Mary Ellen Courtney - Hannah Spring 01 - Wild Nights

by Mary Ellen Courtney

  “Mom has a call into me. She probably wants to tell me all about it.”

  “Or to tell you you’re an alcoholic.”

  “Well if she does, I won’t be there.”

  “Relax, I’m kidding. Ted said that during one tirade Mom told Binky she’s a selfish alcoholic bitch, unlike you. You should bring Steve, round things out.”

  “He’s in New York.”

  “Lucky bastard.”

  “What’s Ted think about all this?” I asked. “He must know she’s an alcoholic.”

  “He says what he always says. She’s just tired.”

  We both said good-bye like the polite people we are. I went straight to the kitchen and poured a glass of merlot. The irony was not lost on me.

  The phone rang, no way mom. If she had quit drinking that morning, it meant she had just set the world speed record for obnoxious self-righteous converts. She even beat out Bettina who, when she became a Catholic, after she’d converted to Judaism, after being a fallen Presbyterian, spent six months carrying around some catechism book with her name embossed in gold. I could see Mom getting just Jackie, embossed on an AA big book. Nope, not ready for that phone call.

  I swam laps until my inner voice went hoarse nattering about Mom, and went to bed.

  I was having breakfast the next morning when Mom called.

  “Hi, how’d your date go?” I asked.

  “The date went fine. His name is Arthur. You probably heard I had a little disagreement with Binky.”

  She was using her breathy little hiding out voice, like I might hurt her.

  “I did. Have things calmed down?”

  “Yes. Though she hasn’t admitted that she’s powerless over alcohol.”

  “Did you mention to anyone at the meeting that you were going to confront your daughter?”

  “No. Why would I? Everyone was talking about their own problems.”

  “That’s my point, Mom. AA is for the people who’re there, not for people to get armed and take the fight to their children.”

  “That’s what Arthur said; I don’t see what difference it makes. Your sister’s an alcoholic and she should get help.”

  “She has to want help. It’s totally different.”

  “Well I talked to Ted last night. He said she might drink too much. He knows.”

  “You know Ted, Mom, he probably just said it to get the situation calmed down.”

  “Oh well, Hannah, I don’t know why you know so much about this.”

  “Because I’ve gone to Alanon.”

  “What for?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Is Steve coming on Sunday?”

  “He’s in New York.”

  “Well I hope it works out. Men like kittens, you’re almost a cat.”

  “I have to go to work.” I hung up without being polite.

  Waiting to talk had given the situation a chance to mellow. I was spared the blow-by-blow; I was not spared being called a cat. How do they do that? They roll in the Trojan horse of family concern and out pops the fucking cat.

  The buzzer at the gate announced a flower delivery guy with a huge vase of anthuriums, possibly the most overtly sexual flower on the planet. Talk about a clitoris, no man could miss those.

  One of the experienced guys I’d known briefly in my wild young days said he’d known a few hookers who looked like that. It’s amazing, really, how freely the men who don’t love you tell you things in bed. I’d heard a little too much honesty from men. I’d like to say it was fun, but in the recesses of my heart it hurt. It got stored away, unexamined, in the shame box. Maybe getting paid to listen made it okay. Hookers must get an earful on top of everything else.

  The note said, “Aloha—Steve.” I put them under the white paper lantern where they’d be lit up. They look like wax and have no scent, but the visual can’t be ignored. They murmured under the light like an oversexed Greek chorus. Steve may be in New York, but he was imposing his vision on the film playing in Los Angeles.

  We got Vampire Chick all set up for her big breakthrough, then watched as the action unfolded. She chewed-up the scenery. Like the rest of us, she did not want to go out a pathetic rubber-outer. Unlike the rest of us, she had an agent to make sure that didn’t happen. We were getting ready to take down the sets for good. The landlady was scheduled to die the next day; then we’d pack up her doilies and send her to storage.

