The Spellman Files

by Lisa Lutz

  “It means ‘covered with hair.’ Now get back to work.”

  Then Rae would attempt to hide her self-satisfied grin and complete the entry in her homework assignment.

  When I arrived, Stone would ask Rae to give us privacy and then he would suggest that I have another talk with her about these unannounced visits.

  On her last visit, Stone insisted that he had done nothing to encourage her, but he had. Her instincts were dead-on. Stone could scowl and shake his head all he wanted, but if he secretly enjoyed her visits, she would know.

  And so I explained to Stone that these visits were his fault alone. “She knows you like her deep down. She knows you look forward to her interrupting your day.”

  “But I don’t,” he insisted. “I have work to do.”

  “You must or she wouldn’t come here,” I insisted back.

  Stone would sigh and say, “Talking to you and your sister is not unlike banging one’s head against the wall.”

  “Then why is it that you call me every time she drops by and not my parents, who are, as you know, her legal guardians?”

  Stone refused to answer the question. But I knew the answer and I knew then that this man would eventually be Ex-boyfriend #10. What a relief to begin a relationship without having to worry about sustaining a series of calculated lies.

  Uncle Ray was a man of his word. He went to rehab for thirty days. During the time Ray was a resident at Green Leaf Recovery Center, he remained sober—to his great disappointment. It turns out there was no contraband-smuggling technique that the Green Leaf staffers hadn’t already seen.

  Eventually he decided to make the most of his stay. He went for walks in the woods and exercised at the gym. He took whirlpool baths and saunas. He performed his designated chores—leaf raking, kitchen sweeping, bathroom cleaning—with calm acceptance. He labored at a snail’s pace but was known as a peaceful and diligent worker. He went to group therapy and explained the deal he’d made with God. He further explained, with an honesty that surprised and disappointed his group leader, that he had no intention of maintaining his sobriety once the thirty days came to an end.

  When those thirty days did come to an end, my father picked up Uncle Ray from Green Leaf, drove him two hours back to the city, and dropped him off at a Sleeper’s Inn on Sloat Boulevard, where within five minutes, Ray drank two beers, smoked a cigar, bet one thousand dollars on a poker hand, and smacked the asses of at least three different women.

  The healthy glow of thirty days’ detox was erased by the subsequent three days’ worth of debauchery. My sister gave him the silent treatment for a week as punishment. She finally spoke to him when he offered to teach her how to dust for fingerprints.

  It could be said that the Spellmans returned to normal after that. However, there was no previous pattern of normalcy to judge it by. I moved out of the house and into Bernie Peterson’s place when he finally agreed to move to Las Vegas and marry his ex-showgirl sweetheart. I sublet at Bernie’s rent-controlled rate, since he continued to claim that “it would never last.”

  The new and improved Rae lasted only a few weeks, tops. Eventually the recreational surveillance and sugar highs returned, but she did manage to limit both activities to the weekend only. My parents never followed or paid anyone to follow me again. My father officially fired Jake Hand when he caught him looking down my mother’s shirt. David got a tattoo with Petra’s name on it as an engagement present. Once again, Petra railed against me for not stopping him. They continued to plan their September nuptials. And Uncle Ray went missing again.

  THE LAST LOST WEEKEND

  It was officially Lost Weekend #27. He was last seen on a Thursday, and by Sunday my father and Rae began making the customary telephone calls. They tracked my uncle through a series of poker games in the city until the trail went cold. Dad then checked the activity on all of Uncle Ray’s credit cards and found charges at the Golden Nugget resort in Reno, Nevada.

  My mother and father had a new-client meeting in the morning and so the responsibility of collecting Uncle Ray fell to me. But I would not go alone. It is an essential rite of passage for all the Spellman children to, at one time or another, take a road trip to collect their uncle.

  Within an hour of discovering Uncle Ray’s whereabouts, Rae and I were packed and on the road. Four hours later we arrived in Reno and checked into the hotel. My father provided a letter detailing his credentials and references, which allowed the hotel to provide me with Uncle Ray’s room number and an additional key.

  As usual, the DO NOT DISTURB sign was hung on the door of room 62B. I knocked out of courtesy and waited for Ray to bellow out something along the lines of “Can’t you read?” or “I’m conducting important business here.” But there was no answer, which I assumed meant he was passed out.

  I slid the card key into the door and opened it a crack. Just as quickly, I pulled the door shut. The smell was unmistakable. The brief whiff I got told me all that I needed to know.

  “What’s wrong?” Rae asked, sensing my tension.

  I wasn’t ready for her to know the truth and I was equally unsure of how to proceed. I needed to buy some time, to keep her unaware as long as I could.

  “Uncle Ray’s having sex,” I said. Only after the fact did I realize that this was a lie of which my uncle would have wholly approved.

  My sister promptly plugged her ears and started singing, “La la la la la la la.” I took her by the arm and suggested we go to our room. Rae checked out the view and noticed the swimming pool three stories down. She asked if she could take a dip. I was grateful for the opportunity to make some phone calls in private and practically shoved her out the door.

