This One Is Mine: A Novel

by Maria Semple

  “I’ve been trying to calculate them,” said Jeremy.

  “I bet you have!” David let out a big laugh, then turned to Sally. “Maybe these butterflies are a sign that you two should get married here.”

  In all of Sally’s fantasies about her wedding, she had never allowed herself to imagine getting married at David’s house. It was so obvious and within reach that for it not to happen would have been too cruel to endure. She looked up at Jeremy. “What do you say, sweetie?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “Isn’t this wild?” David said. A butterfly had just landed on his hand. “It’s a chemical that builds up in their brains. Every ten years, the switch is flipped and nothing can stop them. Who ever thinks of a butterfly on a mission?”

  Sally saw it before David did. She didn’t know what it was exactly, but she wanted to protect him from it: Violet was in the car with Dot and the nanny, screeching onto Mulholland.

  VIOLET felt LadyGo staring daggers at her from the backseat. “This Ritz-Carlton?” Violet said. She adjusted her mirror, but LadyGo averted her eyes. “It’s supposed to be the best. Beautiful beach. Big pool . . .” Unimpressed, LadyGo shook an elephant rattle in front of Dot.

  The scene back at the house was certainly inelegant. Sally barging in trailed by that sportswriter with the earplugs. And David. Bounding in, wearing a grass thing around his wrist, acting like Mr. Natural? His last words before he had driven off for the weekend were, You’re not necessary. That’s what Violet was fleeing, a dead marriage with a cruel husband who raged at her. His bruised knuckles told the real story. The peace-and-love David would soon revert to the volatile wall-punching David. Violet ached for Teddy — to be entwined in his dark, scarred arms, treated rough, exalted, laughing, kept guessing but always knowing. She crossed the double yellow line to enter the car pool lane.

  “Truck with cars!” Dot pointed to a transporter loaded with Mini Coopers.

  “That’s right,” Violet said. “A truck with cars.”

  “Mas!” Dot said. It had been her first word, mas. “More” in Spanish.

  “It’s right there,” said Violet.

  “Mas!” said Dot. “Mas!” She started to cry.

  Violet slowed down so Dot was abreast of the transporter. “See it? It’s right there. You don’t need mas.” But Dot was implacable. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

  “Right turn ahead,” said the computer lady on the GPS.

  “Mas!” wailed the little girl.

  “Give her some juice or something,” Violet told LadyGo, and exited onto Sepulveda, then turned left on Venice.

  “Your destination is ahead on your left.”

  Violet cruised past a ninety-eight-cent store. A place to refill your water jugs. Piñatas hung from a bodega’s tattered awning.

  “SpongeBob!” said Dot.

  “Sí, Mamacita, SpongeBob!” LadyGo said, full of pride. “Miss Violet, the baby is too much intelligent.” How would Dot know about SpongeBob? Violet and David didn’t let her watch TV. LadyGo must be plopping Dot in front of it while Violet was away.

  “You have arrived at your destination,” announced the voice with an almost grotesque calm. Next to a Mexican dentist’s office with bars on the windows, set back from a patch of dead grass, was a small two-story building.

  Violet pulled an illegal U and parked the car. “I’m going to run in and pick up my friend,” she told LadyGo. “Then we’ll go to the Ritz-Carlton.”

  “Miss Dot stay in Mercedes car,” said the nanny. Violet had seen where LadyGo lived and it was no step up from this. But get LadyGo in a Mercedes with a blue-eyed child and she became the queen of England.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Violet.

  There were two units in the stucco building, one above and one below. 11838 was upstairs. Violet passed some rusted rosebushes and climbed the steps. She opened the screen door and knocked. No footsteps, nothing. She knocked again. She scanned the street for Teddy’s car. LadyGo pointed up to Violet. Dot waved. Violet waved back. She walked to the rear of the landing to see if there was parking behind the building.

  “Allo.” A black man with braids, wearing just athletic shorts, appeared behind the screen. Violet remembered Teddy once saying he had a roommate named Pascal, someone from AA, who worked in catering.

  “Hi,” she said. “Is Teddy here?”

  “Zey went out this morning.”

