“I don’t think so.” Gitana held out her hand. “Can I mess it up for you?”
Bud looked suspicious but handed it over. Gitana turned away from Bud and messed up the cube. Chase wondered how she knew to do that as if she intuited that a four-year-old could follow her moves and mimic the return sequence. She handed it back.
Chase sighed heavily as Bud’s fingers brought the cube right in record time. She held it up in triumph. Gitana groaned and put her forehead down on the bar. “What are we going to do with a genius child?”
“She’s not a genius. She’s just light on her feet and a quick learner,” Chase said, wishing she could snatch the cube from Bud.
Gitana sat up. “When are you going to stop living in denial?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re going to have trouble getting her into the Academy because she’s such a whiz at linguistics she created her own language, complete with grammatical rules and semantics.”
“She hasn’t, has she?” Gitana looked mortified.
Chase smiled. Now that they’d stopped living in denial they could discuss it. “No. At least I don’t think so. I just want her to have a normal childhood. It’s not her fault that some freaky dude with a skyrocketing IQ was the sperm donor.”
“I know.” Gitana held out her hand and Chase took it.
“We can do it. We always do,” Chase said, more to herself than Gitana.
“Maybe Donna can do some reconnoitering and we can bribe our way into the academy,” Gitana suggested as she absently took the cube Bud offered. She messed it up.
“I thought you didn’t approve of bribery,” Chase said.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
Chase smiled.
Chapter Four—Speech
Mend your speech a little, Lest it may mar your fortunes.—Shakespeare, King Lear
Chase, Gitana and Bud sat in the waiting room of Dr. Evangelina Aragon, the illustrious speech therapist that Dr. Garcia had recommended after he’d confirmed that Bud was still definitely odd. Upon leaving Chase had muttered, “Well, that was a complete waste of a bobblehead.” But they’d gotten the referral they’d needed.
Bud was leafing through a magazine called The Scientific Mind. Her eyes appeared to be scanning the lines and it suddenly occurred to Chase that she might actually be reading. She felt conflicted—on one hand that was amazing, on the other it was terrifying.
“I’ll be right back, I have to go to the bathroom,” Gitana said. “How about you?” she asked Bud who shook her head no.
Ever since the pregnancy Gitana’s bladder had shrunk to what she was convinced was the size of a thimble. She kept saying she was going to have it looked at but never got around to it. What she didn’t know was that Chase had had Donna make an appointment, knowing that when the receptionist called to remind her of the appointment Gitana would go because she thought it a form of social injustice to waste other people’s time. Chase sat smugly recalling this.
When Gitana had gone, Bud said, “I can talk right.” She didn’t look up from the magazine.
Chase was astonished. “What did you just say?”
Bud looked up nonchalantly, “Gnihton.”
“You did too.”
“Evorp ti.” Bud went back to her magazine.
Chase looked around. The waiting room was empty. Should she tell Gitana? Had she imagined it? Oh, this was horrid. She stuck her forefinger in her mouth, making for the cuticle, but Bud slapped her arm. Chase put her hand in her lap.
“If I keep my trap shut, will you talk right one day?” Chase asked.
“Sey.”
“All right then,” Chase said. She breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t imagined it after all.
As Gitana returned, the receptionist called their names. “Perfect timing,” Chase said. She felt so good she almost skipped into the office. Gitana looked at her queerly.
Dr. Aragon sat in a wingback chair of soft brown leather. She got up and shook their hands. “Please take a seat. Bud, you sit here next to me,” she instructed in a soft melodious voice, the kind of voice Chase thought made you feel comfortable, like instead of dissecting your child’s linguistic skills she was going to read you a story with a guaranteed happy ending.
Bud looked at her suspiciously but obeyed. Gitana and Chase sat in the other two identical brown leather wingback chairs. The office was definitely brown, right down to the mocha-colored walls, and once again, as she had the first time she’d been in Dr. Robicheck’s office, Chase felt like she was sitting inside a walnut. Dr. Aragon’s office was more study than speech therapist’s office, which did serve to waylay some of Chase’s fears.