  I watched Rae from the balcony as she floated on her back in the pink-bottomed pool. I phoned the coroner and then my parents. I returned to Uncle Ray’s room one more time to be sure.

  According to the police, Uncle Ray died of asphyxiation. He had passed out in the bathtub approximately two days earlier. Ray had slipped housekeeping an extra twenty to give him his privacy. Prior to his death, he gambled away six thousand dollars at the Caribbean Poker tables. His death was determined to be an alcohol-related accident. There was no follow-up police investigation.

  Rae returned from her swim as I was finishing up a conversation with the coroner’s office that included words like body, autopsy, and transport. So she figured it out.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  Rae showered for two hours and then went to bed without uttering a single word, shattering all previous records. She finally spoke the following morning as we put our bags into the car.

  “How will he get home?” Rae asked.

  “Who?”

  “Uncle Ray,” she snarled.

  “They’ll fly him back when the autopsy is complete.”

  “Uncle Ray doesn’t like flying.”

  “I don’t think he’ll mind now.”

  “Why can’t we drive him back?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because he’s dead. Because he has begun to decompose. Because I don’t want to hang around in Reno for three days until the coroner’s office releases his body. Get in the car, Rae. This is nonnegotiable.”

  Rae responded with a frustrated sigh, got into the passenger seat, and slammed the door behind her.

  The first hour along the barren stretch of I-80 was punctuated by sighing and gloomy stares out the window. It wasn’t until she turned to me and snapped, “He shouldn’t be dead,” that I realized she was angry. She was angry because as long as she was able to witness it, no one had tried to stop Uncle Ray from poisoning himself. She saw only the second half of the story, which included an entire family turning a blind eye to his self-abuse.

  I pulled off at the next rest stop and washed away the tears that had settled beneath my sunglasses. I returned to the car and found Rae on my cell phone, speaking with the coroner’s office, trying to negotiate a car or t
rain ride for the return of her uncle’s body. I opened the passenger-side door, snapped the phone out of her hand, and kneeled down in front of her.

  “We all have the right to destroy ourselves. He was a grown man and that was his choice.”

  Rae fell silent again as we got back on the road.

  We crossed the Bay Bridge two hours, one hundred and forty-seven miles, and half a box of tissues later. It was only then that the silence was broken.

  “Izzy?”

  “Yes, Rae?”

  “Can we get ice cream?”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The fact that I can now put writer (or the more pretentious “author”) as my occupation on all tax forms seems unbelievable. For a while there I was certain I wouldn’t amount to anything. I am now certain that it would not have been possible if I had to do this all on my own. Therefore, I feel lengthy acknowledgments are appropriate. If you don’t know me or anyone connected to me, don’t feel obligated to read this. In fact, don’t read this. It’s personal and filled with inside jokes that won’t make any sense and might make me seem weird.

  First I must acknowledge the people directly responsible for turning my manuscript into a book. Stephanie Kip Rostan, my agent: I can’t believe my good fortune in finding you. Your wit, perfect advice, and patience astound me. My genius editor, Marysue Rucci: You have made this book so much better than I ever thought possible and working with you has been effortless.1 Simply to meet another person who finds the same things funny as you do is great; for that person to be your editor is like winning the lottery.2 David Rosenthal, my publisher: You had me at “molestation charges.”3

  Also thanks to Carolyn Reidy, president of Simon & Schuster; your support of this book is invaluable and I am extremely grateful. Alexis Taines, Marysue’s editorial assistant, thanks for answering all my questions past and to come. Also at Simon & Schuster, thank you, Victoria Meyer; Aileen Boyle; Deb Darrock; Leah Wasielewski; and Aja Pollock, my very overworked production editor. Thank you to everyone at Levine Greenberg Literary Agency, especially Daniel Greenberg, Elizabeth Fisher, Melissa Rowland, and Monika Verma for all their hard work. And finally, a big thanks to Sarah Self, at the Gersh Agency, who didn’t bat an eye when I kept saying no.

  Now, I would like to thank all of my friends who have supported me over the years, but I am going to limit this list to only those who have both lent4 me money and read drafts of scripts or manuscripts. To begin, Morgan Dox,5 boy were you wrong about the whole Westernville thing. It was a good idea. Steve Kim,6 I couldn’t ask for a better friend. Thanks for everything, especially for reminding me about the Cone of Silence. I owe you big. Rae Dox Kim,7 thanks for letting me borrow your name; I’m going to need it just a bit longer. Julie Shiroishi,8 thank you for telling me to write a novel, when actually it hadn’t really occurred to me. Ronnie Wenker-Konner, you can stop blaming yourself for the other thing; I’m good. Now I’m just going to start listing people in no particular order because this could get really long if I don’t: Julie Ulmer,9 Warren Liu,10 Peter Kim,11 David Hayward,12 Devin Jindrich, Lilac Lane, Beth Hartman, and a special thanks to Lisa Chen, who is lending me money at the moment and gave me some great notes. An honorable mention goes to Francine Silverman, who I don’t recall lending me money, but who read some of the strangest adolescent writing imaginable (and laughed), and Cyndi Klane, who gave me four pages of notes even though we had never met.

