by Laura Levine
So it was with a feeling of accomplishment that I dropped a Pop Tart in the toaster for my breakfast. Prozac let out an indignant meow.
You call that fair? You get to eat Pop Tarts, and I’m stuck with Lite ’N Lively Lamb Crud?
It was then that she stalked off to the living room, treating me to that scenic view of her tush.
I gobbled my Pop Tart standing up at the kitchen sink, safely out of Prozac’s line of vision, then went to my office, otherwise known as my dining table, to check my e-mails.
Can you believe Daddy? Stealing a fork to get Reverend Sternmuller’s fingerprints? And pulling a hair from his head for his DNA? It’s just lucky he didn’t try to get a blood sample.
But I couldn’t sit around all day worrying about Daddy. That was Mom’s job.
I spent the next hour or so fine-tuning the Ackerman Awning Brochure (With Ackerman, You’ve Got It Made in the Shade!), then got dressed and ran out to do some errands.
I was heading down the path to my Corolla when I bumped into my neighbor Lance.
“Hey, Jaine. How’s it going?” he said, the sun glinting off his thick blond curls. Lance is a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus, and he always dresses the part. He flicked a nonexistent speck of lint from his Ermenegildo Zegna suit. (No, Ermenegildo Zegna is not, as I once thought, a rare skin disease. It’s a designer label, one of Lance’s favorites.)
“I heard Prozac on the warpath this morning,” he said. “Is she still on her diet?”
“Yes, she most definitely is.”
“She lose any weight yet?”
“Well, no. She’s putting up a bit of a fight. It’s going to be a battle of wills between us, but trust me, I’m going to win.”
“Nothing personal, hon. But my money’s on the cat.”
Then he waved good-bye and headed off to his Mini Cooper.
Well, phooey on him. I hoped his curls wilted in the smog. Really, it was most annoying how he just assumed I was incapable of putting my own cat on a diet. Well, I’d show him. Before long, Prozac would be svelte enough to lick her privates on the runways of Milan.
I got in my Corolla and was tooling off to the dry cleaners with a load of slacks and silk blouses in the backseat when I happened to pass a Goodwill store. On an impulse I decided to stop in. Sometimes I find some really neat stuff at thrift shops.
I’d pulled into the parking lot and was just getting out of my car when I saw someone familiar walking toward me from the drop-off area. It was Ashley, the big-boobed, margarita-toting gal from the PMS Club.
Suddenly I was embarrassed. I didn’t want her to know that I shopped at Goodwill. I realized I was being ridiculous. I remembered how much fun Ashley had been at the club meeting, how down-to-earth. Not the least bit snobby. She wouldn’t think less of me if I bought my clothes here. Why, lots of people think it’s chic to shop at Goodwill. But for some insane reason, I was embarrassed. Maybe it was Ashley’s silver Jaguar gleaming in the parking lot, or the multiple carats of diamonds studded in her ears.
I reached down into my Corolla, pretending to be looking for something, hoping she hadn’t recognized me, but it was too late.
“Jaine? Is that you?”
I straightened up and smiled.
“Oh, hi, Ashley.”
She hurried over, her ample boobs bouncing with each step.
“Jaine, sweetie. We’re so happy you’re joining the club.”
“Me, too.”
“You’re coming to the meeting tonight, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She glanced in the backseat of my car and saw my dry cleaning.
“You dropping off a donation?”
“Why, yes,” I said.
And then, to my horror, I realized I was opening the car door and gathering my clothes in my arms.
What the heck was I doing? Was I nuts? Why on earth hadn’t I simply told her that I was shopping there? Oh, well. I’d just walk over with my dry cleaning and then wait till she was gone and put the stuff back in the car.
But that was not to be.
“I just dropped off a bunch of slacks that shrunk in my closet,” Ashley said, laughing. “C’mon. I’ll keep you company while you make your donation and we can gossip.”
