by Lisa Lutz
Henry gave me a suspect’s study. “You’re not okay. You’re lying.”
“I need a favor. I think there might be an old police file under the name Clyde. Either Naomi or Maureen. Sexual assault, I think. Can you find it for me?”
“Is someone sick?” Henry asked.
I have no idea when Henry turned into Carnac the Magnificent. I attempted the Avoidance Method™.
“I wouldn’t be here unless I had no other option.”
“Write down the name and any other information you might have. I’ll look into it.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Finally the Avoidance Method™ was working. Clearly a training video and book deal were the next order of business.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” Henry said.
“You remember that?”
“Vaguely.”
“How’s . . . ?”
“She’s good.”
“You’re still . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“Let me know when you have the file.”
“I remember what I said.”
“Yeah?” I said, trying to figure out if I could leave right then. There was an unobstructed path to the exit. I could just make a run for it.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“People say all kinds of things when they’re drunk.”1
• • •
Dad had now been in the hospital two weeks out of what would be close to a monthlong stretch. He had lost twenty pounds; his eyebrows were all but gone; he required regular blood transfusions, antibiotics, and antifungals; and only Mom was allowed to touch him, after she scrubbed her arms like she was going into surgery. The chemo had hopefully killed all the bad stuff, but it had killed his immune system as well. This was all part of the induction chemotherapy and everything was going according to plan, but he looked like he was dying.
Dad smiled for show, but he didn’t like to talk that much since he had sores in his mouth and a pounding headache most of the time. I had this uneasy feeling that he was never going to completely bounce back. Tralina was good at reading body language and managed to know when Dad was or wasn’t in the mood for visitors. The Spellmans were so ubiquitous in the hospital, you could tell we were kind of wearing on the staff. Maggie brought cookies to win them over; Rae brought bags of candy; I gave Tralina the spa gift certificate that I’d gotten from Edward last Christmas. Clearly it was a good move, based on the force behind the hug she gave me and the way she got all teary-eyed afterward.
Mostly we were trying to compensate for Grammy Spellman’s presence. Being Grammy, she didn’t seem to grasp the difference between a nurse and a diner waitress.
“Dear, could I trouble you for a glass of water? And maybe some carrot sticks.”
Thing was, the water and the carrot sticks were for Grammy.
Mom slipped the rest of the nursing staff gift cards and all the complicated coffee beverages they could drink and other bribes to keep Grammy Spellman under containment. Since Grammy Spellman’s likability quotient was on par with Rush Limbaugh’s, the bribes may have been extraneous.
One morning when my mom and I were in the room with Dad, Mr. Slayter dropped by unannounced. Tralina let the two-visitors-at-a-time rule slide for Slayter. He’s the kind of man people make exceptions for. I had no idea he was planning to visit. He arrived bearing a small gift, the size of a thick magazine, wrapped tastefully in red wrapping paper.
“I thought it was time we finally met, Mr. Spellman. I’m Ed.”
“Hi, Ed. I’m Al and this is my wife, Olivia.”
The two men nodded at each other in lieu of a handshake and Edward looked at my mother and father and said, “I can see the resemblance.”
“Unfortunately,” I said, because it’s Dad’s side that dominates.
“Have a seat,” my mother said, clearing off a chair. The one I was sitting on.
Edward took a seat and I hopped on the window ledge.
“You raised a very unusual daughter.”
“Tell me about it,” Dad said.
“We didn’t read any of those parenting books,” Mom said, as if she had to explain herself.
“Obviously,” Edward lightly replied.
On cue, Maggie arrived, lugging a car seat and Sydney, who was in a sparkling new pink taffeta dress with not only a tiara as an accessory but also a chopstick doubling as a wand.
She was ranting something about how she was princess of all the kingdoms. Sydney was, not Maggie.
Maggie scooped up her daughter so she couldn’t stab anyone with the chopstick and tried to contain that Diary of a Mad Housewife look that I’d only seen a handful of times.
“Hello,” Maggie said to the room. Then she saw Edward and said hello again.
Edward turned to Sydney and said, “Are you a princess?”
“Yes,” Sydney said. “A magic princess.”
“No, she’s not,” Maggie said. “She’s a little girl without any special powers.”
“Do you need a cookie, Maggie?” my mom asked.
Mom gave Maggie a couple of cookies from one of Dad’s gift baskets, which Maggie stuffed in her pocket.
“I want a cookie,” Sydney said.
Sydney scanned the room, not sure who to turn to. Eventually it became obvious that no one was going to give her a cookie or their kingdom.
“You need to take her,” Maggie said directly to me. It wasn’t a request. It was a direct order. Still, I needed more data to acquiesce.
“Step into my office,” I said as we slipped into the hallway. “What’s going on?”
“Louis Washburn’s DNA tests came back,” Maggie said.
“Good news?”
“I’ve got good news, bad news, good news. What do you want first?” Maggie said.
“Surprise me.”
“His DNA was not found at the scene of the crime for which he was charged.”
“Awesome. Between that and the witness recanting her statement—”
“However, his DNA is a match to a rape/murder that happened two years before he went in.”
