Claire Voyant

by Saralee Rosenberg

  “No, it’s okay. She likes you. And her loverz? Not so terrible….”

  “Lovers?”

  “Boy toys, flings, what you call them?”

  “Oh gross. I get the point. I’m just not sure I could deal with any of that kind of stuff right now.”

  “You get used to it. Except for thi one from Areezona. Him I don’t ker for. I tell Ben, wotch out. This one wants yur money.”

  “Are you serious? Ben knows about her lovers?”

  “Of course. They hev understanding. She hez hers, he hez his…do-si-do and ’round they go…. Beck last summer, they fix up couple…lovers of therz they thought would be better together.”

  “Oh God. That’s insane. It sounds like they both tested positive for stupid.”

  “Ectually, Shari is very smart girl. Except she is crezy with the woo-woo people.”

  “The who?”

  “You know. Thi psychics, thi astrologers, thi gypsies with thi crazy cards. And then thi different loverz…you wouldn’t beleeve what goes on in thet house.”

  “Oh God. Poor Delia. No wonder she walks around like a rebel without a clue.”

  “So now maybe you ken take her under yur wing. Be thi big sister, em I right?”

  Actually, I’d rather be the big sister-in-law. Any chance of helping me make that happen?

  This will probably sound stupid, but ever since I was a kid, responsible for garbage patrol at home, I’ve played the same silly game. Whenever I go to someone else’s place, I secretly count the number of wastebaskets, and try to figure out who had the harder job—them or me. But multimillion-dollar mansions in Malibu would be considered quaint compared to the huge, scary, hundred-and-twenty-seven-wastebasket estate that Ben, Shari, and Delia called home.

  It wasn’t that they didn’t have enough room for me—they had too much room. A choice of guest suites in the main house, or if I preferred my privacy, as Ben assumed I would, I could stay in one of the two guest houses on the property. And not to worry about getting back to the main house for meals, he told me. A quick call to the head groundskeeper, and a shuttle would be sent to fetch me.

  Trouble was, I was already feeling so disoriented and alone. How could I spend the next few days padding around an eerily quiet, almost Temple of Doomish house that had a sitting room, which was not to be confused with the library, which was not to be confused with the living room, which was not to be confused with the great room? And that was just the first floor.

  But what was even more disconcerting than trying to grasp the enormity of the place was realizing that it was virtually uninhabited. Unlike normal peoples’ houses, there was no mountain of shoes by the door. No blasting stereos or TVs. No one screaming, “Where the hell is my North Face?”

  The other thing I didn’t quite get was how people with bottomless bank accounts could still end up with decor by the design firm of Taste Up Your Ass, Inc. Good Lord. Didn’t the words gaudy, ostentatious, and Hearst Castle mean anything to Ben and Shari?

  As they showed me around, calling attention to this work of art or that one-of-a-kind piece, I felt as if I were taking a tour with two vision-impaired guides. I kept thinking, don’t you see what I see? You paid a fortune for this stuff, only to end up with a hodgepodge of Native American French country Hadassah, with a dab of southwestern art deco Tibetan monastery thrown in for good luck.

  If I were smart, I would run back outside, hop into Viktor’s limo, and make him take me to Miami International, where I would board a plane for Dayton or Dubuque, or some other place where common folk shopped at Levitz, and were elated if they got zero percent financing and the free end table with the purchase of a couch and two love seats.

  “If you see anything you’d like to have, just let me know.” Shari rubbed my arm.

  “I’m sorry?” I nearly collided with the copper Buddahs with water spraying out their navels.

  “We’re putting the place up for sale soon,” she sighed. “So before everything goes up at auction, if there’s a piece you love, be my guest.”

  “Oh. Wow. That is so generous of you to offer.” Are you joking? You should be stocking up on charcoal and lighter fluid.

  “Yeah, absolutely.” Ben nodded. “Just point and it’s yours.”

  “You guys are being so sweet.” I hugged them. “But at the moment, I don’t have a place to hang my clothes, let alone something as beautiful as…as…that statue.” Is that Heather Locklear sucking on a gas pipe?

