by Mary Carter
“Greg’s all too familiar with the actor types, aren’t you Greg?” Zach bellows, leaning in toward Greg and wiggling his unibrow. “You know what I’m talking about,” he says.
“Do I know what you’re talking about, dear?” my mother asks. Richard smiles at my mother and gives her an air kiss. I’m stuffed, but the gesture drives me to shove another ladyfinger in my mouth.
“Greg helped catch Anita Briggs,” Zach brags. One should never inhale with their mouth full. I realize this a microsecond too late and even shoot a prayer to the Saint of Failing to Deflect Controversial Topics With Your Mouth Full to save me, but it’s too late. A ladyfinger lodges in my startled windpipe, and I am choking to death. Instead of my life flashing before my eyes, I see everything I have ever stolen parade through my head one at a time and wave good-bye like a funeral procession on acid. I think I even see what resembles a tunnel (unless it was the kaleidoscope I had taken last year from the gift shop at the Hayden Planetarium), but before I can enter it, someone is lifting me out of my chair and wrapping their arms around my waist. I look down at my stomach and recognize the maroon sweater. Greg Parks is giving me the Heimlich while everyone else at the table remains rooted to their seats, mouths open in horror.
Chapter 15
The ladyfinger flies out of my mouth after the third thrust. By now, little Corinne is crying, and her mother hustles her and Zachary Junior away from the table.
“I want to see, I want to see!” Zachary Junior yells as she drags them away. Greg is rubbing my back, and I’m wondering where the cookie had landed. Mother and Richard are hovering around as if there’s going to be an encore. My mother barks at Zach to boil some water as if I had just spit up a baby. I try to tell them I’m fine, but my voice comes out as a wheeze. My throat is killing me. Greg is still rubbing my back. I turn and face him.
“Thank you,” I whisper. And then I throw my arms around him. I’m not trying to be intimate, but the man did just save my life. He surprises me by pulling me in tightly and holding me. After a minute I start to think this has to be weird (especially since it doesn’t feel weird) and I pull back. “You’re quite welcome,” he whispers as he lets me go.
Since spewing a ladyfinger across the room was a dessert killer, we retire to the living room for tea and coffee. Just as Corinne is passing around the cream and sugar, Richard pushes the button again.
“So who is this Anita Briggs and why were you chasing her?” he says.
I swallow my mouthful of tea as quickly as possible and then place the cup as far away from me as it can go. Maybe I had finally found a diet that would work—the choking diet. Zachary is laughing up a storm, and I’m starting to get pissed off, until I realize he’s laughing at Richard.
“Nobody was chasing her,” he says, slapping his knee. “He caught her shoplifting,” Zach says. I can see from the glint in his eyes that Greg wants to laugh at Richard too, but he’s way too polite.
“I didn’t actually catch her stealing myself,” Greg clarifies. “She had stolen from the store once before—a pair of sunglasses I think—but the security guards were afraid of apprehending her. They didn’t want the negative publicity unless they were a hundred percent sure the charges would stick. So I helped them come up with a foolproof plan in case she came in again. Which she did—the very next day. This time she took a lot more than a pair of sunglasses, and she was arrested on the spot.”
Mom and Richard look like they’ve just landed on Mars. They’re nodding with blank stares and looking at each other for help.
“The actress,” Zach says, exasperated his news has fallen on clueless elders. “The really hot actress.”
Mom and Richard remain pleasant, but blank. Even I’m exasperated.
“Come on,” I urge. “It was in every news report, magazine, and newspaper in the country.”
My mother tilts her head one way and Richard the other. They are starting to take on mannerisms of the boys.
“What has she been in?” Richard asks politely.
“I know who she is,” Corinne says loudly. We turn in surprise. Corinne usually speaks in whispers.
“She’s a sinner. Imagine breaking one of the Lord’s Ten Commandments and then lying about it on national television!” Her face is scarlet red and she’s clutching the handle of her hand-painted rose teacup like it’s a hand grenade.
