go on a Prozac hunt with me. “A what?” he asked, smirking.

  “You saw how Maxime was acting,” I said. “It would be immoral for me to be in a hospital and not try to steal some happy pills for him. He’s my responsibility.”

  “Lu,” Randy said softly, giving me that same look he did back at the house. Then he brushed my hair behind my shoulder. I felt a bit guilty that my hair had a fling. “You can’t feel responsible for the whole world.” Oh my God, I silently thought. This man knows me. “The artists, your mother, that friend of yours with the cheating husband,” he said, conveniently omitting any mention of Jack or Adam. “They’re all grownups who can take care of their own lives. You need to focus on yourself and your boy.” I couldn’t agree more. Me and my boy. Oh, I think he means Adam, not himself. “When was the last time you did something for yourself?” Um, the last time I tried to entertain a failed light bulb fantasy about you. “Didn’t you say you’re a writer?” he asked. Oh, we’re talking about work? “I’ve never seen you write. You never mention anything you’re working on.”

  “I have a book coming out in November,” I said, proudly.

  “Nah, that’s great. Lu, don’t get me wrong. You’re awesome, but I hate to see how much time and energy you take away from your own deal by babysitting everyone else.”

  Was he right? Was I too invested in everyone else’s life and neglecting my own? Did this guy know me well enough to make such an observation?

  “So, you don’t want to steal pills?” I said, hoping to dodge the subject.

  He laughed. “Lu, think about what I said,” he said, placing his hand slightly above my knee. “I’d like to help you out.”

  Whoa! Direct hit. Was I imagining things or did he just make a vague and oblique offer to slam my naked body against a wall and pound himself into me? Or, um, something of the sort.

  There was a thick cloud of sexual chemistry hovering in the hospital waiting room that evening. It didn’t quite blend with the antiseptic, but I enjoyed it for what it was — a time when real life was put on pause and I could float in an alternative reality where dirty diapers and haunted houses were replaced by extended gazes and welling lust. I felt simultaneously thrilled and terrified. It was one thing to admire a hot young artist. It was an entirely different thing when he seemed mutually interested.

  “Seriously, Lu, you’ve done so much for me,” Randy continued. “Is there anything I can do for you?” His hand hadn’t moved from my leg, and I was resisting the urge to push it beneath my skirt. I questioned my interpretation of what was going on. Perhaps he was offering to do some home repairs. Then he looked at me again and all of my questions were erased.

  Swallowing terror, I responded with feigned ignorance. “You’re very kind, but we’ve got a handyman who does all of that kind of stuff.”

  Randy’s smirk let me know my pathetic attempt at neutralizing the discussion was transparent. “Have it your way, Lu,” he said. “But if you think of anything you’d like from me, be sure and lemme know, okay?” Then he picked up Men’s Health magazine from the table and began flipping from the back page to the front.

  A few things bothered me about this interaction. First, I enjoyed it too much. Second, something about the invitation implied he’d be doing it as a favor to me. I didn’t want a “thank you” lay. Come to think of it, I didn’t want any kind of lay from Randy. What I wanted was the feeling that he genuinely desired me, not that he’d be willing to sleep with me because it was cheaper than sending a hostess fruit basket. It seemed meaningless to him. Even as I pondered it, dissecting every intonation and facial expression, he was reading a story about reducing cholesterol.

  A haggard-looking nurse came through the hospital doors escorting newly-casted Chantrell on crutches. I wondered if her weary expression was from a lifetime in health care or an evening with Chantrell. “Bring the car around front,” she snapped. “Do you honestly think I can
walk like this?!”

  Randy glanced at me to catch my next move. I felt as if I was on an audition. On the one hand, I knew he would like to see me assert myself and decline the invitation to babysit this hostile witch. On the other hand, if Randy saw that I could handle myself, perhaps he wouldn’t feel the need to take care of me. Although I hated that Randy felt sorry for me, I wasn’t yet willing to let go of his pity.

  “Come on,” I said, standing from my seat, gesturing to Randy to do the same. To Chantrell I added, “You need to get used to getting around on crutches. It’s not far to the parking lot.” I had no idea whether or not it was far because Randy had dropped Chantrell and me at the emergency room, but I knew that however far Chantrell had to struggle, it wasn’t quite far enough.

