by Lisa Lutz
“I love Hymie,” said Daniel.
“How can you not?” I replied, thinking I had sufficiently gotten him off the subject of my sister and my family. But I was mistaken.
Daniel pressed the pause button and said, “I want to see where you live.”
Demands were made, followed by negotiations on the demands, which resulted in Daniel and me sneaking into my apartment via the fire escape at 2:30 in the morning. The novelty of the high school–level caper distracted Daniel from the blunt fact that his girlfriend wasn’t in high school anymore. He stayed the night—well, four hours—until I woke him and sent him out the fire escape again.
My mother’s impatience grew commensurately with Daniel’s, but I held firm with both of them. The teacher ruse was hard to maintain, but I did eventually begin to infuse my own personal wardrobe and vocabulary into the person I presented to Daniel until I could eventually say that I was being myself with him—other than the lying about what my family and I did for a living.
On the weekends of her incarceration, Rae would roam the house in a quiet rage, unable to find an outlet for her ample energy. My mother finally suggested she take a bike ride and reiterated the rules of her temporary freedom. Rae rode her bike to Milo’s and this time Milo called my dad. My parents discussed the situation and came to a conclusion befitting only them.
Note: (While I was not a direct witness to the following encounter, I have interviewed all the parties involved and consider my research within the ballpark of the truth.)
When my parents finally picked Rae up at the Philosopher’s Club, the rain was already in full force. Rae secured her bike to the rack on the bumper of my mom’s Honda and got into the backseat. My father and my mother turned to Rae and offered up stern expressions. Rae immediately went on the defensive.
“You’re asking me to stop doing the one thing that I love the most,” Rae said.
“Don’t be dramatic,” said my mother.
“Frankly, I don’t know if I can stop.”
“You will stop if we tell you to stop,” said my father.
“Your expectations are unrealistic.”
My mother turned to my father for the go-ahead. My father nodded and my mother said, “We have a job for you. This should keep you busy for a while and out of trouble. Please understand that this is sanctioned surveillance, Rae. If I find out you’re freelancing again, you won’t be on the job another day until you’re eighteen. Got it?”
“Got it. What’s the job?”
“We want you to follow your sister,” said my father.
“I need an ID on that man she’s seeing,” said my mother.
Rae was silent as my dad laid out the ground rules. “The job cannot interfere with your schoolwork. And your curfew sticks. No matter where Isabel is or what she is doing, you make it home by eight P.M.”
“But my curfew is nine,” said Rae.
“Not anymore,” said my mother. “Are you interested?”
“Let’s talk money,” said Rae.
After Rae got a dollar-an-hour bonus for the extra risk of surveilling me, plus overtime and expenses, they shook on the deal.
Rae followed me for three straight days until I caught on. The slap to my ego when I learned this fact was nothing compared to my mother’s reaction when Rae laid out the photos and the truth in front of her. My mother reviewed the pictures of me and Daniel together and even commented to my father that he was a handsome, well-groomed man, and seemed somewhat relieved until my sister handed her the final photograph.
“Mom, try to stay calm,” Rae said as she proffered her last offering.
My mother snatched the final picture out of Rae’s hands. It was a photograph of the DANIEL CASTILLO, DDS signpost.
“He’s a dentist?” my mom asked.
“Yes,” said Rae. “But he seems really nice.”
Exactly three months after Normal Date #1, Daniel’s patience had come to an end. He gave me an ultimatum that spared no room for negotiation.
“I want to meet your family,” he said.
“Why? They’re not that exciting.”
“No. I demand to meet your parents.”
“Or?”
“What do you mean, ‘or’?”
“Well, usually when someone makes a demand, there are consequences if the demand isn’t met.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“So what are the consequences?” I asked, because I thought maybe they would be something like Or I will never cook another meal for you again.
“If I don’t meet your family within one week, this relationship is over.”
“If you meet my family, this relationship is over.”
Daniel rolled his eyes and offered an exaggerated sigh. “They’ve dedicated their lives to educating our youth. How bad can they be?”
“Have you ever met a teacher?”
“Isabel, this is an ultimatum. I meet your folks or we’re done.”
Ultimatums must have been in the air, because the next day my mom gave me her own.
“Sweetie, if I don’t meet your new guy within a week, I’m going to track him down myself and arrange my own introduction. Got it?”
When I arrived in the Spellman kitchen the following morning, Rae was making her standard Saturday breakfast—chocolate-chip pancakes, heavy on the chocolate chips. In fact, my dad had to pry the bag out of her hands. Then my mom had to pry the bag out of my dad’s. Rae gave me a plate from the first batch. I told her I wasn’t paying for them, which was a common scam she played after a seemingly generous offer. This time she said they were on the house and smiled guiltily.
I turned to my mother, who was still waiting for a response from the previous day’s ultimatum. I gave it to her.
“You can meet him. But under my conditions.”
“I’m listening,” she said.
“He thinks I’m a teacher.”