“Shit. What’s the second good news?”
“The victim’s boyfriend was convicted of that crime. Since Washburn has some history of sexual assault and was not a known associate of the vic, we assume he’s the killer.”
“So the boyfriend will go free?”
“Yes. David is in court today with his one case. He’s helping our elderly neighbor stay in her apartment. I have to get to work.”
I picked Sydney up and the car seat and said, “Sydney, let’s go find you some serfs you can abuse.”
“No Izzy,” Sydney said.
Maggie lowered the chopstick wand in her daughter’s hand, looked Sydney dead in the eye, and said, “That is your aunt Izzy and you are stuck with her whether you like it or not.”
“Thanks,” I said. “She’s going to need like five therapy sessions for that.”
Sydney and I walked Maggie down the hospital corridor. We caught Grammy on her way in.
“Ruth,” Maggie said, like some cowboy in a western about to challenge another cowboy to a duel. “A word, please.”
The corridor was narrow, which added to the whole duel element.
“If you ever try to give my daughter a princess dress again, I’ll rip it into shreds before it’s even out of the box. And if you ever use the word diet in front of her, I’ll sew those shreds together and strangle you with them.”
Grammy’s body clenched into a sinewy statue, and she clutched her purse to her chest in her veiny claws.
“How dare you talk to me like that. She’s my great-granddaughter.”
“And my daughter. I win. Back off, old lady. You do not want to mess with me.”
If Maggie had stormed off right then and there, it would have been an exquisite exit. Instead, she pulled a cookie out of her pocket, took a giant bite, chomped away, and said with a mouthful, “Izzy, I’ll see you at home.”
Then she stormed off.
Alas, the perfect moment came just seconds later, a moment that would have made Maggie so very proud.
Sydney waved her chopstick wand in front of Grammy Spellman and said, “Time out, Grammy.”
• • •
Sydney and I returned to the hospital room, where my father and Slayter were catching up on the last several months, having not met.
“I need to take Banana home. Is everybody good here?”
Dad seemed to be having a good few hours, and he and Slayter said they had many things to discuss. I wanted particulars, but Sydney started whispering, “No Izzy,” in my ear, which was incredibly distracting, so I left the two men to their devices and hoped that not too much note-sharing would take place.
• • •
There aren’t many places you can take a thirty-pound dictator carrying a sharp stick. I decided to bring my niece home so she could rule her kingdom of stuffed animals and leave the rest of the universe alone. As Princess Banana banished her bunny to the gallows, I phoned Agent Bledsoe, asked if he’d received my paperwork, and pled my case. Then I e-mailed him my supporting documentation and told him how to contact Evelyn Glade and Rufus Harding. Bledsoe sounded skeptical, but evidence doesn’t lie. With the threat of a felony conviction off my shoulders, I celebrated with a glass of fancy bourbon and a bowl of Goldfish and watched several episodes of Phineas and Ferb in a row.
There was a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole and saw Max Klein. Since I’d never seen Max without Claire, my gut told me not to take any chances. I peered through the window and, as predicted, Claire was standing to the right of her father. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was falling for this scam again.
Max knocked more vigorously on the door. He shouted hello. It’s very likely he saw me look through the window. In fact, it’s more than likely; we made eye contact.
Princess Banana then went to the window and waved at her friend. She tried to open the door, but the dead bolt foiled her.
“No one is home,” I said through the door. Yes, it’s a ridiculous thing to say, but the essence of the message is generally heard.
“Isabel, open the door,” Max said.
“Time out,” the little tyrant said.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” I said, to both Sydney and Max.
There was a lot of noise coming out of the children. Eventually the home line rang. I picked up.
“Hello,” I said, trying to disguise my voice.
“Isabel, it’s Max. Is there a problem?”
Clearly I didn’t disguise it well enough.
“Listen, I didn’t want the one kid today; there’s no way in hell that I’m taking two. If you want to swap, I might go for that, but I’m not getting suckered into watching two children for the price of zero.”
“Take a deep breath,” Max said.
Apparently Max couldn’t hear the deep breath on the other end of the line, so he repeated his imperative.
“I want to hear you take a deep breath.”
I inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “Done.”
“Listen to me carefully. I’ve come to take a child away, not add one. If you do the math, that leaves you with zero children.”
“I like that math, but how do I know I can trust you?”
“Frankly, I don’t want to leave my child alone with you.”
He made an excellent point. I opened the door.
“Nice to see you, Max.”
“No snitch,” Claire said when she saw me, and then she did the oddest thing. She gave me a hug, or, more specifically, she gave my thighs a hug, because of our height differential, not because my thighs deserve a hug. They most certainly do not.
“Who wants a juice box and Goldfish?” I asked, trying to be hospitable.
• • •
Princess Banana in her fancy new gown asked Claire if she wanted to play a game. Claire agreed, not realizing that the game in no way resembled a game and involved doing whatever Sydney wanted Claire to do. They sat at the tea table and Sydney told Claire she had to sip tea exactly like she did. Claire ignored her and began playing with one of the dolls. Sydney told Claire that she was being rude. Claire said, “Shhh,” which was a lovely sound. Sydney clanked some silverware angrily and told Claire that a guest was supposed to be polite.