  Violet wondered, Did he say they or was it just his accent? “You must be Pascal?”

  “Oui.”

  “My name is Violet Parry.” She held out her hand.

  “The lady who paid to have his car fixed.”

  That wasn’t exactly how she would have put it. “Yes,” she said.

  Pascal opened the door but wasn’t happy about it. “Does Teddy know you’re coming?”

  “Not exactly.” As Violet passed Pascal, she got the strong sense he was checking her out. She was overcome with guilt for letting Teddy down with her fat ass.

  The apartment was bright and uncluttered. The beige wall-to-wall carpet — while beige wall-to-wall carpet — was surprisingly unworn. Violet was emboldened by the restraint of the decor. It struck her as adult and lent her confidence in having chosen Teddy.

  “I’ll call him to see where he is,” Pascal said.

  “I already tried. His phone is turned off.”

  “Let me try.” Pascal disappeared to his bedroom and closed the door. Violet devoured her surroundings. An unobjectionable sectional sofa they had probably found on the curb. Some bookshelves made of cinder blocks and two-by-fours. French gangster movie posters on the wall. Teddy’s golf bag. A boom box with lots of cheesy flashing lights. Jazz CDs. Rush CDs. Free weights in the corner. An unopened Homer Simpson Chia Pet.

  “Teddy will be here in five minutes,” Pascal returned to announce.

  “Great, thanks.”

  “So, your husband is David Parry?”

  “Yep.” Violet went to the window.

  “Must be nice, eh?”

  “It’s okay.” LadyGo and Dot kicked a ball on the lawn. Violet had to give that to LadyGo: she never went anywhere without a ball. “My daughter and nanny,” Violet explained.

  Pascal looked out the window. “That’s your S600?”

  “My what?”

  “S600.”

  “Oh, right. My Mercedes.”

  “Must be very nice.”

  Violet’s cell phone rang. She checked the number. It was David. “I’m not going to get it.”

  The screen door creaked open and slammed shut. “Wazzup, bro?” There he was, Teddy, in the room with her.

  Violet’s intention had been to act cool, but a gigantic smile hijacked her face. “Nice to see you,” she said.

  “Look who found her way into Beaner Central. I hope you left some bread crumbs so you can find your way back.”

  “I have to change for work,” Pascal said.

  “Thanks, man.” Teddy gave him a jive handshake and seemed to whisper something, then turned to Violet. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  “I’ll say! Is that your kid and nanny outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your daughter’s beautiful. What’s her name again?”

  “Dot.”

  “That’s right, Dot. Anyway.” Teddy put his hands on Violet’s hips. This was what it felt like to belong to Teddy. She didn’t want to talk, just sink deeper and deeper until she no longer existed. “I’m waiting,” he said.

  “Oh —” she said. “Pack your bags. I got us two rooms at the Ritz-Carlton in Laguna Niguel, where we can eat healthy food and you can play golf at Torrey Pines.”

  “Wow!” Teddy’s hands flew apart.

  “Like you said, I make shit happen.”

  “Yeah . . . but I can’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  Teddy looked perplexed. “I have a job.”

  “You do?” Violet felt the blood rising in her chee
ks.

  “I’m not just a pickup cat. I work at a music store.”

  “Oh — I —”

  “That’s why my fingernails are black. It’s ebony dust. I repair guitars. What? Did you think I was just dirty?”

  “No — I —” Violet sputtered. “Can’t you call in sick?”

  “Not if I want to keep my job!” Teddy laughed. “Plus I have a commitment at an AA meeting tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  “My sponsor has me on a ninety-in-ninety. I have to do ninety meetings in ninety days. And I don’t know any meetings down there.”

  “The concierge can help us find them,” she said.

  “The concierge can help us find them! Jesus Christ, I’ve arrived.”

  Violet felt like she was finally establishing a beachhead and carefully moved forward. “The concierge can also tell us where to buy you a new bass,” she said. “Rickenbacker 4001, if my memory serves me.”

  “You get some serious points for remembering that.” Teddy crept closer. “It can’t be a new one, though. You’ve got to get me a vintage.”

  “Done.”

