by Lisa Lutz
“Rae?”
My voice shook her out of a daze and she turned to me. “Have you been in my room?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
“Somebody has,” she replied and tapped the door with her index finger. It creaked open and she turned to me for confirmation of some sort.
“Rae, don’t jump to conclusions,” I called out to her, but I knew it was to no avail. Rae has had a deadbolt on her door since she learned how to install deadbolts two years ago. We all have deadbolts on our doors and, with the exception of the two-year period of time when mine was removed for drug-related offenses, this is standard fare in the family. We’re really into privacy, especially since we have no respect for it.
I continued up the stairs to my apartment. A few moments later, I heard a door slam and the stomping of the feet of a one-hundred-pound person. I exited my apartment and followed the footsteps into the living room.
“You old hack, what gives you the right to steal my stuff?” Rae shouted upon entering the room.
Uncle Ray barely looked up from the television when he replied, “Kid, I had a job to do and the batteries on my camera were dead, so I borrowed your digital. I was in a jam. What’s the big deal?”
“You picked three locks, entered a room with a sign that says NO TRES-PASSING, searched premises for a camera that was hidden under my bed in a lockbox, and then took it. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU CALL IT IN THE OLD COUNTRY, BUT WHERE I COME FROM THAT’S CALLED STEALING!”
Rae rushed past me as she stormed out of the room. I could hear her mutter under her breath, “This means war.”
As she would later describe, Rae snuck out that night to “blow off some steam.” I sat in my apartment, proofreading a surveillance report that David refused to accept until I located the five typos on my own, because, he said, “I wouldn’t learn otherwise.” I heard a familiar creak on the fire escape and caught sight of Rae, dangling from the final rung on the ladder as she made the three-foot leap to the ground. I checked the clock and it read 9:30 P.M. I decide that on the off chance Rae missed curfew, someone would be there to prove it.
I exit through the front door, unnoticed, and head up the block in Rae’s direction. I hang back until she reaches Polk Street. As much as she likes to mix up her routine, there are certain habits I can trust. Polk Street is only a few short blocks from our house and she requires a public place to choose her target and practice her technique.
She enters a café and leaves shortly thereafter, eating what I believe to be a brownie. I decide the trip is worth it, since I’ve already caught her on one offense: sugar on a school night. Rae weaves her way down the street and I realize she’s already chosen her prey. I close the gap between us, confident that I’ll remain unnoticed.
Rae shadows a man in his midtwenties, with creative facial hair and a standard assortment of tattoos, into the Polk Street Bookstore. Rae is fourteen but she looks thirteen and she is roaming solo nearing ten o’clock on a school night; she is not as incognito as she imagines she is. I wait outside for the right opportunity to reveal myself, instead of entering the bookstore and spoiling her fun.
The tattooed guy leaves, without any books, which doesn’t surprise me. I step away from the doorway and wait for my sister to follow. She exits at an appropriately timed pace and follows the man down the street in the direction of the Tenderloin. I remain on their tails, still unnoticed.
Rae’s subject turns left onto Eddy Street and she follows. My anger is brimming as I realize that she has no intention of turning back. After years of drilling into Rae’s head all the dangers that lurk around the corner, it’s shocking to watch her actually turn that corner.
The tattooed guy makes another left turn at the end of the block. Rae rushes to the corner to avoid losing a visual. Once my sister rounds the bend, I do the same. The tattooed guy turns left one more time, finishing the final segment of a complete loop. I want to scream at Rae a litany of Are you an idiot?–related comments, but I am still convinced there is a lesson to be learned and I hold my tongue until I reach the corner.
This time I hear voices, and when I peer around the bend, I see Rae and her subject in the shadows of an office building under construction. The tattooed guy cages Rae between his arms as he leans against the red brick.
“Sweetheart, what are you doing?” he says in an affected whisper.
“Nothing. Just going for a walk,” Rae replies.
“At this time of night?”
“I needed some fresh air.”
“You know what I think?” he says.
“How would I know that?” she answers.
“I think you were following me.”
“I wasn’t,” she snaps back nervously.
“You like older men, is that it?”
“That’s definitely not it, definitely not.”
“I could teach you a few things.”
“Izzy? Can you please help me now!” Rae shouts.
I take out my knife and flick it open. Tattooed Guy recognizes the sound and turns to me as I round the corner.
“Get the hell away from my sister,” I say calmly, while trying to invoke the spirit of Lee Van Cleef.
“Take it easy, ladies, there is enough of me to go around.”
I pick up my phone and pretend to dial 911. “I hope that line works for you in prison.”
The tattooed guy considers that possibility and decides to call it a night. He offers Rae a suggestive wink. “See you around, kid.”
I watch him until he disappears into an alley down the street. Then I shove Rae against the wall and remind her that we had a deal.
“I agreed to trim my recreational surveillance significantly, but not entirely.”
“You were loitering in the red-light district after curfew. Do I need to remind you that you’re fourteen years old?”
“I am allowed to stay out after curfew when accompanied by a family member. You were with me, so I figured it was okay.”