“So Bud, why don’t we have a little chat?” Dr. Aragon said.
Bud sat stoically quiet. “Oh, I see. But you do talk?” This was more ascertainment than question. “Maybe talking makes you nervous?” This was more taunt than question. Chase felt certain Bud would break. She did have a bit of a temper. But Bud sat quiet.
Gitana intervened. “Come on, sweetie, the doctor can’t help you if she doesn’t know what’s wrong. Just say a few words. Why don’t you tell her about Paddington?”
Chase watched as Bud’s face got red. This was insulting. Maybe this would be just the thing to break her. Maybe now she’d tell them all to piss off and that she could talk just fine and maybe she’d even use a big word. That would be the best, Chase thought. She’d often dreamed of the moment when Bud would burst forth with a Faulknerian vocabulary. It might have occurred except that Gitana broke the spell.
“I thought this might happen, so I brought this,” Gitana said, pulling out a small tape player like the kind hotshot business guys used to dictate memos.
Chase and Bud stared at each other in mutual outrage. “Did you inform her that she was being taped?” Chase said, her civil libertarian ideals raised to their full ire.
“Chase, we’re trying to figure out what’s wrong,” Gitana said.
“I know, but it’s illegal to record someone without their knowledge and consent,” Chase replied.
Dr. Aragon interjected. “That will be very useful.” She put her hand out for the tape recorder but as it was about to change hands, Bud leapt out of the chair and snatched it. She ran to the open window and pitched it outside.
“Bud!” Gitana said, completely mortified.
And then the tirade began, Bud started garbling so fast that even Chase couldn’t reconstruct what she’d said, although she did catch the occasional swear word. Bud resembled a tiny and very pissed off Napoleon Bonaparte.
Gitana smiled and then laughed. “I thought that might work. I did not, however, think you’d throw it out the window. What if you hit someone below?”
Bud’s eyes got big. She stopped her tirade and went to peer out the window. She visibly sighed and then turned on Chase, “Uoy did siht.”
“No, I didn’t. She did,” Chase said, indignantly pointing at Gitana.
“Well, something had to be done. We can’t go on with only you understanding what she says,” Gitana said.
“On driht nosrep!” Bud screeched.
“She doesn’t like when you use the third person,” Chase said.
Dr. Aragon, whom they had completely forgotten about as they discussed family politics said, “Why you ornery little elitist. I know what you’re up to.” She gazed pointedly at Bud, who shrank back a little. She inched toward Chase. “And you two need to cut the cord,” she said, indicating Chase and Bud. “That’s part of the reason she talks like this.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Chase said, scooping Bud up and putting her on her lap. They both looked anxiously at Dr. Aragon.
“You know what I mean. You’re the only one who understands her, up until now, and that’s how come you two are so close, because you have a secret language, and whether either of you are willing to admit it, you both like it.”
“I think you’re right,” Gitana said, agreeing with the doctor in suc
h a way that Chase knew they were doomed. “But what is Bud up to?”
“It’s Pig Latin,” Dr. Aragon informed her.
Gitana looked puzzled so the doctor explained, “It’s English backwards, which is really an accomplishment for a four-year-old because it means that she has to know what the word is as well as know how to essentially spell it in order to reverse it. I’ll give you a demonstration.” She wrote the phrase “third person” on a piece of paper in Pig Latin and underneath wrote it the correct way.
“Oh, I get it,” Gitana said. She eyed Bud and Chase suspiciously. “Did you teach her how to do that?”
“Of course not!” Chase said petulantly.
“Then how do you know what she says?” Gitana accused.
“I don’t know,” Chase said, not meeting her gaze. “I just do.”
“Are you dyslexic? Or ambidextrous?” Dr. Aragon asked.
“Well…” Chase countered.
“When you chew your cuticles on your right hand and have to bandage your right-hand fingers I see you use your left hand quite adroitly, and then there’s that right-hand turn in traffic that you confuse with the other right, meaning left,” Gitana said.