And so she walked me to the drop-off area, carrying on a stream of chatter that floated in and out of my consciousness:
“Can you believe Rochelle’s empanadas with those Mexican flags? She’s Martha Stewart channeling Viva Zapata!…Marybeth and I were best friends in college, but she can be a bit much with her yummy news…. Doris…what a hoot. I hope I’m half as feisty when I’m her age…. And Colin…why are the cute ones always gay?”
She went on and on and before I knew it, I was giving my dry cleaning to a Goodwill guy in a wheelchair.
“Don’t forget to get a receipt,” Ashley said. “Tax write-off, you know.”
Yeah, right. First you need some income before you have to worry about taxes.
I took my receipt and watched in misery as my Ann Taylor silk blouses were tossed on top of somebody’s old VCR.
“C’mon, hon,” Ashley said, taking me by the arm, enveloping me in the heady aroma of her Vera Wang perfume. “You’ve done your good deed for the day.”
We walked back to our respective cars, and at last she got into her Jag.
“See you tonight,” she called out.
I waved feebly and watched as she drove off. The minute she was gone, I dashed back to the drop-off area.
The guy in the wheelchair, whose name tag said Carlos, looked up at me.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry, but I’d like my clothes back.”
Carlos’s eyes widened with disbelief.
“You want to take back your donation?” His voice was a tad louder than I would have liked.
Several other workers gathered around.
“What’s going on?” one of them asked.
“She wants to take back her donation.”
“You don’t understand; it wasn’t really a donation. It was my dry cleaning.”
Carlos shook his head, disgusted.
“Go ahead,” he said, pointing to my clothes, which were still on top of the VCR, “take them back.”
I felt the others shooting dagger looks at my back as I gathered my clothes.
“Why not take the VCR while you’re at it?” Carlos muttered.
“It’s people like her,” another one said, “who give charity a bad name.”
I slunk out, feeling like a cockroach in a five-star restaurant. It looked like I wouldn’t be shopping at that Goodwill any time in the next millennium.
I finished the rest of my errands and drove home, certain that by now Prozac had caved in and eaten her diet food. Well, I was half right. She’d eaten. But not the diet food. I found her sprawled on the kitchen counter, like a drunk after a binge. Somehow she’d managed to claw the lid off her kitty treats and she’d scarfed down every last one of them.
She looked up at me with what I could swear was a smirk.
Score one for the furball.
Chapter 8
When Pam and I showed up at the PMS Club that night, I knew right away there was something wrong with Rochelle. She had a wild look in her eyes that hadn’t been there the week before. Her limp hair had taken on a life of its own and stood out in angry spokes from her pony tail. She wore a T-shirt that seemed to match her mood. I’m Out of Estrogen and I’ve Got a Gun were the words emblazoned across her chest.
This week, instead of sporting a dishtowel slung over her shoulder, she greeted us at the door waving a margarita.
“Hi, there,” she said, blowing a healthy blast of tequila in our direction.
Pam and I had dined al fresco at the Jack in the Box, where we were lucky enough to nab a table next to a colorful fellow reading Kafka and sipping rotgut whiskey through a straw.
We’d driven over to the PMS Club in my Corolla, and now we stood in Rochelle’s foyer try
ing not to get too close to the tequila fumes.
“C’mon in, gals,” she said. Only “gals” came out “galsh,” her speech slurred from her trip to Margaritaville.
“Are you okay, Rochelle?” Pam asked.
“Fine!” she said, with a bitter laugh. “Never better.”
She headed for the living room, almost tripping over an umbrella stand.
“Oopsie,” she said, righting herself against the stairway banister. “Why don’t you two go upstairs and see my new master bath?”
“It’s finally finished?” Pam said.
“Yes.” Rochelle’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. “My dear friend Marybeth put the finishing touches on it today.”
You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to notice the sarcasm dripping from the words dear friend.
“Damn,” Rochelle said, sniffing. “The empanadas. I think I burnt ’em.”
She lurched off to the kitchen, and Pam and I exchanged boggled looks.
“What’s got into her?” Pam said.
“About a fifth of tequila,” I guessed.
Pam shook her head, puzzled, then shrugged. “Well, come on. Let’s go see the designer loo.”
