American Babe

by Babe Walker

  “Right. That’s my, um, name.”

  I felt a little weird because I didn’t know if he was just cheesing to meet his first cousin for the first time and also realize that she’s an image of freshness and glows with a bright aura of grue (green/blue), OR . . . was he a superfan of my books? That could be cute, I guess. I was shocked ten-year-olds could even read. My memory of that age is shot.

  “You’re Knox, right? So that must mean you’re Cara,” I said to them, proud of myself for remembering their names.

  “Yep, exactly. And you’re the Babe Walker. Wow,” Knox said kind of loudly. “This is cool.”

  “He reads your books or whatever,” Cara said, uninterested. She clearly did not read my books because if she had she’d know not to wear a teal spaghetti-strap tank top. Knox, on the other hand, was giving me a complete fashion look. An almost minimal/Japanese approach to a classic ten-year-old laissez-faire aesthetic. And the Dior sneaker just slayed me. There was an undeniable and immediate connection between the two of us. I guess we did have some of the same blood.

  Cara finally asked me if I wanted to come in, and they showed me the house. It was basic, but I wasn’t there to judge. I told them about Donna’s email and how I need family in my life for it to be complete and they told me blah blah blah where they went to school and what their favorite colors were, and it was a perfectly cute getting-to-know-you sesh. Soon it became clear that their babysitter was not showing up. Who does that? The kids could’ve literally starved if I hadn’t dropped from the sky. And their mom, my aunt Veronica, whom I’d still never met at this point, was on a night shift at a hotel nearby where she worked the front desk. The kids told me she had two jobs or something insane like that and their dad wasn’t really in the picture.

  “Do you know where he lives or if he’s alive, et cetera?” I asked them, sitting at the kitchen island having a glass of water. I was parched and needed a liquid snack but the only other beverage options were Diet Coke, lemonade, milk (from a cow not an almond or a soy or a rice or even a hemp), and . . . hold on tight for this . . . Yoo-hoo.

  “Yeah, Dad lives out in Virginia,” Knox told me. “He calls a couple times a year. He’s a salesman of some kind or a recruiter maybe? We don’t really know. But he travels a lot. Not to Maryland, though.”

  “That’s so douchey,” I said.

  “We think so, too,” he said.

  “Okay!” I blurted, trying to change the subject as quickly as possible. “So it looks like I’m the babysitter tonight because yours died on the way here or something.”

  Cara offered a fake smile. “Looks like it,” she said, and went up to her room.

  “Tell me, what exactly do babysitters do?”

  “Make or take us to dinner,” Knox told me.

  “Let’s go out,” I suggested. “I don’t make dinner. Only smoothies.”

  “Perfect. I could use a going-out moment tonight anyways.” Knox said this with the slightest sparkle in his eye. I knew that look: he had a new piece to wear, and tonight would be its inaugural wearing.

  Cara, when we coaxed her from her room, was super stoked that my rental was a black Escalade with tints. Almost too stoked. It did, however, feel gratifying to see her smile genuinely for the first time since meeting her. I still thought she was acting like a twat, though. According to some obscure sibling law, it was her night to pick the restaurant, so we went to a place called Ledo Pizza, which sells pizza that’s cut in small squares, not slices. Pizza’s not chic in the first place, but square pizza? I dreaded the meal from the moment she said the name of the restaurant as we all got in the car, but it was my first night so I wasn’t going to get into a fight with her about my dietary restrictions. The point was: we were doing stuff together. Cute.

  “Sounds great!” I lied. “You just let me know how to get there. Also, I’m gonna smoke because you guys aren’t babies so it’s safe.” I started the car, backed out of that cozy little driveway, lit a Marlboro Light, and we were off. Babe and her first first cousins.

  Ledo’s was bright as fuck, Jesus. And I don’t mean the lighting, I just mean the color choices. The signage and seating were all red and assaulting to the eyes—sunglasses went on immediately. Once seated—Knox and myself on one side of the table, Cara on the other—a rotund waiter who looked a bit like the clock from Beauty and the Beast came over with some menus. Cara immediately pulled out her phone, put headphones in, and started texting or doing Facebook or whatever suburban teens do.