“She walked out of Barneys with thousands of dollars worth of merchandise,” Zach explains to Richard and Mom, still trying to get them to remember like they were amnesia victims and he was their long-lost son. “She piled clothes on her body and then just walked out the door. That girl wanted to get caught,” he said, giving up on Mom and Richard and turning to Greg. I silently agreed with him. About her. I certainly didn’t want to get caught. Anita Briggs had taken the art form of shoplifting and flaunted it in front of the Saints. It was an insult to the rest of us.
“Well why in the world do they do it if they want to get caught?” my mother says.
“Because they’re sick in the head,” Richard pipes in. “They’ve never Cleared The Plates. Imagine years and years of stuck-on food.”
And that image, ladies and gentlemen, is Step Two in “How to Use Your Annoying Family to Lose Weight.”
“Was she high on drugs?” my mother asks, deftly cutting off Richard’s monologue about stuck-on food.
“Daddy why don’t you put a video in for little Corinne and Zachary?” Corinne squeals to my brother at the mention of the word drugs. Zach dutifully removes the children from the room.
“She wasn’t on drugs,” I find myself saying. “She was careless, that’s all.”
Corinne’s teacup shakes in her hands. “Careless?” she says. “She was careless? Melanie, really. The girl is a common criminal. A low-life thief!”
“But she barely got a slap on the wrist, didn’t she?” I ask Greg, ignoring Corinne.
“Yes,” Greg admits. “It’s kind of a sore spot with me,” he adds. “I think the judge was easy on her because of her celebrity status.”
“She wasn’t punished?” my mother asks with a tsk-tsk.
“She had to return everything to the store and pay some hefty fines,” Greg answers, “but otherwise she got off with probation and community service. There are people doing three to five years for less.”
I swallow hard. “Three to five years? For shoplifting?” I ask casually.
Greg nods. “Easy. Especially if they’re repeat offenders.”
I hold my tea with my pinky out and look around to see if anyone else is as horrified as I am. Nope. They all seem quite calm. They have no problem with a klepto doing five years. “That seems a little harsh,” I say at last.
“I can see why you would think that,” Greg says diplomatically to me before turning to Corinne. “And I can see why you feel she’s a common criminal, but in her defense she’s an addict—plain and simple.”
“What did I say?” Richard says. “Drug addicts.”
Greg shakes his head. “No, no. I don’t mean drug addicts. I mean she’s addicted to shoplifting.”
“I don’t see how you could be addicted to stealing,” my mother says.
For once I agree with her. “Yes. That’s ridiculous,” I say with a little more passion than I intended. “Are you saying they’re like alcoholics?”
“Or drug addicts or gamblers or overeaters. Yes, Melanie, that’s exactly what I’m saying. They get a high from stealing. And like any other disease, it will continue to get worse until they hit bottom—in most cases that means one or two arrests down the line. How else would you explain someone like Anita Briggs? She’s beautiful, famous, and wealthy. There’s no reasonable explanation for her to steal. If she’s not an addict, what is she?”
“It’s not the first time either,” Zach adds. “I read she’s been stealing for years.”
“Of course she has,” Greg says. “It’s rare someone is caught their first time.” Greg looks at me and I look away. This conversation is startin
g to piss me off. “I’m not asking you feel sorry for them,” Greg says, mistaking the look on my face for pity. “It’s not an excuse. People who have that affliction should get help. They know they’re sick and they should get help instead of taking things that don’t belong to them. They also suffer from an inflated sense of entitlement.”
“Exactly,” Zach says smugly.
“Entitlement? I don’t—” I stop myself just in time. Thank you Saint of Keeping Your Mouth Shut, thank you. I almost said, “I don’t feel entitled.” Do I? What does that even mean? Sure I feel entitled to the things everyone else has. You know, the pursuit of happiness and all that crap.
“I say lock them away and throw away the key,” Zach says.
“Lock them away and throw away the key?” I repeat. “You are so intolerant.” My mother clears her throat, and Corinne puts her hand protectively on Zach’s arm.
“Why am I intolerant? They’re the ones breaking the law,” Zach says sanctimoniously.