  I got home and called Steve. He planned to take Anna and Eric to dinner. I read scripts by the fire. Steve’s was set along the border with Mexico and revolved around drugs, money, and humans dodging rattlers, cactus, and rubbing bad aftershave against cheap perfume.

  Margaret’s took place in 16th century India as the Mughal Empire was in ascendance. It would be a lush period piece that spun around an arranged marriage and palace intrigue. The wife ended up dying for cheating on her husband.

  One sounded depressing as hell and involved a lot of gun-toting sadistic assholes with metal-tipped boots, half of them wearing badges; and one conjured silk and incense swirling around people who were depressed as hell with their partner assignment, hapless hoards, and one depreciated woman dying at the hands of sword-toting sadistic assholes. At least the swords were jeweled. I was in a foul mood.

  I jumped naked in the dark pool and put in some half-hearted laps before getting in bed with Steve’s script and my laptop. I would be working as an assistant to their guy. I didn’t know him, so overall feel was all I cared about at that point. I was really drawn to working in India with Margaret; she’d never treated me like a peon, even when I was one. But the New Mexico project meant being with Steve, which meant keeping our relationship, which I still hoped meant getting rubbed out one way or another before too long. I was deep into the so-called war on drugs when the phone rang, A. Watts.

  “Hello Stroud.”

  “Hello Spring.”

  It was quiet. There was a charge, even in the silence pinging off three satellites in the cold black space of night.

  “I’m coming your way,” he said.

  “When?”

  “I can pick up my load early Sunday. Drive up.”

  “We’re burying Grandma on Sunday now. But we could have dinner after.”

  “Is there a place to park my rig?”

  “I guess you could park it down on Mulholland. That’s what movers do.”

  I gave him directions and told him where the key was hidden under the Buddha head by the front door. So obvious I figured a burglar would forget to look. So he was coming. The wild animal licked her chops.

  FOUR

  Karin called early the next day to say she wouldn’t be in. Both kids were puking their brains out. It was no problem. All we had to do was kill off the old lady and we were wrapped. I told her about Stroud, but said there would be no meeting. I didn’t want Steve to hear about him from one of her loquacious kids.

  I got home to a link from Steve for the place in Hawaii; it was very high-end. I called him and told him I’d decided on New Mexico.

  “Good,” he said. “It will be good to work on a project together, before puking kids complicate the picture.”

  “Kids? We haven’t talked about kids.”

  “Don’t you want kids?”

  “I don’t know. There’s so much pressure from my mother, I haven’t really had the space to think.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “It would be complicated with a fallen Presbyterian. Do they even know we’re dating?”

  “They will when the time comes.”

  “Do we have to decide now?”

  “No,” he said. “Hawaii will be good for us.”

  We said good night. I looked past the fire and the hot red flowers to the turquoise pool. We’d never talked about getting married and he was leapfrogging to kids. Apparently before breaking the news to his family that he was seeing a somewhat Presbyterian. We needed to figure out what we were doing before things went much further.

  I spent Saturday cleani
ng house, washing sheets, shaving my legs, and food shopping. I checked in with Karin, now Oscar had it, and she was queasy.

  Burial day and I overslept. I grabbed Emily and rushed out the door. I’d decided to read “Wild Nights” as a send off. The sun was shining, the air was clean and the mountains were out; it was a beautiful day to be buried, even in Altadena.

  Eric and Anna were in front of the cemetery office talking to the funeral director. I could tell from fifty paces that my brother was uptight.

  “The hearse broke down,” he said. “Grandma is stranded on the 15.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Did you call Mom and Binky?”

  “Not yet. We’re going to Plan C. We have to get this done today, even if it’s the middle of the night.”

  “I have to be somewhere. I can’t spend all day with this.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. These guys are going to send one of their cars down to pick her up. We should still be able to get her in the ground by dark.”

  I could see Stroud and Rex roaming around the Hollywood Hills; he might want to skip the whole thing. I called him.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Ah, I wondered.”