  “How y’all doin’? I’m Jimmy, and I’ll be servin’ you guys tonight.”

  We all looked at him and smiled.

  “Y’all know what y’all wanna drink?” he asked, pulling out his little pad of paper. I’d forgotten about those little pads. In LA waiters memorize your orders because they’re used to memorizing lines for auditions they’ll never book.

  “Coke, please,” Cara and Knox responded in unison, not looking up.

  “Regular Coke?” I asked them.

  “Yep,” they said, also together.

  This may have been the first time I’ve seen someone drink a full-strength, full-calorie Coca-Cola.

  “Two Cokes, got it. And how ’bout for you, ma’am?”

  “I’ll have a sparkling water, please.”

  “Club soda all right?”

  “If you must,” I conceded.

  “Great.”

  “With lemon.”

  “You got it. I’ll give y’all a minute and be back for your food order.”

  Jimmy made his way back toward the kitchen. He was wearing orthopedic sneakers of some kind that were almost chic in a normcore way. Wait, I hated normcore. Was this fish so far out of her water that her entire aesthetic eye was being disrupted? Shudder. I shook my head and turned back to Knox, who had started speaking.

  “So,” he said to me in a hushed tone, “you’re gonna have a hard time finding something to eat on this menu.”

  “I can already tell. Is Cara into playing pranks or something? Because coming here is a sick joke.”

  “I know,” he laughed. “She loves it. I used to beg her and Mom not to make us come here. I’d rather cook for everyone than eat sauce from a can.”

  “You cook?”

  “Food is my passion. Well, good food.”

  I took a moment to process the maturity level of this miniature person sitting next to me. Was this a Benjamin Button situation? Shouldn’t he be into video games and boogers? I had no parameters for child behavior. I didn’t know many ten-year-old boys besides Pauly Shore.

  “I’d normally guffaw at someone’s general ‘passion’ in food, but I feel like it’s super chic for you,” I applauded Knox.

  Jimmy brought the drinks. There was no lemon in mine. I held in a scream.

  “Yeah, it’s really my happy place. In the kitchen. My Father’s Daughter by Gwyneth Paltrow is, like, my favorite book.”

  Full body chills.

  “I know it’s a cookbook but I’m serious. The recipes are pretty easy and healthy, too,” he continued. “I know you really like her too, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, nearly brought to tears by the sensation of oneness I was feeling between Knox and me. “Gwyneth is very important to me. She’s one of my only role models. Up there with Babe Paley and RuPaul.”

  “All strong women,” Knox agreed, taking his attention back to the menu. “So I suggest you go for the pizza, even though you probably don’t eat pizza. Do you?”

  “Never.”

  “I thought so. The salad is not cute, though. They only use romaine at this location, and it’s always the white leaves, which you know have little to no nutrients. I just let Cara get the pizza, then I scrape off the cheese and bacon, which she will order, and throw on a little black pepper. Two to three pieces max.”

  “I’m just gonna order a raw cucumber, some red wine vinegar as a dip,” I told him.

  “That’s actually a brilliant idea. Why have I never thought of that?”

  “You
’re welcome.”

  “Should we also split a plate of grilled chicken?”

  “Sure,” I agreed.

  This budding friendship was getting so cute I almost Instagrammed a photo of him, but then people would know where I was.

  “Y’all ready to order?” Jimmy asked, suddenly standing at the end of our table. The restaurant’s carpeted floors made it easy for him to sneak up on us.

  “Yep,” Cara answered, looking up from her big, weird Android phone in its plastic Nightmare Before Christmas case. “We’ll have a medium pizza with bacon, super well-done. Thanks.”

  “Sounds good. Anything else tonight?”

  “Absolutely,” I assured Jimmy, shocked that he’d expect me to include myself in Cara’s downward pizza spiral. “We’ll have a plate of grilled chicken, by itself, and a cucumber, peeled.”

  “Just a cucumber?”

  “Sí.”

  “Y’all sure?”

  We’d confused Jimmy.

  “One hundred percent. And a ramekin of red wine vinegar, please. Thanks, Jimmy. You’re so sweet.”

  Knox chuckled, probably out of discomfort. Sweet little Knox.

  “Well, all right,” Jimmy said and made his way to place our order.