“Where’d he get that idea?” asked my dad.
“I told him I was a teacher.”
“That’s a believable lie,” he muttered sarcastically.
“I might become one. Who knows?”
“You’re not going to become a teacher,” said my mom.
“How do you know?” I snapped in reply.
“How about we get back to the meeting?” interrupted my dad, and I clarified my expectations for the event.
“I’m not ready to tell him the truth.”
“Does he know about us?” asked my mom.
“No. And I’d like to keep it that way.”
Uncle Ray entered the kitchen, bare-chested, wearing only his standard blue jeans and sneakers.
“Hey, anybody see my shirt?”
Three nos followed and my mother asked, “Where did you see it last?”
“I was doing laundry last night.”
“Retrace your steps.”
“I’ve been retracing my friggin’ steps for the past two hours. Jesus Christ.” Uncle Ray directed this at no one as he marched out of the kitchen.
My mom turned the conversation back to important matters. “When will this meeting happen?”
“Friday night.”
“What’s our cover?” my dad asked reluctantly.
“Mom, you’re a seventh grade math teacher. Dad, you’re a retired principal for the Alameda school district.”
“Am I a teacher, too?” asked Rae.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re in the ninth grade.”
“So what’s my cover?”
“You’re in the ninth grade,” I said as forcefully as I could.
My mother stared down at her coffee and mumbled, almost inaudibly, “What are you so ashamed of?”
Later that night, Rae knocked on my apartment door.
“I need a dark past,” she said when I answered it.
“Excuse me?”
“Friday, when we meet the dentist. The whole being-in-the-ninth-grade thing isn’t enough for me to work with. L
et’s say I had a heroin habit, but I kicked it about six months ago and now I’m doing fine.”
“That’s not funny,” I said.
“No, it isn’t,” she replied, playing the part. “It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Now I just take it one day at a time.”
I grabbed her by the collar and shoved her against the door, prepared to squash whatever determination she had. I spoke slowly and clearly to drill in every word. “Your father is a retired principal. Your mother is a math teacher. Your sister is a sub. End of story. You get that down.”
“But I’ve got that down,” she said with whatever air she had left.
I threw her into the hallway and reminded her of the level of retribution I was capable of. But I knew she wouldn’t be able to control herself. I braced myself for what I knew would be a disastrous night, although I never could have anticipated how disastrous.
Petra met me for drinks the following day. I briefed her on all the Spellman news, hoping for some sympathy.
“You should tell the dentist the truth before it’s too late,” Petra said.
“I’m waiting for the right moment.”
“That would require time travel.”
“Very funny.”
“You’re jumping through a lot of hoops just for some guy.”
“That’s because I like this one.”
“But what’s the attraction? I mean, falling for a handsome doctor is, frankly, a bit clichéd for you.”
I had to think about it: “He’s everything I’m not.”
“Guatemalan with a medical degree? True.”
“How about highly educated, bilingual, and capable of tanning,” I replied.
“Do you have anything in common?”
“As a matter of fact, we have lots of things in common.”
“Like what?”
“Get Smart. He’s a fanatic. Has seen every episode at least three times.”
“I’m not sure a thirty-five-year-old sitcom is enough of a foundation to build a relationship on.”
“It worked for you and me.”
“Anything else?”
“He has the entire series on DVD. Bootleg, no less.”
“And?”
“As you are aware, there are one hundred and thirty-eight episodes.”
“I repeat the question: Do you have anything else in common?”
“We both like drinking on rooftops.”
“Who doesn’t?” Petra replied, not buying any of it. “The fact remains that he is a dentist and you know what that will do to your mother. So it still kind of feels like teenage rebellion. You know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. But I did.
Petra shrugged her shoulders dismissively and took off her jacket to rack the balls. I noticed a large bandage on her bicep.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I just got a tattoo removed,” she casually replied.
I gasped dramatically and said, “No, not Puff?” already in mourning.
Petra got Puff the Magic Dragon one foggy night after drinking nine shots of whiskey in two hours. She claimed to have wanted a fire-breathing dragon—the meanest you could find—but in the morning, when she woke, it was the upside-down, child-friendly smile of Puff that stared back at her. She returned to the parlor the following day, a hangover firing her sloppy speech, and demanded an explanation for the inexplicable, yet permanent, artwork on her shoulder. The owner of the establishment remembered Petra, mostly because she tried to order French fries from him on three separate occasions, but also because she provided her own artwork for the tattoo.
The owner showed Petra the bar napkin with the picture of Puff and Petra’s initials by its side. Petra, confused by her drunken rendering, accepted fault for the previous night’s misstep and left the tattoo parlor without another word. Eventually, Puff grew on her and was often mentioned fondly, like a distant cousin or a long-deceased pet.
“I’m going to miss Puff,” I said.
“Well, I’m not going to miss a daily reminder of the worst hangover I ever had.”
“I asked you ages ago if you ever considered removing it and you said no.”
“A girl can change her mind, can’t she?”