  “Pura vida, baby.” He stepped in and gave her a rough kiss. There it was. She kissed back, matching his aggressiveness. “Shit, you’re a good kisser,” he said.

  “How about we leave tomorrow?”

  He pulled her head close and stood on his toes to kiss her again. David was six foot two and Violet had to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him. It seemed unnatural to lean down to kiss a man. Teddy suddenly jumped back.

  Dot was climbing the stairs, LadyGo’s head bobbing behind her. Neither had seen Violet and Teddy.

  “Thanks,” whispered Violet. She opened the door for her daughter and nanny. “Dot and LadyGo, this is Teddy. Teddy, this is Dot and LadyGo.” Teddy and LadyGo exchanged pleasantries in Spanish. Violet was encouraged by how swimmingly it was all going, until Pascal emerged from the bedroom. LadyGo stiffened. She had made it clear on numerous occasions that she didn’t care for the company of los negros.

  “Hey, Pascal, where are you working today?” Teddy said, for everyone’s benefit.

  “Brian Grazer’s house in Malibu.” Pascal buttoned his white shirt and tucked it into his pressed black pants.

  “Pascal’s father was a slave,” said Teddy. “A real bona fide slave from Africa. He escaped and moved to France. Am I right, brother?”

  Pascal grunted in affirmation. He walked to the door and lit a Gauloise.

  “Kunta Kinte, I wish you wouldn’t smoke those things,” Teddy said. “There’s a fucking baby here.”

  Pascal waved him off and exhaled through the screen door. “I feel like shit.”

  “Then stop smoking cigarettes.” Teddy turned to Violet. “When he was a kid he sold incense in the Paris flea market.”

  “J’aime bien le marché aux puces à Paris,” Violet said to Pascal.

  “Vous été allée à Paris, eh?” he asked with a bright smile.

  “Parfaitement,” answered Violet. “Et même plusieurs fois. Je suis allé à l’internat en Suisse. A Le Rosey.”

  “I love it.” Teddy beamed with pride. He punched Pascal’s shoulder. “Listen to her. I told you she was the real deal.”

  “So,” Violet asked Teddy, “are you coming with us?”

  “I don’t know. . . .” Teddy bit his nails.

  Violet slapped his hand down. “Don’t do that. I’m going to spray you with skunk oil so you don’t chew your fingernails.”

  “How did I all of a sudden go from a five-thousand-dollar bass to skunk spray?”

  “Come here,” Pascal said to Dot. “I want to show you something outside.”

  “Go with them, please,” Violet ordered LadyGo.

  LadyGo, who had probably pictured herself being offered a complimentary fruit drink at the Ritz-Carlton right about now, did not take kindly to being ordered outside a run-down apartment to play with a black man. “Yes, meesuz.” She heroically followed them outside.

  The door slammed and Violet turned to Teddy. “We can stay here tonight and go down tomorrow, if that would be easier.”

  “I can’t have you and your posse crash here. It’s not fair to Pascal. He paid my rent this month. I’m lucky he didn’t kick me out.”

  “I’ll send Dot and the nanny down in my car now, then you and I can take a limo down tomorrow,” she said.

  “Where’s your fucking husband during all of this?”

  “He’s still out of town,” she said quickly.

  Teddy gnawed at his fingernails. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. “Fine,” he said. “But I have to leave for a little while to take care of some stuff.”

  “Now?”

  “I have a commitment.”

  “At the music store?”

  “No, not at the music store. I’ll meet you back here in two hours. Let’s walk out together.” Violet wanted to interrogate him about where he was going, but thought better of it. Tomorrow they would be in a suite on the Ritz-Carlton club floor. That was all that mattered.

  Outside, Dot and Pascal were running around, trying to catch something in the air. “Bugs!” cried Dot. Violet took a closer look. They weren’t bugs. They were painted lady butterflies.

  SALLY floated up the escalator to the bridal salon. It had felt wrong to be cooped up in Jeremy’s apartment watching basketball on the first day of her engagement, so she left him there and raced over the hill to Saks.

  She opened the door and discovered a plush forest of glimmering mannequin brides. In the corner was an antique desk where an okay-looking brunette and her mother quietly flipped through a gilded leather portfolio.

