by Maria Semple
“Down-and-out people are down-and-out for a reason.” David’s voice spewed venom. “They’re drunks. They’re liars. They’re lazy. They’re insane. If you want to pay to have their car fixed or whatever the fuck you’re doing with them, do it on your own time.” And now he started screaming, “But don’t let them into my house! Don’t let them near my fucking daughter! Do you hear me?! What is wrong with you?!”
Dot began wailing. The guests, who had only moments ago taken pleasure in watching the rich people fight, scurried away.
“You’re right,” Violet said. “I’m sorry. I’ll change.”
“You’ll change.” He spit out a laugh. “I really tried, Violet.”
Dot tried to worm out of David’s grasp. “Mama!”
“Come to me, sweetie,” Violet held out her hands, but David jerked Dot away.
“I want Mama,” Dot cried. “I want Mama!”
“It’s okay, Dot,” Violet said. “Mommy and Daddy are happy.”
“Don’t lie to her!” David raged. “Will you stop lying for once in your fucking life?! Lie to yourself. Lie to me. But don’t lie to Dot!”
“What should I do?” Violet pleaded. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“What you always seem to do: whatever the fuck you want.” He stormed off with Dot. Violet swayed like sea grass in the ocean of the lawn.
The bartender came over with a glass. “Your Diet Coke.”
“Whoooooaaaa!” A collective moan rose from the crowd. The cupcakes had tumbled to the ground. Nearby, J.J. was crying in shame. Nora was on her hands and knees, frantically picking up cupcakes.
EVERYONE’S attention diverted by the cupcake avalanche, Kurt skulked into the house. David Parry was the kind of macher who was probably swimming in codeine cough syrup or better. Rich people, they got a hangnail and some Beverly Hills doctor was writing them a scrip.
He cased the living room. Nice shit they had here. Smaller than their other place, but right out of Dwell. In the corner was a door. Kurt scuttled toward it.
Shit, his head ached. His hands felt arthritic. A swig of codeine should lube the joints just right. It was a sweet party. Except for Maryam, who kept shooting him dirty looks, or at least tried to through her crazy makeup. He got a ton of compliments on his Peter Criss boots, but that was to be expected. He was seated at a table with a bunch of people from the Lakers. Maybe he could do a search-and-replace on that leather jacket proposal he wrote up for David and give it to them. Selling leather jackets at Lakers games . . . Kurt was warming to the idea.
He closed the door and flipped on the light. It was a fucking kid’s room. Crib, quilts on the wall, a stuffed rocking hippo in the corner. Kids got coughs, too, right? Maybe they gave the brat codeine cough syrup. Kurt entered the bathroom and shut the door. In the medicine cabinet sat a promising-looking bottle. Zyrtec. Kurt had never heard of it. He chugged the whole thing and stuck the empty bottle in the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. If he caught a buzz, he could call into the pharmacy and get the refills.
Something slammed. At the other end of the bathroom was an open door Kurt had missed. His instinct was to beat it, but he paused. A familiar voice drifted in from the other room.
“How could you show up here with her?” It was Violet; he’d know her voice anywhere. Even though she was a heifer, he wouldn’t mind hitting some of that million-dollar snatch. She always smelled so nice.
Kurt crept closer to the door.
“Did I tell you she was crazy?” A man was talking now.
Kurt couldn’t resist taking a peek. The guy was short, had dark skin and good hair. Kurt drew back.
“She doesn’t belong here!” Violet screamed. “I don’t care if she is a fucking Kennedy.”
“Well, good. Because she probably isn’t.”
“What did you just say?”
“Her driver’s license says Carolyne Portis. She just goes around posing like a Kennedy because people are lame enough to be impressed with it. Personally, I always had my doubts. I mean, think about it. What’s a Kennedy doing growing up in Palm Springs?”
“You asshole!” There was a struggle. Violet was trashing the poor fucker with both arms. In Kurt’s humble opinion, she needed to start altering her life state big-time. Violet screamed, “How could you invite her up here?”
“I didn’t invite her. She hacked into my e-mail and found out where the gig was. She walked here from the Greyhound station.”
“And that’s meant to mollify me? Jesus Christ!”
“She’s gone now. She bit one of your caterers, so I had a friend pick her up and bring her back to my apartment.”
“She’s biting people now?! What the fuck is going on? Do you realize my life is over? And for what?” Violet started really crying. “What happened that day? Was she there? Is that where you disappeared for those two hours? To find your girlfriend and tell her to give you a minute, the rich lady just showed up and you needed to string her along? Do you have any idea how infected my brain has become because of that night? Right now, the trunk of my car is full of presents for you. Golf clubs, a cell phone, even a bass I had Geddy Lee sign, waiting to give you when you finally called me to tell me that you felt it, too!”
Kurt shivered. The connections were flying, just like President Ikeda said they would.
Violet continued, through tears, “Do you realize what you’ve done to me? I grind out my days with my husband and child, but by night, I’m yours. I’m yours, but you don’t want me. Thanks to you, I’m a ghost, drifting through life, craving something I’ll never taste again.”