  I noticed Cara was staring at me like I was an alien. “You guys are so weird.”

  “Thanks,” said Knox.

  The food came pretty quickly, which was nice because it meant we could get out of there sooner. I ended up trying the pizza. Knox was right: canned sauce is a soul-crushing experience. I swore then that the next time I went to Italy, I’d take Knox.

  FOUR

  Getting Over the Death of Lauren Bacall.

  We got back to the house after pizza night and right away I noticed that through the windows, the house looked smoky inside. We went in through the garage and a smoke alarm was going off like a wild banshee. I rushed into the kitchen and saw a huge blaze coming from the oven. For some reason, I was compelled to walk toward the flames. I could see that there was actually something on fire inside the oven, which I now noticed was open.

  What was most strange was that my best friends Genevieve and Roman were sitting at the kitchen table with Jimmy the waiter, and they were eating Ledo pizza and drinking HUGE fucking milk shakes.

  “What the fuck, Gen?”

  “What the fuck to you, Babe? I can’t believe you never introduced me to Jimmy. He’s fucking hot, and this pizza is tasty as fuck!” Gen replied and then began making out with Jimmy.

  What in the actual fuck is going on right now?

  “ROMAN,” I shouted, “do you not see this fire? Why are you guys just sitting there?”

  “Babe, you need to chill out. You’re with your family now. Nothing bad can happen to you because you are a Gemini warrior princess.”

  None of this was adding up. Why were Gen and Roman at Veronica’s house? I started walking toward the fire in the oven. I got close enough to see what was burning in there. It was a small picture frame with a picture of me as a baby in it. Baby Babe was being held by an older man who wasn’t my dad. This man was older than my dad would have been when I was born. I didn’t recognize the picture, but I recognized that it was me because I distinctly remember seeing other pictures of me as a newborn wearing that same exact hideous onesie. I’d never seen this picture before. Who was this man? He was really handsome.

  The picture frame was clearly on fire, but it wasn’t burning or turning black. I was genuinely freaked the fuck out. I started screaming at the top of my lungs.

  “GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, PLEASE!!!!”

  I felt a hand grab my shoulder firmly and I turned to see who it was.

  That must have been when I woke up. I realized at that moment that I was back in bed, in the guest room at Veronica’s house. I was still screaming, but now I was screaming directly into the face of a woman I’d never seen in my life.

  “BABE!”

  “Who are you?” I said, trying to calm myself down. She was tall and thin and had a kind face. She looked concerned.

  “I’m Vee. Veronica. I’m Knox and Cara’s mom.”

  “You’re my aunt.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you’re Donna’s sister?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  I loved that she was immediately down to shit on my mom/her sister within twelve seconds of meeting me. The public and general agreement that Donna was a huge disappointment when it came to all things family comforted me. I’m not the only one she fucked over. I liked that Veronica shared that with me straightaway. First impressions are everything.

  “Where is that bitch?” I asked.

  Then last night came back to me. In true Donna fashion, she wasn’t at the house when we’d returned from dinner. I’d waited up for her to arrive, but she never showed so I just went to bed at, like, 1 a.m. If nothing else, at least my mother is fucking consistent in her unflinching disregard for everyone but herself. I mean, narcissism can be chic, just not when it’s your mom.

  “Who knows where Donna ever is? She isn’t picking up her phone, but I can see that her texts are being read, so . . .”

  “I’m Babe.”

  “I know.”

  I extended my hand out toward Veronica. It was really awkward. What is the protocol for when you meet your only aunt after twenty-seven years? She looked at me confused/sad or something. Then she just hugged as hard as she could. She was squeezing me so tightly. I honestly couldn’t breathe.

  “I’ve never missed anyone I didn’t actually know. But I just realized that I’ve missed you, Babe,” Veronica said quietly as she continued suffocating me. She was really strong.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “I can be a real cunt,” I offered. “So maybe the idea of me is better than actually knowing me.”

  “I doubt it. I feel bad that I didn’t make more of an effort to reach out to you once Donna reconnected with you.”

  “You shouldn’t. I didn’t know you existed until Donna told me about you, like, five days ago. Family is weird.”

  “Your, well, our family is very weird, and you’re going to be meeting a lot of them today at the party.”