“Ah ha!” Dr. Aragon said, like she’d caught Chase with her hand in the till extracting twenty-dollar bills. “It’s spatial dyslexia.”
“Thanks for outing me,” Chase grumbled at Gitana.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Dr. Aragon said. “Except you have to go around the block more than the rest of us.”
“Nac ew og tey?” Bud said.
“I hope so,” Chase said.
“In a minute,” Gitana replied, not realizing that she’d understood what Bud had said. “Does that mean Bud is dyslexic?”
“Not necessarily. We won’t know, of course, until she starts reading, but most likely she does it to amuse herself,” Dr. Aragon said, contemplating Bud, who scowled at her. “She’ll talk when she’s ready. I’d wager she’s ashamed of her limited vocabulary and won’t talk until she’s amassed one large enough to astound people, her parents included. It’s pride more than anything else.”
“Ssip ffo,” Bud screeched and hopped off Chase’s lap like a snake had bitten her behind.
“Bud! You apologize,” Chase said.
Bud scowled at the whole room. It appeared she thought them enemies and Chase hoped she wouldn’t make a run for the window to escape her captors.
“It’s fine. I insulted her and that’s good. It means it’s true. Give her a little time and she’ll do it when she feels it’s right,” Dr. Aragon said. “Here, this is an armistice gift,” and she pulled out a small pocket Webster’s dictionary from her desk drawer. She handed it to Bud. “For your vocabulary lessons.”
Bud inched toward her and then slowly put out her hand.
“Say thank you,” Gitana said.
“Knaht uoy,” Bud said grudgingly. She gently put the small book in her jacket pocket and then kept her hand on it as if she were afraid that like a gangly kitten it might jump out.
“Keep me posted and we’ll meet again in a month,” Dr. Aragon said. She leaned down so she could look straight into Bud’s eyes. “Study hard.”
Once outside, Bud made for the bushes where she’d thrown the tape recorder.
“It’s okay, Bud. We don’t need it,” Gitana said nervously.
“But it’s littering and we don’t litter, do we, Bud?” Chase said, completely ignoring Gitana’s vigorously shaking head.
Bud emerged triumphantly holding the tape player, which appeared to have suffered no real damage. She smiled at Gitana, who looked mortified. Bud opened the tape player. There were no insides, let alone a tape. Bud and Chase both gaped at her. “You lied to us.”
“I’m sorry, but I had to do something. Remember, desperate times call for desperate measures. I saved Paddington; that’s got to count for something,” Gitana said, backpedaling as fast as she could.
Chase looked at Bud, who stared up at her, apparently looking for a clue as to the next course of action. “Well, she did save the fish. Now, what we can learn from this is that sometimes people behave like politicians who distort the truth for what they feel is the good of the people and sometimes it works and other times you end up in a posh prison. So we’re going to let her off with a light sentence like you get to stay up later on a night of your choosing and watch anything on television you want excepting violence, sex, autopsies and animal cruelty.”
Bud rolled her eyes. “Bunk.”
Gitana glanced over at Chase to see if that was a real word. Chase, not wanting to attract attention, nodded slightly. Chase knew that when Bud was in bed they’d dance around in circles in utter glee. It was starting. At the stoplight before they entered the freeway she looked in the rearview mirror to see Bud, her diminutive hands thumbing through the pocket dictionary the doctor had given her. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Chapter Five—Fame
Contempt of fame begets contempt of virtue.—Ben Jonson
Donna pushed Chase through the door of Borders. Chase was dressed in a white turtleneck under a tweed blazer and khaki Land’s End trousers with brown penny loafers. Her nightmare had come true. “I can’t do this.”
“You have to. It’s part of the package,” Donna said. She looked the picture perfect version of a personal assistant dressed in a nicely tailored gabardine business suit.
“But no one’s here and I’m going to feel stupid sitting at a table for two hours with a stack of books like an unwanted goldfish at the pet store,” Chase whined.
“I don’t think so.” She pointed. There was already a line of people queued up at the table, which was next to a life-size cutout of Chase pretending to be Shelby McCall dressed in a similar outfit and holding her latest book. This being two different people, the Chase Banter of reality and the persona of Shelby, was really starting to get on her nerves. No wonder she was such a mess—a bipolar writer with two personalities. Freud would have loved it.