  “Not that. Grandma’s ride broke down on the 15. She’s stranded. They’re sending a hearse from here, but it’s going to add hours to this process.”

  “I’ll drive right by her.”

  “Well pick her up and bring her with you!”

  Eric looked at me with laser vision. I shook my head. I was kidding!

  “Who’s that?” asked Eric.

  “It’s a friend, Eric. He’s coming up for dinner. He just mentioned that he’d be driving by Grandma.”

  “What’s he driving?”

  “A truck.”

  My brother does hired gun computer problem solving for the highest bidder. I could swear his earlobes lit up and flashed in synchronicity with his snapping synapses. “How big?”

  The funeral director caught the drift and protested. “Not just anyone can transport a body. We have a hearse.”

  Eric spun on him wild-eyed, “Is it illegal?”

  “Well no,” said the funeral director, “but it’s not dignified.”

  “I don’t think she’s worried about being dignified anymore,” said Eric. “I know I’m not.”

  Eric turned to me and stuck out his arm, “Let me talk to him.”

  “My brother wants to talk to you,” I said to Stroud. “His name’s Eric.”

  Eric walked off toward the mausoleum of eternal slumber. He talked to Stroud, he looked at his watch; he walked back toward us, nodding his head and saying, “Thanks. I’ll call you in a few minutes.”

  He hit end. “Okay, Plan D. He’s bringing Grandma.”

  Eric pulled out his phone and started programming in Stroud’s number.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Stroud, like the birdman.”

  “It says here A. Watts.”

  “His real name is Alan Watts.”

  He looked at me for a second. “Two names?”

  I shrugged.

  “Alan Watts?” he asked. “What’s that, an enlightened alias?”

  “He said it’s his name. His parents were into Zen for a while. They had their moments.”

  “So did ours, but they didn’t name me Ringo Spring.” He was shaking his head as he punched in the last of the information and walked into the office with the funeral director.

  “That was lucky,” said Anna.

  “Yeah. Ringo Spring is seriously schlocky. But Mom was in love with George Harrison. George Spring isn’t too bad. Dad would have named him Jerry Garcia Spring.”

  “I wouldn’t have married someone named Ringo. I’m not sure about Jerry either,” said Anna. “But I meant the truck is lucky.”

  “I guess. Now I’m worried that bad car karma has run amuck, and Grandma’s been shanghaied by an enlightened criminal who does a mean Texas Two Step.”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” said Anna. “At least she loved to dance.”

  “There is that. What’s the deal with this Arthur? Has Mom really stopped drinking?”

  “For now. It’s only been a few days.”

  A late model BMW in silver gray pulled in. Mom waved through the windshield. Mom and Arthur walked our way. Mom, normally the picture of propriety, was wearing the tightest jeans I had ever seen on just about anyone, ever. She must have had to lie on the floor to zip them up. She had on a sweater set in pale green; the shell was so Marilyn Monroe tight, I could see jiggling mounds of breast escaping the top of a new push-up bra. Interesting, she was always a stickler for not having obvious underwear. To finish it off she was wearing what can only be described as fuck me pumps. The only familiar notes were her trademark pearls and what Karin calls her rich bitch bob. She looked great.

  “Whoa,” said Anna.

  “Whoosh,” I said.

  “Hi girls!” Mom jiggled our way.

  Arthur was central casting handsome. He was tall, trim, had silver hair to match his car and a golf course tan that really set off his straight white teeth. His sweater was cashmere, his shoes good leather, his fingernails buffed. Huh. Maybe she would stay sober. I know at least half of me would.

  “Why are you standing outside?” asked Mom.

  “Eric is making some arrangements,” said Anna. “So we’re enjoying the sun.”

  “It’s a gorgeous day,” said Mom. She remembered her manners and introduced us.

  “Great to meet you both,” said Arthur. “Jackie has told me a lot about you.”

  Eric came out of the office with the funeral director quick stepping behind. He introduced himself to Arthur and took in Mother’s new look with nary a blink.