We headed upstairs to the master bath, which was a symphony of peach and sage—with his ’n hers sinks, marble countertops, a stall shower with about a gazillion jets, and a tub big enough to swim laps. There was even a separate room for the toilet. Or, as they call it in Brentwood, “the commode.”
We found Colin bent over the commode, installing a roll of toilet paper.
“Would you believe I had to go to five different markets before I found this toilet paper?” he groused. “Marybeth insisted it had to match the towels exactly. For crying out loud, the towels are in a whole other room.”
He got up, his jaw clenched in anger.
“Some day I’m gonna kill that bitch.”
“And hello to you, too,” Pam said.
He broke out in a grin.
“Hi, guys. Sorry to whine. What can I say? The woman is hell to work for. But I’ve got to look on the plus side, right? At least she underpays me.”
“So what do you think?” he asked, gesturing around the bathroom.
“It’s great,” I said.
“Look at this linen closet.” Colin opened a closet that ran a full wall’s length.
Pam whistled softly. “The rich not only get richer; they get closet space, too.”
“Well, I’m going downstairs,” Colin said. “After my Great Toilet Paper Hunt, I need a margarita.”
“Speaking of margaritas, what’s with Rochelle?” Pam asked. “She’s tanked already, and she hardly ever drinks.”
“I don’t know. She was fine when Marybeth and I were here earlier today. Her usual compulsive hostess self. Running around asking the plumbers if she could bring them some fresh-squeezed lemonade. But when I came back about a half-hour ago, she was sloshed.”
“Maybe she finally cracked under the stress of remodeling,” I suggested.
“Who knows?” Colin said. “All I know is I need that margarita. You gals coming?”
“Nah,” Pam said. “I want to stay and snoop in their medicine cabinets.”
“Rochelle’s is boring,” Colin said. “But check Marty’s out.”
With a weary wave, he headed back downstairs, and Pam began rummaging through the medicine cabinets.
“Pam, do you think we should be doing this?”
“Of course not. That’s why it’s so much fun.”
Colin was right. There was nothing exciting in Rochelle’s medicine cabinet. Just your run-of-the-mill over the counter cold meds. But when Pam opened Marty’s, her eyes widened.
“Look at this,” she said, taking out a prescription vial. “Viagra!”
I remembered what Rochelle had said about her husband, that he was cold and distant and coming home at all hours.
A cynical voice came from the doorway.
“Whoever he’s using that stuff with sure as hell isn’t Rochelle.”
We turned to see Doris, the club’s senior member.
How embarrassing. She’d obviously seen us snooping.
“Um…I had something stuck in my teeth,” I stammered, “and we were just looking for some floss.”
“Oh, please,” Doris said, brushing away my lie. “We all snoop in other people’s medicine cabinets. It’s human nature.”
She checked herself out in the mirror over the his ’n hers sinks.
“Great lighting. I don’t look a day over fifty-nine.”
Then she plopped herself down on the edge of the enormous tub.
“Poor Rochelle,” she sighed. “I’m sure Marty’s cheating on her. At least she can console herself with a nice jacuzzi bath.” She looked around the room appraisingly. “What a palace. I wish I’d had his ’n hers sinks when I was married. You wouldn’t believe the disgusting stuff my husband used to leave in the sink.”
“I’d believe it,” I said, remembering The Blob’s delightful habit of leaving his toenail clippings in ours.
“Yep, this is some bathroom,” Doris said. “If things go bad in the divorce she can always sublet it as an apartment.”
“Do you really think they’re headed for a divorce?” I asked.
“If she’s lucky. Well,” she said, hoisting herself up from the tub, “I’d better go downstairs and help Rochelle out in the kitchen. Poor thing is three sheets to the wind.”
“We’d better go, too,” I said.
“We’ll be right down,” Pam said, grabbing me by the elbow. “Jaine has to take a tinkle first.”
“Okay,” Doris said. “See you down there.”
When she was gone, I turned to Pam, puzzled.