“When did you spot me?”
“At the bookstore. I wouldn’t have followed him if I didn’t know you were there.”
I shake my head, unable to respond. I grab Rae by the arm and drag her down the street. “Let’s go home now. I’ll deal with you later.”
We walk up Polk Street in silence, until Rae predictably breaks it.
“Did you see the way he winked?” she asks.
“I did.”
“I hate it when people wink.”
“I know. You’re not getting away with it anymore. I hope you understand,” I tell Rae.
“Can we negotiate?” she asks.
“I’m afraid this one is nonnegotiable.”
In the interrogation room later that night, my parents—using a tag-team method—lectured Rae for two straight hours on the potential dangers of recreational surveillance. My parents have a gift for seeing the negative in things. I can assure you, if a danger existed, Rae learned about it that night.
THE DENTIST WAR
My father eventually gave up trying to decode my fashion U-turn. My mother, however, did not. After her initial stream of random interrogatories, like “Are you doing this to piss me off?” “Who do you think you’re fooling?” and “When is the last time you went to the doctor?” Mom refined her focus.
Initially she railed against my prior sartorial rut.
“For two decades straight, it was denim and leather, denim and leather, denim and leather, it was just like living with one of the Hell’s Angels—especially with that mouth you have on you.”
“You never told me you lived with a Hell’s Angel,” I replied.
“I would beg you to wear a dress. Beg. Remember Aunt Mary’s funeral? And now it is skirts and dresses all the time. I want to know why.”
“No reason, Mom. Just mixing it up.”
“What’s his name?” she said, finally getting to her point.
Every time she asked that question, she got precisely the same answer: “John Smith.” By offering my mothe
r the common name, it was understood that she would have to fight me for this secret.
“How long do you think you can sustain this, Isabel?”
I didn’t have an answer for her at the time, but most questions eventually have an answer, and three months was the answer to that one.
While I continued to foil Daniel and my parents, other deceptions lined our family tree. Believing myself to be the master of all forms of trickery, I was surprised to learn that one sleight of hand was arranged entirely for my benefit, or lack thereof.
I don’t make a habit of dropping by David’s house unannounced, mostly because he told me not to make a habit of it. However, there was an occasion when I happened to be in the neighborhood because when I was driving not far from that neighborhood, I got a flat tire. I parked in my brother’s driveway and rang the bell. It was seven o’clock on a Saturday night and I considered that the chances of finding him home were slim.
David opens the door on the third ring. When he sees me, his face drops as if he were smiling at the prospect of who he thought would be there and disappointed by the reality of it.
“Isabel.”
“Good. You remember me.”
“I thought we talked about this.”
“I assumed there was some flexibility in that rule.”
“Is ‘flexible’ a word you’d use to describe me?”
“No. But I got a flat tire—in the neighborhood. So I don’t care.”
“You really have a flat tire?”
“My car is in your driveway. Would you like to inspect it?”
“No. What do you need?”
“Well, I’d like to use your phone and relax in your luxurious home while I wait for the tow truck.”
“Don’t you have a cell phone?”
“I left it at home. I was just running a quick errand.”
David turns back into his foyer and leaves the door ajar, silently and impolitely allowing my entrance.
“Make it quick, Izzy. I got plans tonight.”
“What kind of plans?”
“I’m not in the mood for an interrogation.”
“You never are.”
“Shall I draw you a map to the telephone?” David says, more snappish than usual, which on a scale of snappish is about a ten.
Just as I reach out to pick up the cordless phone on the kitchen counter, it rings. I remove the phone from the cradle and David charges toward me, quickly prying it out of my hands.
“Hello,” he says breathlessly. “Yes. I know. My sister is here right now and I have to wait until the tow truck arrives, so maybe we can move it back about a half hour? Okay, an hour. I’ll see you then.”
David hangs up and offers me the phone. I watch him carefully, but remain silent. I make the car-related phone calls while David primps impatiently in the mirror. I ask to use his bathroom and predictably itemize his medicine cabinet. Usually I discover the latest in age-defying propaganda and mock David relentlessly for his vanity. Sometimes I think if he weren’t my brother, I’d despise him. However, what I do discover alongside the alpha-hydroxy lotion is a box of tampons and I interpret this evidence to mean only one thing: David has a serious girlfriend. You might think I’m jumping to conclusions, but I’m basing my leap of logic on history and I’m already feeling resentful that he wants to hide this from me.
I lean out the bathroom door. “Where are you going tonight, David?”
“Out to dinner.”
“With a date?”
“A friend.”
“What’s her name?”
“None of your business.”
“That can’t possibly be her name.”
“Give it a rest, Isabel.”
I hold out the box of tampons. “I’m onto you.”
THE WAR ON RECREATIONAL SURVEILLANCE
CHAPTER 3
A few weeks later, after Rae was pulled off a surveillance job for receiving a C-plus on an algebra exam, she snuck out again. This time she returned home in the company of two uniformed police officers. My father answered the door in his pajamas, surprised to find Rae outside and not inside.
