by Lisa Lutz
Then she stood on her toes, waved, and pushed her way through the crowd to the back of the bar, where two pool tables divided the room. She worked her way to a corner booth and sat down. A young male in many layers of clothes, the top one adorned with a band’s name, slid a pint of beer across the table. She took a gulp and turned to the young woman sitting next to her. Vivien said something and the young woman laughed. I saw no introduction take place between the two, and within minutes they were whispering to each other behind the young men’s backs. These details are important for one particular reason: The woman sitting with Vivien Blake was none other than Rae Spellman.
I snapped a few photos with my camera, but I couldn’t be sure that they would turn out in the dim lighting. This was not the time to confront my sister. While there were two offenses I was witnessing, underage drinking and consorting with a client, it was the second that I took issue with. My parents could handle the first.
As I was walking back to my car in the uncomfortably crisp air, watching my breath blow plumes of smoke into the night, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket.
“My apartment has flooded.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in about twenty minutes to check on it.”
“No,” he said. “I mean this time, it really is flooded.”
Thirty minutes later, I was helping Walter sop up the bathroom floor with old towels. We’d wring them out and start again. The bathtub had overflowed and spilled onto the bathroom floor. Walter arrived home just in time to stop the flood from bleeding into his bedroom carpet.
“The neighbor called from downstairs,” Walter said. “I was on a date. I wasn’t even thinking about the bathtub or the toaster. I’m sorry to call you so late. I don’t know how this happened. How did this happen?”
“I don’t know, Walter. But we’ll figure it out.” I twisted a heavy towel into the bathtub, dumping at least half a gallon of water. “There’s something I should tell you . . .”
And then I told Walter about the previous leak, and the coffeemaker and the toaster that were plugged in when I knew that Walter always unplugged them. And then I mentioned the footprint. Walter reacted with an appropriate shade of concern, but something about his response was off. As if he expected this news. But still, he had to ask the obvious question.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“Because, at first I thought you had just slipped up once or twice and I knew that if I told you things would only get worse. But then it occurred to me that something else was going on; someone else was responsible.”
“Who would do this to me?” Walter asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I’ll find out.”
I stayed with Walter until there was only a pile of soaked towels as evidence of what had transpired. I dusted the front door for prints but figured I’d find only my own and Walter’s. I asked him if anyone knew about his date and he said only his date. I asked where they’d met. Online. She had no idea where he lived. I asked if he would see her again. He told me that he’d asked her out again on the date, but now he wasn’t so sure. She bit her nails, and maybe the flood was a sign. I made Walter promise me that if I found out who did this, he would go out with her again. I wouldn’t leave until he promised, and he did, because by midnight he really wanted me to leave.
I was exhausted after fighting Walter’s deluge, but my brain kept ticking and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I drove to the Philosopher’s Club, hoping that the oafish, uncomplicated company of Bernie would serve as a kind of temporary brainwashing of the day’s events. In the morning I could fret about conflicts of interest, investigator misconduct, a client with an unusual form of stalking, and the conversation I’d been dodging at home for the last two months.
But at that moment all I needed was a drink and Bernie’s idle chatter. As tiresome as I often find him, you can rely on him for consistency, for making the world seem simple and easy. For Bernie, a beer, some potato chips, a regular poker game, and your life was full.
Unlike most San Francisco bars on a Friday night, there was space to navigate your way through the room with minimal physical contact. A new guy was pulling pints. A student, maybe. Bernie probably figured he could bring in a younger crowd to supplement the senior barfly crowd that closed up shop by eight. That night there was a refreshing mix of young-and-hip and old-and-weathered, each group sectioned apart like lunch bench cliques on a school playground. I couldn’t spot Bernie, which means he wasn’t spottable—his shiny pate, sheer berth, and booming laugh make it hard for him to blend. He always laughs, even when nothing funny is going on. Once I brought that fact to his attention; he laughed some more.
The jukebox silenced itself after Sinatra crooned his final line and then Nirvana replied. In that brief moment between songs I could hear Bernie chuckling from his office. I strode to the back and knocked on the door.
“Come back later!” he shouted through the splintered wood.
“Police. Open up,” I said. I said it because I knew that it would make him open up.
If I could go back in time, things would have gone down differently. I wouldn’t have gone to the bar that night; I wouldn’t have knocked; I wouldn’t have impersonated the fuzz; and Bernie wouldn’t have opened the door, revealing him and Gerty, partially clothed, in a decidedly compromising position.
It was not unlike watching the aftermath of a car crash, just with less blood and smoke. But I could not avert my gaze, even as Bernie was buttoning up his shirt and Gerty adjusting her undergarments. Bernie, the most shameless man I know, was shamed enough to kick the door shut in my face. I was grateful to be spared the real-time tableau, but even as I stared back at the splintered wood, I could not erase the image from my mind.
SHELTER FROM THE STORM
It was late, but I thought that my father might still be awake and desperate for company. It was past twelve thirty when I arrived at the house, so I entered quietly, to avoid disturbing my mother. Work and the sudden glut in extracurricular activities took their toll on Mom and whatever empty hours she had left were spent in bed.