  “We’re running a little late,” he said. “Grandmother’s hearse broke down so we’ve arranged a truck to pick her up. We’ll only be about an hour late.”

  “A truck?” asked Mom. “Like a delivery van?”

  My mother was no dumb bunny and the jeans weren’t squeezing that part of her brain. She knew dissembling when she heard it.

  “No,” Eric said. “A truck truck as far as I know. Hannah, you want to jump in here?”

  “It’s a John Deere,” I said. My mother blinked. “It’s green with a leaping yellow stag.”

  “Oh, that’s a great truck,” said Arthur. “A classic American company.”

  Mother looked at him like he was speaking in tongues.

  “A friend is bringing her,” I said. “His name is Stroud, or Alan.”

  “He has two names?” asked Mom.

  Eric put his arm around her shoulder, “Come inside, Mom, I want you to see the headstone.”

  A white Mercedes pulled in with Ted at the wheel. It was a duplicate of Binky’s car, total lack of imagination. Besides Amber they have two Sams, Samuel and Samantha. We call them both Sam; like a bad TV show. Binky was dressed far more appropriately than Mom, in a trim suit, pearls, and low fat heels. Ted, like Eric, was in a coat, tie and man loafers. Binky was cool while Ted made the introductions. She was beginning to remind me of Aunt Asp, always a bit turned sideways, always a little closed. She used to dance around like Debbie Gibson and sing “Shake Your Love.”

  Arthur said to Binky, ”Your mother’s inside.”

  She gave him a look that said she thought he was worming his way into the family a little too quickly. Wait until she got a load of Mom. She went into the office. We had started to tell Ted about the snafu when Binky stuck her head out the door and called him in a shrill indignant voice. He hopped to.

  “So, Arthur, what do you do?” I asked.

  “I’m retired now. But I was an aeronautical engineer.”

  “Interesting. Did my mother tell you our father died in a plane crash?”

  “She did. I’m sorry. It sounds like it was equipment failure.”

  “Yes. He slammed into a mountain in the dark.”

  Wow, I was really laying it on. I d
idn’t even have any charge left on the topic, but apparently I was going to give Arthur a hard time.

  “That’s what your mother said, that the altimeter failed,” he said. “That’s an unusual instrument to have fail. It must have been very hard for all of you.”

  “It was. Do you fly?”

  “No. I was always too busy designing planes to fly them.”

  I managed to bite my tongue before launching into the idea of designing something bigger than a bug-jammed pinhole to run an altimeter.

  Binky and Ted came out of the office.

  She snubbed Arthur and said, “What’s Mom got on? She’s dressed like Samantha.”

  Arthur excused himself.

  “Nice, Binky,” I said as we watched Arthur walk away.

  “What? She looks like a tart.”

  “Samantha’s kind of young to be a tart.”

  “Oh you know what I mean,” she snapped.

  My phone rang. A. Watts. “How’s it going?” I asked, as I walked toward the glen of everlasting life, or never-ending family, depending on your mood.

  “Fine. I picked up Grandma, no problem. I’m almost to Grub ‘n Scrub.”

  “You’re not going to stop are you? I’m dying here.”

  “Nah. Grandma’s behind schedule. What’s going on?”

  “My mother showed up dressed like a hot middle-aged hooker with her new man. My sister called her a tart. I’m trying to think of an excuse to go for a drive. Will you call me when you’re half an hour away?”

  “Will do.”

  We hung up. I walked back to the family unit plus one.

  “It’s very nice of your friend to bring your grandmother,” said Mom. “I hope it’s not too big an imposition.”

  “It’s fine, Mom. He was coming this way anyway.”

  “You have a friend with a truck?” asked Binky. “How many men do you have, Hannah?”

  “Four or five,” I said. “I’m going to run a few errands while we wait.”

  Binky said she needed lunch, so they took off too. I made it back to the freeway, neutral territory in L.A. I went a few exits to Sierra Madre, pulled over and called Karin.