“I agree,” my mother chimes in. “And this girl, this Miss Briggs—she’s exactly the type I tried to warn you about, Melanie. Those actor types and their lack of morals. You don’t take what doesn’t belong to you, period. She must have had an absolutely horrid mother, that’s all I can say.”
I bite my tongue until it bleeds.
The conversation eventually changes, but I don’t hear a word anyone says the rest of the evening. I stew over Greg’s comments. Addicts. Addicted to shoplifting. I had never heard of anything so insane in my entire life. I, for one, was not addicted to stealing. I was just good at it. And isn’t it a waste not to use the talents you’re born with? Some people spend their lives catching alligators and wrapping snakes around their necks. Now that’s crazy. One could say they have an inflated sense of entitlement. What gives them the right to crawl into a swamp and wrestle reptiles?
Or construction workers. How about their inflated sense of entitlement? Who said we had the right to rip up the earth and build skyscrapers? Pollute the skies with exhaust fumes? Fill up our land with garbage? What about graveyards? Some people have to live in tiny apartments with mice and cockroaches and doormen who trip them while dead people have acres and acres of manicured lawns adorned with flowers and trees. Now that I think about it—lawyers have the biggest sense of entitlement of all of us. Prosecuting people to the “fullest extent of the law” because some founding father somewhere got a little happy with his quill pen and started making up rules for the rest of us.
Besides, if you’re stupid enough to walk into a store, put items on your body in front of the camera, and then waltz past the security guards, then yes—you want to get caught. But entitled? An addict? Give me a bloody break. It’s gobsmacking. (Doesn’t quite fit there, does it? Can you say gobsmacking or is gobsmacked the only form of the word?) And okay—there is a little bit of a high associated with stealing—the thrill of the chase, the elevated heartbeat—the rush of endorphins after a close lift. It’s orgasmic at times, but not addictive. And okay, nobody is satisfied with just one orgasm in their life, so it’s repetitive too.
But lots of things are repetitive without being addictive. Maybe I was unique. After all, I had rules. The things I took didn’t hurt anyone. I had never taken anything worth more than $100. Okay, so it would get pretty steep if added up the total of everything over the years—but it’s not like I’ve taken all of that from one person. $100 or less per incident. Usually much less than that. Yes, Greg Parks was definitely talking about a different breed of thieves. The stupid ones, the ones without any humility or respect for the art of shoplifting. Besides, I had the Saints on my side. And of course, the main difference was that I could stop stealing any time I wanted.
Greg Parks stays for another half an hour and then politely takes his leave. The rest of my family mysteriously disappears, leaving the two of us standing alone by the door. “Thanks again,” I say. “For saving my life.”
“Any time,” Greg says, walking toward me until we’re close enough to kiss. I back up. He notices my retreat and takes a step back himself. “Say,” he says, “why are you in the file room if you can type ninety-five words a minute?”
“The temp agency was desperate,” I tell him. “Nobody wants to work under Trina Wilcox.” I realize as soon as it’s out of my mouth that it’s a risky thing to say. Maybe he likes Trina. They could be sleeping together for all I know. I note with detached curiosity that I don’t like the idea of the two of them together. But Greg doesn’t look offended, in fact he laughs. “I can see that,” he says. “But still—maybe we can find a better place for you. Have lunch with me Monday and we can discuss the possibilities. All right?”
“All right,” I say, matching his smile. “And thanks. I’m sorry I uh—didn’t clear up my mother’s understanding of my—uh—current position.” He smiles at me again. “Don’t be,” he says, moving toward me again. “It made for a very amusing dinner.”
With that he plants a kiss on my cheek and then disappears out the door. I stay another two hours out of duty and guilt, trying to make up for the choking and the whole business about whores. I even help Corinne do the dishes, and I tell Mom and Richard I would be willing to babysit the boys sometime. Mother takes out her faux red leather calendar and books me on the spot. Bloody barking hell.