  An impeccably groomed salesman stepped toward Sally. “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi! I’m here to buy a wedding dress.”

  His eyes darted to her ring finger, then back to her face. “I’m with a customer,” he said with finality.

  Sally shot a glance at the other bride’s ring. It was gigantic. Sally lifted her eyes. The woman had also spotted Sally’s measly ring. Sally’s hand twitched. “That’s okay,” she told the salesman. “I’ll wait.” How Sally would have loved to show them all who they were dealing with and buy the most expensive dress on the spot! But long ago, she had stopped carrying credit cards.

  The money she had taken out to start Kurt’s leather jacket business had mushroomed from the original six thousand to forty-nine thousand, spread across eight credit cards. Sally would never forgive Kurt for sticking her with the debt, then changing his phone number and telling everyone she was the psycho.

  She had called the credit card companies in an attempt to negotiate the runaway debt. They’d offer the option of making a small down payment, which would lock her into a fixed interest rate that was only one-tenth of a percentage higher than the current one. She would make the payment only to discover that the new “fixed interest rate” was just fixed for fifteen days. And then it shot up eight whole points. Once, she had Fed-Exed a payment to arrive on the due date, March 12, so the “penalty rate” wouldn’t kick in. But she hadn’t seen the fine print that stated it had to be received by seven AM on the twelfth. So it triggered something called “universal default,” where all the credit card companies talked to one another, and once you defaulted on one payment, they all went into penalty rate. Before Sally knew it, she had eight credit cards, each at 29.9 percent interest. She felt so stupid and alone; the shame compounding inside her like the interest itself.

  Last year, she had screwed up the courage to ask Maryam if she knew of any credit consolidation places. “Why?” snapped Maryam. “You’re not in credit card debt, are you?” “Of course not,” Sally replied. “It’s for a student.” Maryam said, “Good. Because only morons get into credit card debt.” Sally never mentioned it again to Maryam or anyone else. She’d lie in bed at night, with open eyes, the weight bearing down on her chest from above. When it got too great, she’d roll onto her stomach. But the debt would push up through the mattress. She’d turn
onto her side, but it squeezed her like a vise grip.

  She wandered through the glittery dresses and stopped at a gorgeous lace-upon-lace creation. She then realized it was an A-line cut. A-lines were for fatties. She wanted a super-fitted, strapless, low-back mermaid cut.

  The really annoying thing about Sally’s financial straits was that she made good money! After taxes, forty-five grand a year. Her rent was two thousand a month. Her living expenses another fifteen hundred, which left her a three-thousand-dollar cushion. But she always managed to spend that, too. A friend would get married in Seattle, and she had to fly there and buy a bridesmaid’s dress. Or her laptop would get a virus and crash. Or, to keep up with the trends, she needed to replace all her birthday party tutus with princess dresses.

  For the past couple of years, Sally’s whole focus had been on trying to find a rich husband. Now that it was a reality, Sally saw that what may have been sound in concept was vague in execution. Did she have to have an actual conversation in which she’d tell Jeremy she was fifty grand in debt because of an ex-boyfriend and please pay it off? The thought of it made Sally sick. Literally. She closed her eyes.

  David had generously offered to “take care of the wedding.” Could Sally ask him for cash, then siphon off fifty grand to pay off her credit cards? Perhaps, but it would mean skimping on her big day. She deserved to have the wedding of her dreams, nothing less. Maybe she could tell guests that instead of presents, she wanted cash. That might be considered tacky, though, getting married at David’s fabulous house and asking the guests for envelopes of money. . . .

  Or. Or. Or. There was personal bankruptcy. People on the radio were constantly singing its praises. Sally had looked into it once but decided against it because it would show up on her credit report for ten years. That meant she couldn’t get a new car or move into a better apartment. But . . . after she married Jeremy, she could use his credit cards. Married couples did that all the time. And he would pay for their new house. She could get him to buy her a new car. So, really, there was nothing to prevent her from filing for bankruptcy. And Jeremy would never know. . . .

  “Are you okay, miss?” the brown-haired bride asked Sally with sweet concern.