  “Of course.” Shari took my hand. “What I was thinking? The last thing on your mind is decorating.”

  “Exactly.” Ben coughed. “Why don’t I take you down to the guest villa now?”

  “No, Ben. I don’t think Claire would be comfortable there.”

  “Why not? She’ll have total privacy, plenty of peace and quiet.”

  “Actually”—I looked down—“I am feeling sort of spooked at the moment. I think I would prefer to have…you know…people around. Just in case of anything.”

  “Oh. Well, sure. I can understand that. And we’ve got plenty of room right here.”

  Duh. The Beverly Hills Hotel is not this big. “Anywhere you put me is fine. Really.”

  “What about Drew’s room?” Ben asked.

  Oh my God…I love you. “Oh no…I wouldn’t want to disturb his things.”

  “I agree,” Shari said. “And there are so many other choices.”

  “No. It’s perfect, Claire,” Ben picked up my suitcase. “There’s a TV room, a nice big bathroom, a computer area…”

  “A computer area?” I clapped. “That would be incredible. I haven’t checked my e-mail in like a hundred years.”

  “Well, don’t get too excited,” Ben said. “It’s still got the old dialup service.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Shari snapped. “Don’t you remember? Last year I had Chuck wire the upstairs for high-speed Internet…. Oh, that’s right. You’ve hardly been here.”

  “Apparently I missed the memo. Come on, Claire. Let’s get you settled.”

  “Well, wait. Maybe she’s hungry or thirsty. Claire, can we get you some lunch first?”

  “A cup of coffee would be great…unless it’s a hassle.”

  “Are you kidding?” Ben picked up my bags. “Nothing’s ever a hassle for Shari. She’s got one butler for regular, and another for decaf.”

  “Fuck. You.”

  “No, fuck you.”

  “Really. It’s okay.” I sighed. “I just want to lie down.” And wake up in California.

  Chapter 21

  I HAD A TERRIBLE MEMORY TO START WITH, SO JUST IMAGINE MY memory capacity after my big fall. I couldn’t remember the name of a play from ten months ago. And I was in it! Mind you, a drive-by shooting lasted longer than the run of that show. But still, I wanted to remember its name because the character I played, Rebecca something, reminded me very much of Drew’s mother. They were both so rich and bored, they had time not only to awaken their consciousness but to become active members of the Affair of the Month Club.

  Not that I was passing judgement on Shari. In spite of her alleged extracurricular pursuits, I’d found her to be sweet and nurturing. And at least, unlike her wealthy, disenchanted sisters on the West Coast, she hadn’t joined the local Buddhist Monk Society.

  Thank God, because I couldn’t have listened to one more Dalai Lama convert preach the need to rise at four A.M. for medication and prayer. (Did I say medication? I meant meditation.) Nor could I deal with another pampered princess who insisted that the key to inner peace and tranquillity was shedding all worldly possessions, only to pull up a week later in a Mercedes convertible.

  On the other hand, what did it matter that Shari spent her days sipping wheat grass while trying to find her inner bliss? At least she knew who she was. Unlike me, who was suddenly minus an identity, thanks to the tsunami of all sea changes.

  I might have sulked for hours in Drew’s room, if not for a sudden rush of energy. An unexplainable force that nearly catapulted me
off the bed and propelled me in the direction of his desk. At first I tried to resist the pull, but the thrust was too great. I was a puppet on a string who would dance at the whim of his master.

  “Abe?” I whispered. “I mean, Grandpa Abe?”

  No answer. Had I officially gone mad? How would I know? Would I receive a notice in the mail? Would a bunch of characters from a Woody Allen film show up with straitjackets? Trouble was, I didn’t believe for a second that I was crazy. To the contrary, I knew with every fiber of my being that a force more powerful than free will had prodded me off the bed. A force that was tangible proof of my grandfather’s nearness.