I padded through the dark hallway to the illuminated kitchen, where quiet stirrings of life could be overheard. Literal stirrings, as D was mixing up a batch of awesomeness at the counter.
“What are you making?” I asked upon entering the kitchen.
D dropped the mixing bowl on the floor. It clanked twice then tipped over, spilling half of the chocolaty batter onto the linoleum floor. D started and tripped back against the wall, holding the metal whisk as a weapon. When he saw me, he doubled over and took a few deep breaths. Then he righted himself and attempted a smile.
“You scared me,” he said, still catching his breath.
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I forgot.”
I got on my knees and began to clean up the oozing matter on the floor. D crouched down to help, but I pushed him away.
“Sit down. I got it,” I said.
D sat at the table. I could hear his breathing begin to slow.
“What did I ruin?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew.
“Red velvet cupcakes.”
“Damn,” I replied. They were out of D’s regular circulation since he hadn’t yet figured out a healthy version to slip to my father.
“I can make another batch,” D replied. “I’ll be awake for a while now.” After I cleaned the batter spill, I made D some warm milk and suggested he take something stronger.
“Just a bit,” D said. Apparently there were a few drunks in his family and he liked to be careful. I didn’t quite follow the logic. We had some excellent drunks in my family too. I poured a splash of whiskey into the milk and sat with D as he drank.
When D was in prison, he lived in a culture of fear. It was no surprise that he required an adjustment period when he was finally released. During the first few months he was out, even basic luxuries stirred discomfort. He couldn’t sleep on a regular mattress and ended up using the camping-st
yle cot in the basement. When he finally was away from the endless clatter of prison noise—the screaming, banging, singing—the silence terrified him. I knew of his troubles at the beginning, but since I wasn’t living under the same roof, it hadn’t occurred to me that D was still coping with the profound changes brought about by his new life. D told me that he survived prison by adhering to strict schedules marking out every hour with a designated activity, whether they were enforced by the warden or by himself. But now there were more free hours than he knew what to do with.
“I take it you’re not sleeping any better,” I said.
“Better,” D said. “Still have nightmares.”
“Maybe you need a holiday. Get out of the city. Go camping. Or fishing. I hear fishing is very relaxing. Do you want me to arrange a fishing trip?”
“That’s not a good idea,” D said.
“Why not?”
“I’ve seen Deliverance. Uh-huh. I’m not ever going fishing. Ever.” D quickly got to his feet and started in on a new task. He measured the flour and baking soda and started all over again on his red velvet cupcake distraction. I got the feeling he wanted to be alone. Being surrounded by Spellmans all day long can take its toll; perhaps these late-night baking sessions were the only times he could truly relax.
“Save me at least three,” I said.
“You have my word,” D replied.
Then I left through the front door as quietly as I entered. I knew that I too wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I drove to my brother’s house because it was the most direct route to the best liquor cabinet.
It was late, so I knocked quietly instead of ringing the bell. For the record, if you ring the doorbell in the middle of the night at a house containing small children, sometimes the children start crying and the parents turn on you in the meanest way. There was no answer, so I decided to try the window by the laundry room; Maggie sometimes leaves it unlocked. I circled the house, shoved it open, and snaked my way through, landing with a hard thud on the linoleum. There’s nothing like a sloppy window entry to make you feel your age.
The house was quiet and so I thought it best to leave them undisturbed and quietly help myself to enough booze to clear my head once and for all—or at least until the next morning.
The next morning . . .
I was in a house of doors, looking for an escape. I opened the first door only to find Bernie and Gerty in various states of dress or undress. I closed the door and apologized. I opened the next door to find Rae, sitting behind a massive steel desk, crunching numbers with an old-fashioned calculator. She was laughing malevolently, like a villain from an animated feature. I turned to another door. Behind it was Demetrius behind a glass divider; he was back in prison. The glass had holes in it, so I slipped him cigarettes and licorice. I wanted to sit down and talk, but visiting hours were over. Then I opened another door. My mother was seated behind a pottery wheel, reading a book. The rest of her class had their hands dirty on the assignment, but my mother did nothing at all. “What are you up to?” I asked. “Expanding my horizons,” my dream mother said with a wicked wink. I slammed that door. Then I opened another one, thinking this had to be the way out. I found a child in the center of the room. She looked like my niece.
She said, “Banana.
“Banana.
“Banana.”
I opened my eyes. Everything looked familiar but unfamiliar.
There was a child up close, right in front of my face. She said, “Banana.” I sat up on the couch.
My head throbbed; my throat was dry.
“Banana.”
I was in David’s house. On the couch in the living room.
Sydney’s bedroom is on the first floor. She must have woken up before her parents, broken out of the crib, and navigated into the living room. I thought they had a dog gate or something. I made a mental note not to call it a dog gate in front of my brother.
“You want a banana?” I asked.