“What was that all about? I don’t have to take a tinkle.”
“I know. But I want to sneak a peek at their bedroom. See if there are any mirrors over the bed.”
“Pam! You’re terrible.” Then I grinned. “That’s one of the reasons I like you so much.”
We tiptoed out of the bathroom and were heading down the hallway in search of the master bedroom when we heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Yoo hoo! Pam! Jaine! You up there?”
It was Ashley. We scooted back toward the bathroom.
“Yeah, Ash,” Pam called down. “We just saw the Taj Mahal. It’s fab.”
Ashley came up the steps, dressed to kill in a cashmere slack set that cost more than my car.
“Hi, honey,” she said to me. “I found the most marvelous pair of shoes at Saks after I saw you today. What did you do? Something fun, I hope.”
Sure, if you consider writing about awning rot fun.
“Just worked on a writing assignment.”
“Let me see the heavenly can,” Ashley said, marching over to the bathroom on her $500 shoes.
“Holy crap!” she said. “And I use the word crap advisedly. I’ll bet the Good Lord himself doesn’t go potty in a place this grand!”
Foiled by the appearance of Ashley, Pam and I abandoned our plan to snoop around Rochelle’s bedroom and followed Ashley back downstairs to the kitchen to see if Rochelle needed any help.
We found Colin pouring margaritas from the blender, and Doris at the kitchen sink, scraping the bottoms of Rochelle’s empanadas, which were burnt to a crisp. Rochelle was sitting at her kitchen island, nursing a margarita, staring at the empanadas with glazed eyes.
“Aw, screw it,” Rochelle said, getting up from her stool. She grabbed the empanadas from Doris and tossed them carelessly onto a serving plate. “So what if they’re a little burnt? Makes ’em nice and crunchy.”
I blinked, amazed. Was this the same perfectionist I saw running around like a wind-up toy last week?
“Here,” she said to Doris, handing her the plate. “Bring ’em into the living room.”
“What about the Mexican flags?” Doris asked.
“Who cares about the flags?” Rochelle said, taking another slug of her margarita. “They always were si
lly, weren’t they?”
Suddenly tears welled in her eyes.
“I’m a silly woman,” she said. “Always have been.”
Then she lurched toward the living room.
The rest of us exchanged alarmed looks and hurried after her.
“Rochelle, honey,” Ashley said, putting her arm around her, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Everything’s right as rain!” she said, with a sweeping gesture that almost knocked over a nearby floor lamp.
Ashley led her to a seat on the sectional. The rest of us took our seats awkwardly. Nobody said anything; we all just sat there, about as relaxed as a bunch of root canal patients.
I glanced down at the coffee table and saw that this week there was no elaborate spread. No nuts. No pretzels. No tri-colored chips, salted and unsalted. Just the burnt empanadas.
It was at that moment that the doorbell rang.
“Oh,” Rochelle said, her eyes narrowing. “That must be my dear friend Marybeth.” Once again, there was nothing dear about the way she referred to Marybeth.
“Come innnn,” she shouted out in an exaggerated singsong.
Seconds later, Marybeth came sweeping into the living room carrying a vase of exquisite silk dogwood flowers, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
“Rochelle, honey, look what I got for your bathroom. Won’t they look just lovely on the counter?”
“Just lovely,” Rochelle echoed, in that same singsong voice.
Marybeth shot her a look. Clearly something was wrong, but she chose to ignore it. Instead, she plastered a bright smile on her face.
“I’ll go and put them upstairs. You want to come have a look-see with me?”
“No,” Rochelle said, “I don’t want to go have a look-see.”
“Okeydoke,” Marybeth said, her smile still firmly in place. “Then I’ll just run up and do it myself.”
The silence became even more uncomfortable as Marybeth headed up the stairs.
At last it was Rochelle who broke it.
“Damn,” she said, “I forgot the guacamole.”
“I’ll get it!” Everyone jumped up at once, each of us eager to make a break for it.
“No,” Rochelle barked, with unaccustomed authority. “Everybody sit down. I’ll go.”