  For as I stood amid a boy’s bedroom with its scattered memorabilia and remnants of a treasured past, I knew what he wanted me to see. This wasn’t just any boy’s room. It was Drew’s room. It was Drew’s guitar and giant stuffed panda resting in the corner. His tennis racket perched against the dresser. His golden lacrosse trophies lining the bookshelves. His photos of friends and family gracing his desk.

  And then it struck me. The chronicles of Drew Fabrikant’s youth made me feel safe, as if by inhaling his scent and absorbing his saga I were bonding with the boy who had comforted me like no other. Who had befriended me and believed in me, purely on instinct, like a trusting young child. If only we could live in the warm shadow of innocence forever.

  I don’t know why this little fantasy made me crave a cigarette. I’d quit years ago, after my dermatologist showed me pictures of forty-year-old smokers who looked sixty after a lifetime of spewing nicotine on their snakeskinned faces. “This lady had more lines than a Barrymore,” I believe was the sentence that convinced me to break the bad habit.

  Then Sir Guilt rode in on his white horse. I needed a nicotine fix like I needed another hole in the back of my head. And I should not be traipsing through Drew’s personal effects without his expressed, written consent. I would go berserk if I ever found out that someone had violated my privacy without regard for my feelings.

  I shut the drawer and decided if there was to be any snooping, it should be on my own life. Of course. I should be checking my voice mail, something I’d been unable to do at the hospital because I couldn’t get service. And what about my e-mail? (Lord knows how many hundreds of spams were awaiting me.) Good. Now I had a goal. Project Get Claire Back into Her Own Life.

  I fetched my cell, plopped down on Drew’s big, comfy bed, concentrated really hard so that I could remember how to retrieve messages, and waited to hear my mechanical man say, “You have [long pause] seventy-four messages.” Good God. I didn’t even know he could count that high.

  Do I need to tell you how many of those messages were from Elyce? And seven calls were from Sydney: “Call me the instant you get this…I’m on the next plane. Just tell me where to meet you…. I miss you so much…. Baking brownies…. Please come home.” Ten calls were from other friends in L.A., and one was from Pablo inquiring about my health, and if there was any chance I still intended to take the job. The rest were from my parents, who vacillated between sounding contrite and sounding indignant. “Call us, honey. We’re very concerned.” Then, “What nerve you have accusing us of being bad parents.”

  I’d heard enough. Time to switch to my other communication vice. And thank God Shari had been savvy enough to recognize the importance of quick connects. Within moments I was back on AOL. It was so good to hear my friend, the “You’ve got Mail” man. But was I reading right? I had 614 e-mails?

  As I scanned the list, I had to laugh. There were a few dozen get-well messages, and the rest were spam. But good news. With all the money I could save by refinancing my mortgage, I could afford to buy a lifetime supply of Viagra to enhance the pleasure of my newly enlarged penis.

  While in a delete, delete, delete mode, I did stumble on a money-making opportunity in an e-mail from a modeling agency that specialized in sending look-alikes to car shows. If I got in touch fast, I might still be able to reprise my former role as Darryl Hannah at the Buick booth in Chicago. Had I really once done that? Yes.

  Nothing like stepping back into your old life after a short hiatus, and getting smacked in the face with the realization that your days had been filled with absurd, trivial pursuits. In fact, it seemed as if my entire existence bordered on banal and insignificant. Unlike my grandfather’s life, which had had great meaning and purpose.

  If I was truly as anxious to repent for my sins, I would make it my life’s work to learn more about Abraham Fabrikant’s good deeds. But not only learn about them, emulate them. As a loving tribute to the grandfather I never knew, I would carry on where he left off.

  Maybe what I would do was try to get acquainted with my subject. Look through Drew’s desk for things that would shed insight into this remarkable man’s life, like pictures or birthday cards. And, of course, if I also learned a thing or two about darling Drew, something that clued me in on where his head and heart were at, I wouldn’t complain.

  “What the hell are you doing?” A loud voice startled me.

  “Oh my God, Delia. I’m sorry.” How long have I been sitting here?

  “Man, he would be so pissed off if he saw you reading his stuff!”

  “I am so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please don’t say anything to him. I promise I’ll put everything back the way it was.”