  “You can’t be serious!” Chantrell said.

  “Deadly serious,” I returned. “And another thing. It’s time for you to pull up the dead zucchini and start a new vegetable garden, one that will hear your cello every day. This is not a vacation, and it’s time for you to come home from the mall and start composing some music!”

  Randy winked with approval. I loved that I had earned it. I hated that I cared.

  The side benefit of flirtation was that it charged me with passion that I could put toward legitimate use. The energy followed me into my bedroom, sweeping back my hair with a sensual breeze. Okay, there was no breeze. In fact, it was a stagnant humid night, but something magical seemed to flow through me. I felt like an ad for perfume. I couldn’t see myself, but I just knew I looked dazzling. When Jack glanced up from his book, he noticed it too. “Whoa!” He peered over his reading glasses and asked what had gotten into me. “You’re like sex on a stick, Luce,” he said, placing the novel down on the nightstand. Without saying a word, I proved him correct.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The next day Anjoli was gone. Jack told me that she had left just after sunset the evening earlier, while I was at the hospital with Chantrell and Randy. Some senior citizens are afraid to drive at night, but, as is the case with most things in life, Anjoli is the opposite. She only drives after dark because she fears the sun will damage her skin through the windows. Wearing a wide rim hat blocks her vision of the road.

  By afternoon, things had returned to normal. Well, as normal as things got around our house. Jack was in the front yard touching up his beach buggy as Adam napped beside him in the playpen. Maxime and Jacquie were fighting louder than ever. Chantrell was nowhere to be seen. And we could only tell Randy was in his home because it sounded as if an earthquake had hit a greenhouse. The temperature was holding steady at a full summer bake of more than ninety degrees, but thankfully it became a nice dry heat that carried the scent of jasmine through the air.

  Renee stopped by, looking cheerful in her bold floral t-shirt that looked as though she had painted it herself, which as it turned out she had.

  “Looks like life is treating you well,” I said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

  “It’s actually kicking my ass.” Renee told me that she had confronted Dan about his whereabouts the night he claimed to have stayed in a hotel, and he had refused to show her a receipt from the hotel. “He says he stayed at a Marriott, but I checked with all of his credit card companies and called both local Marriotts, and no one has a record of him staying there or charging a room,” she said. “Worst part is that he refuses to admit he was with that slut and won’t go to marriage counseling. Says he doesn’t have enough time to spend with the people he knows, much less a stranger who’s going to judge him. See that guilty conscience? Why would he think a therapist would judge him unless he had done something wrong?”

  I couldn’t disagree. I pulled my hair back into a bun as we spoke and asked Renee if she wanted to come inside where it was air conditioned. She wanted to sit outside, but said she’d love a glass of ice water, an idea that appealed to me too. As I filled our glasses, I continued. “You look well, though. What’s your secret?”

  We sat in the back, overlooking the guest houses. “I started going to marriage counseling by myself.”

  “By yourself?!” I quizzed.

  “Yeah, that’s what Dear Abby always advises, so I figured, what the hell, our insurance covers it. Why not?”

  “How do you work on a marriage when one person doesn’t participate?” I asked.

  Her smile was absolutely perfect, which reminded me that she had over-bleached her teeth and now wore porcelain veneers. “We talk about me and how I can only control myself and how I respond to Dan’s infidelity. It’s pretty helpful. I had my doubts, but I’ve got to say I’ve gotten a lot out of only two sessions.” She paused to beam, then looked around and asked where Anjoli was.

  “She left last night,” I told Renee. “After the bell-ringer did her thing, Chantrell broke her ankle, and Maxime threatened to commit suicide.”

  “I love your place. My problems seem so mundane when I come here,” Renee said, reaching into a shopping bag she brought over. “I’m sorry I missed her. I took her advice and started painting t-shirts,” she said, gesturing to her own. Um, it was actually my idea that you paint shirts. “Look what I made for her.” Renee pulled a white form-fitting t-shirt with a black glittery figure enveloped in bold orange and yellow flames. It was beautifully frightening with a hint of tragedy. “Oh look,” I said, noticing writing at the bottom. “I was burned at the stake in Salem and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”

  “Do you like it?” Renee asked.