“Sure, but you usually don’t.”
Petra made a clean break without sinking any balls.
After I cleared two stripes, I turned to her and asked, “Are you seeing anyone?”
“No,” she answered unconvincingly.
“Are you sure?”
“Izzy, are we playing pool or what?”
THE DENTIST WAR,
THE SHIRT WAR
(AND CAR CHASE #1)
I greet Daniel outside as he walks up the driveway to 1799 Clay Street.
“No matter what happens tonight, you can’t break up with me.”
“They can’t possibly be that bad.”
“Promise.”
Daniel kisses me and promises that he won’t break up with me tonight, although he tacks on a friendly reminder that the moratorium will end in twenty-four hours. He is joking. I am not.
We enter the house and my parents descend upon us. I use the brief introductory phase to leave Daniel and get him the drink I know he will require. My mom invites him into the living room, while I pour double shots of whiskey into two glasses. Then I consider the fact that if the meeting goes as badly as it has potential to, I might require evidence of my parents’ indiscretions. So I rush into the office, grab my digital recorder, slip it into my pocket, and join the others in the living room.
But I don’t need a voice recording to remember the events of that night. They are as clear as yesterday to me.
I hand Daniel his drink as he sits down on the couch. “You’ll need this,” I say.
My mother, ignoring me, gushes, “I’m just so happy to finally meet you, Daniel. Or should I call you ‘Doctor’?”
“No. Daniel is fine, Mrs. Spellman,” Daniel politely replies.
“Please, call me Livy. Everybody calls me Livy.”
“I don’t,” I remind her.
“Behave yourself, Isabel,” Daniel reminds me.
“Thank you, Daniel,” my mother says with a healthy grin forming on her face. “So, Daniel, tell me, were you born in California?”
“No. Guatemala. My family moved here when I was nine.”
“Where do your parents live?”
“San Jose.”
“Do they go by Castillo, as well?”
Not even minutes have passed and the investigation has begun.
“Don’t answer that question,” I interrupt, like a public defender.
But Daniel ignores me. “Yes, they do.”
“Same spelling?” asks my dad.
“Of course,” Daniel replies, his eyebrow rising, along with his suspicion.
“That’s wonderful,” my father chimes in.
When Rae enters the room, I’m almost pleased to see her, which indicates how far my spirits have dropped. She walks right up to Daniel and holds out her hand.
“Hi. I’m Rae, Izzy’s sister. Should I call you Dr. Castillo?”
“Nice to meet you, Rae. Please call me Daniel.” Daniel smiles at Rae and I can tell that briefly, at least, he’s bought her charming schoolgirl act.
Then Uncle Ray lumbers downstairs, shouting, “Kid, I got your little note.”
I had a feeling it would come to this, but I had hoped that it would wait one more day.
My uncle hands my father a folded piece of charcoal-gray craft paper.
“Al, look at this,” he says, then turns to Rae and continues, “If you think I’m gonna be your patsy, you got another think coming.”
I watch my father as he unfolds the paper. Superhuman efforts are required to stifle the laugh he so desperately wants to release.
Rae replies to her uncle, “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” with impressive acting skills.
“You’re going down for this. Mark my words,” Uncle Ray says w
ith a force that would have scared even me.
My mother chooses to ignore the entire episode, which comes off as even more absurd than her pointed interrogatives.
“So, Daniel, how old are you?”
“That’s none of your business,” I tell her.
“It’s okay. I’m thirty-seven.”
I sigh, frustrated.
“That’s a nice age,” says my mom. “So you were born in, what? 1970?”
“Mom.” I say it as a threat.
“What is your birthday, Daniel?”
“Don’t answer that question.”
“February fifteenth,” Daniel says, probably wanting to flip a coin to decide which one, my mother or me, is the most unbalanced.
“I told you not to answer her,” I say, frustrated.
“Relax, Isabel.”
My mother jots down the results from her investigation. “February fifteenth, nineteen-seventy. I hate to forget a birthday.”
Meanwhile, my dad is mediating the conflict on the other side of the room.
“Rae, give your uncle his shirt back,” he says, handing me the craft paper for my own perusal.
“What makes you think I have it?” Rae protests.
“The ransom note, pumpkin.”
I unfold the paper, while Daniel looks over my shoulder. In letters cut out and glued from newspaper and magazine print, the note reads:
I HaVe yOUr ShIRt.
iF YoU eveR WaNt 2 SeE it AgaIN,
YoU wILL meET mY DeMaNDS.
Rae persists with her “anyone could have written that note” defense.
“Rae, give him the damn shirt,” I say, offering up my most threatening stare.
“Dust it for prints if you want,” she confidently replies, then walks up to Daniel to finish pleading her case. “They suspect me immediately because I had a drug habit a while back. I’ve been clean for six months now, but that doesn’t matter. You have to rebuild the trust.”
I was expecting that part and, frankly, it was the least of my worries. Uncle Ray approaches Daniel, genuinely apologetic.