  “Wait.” She eyed my bags. “Are you staying here? ’Cause guests usually stay in the villas.”

  “I know. But I was afraid to be down there by myself. Your dad suggested it.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “No. Uh-uh.” I dabbed my eye. “I was just reading some of Drew’s poetry. It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s not poetry, you idiot. They’re words to songs.”

  “Oh. Of course. Lyrics…. Well, I think they’re amazing.”

  “They all sound the same to me.”

  Did someone forget to take her happy pills? “I didn’t even hear you walk in.” I cleared my throat. “I guess I’m still so out of it.”

  “Whatever…. You better put that all back before my mother sees you. She doesn’t even like it when I come in here. God forbid Drew’s precious little things get touched.”

  “I think you’re lucky to have a mom who’s sentimental. When I left for college, mine didn’t even wait till I was finished packing the car before she started hauling things to the curb. It’s a good thing they didn’t have eBay back then”—I smiled—“or I might have had to bid on my own stuff.”

  “Yeah, I feel real sorry for you. Just don’t let her catch you going through his desk, or you’ll be on her shit list forever.”

  “Yep. Got it. Thanks for the heads up.” I quickly gathered the loose-leaf papers on which Drew had so poignantly captured his romantic voice, then carefully placed them back in the drawer.

  “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were going back to New York.”

  “I was. Then I changed my mind.”

  “Why? So you could spend more time with my brother?”

  “What? No, of course not. My doctors wanted me to wait a few days before I flew. Besides, I thought I could use the time to make some decisions about what I want to do next.” Bitch.

  “Or see who else you could sponge off of.” Delia checked her hair in the mirror.

  “Okay, look. I know I’m not exactly of sound mind and body yet, but are you mad at me?”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “Exactly. So what’s with the attitude?”

  “I just don’t think you had any right going through my brother’s drawers.”

  “And I agree with you. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever.”

  “But those songs he wrote…I thought they were amazing.”

  “No one knows about them, okay? So like don’t go running to tell my mother because she’ll have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Are you serious? She doesn’t know her son is a poet?”

  “He’s not
a poet, okay? He’s a podiatrist. Not that he ever had to actually touch anyone’s smelly, disgusting feet…. Daddy to the rescue.”

  Now, here’s a case where a little Ecstasy might be helpful. “And what about you? What do you do? Do you go to school?”

  “Duh. No. I’m over that.”

  “Oh. So do you work for your dad?” ’Cause I hear there’s a lot of that going around.

  “When I feel like it.”

  “So…like what is your thing?”

  Delia shrugged. “I was thinkin’ I’d tell Aunt Penny I should be in one of her movies.”

  “Seriously? You’d like to be an actress?” That’s awesome, because there is such a shortage of real talent out there.

  “I didn’t say act. I just want to be in a movie.”

  “Oh, you mean as an extra.”

  “No.” She sniffed. “I’d want to talk and stuff. I just don’t have to be the star like Aunt Penny. I could play one of those girls who dresses like a slut and talks like a lawyer. Like Julia Roberts did. How hard could that be?”

  Oh, I know. Nothing is easier than learning a hundred twenty pages of dialogue. “I don’t know if you know this, Delia, but I’m an actress. Maybe I could give you a few pointers.”

  “Yeah, but Drew said you weren’t in anything he ever heard of.”

  “Well, no. But I was supposed to do a film with Adam Sandler. Then he had this whole big fight with the studio, and the deal fell apart. Which unfortunately happens a lot.”

  “It’s never happened to Aunt Penny.”

  Don’t mess with me. I know where to get a gun.

  “So what are you girls gabbing about?” Shari walked in.

  About the penalty for murder in Florida.

  “Um, we were just deciding who we hate more.” I smiled. “Brittney Spears or Christina Aguilera.”

  “Hate is such an extreme word, don’t you think?” Shari smoothed her daughter’s hair.

  You wouldn’t say that if you knew my agent. “You sound like my mother.”

  “That’s ’cause they all take this class called, How to Annoy the Shit out of Your Kids.”