Chapter 16
This is how I die. On a porch in a rocking chair on a crisp autumn day. The sun is hovering low in the sky, leaking red and orange spikes into the horizon. The scent of baking bread wraps around me like a warm blanket. My arms stretch, become wings, and suddenly I’m flying above the earth, touring the mountains and oceans at heavenly speed. I can go wherever I wish. Look, down there, a café in Paris. The warm, turquoise waters of Greece. A roof terrace in Italy, that’s me with the flowing white dress and glass of Merlot. I’m dancing. I twirl in midflight, my bird body twisting horizontally like egg beaters held straight out.
I think of those I loved and am leaving behind, broken hearted. I imagine my mother crying into her Connecticut chili, the contest only a week away. Her tears mix with the jalapeños leaving a salty reminder that her only daughter is dead. My father gives me a funeral at sea from his boat, Second Chance. The twenty-one-year-old he’s screwing has tears in her eyes. Could be for me, could be from the wind. My brother Zach writes my eulogy in his SUV while Corinne drives them to the American History Museum. (For children must not play for the sake of fun alone, good God, they must be immersed with educational activities or they’ll be directionless underachievers like poor dead Aunt Melanie.)
Last, I picture Ray learning of my demise, and I want it to kill him. He falls to his knees, shakes with grief, and howls with regret. His body trembles so violently it causes the floor to shake like an earthquake. Neatly stacked porcelain dishes fall from the shelves and crash into a million shattered pieces next to Ray. He’s gazing at a picture he took of me in Central Park where my lips are soft and the lens is his love. Groaning, he rolls on the floor, and the shattered glass cuts a million tiny marks into his skin. He kisses my picture, begs me for forgiveness, and dies from regret as the blood slowly drains out of his luscious, muscular body.
I don’t care about global warming. I don’t care that I lose more little black socks per year than middle-age men lose hair. I don’t care that my thighs have cellulite. I don’t care that my bank account has more stretch marks than the Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. I don’t care because there is no space left in my head for anything but joy. Joy, joy, joy! Tonight is the night we go to Ray’s show.
But first I have to find something to wear. Kim and Tommy are going directly from a fashion show so I’m on my own. I spend the next hour trying on everything in Kim’s closet. I finally settle on a low-cut green leotard that Ray loves. He says it makes me look like a cat about to pounce. I wear my tightest pair of black jeans and long black boots, carefully apply my makeup and tease my hair into a semi-curled state. Then I throw on my leather jacket, add a soft beaded choker around my neck,
and dab vanilla oil on my neck, wrists, and cleavage. Men love women who smell like baked goods.
There’s already a small line of people at the Cave. The bouncer, perched on a wooden stool at the door, is about two hundred and fifty pounds and looks like he hasn’t shaved in a decade. He has a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a black bandanna wrapped around his huge head. He’s not smiling. I was hoping I would run into one of the band members out here so I could sneak in without paying. Just as I’m contemplating picking someone’s pocket, Kim and Tommy show up looking fucking gorgeous. The bouncer straightens up his huge frame, touches his bandanna nervously and waves at us. “Evening,” he says grinning at Kim. “Come on up.”
We push past the rest of the pissed-off crowd and arrive at the door. Kim puts her hand on the bouncer’s shoulder and purrs. “We’re with Suicide Train,” she says to him in a soft voice. The bouncer’s nostrils flare and either he is pulsing his biceps or his tattoos have learned to jump up and down on their own. He opens his mouth in a large grin, giving us a glimpse of his gold fillings.
“By all means,” he says, waving us in without the cover.
“Thank you,” Kim gushes. I grab her arm and yank her inside. We have an hour to get drunk and somehow make Kim look like shit.
“Why are we doing this again?” Kim says a few minutes later. The three of us are standing in a dimly lit unisex bathroom. Tommy is more than willing to help me dress down Kim, but we haven’t quite convinced her. She’s playing with the rubber band and thick black glasses I have just handed her. “I said, why are we doing this again?” she whines.
“Metrosexual,” Tommy says.
I glare at him. “Because I can’t have you meeting the band like you look now,” I say, wiping off her lipstick with toilet paper. “I just can’t. You’re too pretty.”
Kim sighs and puts on the glasses while I tie her hair back. “Better?” she asks.
I button the top few buttons of her blouse. “We’re getting there,” I say.