  Oh shit. The party. Between all the pizza and travel and nightmares and the fact that I was still getting over the death of Lauren Bacall, I’d forgotten about the reason I’d come to this strange land. My grandfather was turning eighty or something. Just the fact that I have a grandfather was pretty strange and hard for me to wrap my head around. I’d only ever known my grandmother, Tai Tai. She was the only grandparent I thought I’d ever know. But I guess I was going to meet my mother’s father today.

  “What’s this party going to be like? Where is it? What am I wearing? I randomly packed a lot of Gucci but I think that’ll be too floral if the event is outside. Give me some guidance, I feel lost.”

  “The party’s here. At the house. In the backyard. You’ve been sleeping almost the whole day so the guests should start arriving in about an hour.”

  “Fuck. An hour?”

  “Yeah. So I’ll leave you to get ready.”

  “Okay. An hour’s not gonna be enough time, but okay. I’ll rush. Thanks, Veronica.”

  She smiled and turned to walk out of the room.

  “Hey, Vee.” I stopped her just before she slipped away. “Really, what are you going to wear to this party? Is it casual cocktail? A little more formal? Could use some guidance on the general vibes. This is my first time visiting this geographical region of the United States.”

  “Well, I’m already dressed for the occasion, so perhaps this will give you some sense.”

  “That’s hilarious. You’re funny. I guess funny runs in the family because I’m one of the funniest people I know.”

  “I’m not kidding, Babe.”

  DEAD SILENCE.

  During this awkward moment I stared at the whole picture. She was wearing what can only be described as a pink satin pajama top and stretchy, yoga-y cargo pants. Maybe t
hat’s really hard to imagine, but trust me when I tell you that she was definitely wearing them and they were definitely an assault on the eyes.

  On the other hand, I noticed that she had incredible bone structure and, from what I could tell, underneath her blousy abomination it looked like she kept things pretty tight and fit. Donna has a great body, but she’s a model who hasn’t eaten a solid food in three decades. Way to go, Mom. But clearly there was a genetic component to her body story, because suburban-Sally Veronica over here was also giving me very good body vibes.

  “I’m gonna go change now,” Veronica said quietly, almost to herself.

  “Sounds good. Me too.”

  I showered, blew my hair dry, lotioned up, meditated, chanted, returned some pressing emails, stretched, and then put on my black Erdem lace dress and headed downstairs. The party was in full swing at that point as I had taken (oops) two hours to get ready. Their bathroom was economy–sized. I also noted that people in Maryland arrive to parties when they start, unlike in New York and Los Angeles, where people get there when the party is ending. The people at the party all looked very Maryland-esque, if I’m being honest. The scene: ill-fitting jeans, taupe turtlenecks but not in a Kim K. way, jewelry from Zales, Sperry Top-Siders, Abercrombie skirts, chain bracelets, general basicness. But, the backyard was actually decorated beautifully. Someone with a good eye for design had put some serious thought into this shit. There were supple bouquets of gerbera daisies hanging in explosive bundles from the trees, and the party’s planner—whoever she was—had mastered the space with a simple and functional table layout. Basically, it was way chicer than it needed to be, which I always appreciate.

  “What do you think of my work?” I heard a small voice say.

  It was Knox.

  “You did all this?”

  “Well, your mom paid for the decorations, because my mom has no artistic vision slash is very, very stingy with money. But I made all aesthetic choices and I also made the hors d’oeuvres.”

  Knox was wearing an all-black sweatsuit that was either Yeezy for Adidas or just some ordinary sweats that he’d bought at a mall and then intentionally destroyed enough to make them look expensive as fuck. Either way it was fucking fabulous, and I was living for it. His hair was slicked back and gelled. He looked ummmmmmazing. I was overcome by an emotion with which I don’t have that much experience: pride. I mean, I’ve been proud of myself many times, and I’m proud of my friends when they do something incredible, like get a promotion at work or settle out of court when they’re trying to sue their parents for more inheritance. But that inevitably comes with the accompanying emotion: jealousy. This was different. I was just proud of him. I wanted the best for him. He was clearly very talented and he was clearly very much my relative, and for that he should enjoy all the happiness in the world.