  If you are a friend of mine and your name was not mentioned in the previous paragraph, it does not mean that I do not value your friendship, it simply means that you did not lend me enough money or read enough dreadful drafts to qualify for mentioning. Remember, there will be a second book, and I’m wiping the slate clean for that one. While I no longer need to borrow large sums of money, you’ll still have the opportunity to spot me a twenty every now and again. As someone who knows me, you also know that I don’t like to carry around cash.13

  Now I’d like to mention my war buddies from Plan B: Greg Yaitanes, Steven Hoffman, Matt Salinger, and William Lorton. You made me feel like a writer, when I was entirely unconvinced of that fact. Your kindness, respect, and loyalty I will never forget. And, once again, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. While I’m on the subject of Plan B, another thanks goes to J. K. Amalou. Mirufshim, as they say in your country.

  Most importantly, I really must thank my family. There is something decidedly fishy about a person in her midthirties who refuses to let go of an idea. To my mother, Sharlene Lauretz, not once did you tell me to get a real job and get on with my life14. I might still be working on the novel if it weren’t for your generosity and belief in me. To my aunt and uncle15 Beverly Fienberg and Mark Fienberg, thanks for employing me all those years, not complaining about my bad attitude, and giving me a place to crash when I got tired of paying rent. A big whopping thanks to my aunt and uncle16 Eve and Jeff Golden. You gave me a home17 in which to write. It was a dream come true, living in the middle of nowhere, working on my first novel. There are no words to express what you have done for me. Jay Fienberg, my cousin, please read the damn book. Dan Fienberg, also my cousin, thanks so much for all your help/advice/etc. Anastasia Fuller: We are all so lucky to have you in our family. Thanks for reading the sloppiest draft ever and thanks in advance for everything I’m going to make you read in the future.

  This next person deserves her own paragraph. Kate Golden, my cousin, my first copy editor. Who knew so many words had hyphens? You are brilliant and will find great success. But I am so pleased I had time to exploit you in your impoverished youth.

  Last, I must acknowledge my friends from Desvernine Associates18: Graham “Des” Desvernine, Pamela Desvernine, Pierre Merkl, Debra Crofoot Meisner,19 and especially Yvonne Prentiss and Gretchen Rice, who have patiently read drafts, answered endless questions, and reminded me about a job I had all but forgotten. The Spellmans are pure fiction, but they could never have existed without you.

  Note to reader: With the exception of my mother, I have paid everyone back.

  1 Petra, having a way with scissors—even the garden-variety kind—created a topiary that resembled a hand with an extended middle finger.

  1 Big Brothers of America–sanctioned activities.

  2 Same assorted males.

  3 Cannot establish a trend.

  4 Or woman with whom he shares a resemblance and appears to be his mother.

  5 Cannot establish a trend.

  6 Petra (must not mention her in case he remembers Staged Dental Appointment #1).

  7 get high and

  8 Untrue.

  9 A top-secret counterespionage organization (the good guys).

  10 The International Organization of Evil.

  2 Paid homeless man to buy beer.

  1 Statistically speaking, there are far more women than men working in education, so this was not an entirely reckless assumption.

  1 The International Organization of Evil.

  2 For instance, if you ask Hymie to “give you a hand,” he starts unscrewing his hand.

  3 Named after the father of the evil scientist who created him.

  4 Hymie looks human.

  1 The International Organization of Evil.

  1 The International Organization of Evil.

  1 Baking powder looks more authentic but is much harder to snort.

  1 I know you cannot say the same for me, and I’m okay with that.

  2 And, yes, I kind of know what that feels like.

  1 This list does not include one-night stands. That is a separate list, which will not be included in this document.

  3 Example of aforementioned inside joke.

  4 0% loans only will be mentioned.

  5 Has lent me a lot of money and read perhaps more than anyone, including my supercrappy early screenplays.

  6 Morgan’s husband and therefore money-lending applies to him as well.

  7 She is only four, therefore, I have not borrowed money from her.

  8 I don’t recall borrowing mone
y from Julie, but she has bought me many drinks and employed me a few times.

  9 Lent money, but didn’t read all that many drafts. Will need to step up if she wants mentioning in second book’s acknowledgments.

  10 No, I will not buy you a car.

  11 Lent money, read lots of drafts, and bought lots of drinks.

  12 Read lots and lots of drafts, lent money, and has given me large household appliances and furniture.

  1 I asked Petra what she wanted to do for her twenty-first birthday and she said, “Get high and go to the San Francisco Zoo.”

  13 Any potential muggers who happen to be reading this should note this fact.

  14 This would, in fact, have been a reasonable thing to do—all things considered.

  15 For the record, Uncle Ray was not modeled after either one of my uncles.