The cutout had been Donna’s idea. “It makes a statement.” The choice of outfit was also Donna’s idea. “We want you to look kind of English-American, like a combo of Patricia Cornwell and a hip Agatha Christie.”
This made no sense as Chase had long blond hair, blue eyes and sculpted features. She looked more like one of the women in a Victoria’s Secret ad than a mystery writer. But that too had worked in her favor. People seemed comfortable with this look, according to the comments they left at the Shelby McCall website. They said things like “You look just like what I had pictured.”
Donna was pleased. Good god that woman was a marketing genius. Chase dreaded the day she would lose her, as some bigger fish would inevitably snatch her up, but then she remembered something from a John Donne poem about fish and netting all you can to have the pike give you something that sickened your soul. She hoped being a fish in this environment would not poison her soul.
The bookstore manager, whose name was Naomi, trotted up to them and vigorously shook Chase’s hand. “Ms. McCall, we’re so glad you’ve chosen our store. I just finished Expiration Date and I thought it was brilliant.”
Enthusiasm seemed to bubble straight from the woman’s close-cropped brown hair. She wore makeup but still looked like a sister. Straight women had short hair too, Chase told herself, but her gaydar was beeping away. At least she wouldn’t be asked about her husband and children. That was one arena Chase preferred to ignore, but it lurked. Ariana, her editor, had suggested she keep her sexuality under wraps, and Chase’s agent, Eliza, a buxom businesswoman of fifty-five, definitely saw the “sexuality liability” as a problem that had to be contained.
The first time Chase had been flown to New York to meet Eliza P. Newman the woman had seemed calculating. At the airport a limo driver had picked up Chase, who, thanks to her mother, was dressed to the nines in an Armani suit and five-hundred-dollar Italian leather shoes. Eliza’s office would have intimidated anyone. Chase gathered her wits and remembered everything Don
na had taught her. They’d watched movies and television programs with power figures and glassy offices. They’d quizzed Stella on etiquette and Stella, who now had big clients, took Chase with her a few times to meet these people, referring to Chase as one of her junior assistants. Now the efforts of the dress rehearsal were about to be tested.
The minute she’d entered the office, Eliza had sized her up like she was a horse who might be purchased. Eliza adored horses, according to Ariana, and all metaphors pointed in this direction, including the woman’s office—a combo of chrome, glass and saddle-colored leather with horse-head bronzes. Chase half expected her to strap a set of pistols on her and demand a demonstration of Chase’s shooting ability. Instead, Eliza turned her around, stared her up and down and said, “You don’t look like a lesbian. In fact, your good looks are going to be an asset. Please take a seat.”
Chase resented that comment and barely refrained from saying. “And you look like Mr. Toad in The Wind in the Willows so you don’t have any room to talk.” She sat down and waited. One thing she’d discovered about these New York power types was that you didn’t have to talk much. They talked for you.
“Do you think I’m a lesbian?” Eliza asked.
Chase hated this line of questioning and her patience was thinning. Watching her tone, she politely said, “Is this like that question where a woman asks her husband if she looks fat in this dress and no matter his response he’s screwed?”
Eliza burst out laughing. “You’re right. But your assumption is that I am a straight woman.”
“Are you saying you’re not?” Chase countered.
“What I am saying is that whether I am or not shouldn’t be a question that anyone would ask.”
“I get it. I will be a very private, almost a hermit-like-kind of author. That shouldn’t be difficult. I don’t particularly like people,” Chase informed her.
“But you will have to make yourself known if your books are to sell. Reviews, book signings and interviews—how will you handle that?”
“You’re going to tell me and with some coaching I will be successful,” Chase said tartly. She might as well capitulate to the whims of the publishing world because there wasn’t much choice. She’d already made up a vocation for Shelby McCall and tested it on an overly inquisitive rich woman who sat next to her in first class on the plane.
Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion Page 4