  “Love it,” I said. “I’m sure Anjoli will wear it with pride.”

  “Good, then I hope you’ll like this one I made for you!” She pulled out an abstract of our home with a grey thundercloud hovering over it, like the Addams family house. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it.” I did, but what I liked more than the t-shirt was how it pulled my friend from potential depression. She seemed to be taking the deterioration of her marriage as well as she possibly could.

  “So did the bell ringing work?” Renee asked.

  “I think it made things worse,” I told her.

  “Are you going to try again?” Renee asked.

  “I doubt it,” I said. “The bell-ringer said that we had multiple spirits and we needed to have her back.”

  “Well if you do, you better invite me this time. Have a heart, Lucy. My husband is cheating on me. The least you can do is let me watch the ghost-busters.”

  I promised Renee that there would be no future ghost-busting without her present. She said she had errands to run and left a few minutes later.

  Though Renee didn’t mind roasting in the summer afternoon heat, I went inside and sat at my desk. I dialed Bernice to say hello and see how the Florida summer was treating her. She said she had to go because her cousin Sylvia was over helping her set up for a house party for a city council member. “I really must have a problem with the fawcett because Sylvia keeps complaining about how noisy it is. I told her I’m not such a big shot that I need everything perfect, but she said it’s driving her crazy.”

  “It is driving me crazy!” I heard Sylvia shout in the background.

  “Mamaleh, I have to hang up. In twenty minutes a couple dozen people from the building will be here, and I’m still in my muumuu.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Lucy,” Aunt Bernice whispered. “You have to try the laser beam.”

  “The what?”

  “Get your vaginer laser beamed. It’s like air conditioning for your panties.”

  “Okay,” I said, laughing. “Why don’t we talk about this later?”

  Next I called Earl at Healthy Living, who answered on the first ring. “Hey, Earl,” I said. “It’s Lucy Klein. I didn’t expect you to be there.”

  “So you were calling hoping not to get me?” he said lightly.

  “I was wondering if you were still interested in having me write that piece for your Living the Dream section.”

  “Are things improving in paradise lost?” he asked.


  “Not really,” I said, hoping I could find a sunny spin to sell the story. “But I think I can offer some reflections on how we grow from personal challenges.” Did that bullshit just come from my mouth?! “What I mean is that I’m starting to see how we’ve really had some great experiences here.” Great experiences? Could I be any less specific?

  “Oh yeah,” Earl said, as he began typing in the background. “Like what?”

  “Well, my husband Jack is really growing as an artist,” I said, immediately regretting the meaningless cliché. “Our female guests are nasty and shop nonstop, and when Jack was taking out the garbage last week, he noticed hundreds of clothing tags, receipts, and shopping bags. It was really quite gross. I mean, some of the shopping bags and clothing tags were quite beautiful, but the over-consumption and hyper-consumerism were really quite pathetic. So Jack pulled me into his studio and dumped all of this crap in the middle of the floor and starts carrying on about how these two women had become shopping zombies. One of them is supposed to be composing, and the other is supposed to be French. Well, the wife of a French artist anyway, so we expected a bit more from her creatively than buying up the local Banana Republic. Anyway, instead of getting pissed off about this — well, instead of just getting pissed about it — Jack made this unbelievable collage of bags, receipts, and tags. He pasted a few hundred tags and receipts to the top of the mannequin and made a skirt of glossy shopping bags. It is gorgeous, really gorgeous.”

  “Sounds cool,” Earl said, though I could tell he was wondering where I was going with this. “What’s he going to do with his collage de consumerism?”

  “Oh, he’ll sell it,” I said, laughing at our own hypocrisy. “My point is that although the artist colony has turned out to be the Bermuda Triangle of creativity for our guests, it has been wonderful for Jack. And we’ve met some really lovely people.” Oy, I’ve just sunk to the “we’ve met some really lovely people” argument. “There’s this woman whose husband is cheating on her, but rather than sink into the depths of depression like the French sketch artist, she started painting t-shirts and jeans and is going to marriage counseling alone.” Where’s my parachute? This pitch is going down.