Officer Glenn introduced himself and his partner, Officer Jackson, then offered my father a warm handshake and said, “Good evening, sir. Is this your daughter?”
“That depends. What did she do?”
“We received an anonymous tip that a young woman matching your daughter’s description was following random people around in the vicinity of Polk Street. Shortly thereafter, we found Emily following an elderly couple on Nob Hill. While that is not a crime, we consider it a somewhat unusual activity for a young lady at this time of night.”
“Honey,” said my father, “you don’t give officers of the law a fake name. I apologize for my daughter, Rae Spellman. Will you be filing a report?”
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Officer Glenn, and the two cops took their leave.
Rae stepped inside and my father slammed the door behind her.
“How many times do we have to have this conversation?” he asked.
Still not grasping the rhetorical question, Rae answered, “You want a number?”
“There’s a lot of bad shit out there. You know that.”
“That’s why I was following old people!”
Fortunately my father did not accept her rationale. In a quiet, threatening whisper, he said, “You’re gonna pay for this, pumpkin,” and sent her to bed.
Rae passed her uncle’s room just as he shut the door. She knew he had been eavesdropping on the conversation and she knew he was the one who called the cops on her. And while she accepted that her punishment was inevitable, she also vowed that she would take Uncle Ray down with her.
THE BAR WAR
For the infraction of following a couple whose combined age was approximately one hundred and sixty, Rae’s punishment was epic. At least it was by comparison to her previous résumé of punishments. She was grounded for three months, which was unprecedented, but the kicker was that she was forbidden to participate in any sanctioned surveillance activities during that time, as well. Before settling into the doldrums of the average life of a grounded child, Rae decided to drown her sorrows in a glass of ginger ale at the Philosopher’s Club.
While Milo tried unsuccessfully to convince my sister to depart on her own, Daniel was cooking me yet another meal in which he took far too many liberties with the recipe.
During the green onion chopping (they were supposed to be leeks), Daniel said, “I’m thinking of having a dinner party.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” I replied before my internal censor kicked in.
“Yes,” he insisted. “I think it will be fun.”
“Who will you invite?” I asked.
“Some friends. Maybe my mother.”
Uh-oh, I thought to myself, but then I decided that as long as he didn’t want to meet my mother, I was on easy street. So I decided to be accommodating and maybe help the situation.
“That sounds like a great idea. You should make enchiladas.”
“No, I’m thinking of something fancier.”
“I think enchiladas are very fancy,” I said, praying he would come around. Then my phone rang. Normally I wouldn’t have answered my cell phone, but the number looked familiar, but not familiar enough to be a family member—my usual criterion for answering my phone.
“Izzy, it’s Milo. Your sister is here again.”
“At the bar? But she’s grounded.”
“I know that. I know everything. Could you come and get her?”
“Yeah, I’m leaving now.”
The moment I got off the phone, Daniel asked me who was grounded, which guided my lie in a different direction than I was planning. I told him that my sister, Rae, missed the bus home from school (there is no bus) while at ballet practice (in case he heard me mention “the barre”), but that if she wasn’t home before 7:00 P.M., she would be grounded.
Daniel asked if he could come with me beca
use he wanted to meet my sister, but I reminded him that the sauce hadn’t reduced yet, and he relented.
When I arrived at Milo’s, Rae was in midspeech and Milo, like the good bartender he is, was lending a sympathetic ear.
“They were old, Milo. Old. And it was in Nob Hill. Drug dealers and prostitutes don’t hang out there.”
“You’ve got a point, kid.”
“I said let’s negotiate. Mom said it’s nonnegotiable. Right. Everything’s negotiable. I’m not hurting anyone, am I?”
“I think the concern is that you might hurt yourself.”
“I offered to cut back sixty percent. Nothing. Then eighty percent. Eighty percent! But Dad said no and on top of that, no more work. He took away my livelihood.”
Rae knew I was watching her and spoke purely for my benefit. But I’d heard enough. I sat down on the adjacent barstool and once again finished off her ginger ale.
“You’re grounded, Rae.”
“I know.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“The rules say that I’m not allowed to be out after school without the supervision of an adult.”
“And your point is?”
“Milo’s an adult.”
I yanked Rae off the barstool and dragged her to the car. I redefined the fine print in her punishment and we agreed to keep this incident secret if she would behave herself thereafter.
That night I used Get Smart to distract Daniel from my sister’s interruption. We watched four episodes, culminating in one from 1966 in which KAOS1 uses the literal-minded2 robot Hymie3 to infiltrate CONTROL and kidnap Dr. Shotwire, an important scientist who is being guarded by Max. But Max’s kindness turns the sensitive robot from evil to good and in the end Hymie4 saves the lives of Max, 99, and Dr. Shotwire and shoots his own creator. The chief asks Hymie to join CONTROL, but Hymie says he’d rather work for IBM to meet some intelligent machines. This was supposed to be Hymie’s only episode, but he was so popular, he was brought back several more times.