Sydney nodded her head.
I got to my feet and stretched. My head throbbed more assertively. I put what was left of the bottle of bourbon back in the cabinet and took the glass into the kitchen. Sydney followed me. I found a banana in a bowl above the sink. I yanked one off the bunch and started to peel it. I’m not clear on whether 1.5-year-olds need help with such matters, but I was fairly certain she wouldn’t be offended. I handed her the banana.
“No apple!” she screamed, and then she started crying. Loudly.
My head throbbed some more. “Please don’t cry,” I said. “Aunt Izzy has a terrible hangover.” I poured myself a glass of water, downed it in a single sloppy gulp.
“Banana,” Sydney said between teary hiccups.
“Got it. Banana. I’m on it,” I said. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk. “Banana?” I asked.
“Banana!”
“Right,” I said. “This is called milk.”
“Banana.”
I poured a glass of milk and Sydney said, “More banana.”
“You can have more milk when you finish this.”
It then occurred to me that I’d never seen Sydney drink out of a glass before and the consequences might be severe.
“Where are the sippy cups, Sydney?”
Then it occurred to me that I’d never used that phrase before and I started laughing. Sydney raised the volume on her crying jag and David entered the room with an expression that mingled exhaustion with horror, which probably matched my expression, catching sight of early-morning David. Truth be told, I’ve never seen early-morning New David before. I’m not saying that Old David woke up with perfect hair and brushed teeth and scrubbed skin, but he was always the first in the shower and never neglected his grooming. In fact, until the Age of Sydney there had been only a handful of days where I’d seen him with stubble or a razor cut or matted hair or an unpleasant body odor. This morning, he was a particular eyesore. His flannel pajamas were frayed at the bottom, paired with a well-worn JUSTICE 4 MERRI-WEATHER T-shirt.1 And he wore two different socks; the one on the right had a hole allowing his big toe to peek through. His face bore creases from sleep and I’d rather not even mention the state of his hair. Not that I was daisy fresh myself, but I could fetch the newspaper without scaring the neighbor.
“Isabel, what are you doing here?” David asked.
“I’m looking for a sippy cup,” I replied, and then I doubled over because it was even funnier saying it to an adult. Then it occurred to me that I might still be a tiny bit drunk.
“I mean,” David replied, “what are you doing in my house?”
“I slept here.”
“Did Maggie let you in late last night?”
“No. I crawled through the window of your laundry room. You should probably close the latch at night.”
“I probably should. Why didn’t you sleep in your own home?”
“I couldn’t face him after what I saw.” The image of Gerty and Bernie was burned in my mind.
“What did you do?” David asked.
“Banana,” Sydney said. Although you probably figured out that it wasn’t me or David saying it.
“I didn’t do anything!” I shouted.
Sydney cried some more and asked for a banana.
“What does she want?” I asked.
David grabbed a box of Cheerios from the top cabinet and a bowl and showed them to his daughter.
“Do you want cereal?”
“Yes, banana!” Sydney sniffled.
“This is called cereal,” David said.
He took the milk from the glass and poured it in the bowl.
“Milk,” he said as he poured. “What do you say?” he asked.
“Tank you.”
“I bet you’re glad she didn’t say ‘banana.’”
David rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. “I keep thinking one day I’ll wake up and have a normal family.”
“I have that same dream,” I replied. “Will you please make me some coffee?” I a
sked, taking a seat at the table. “Or do you call that ‘banana’ too?”
David made coffee (I suspect not just for me). He inquired about last night’s events but my head was hurting too much to speak. Instead, I was trying to make linguistic sense of the whole banana mystery.
“What does ‘banana’ mean?”
“It means she’s hungry. That’s all,” David replied.
“When you show her a banana, she calls it an apple.”
“I am aware of that,” David replied.
Sydney sat in her high chair across from me and ate Cheerios and milk. At least 40 percent of her meal ended up on that plastic platter thing that locks her in place. She was staring at me a lot, like I had an extra nose or something.
Then again, I was gawking at her horrendous table manners.
“She really doesn’t have that spoon business down yet, does she?”
David kindly put a steaming mug of black coffee in front of me. I took a few sips, which seemed to clear some of the cobwebs from my brain. Before Sydney was born, David and Maggie placed her on several waiting lists for highly competitive preschools. My brother’s goal is to have her reading by age three. There was not a moment of father-daughter quality time in which he didn’t sneak in some educational activity. And yet the kid said “banana” when she was hungry and thought an apple was called “banana.” But she sure as hell knew who Elmo is and what a sippy cup looks like, and she’d cry if you said “broccoli.” Suddenly it all became clear to me. Well, not everything, just the whole banana mystery. “I believe I’ve cracked the case,” I said.
“What case?” David replied, sitting down at the table with his own mug.
“It was Rae, wasn’t it?”
David didn’t reply.
“Rae did this. When she lived here, she used to babysit. Often. She had all the time in the world to mess with your daughter’s early speech patterns. Oh. My. God.”