Claire found a spot on the floor and began playing with the doll she came in with.
When Banana realized that Claire was not going to rejoin her for tea, she crawled onto the floor and took the doll away from Claire.
“That’s my doll,” Sydney said.
Claire snatched it right back and said, “No, it’s mine.”
Max pumped his fist into the air in victory; even I have to admit Claire was pretty badass in that moment.
“Congratulations,” I said.
Princess Sydney then said, “Time out.”
I stormed over to the bossy pink fluffball and said, “No. Time out for you.”
To David and Maggie’s credit, time-outs were in rotation enough that Sydney regally walked over to the pink chair in the corner of the room, took a dignified seat, and sat in silence. I turned to Max.
“Can Claire watch TV?”
“Age appropriate,” Max said.
“So, Breaking Bad is out?”
Max rolled his eyes. Since Claire and I have similar tastes in animated entertainment, I turned on the Phineas episode I had been watching earlier.
After dethroning the princess, I decided I deserved another drink. I poured a glass and offered one to my guest. Max, not Claire.
“Drink, Max?”
“Too early for bourbon.”
“Juice box?”
“Beer,” he said. “I’ll get it.”
We sat at the kitchen table, keeping an eye on the quiet kingdom.
“How’s your dad?” Max asked.
“I really don’t know. He finishes this course of chemo, takes a break, then another course of chemo followed by a bone marrow transplant or another adjunct therapy.”
“How are you?”
I must have been tired, because an unfiltered answer just slipped out.
“I’m not ready for my dad to die.”
“No one is ever ready for that.”
“The problem is, I’m not sure I’m ready for anything. Everything you’re supposed to do when you grow up. Move away from home, buy your own food and groceries, get married, have children. Sometimes even the easy part of all that seems impossible to me. And then I wonder what will happen ten, twenty years from now. Will I be a fifty-year-old adolescent, completely alone, still sponging off whatever family I’ve got left?”
“People grow up at their own pace. And there are no rules for how you’re supposed to live your life. Why don’t you cut yourself some slack? If I had such a well-stocked pantry within spitting distance, I don’t know that I would do any grocery shopping either—”
Max’s cell rang.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I have to take this. It’s a patient.”
He then stepped outside and had a brief conversation. When he returned, I realized I had no idea what Max did for a living.
“Patient?” I asked. “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes. A psychiatrist.”
“I just spilled my guts to a shrink?” I shouted.
“Inside voice,” Claire said politely.
“We were having a conversation,” Max said.
“You tricked me.”
“It’s not like I charged you.”
I gathered my jacket, paperwork, and bag and marched over to the front door.
“I’m out of here. If you run out of Goldfish, there’s more in the pantry. Any questions, call David or Maggie. Banana, play nice. Adios, Claire.”
Claire rushed to the door to hug my thighs good-bye. It kind of ruined my outraged exit.
“See you around,” Max the shrink said cheerily.
* * *
1. For a long but nonexhaustive list, see appendix.
; WORKING BACKWARD
Three hours later, when I returned to the hospital, Edward was still in Dad’s room. The gift that Edward had given my father was an iPad, the perfect portable device for stakeouts and extended hospital stays. While Edward showed my father a variety of useful office apps, Dad showed Edward his favorite computer game, the one involving some plants and some zombies. Edward quickly became an addict and played for the next four hours. In between bouts with zombies, Dad and Edward bonded over a variety of topics, including my bad sense of humor, cherry Jell-O, the overrated pastime of golf, and my mother’s various charms. Apparently bygones happened quickly regarding the whole small corporate takeover that Edward assisted me with.
My father shared his medical problems with Edward and Edward shared his professional and medical problems with Dad, and by the time I arrived the two men had come up with an ironclad plan to smoke out Edward’s crafty adversary.
Dad’s model for the plan was how he solved cases as a cop. “You start with the dead body,” he said, “and work backward.”
“I don’t mean to rush to judgment, but that plan sucks,” I said.
“She must have been an impossible teenager,” Edward said.
“You have no idea,” Dad said.
“Starsky and Hutch, do you want to tell me what your master plan is?”
“We wait,” Edward said, as if he’d just revealed the blueprint to break into the vault at the San Francisco Mint (back when the vault contained stuff worth breaking in for).
“Wait for what?”
Both men looked at me as if I were wearing a dunce cap.
“Too much booze,” my dad said.
“Not enough exercise,” Edward said.
I believe they were commenting on why I was slow to wrap my head around their brilliant plan. I was too worn out from, well, the past thirty-five years, really, to endure any more abuse. I departed without a word and went to the hospital cafeteria and ordered French fries and cake (they didn’t have a liquor license).
I picked up a discarded newspaper and began reading two-day-old headlines. After I devoured my entrée and began to deconstruct my dessert, a shadow blocked a rather upbeat headline about a lone gunman whose plan to take out his direct superior in the mailroom at a talent agency office (so he’d be next in line for the head of the mailroom job) was foiled by his gun jamming.