“Violet, I didn’t know.”
“David is going to leave me.”
“I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Why didn’t you at least fight for me?” she asked. “Aren’t I worth a fight? Or a poem? You never wrote me a poem. Do you think about me? Every day, every waking hour? Tell me the truth.”
“No.”
Violet laughed and shrieked at the same time. It was more fucked-up sounding than those coyotes.
“I think about my rent and my car and getting laid and staying sober and how shitty I feel and my roommate who’s always coming home after work and calling France while I’m trying to sleep.”
“So in the end it all comes down to your shitty little existence? Is that who I was to you, then? A cash cow? Well, cash cows have feelings, too.”
“Tell me,” he said. “What can I do? I want to make amends.”
“You can think about me every day until you die.”
“Of course I think about you.”
“And you can suffer!”
“Ha! That can be arranged.”
“You smelly creep. You shiftless fucker. This is not a joke. I am not a joke. You watch out for me. You fear me. I’m so vast you’ll never know. I’m the weather.”
The door slammed. It was like the universe had dumped a fucking fruit basket in Kurt’s lap. He had to hightail it to Violet’s car before the other dude did. That shit could pay his mortgage for the entire year.
SALLY had imagined dancing and being serenaded by Coldplay until the wee hours. Instead, it was 9:45, most of the guests were gone, and a no-name band played “Street Fighting Man” to a deserted dance floor. Sally stood at the front door, Nora holding both her hands. “I am so, so sorry about the cupcakes.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Sally. “It wasn’t J.J.’s fault.” It was Violet’s fault. She was the one who had grabbed the first cupcake before it was time. From that point on, the wedding was doomed. With no cake ceremony, the release of the doves and the centerpiece raffle stood no chance of being magical.
“Where are you two newlyweds off to?” Nora asked.
“We’re back and forth, traveling with the NBA for the month. . . .” Sally trailed off. She couldn’t remember what month it was. . . .
“Oh!” Nora grabbed an envelope from her purse. “I wanted to give you this. It’s a save-the-date card for a thing I’m having on June fir
st, if you’re in town.”
“Ooh.” Sally took the envelope, with the faint realization that she had in her hand something she’d wanted ever since she started working with Nora — an invitation to one of her parties. But Sally’s mouth was so dry. She wandered away from Nora and bumped into a man.
“Hey, nice party, babe,” he said. Sally couldn’t remember his name. He worked with Jeremy.
“Right . . .” said Sally. She needed some water. And someplace to lie down.
“I’ve never heard a whole Stones set without a bass player.” Who was this guy? Jim. That’s right, Jim. When did she last eat? Some fruit, a bite of cupcake. She’d raised a champagne flute to her lips during the toasts, but hadn’t swallowed any. Was she low or high? When did she take her last shot . . . ?
“I asked Jeremy how it felt to be married,” Jim said, “but he was neither zero nor one about it.” He cracked up. “Come on, that’s hilarious. Jeremy has two emotions, zero and one.”
Sally hiked the hem of her dress, felt for her garter, and pulled out the diabetes kit she’d had made in matching satin just for the occasion. She stabbed her finger with the lancet and squeezed some blood out.
“Oh — what are you — I’ll just give you some privacy.” Jim slunk off.
Sally pressed the blood onto a test strip and stuck it in the glucometer.
Beep.
404.
That couldn’t be right. Sally blinked. 404. She pulled out a fresh test strip and tested her blood again. 412.
Oh God! She’d never taken that shot before the wedding. Jeremy had come in and she’d totally forgotten! At over 400, she risked slipping into ketoacidosis. She could go into a coma. What if she passed out here? Please, no. Not at my wedding, not in front of the guests. She needed some insulin now! Her medicine was in the guesthouse. Sally staggered down the hall, her heart rampaging throughout her body.
Her baby! What if she had ketones in her urine? If any passed into her placenta, it might damage the baby’s developing organs. Sally picked up her pace. Oh God, how could she have let this happen?!
Sally flew into the carport and beheld a sight that under any other circumstance would have bowled her over.
Kurt stood at the open trunk of Violet’s Mercedes. When he saw Sally, his jaw dropped and eyes flew open. In the whole five years they were together, Sally had never seen so much . . . expression on Kurt’s face.
“Sally!” he yelped.
But Sally kept running, her dress dragging across the oily floor. She tumbled into the guesthouse and lunged for the bathroom door.
It was locked.
“Hello!” She knocked on the door. “Please hurry! I have to get in.” She pounded it with both fists. “It’s the bride; I need to get in!” She rattled the knob. “Hello! This is an emergency! Please!”
The door opened. A man stood there, nobody she recognized. A red-white-and-blue terry-cloth headband tamed his unruly hair. He looked sleepy, as if he’d just woken up. His green eyes, sickly and bloodshot, stared into hers. Sally froze, as if this man were a portent of evil.
“Who are you?” she asked. But he just walked away.
Sally shut herself in the bathroom. Her Liberty of London bag was on the floor behind the toilet, where she had kicked it when Jeremy burst in. She’d forgotten to put it away! Bottles of insulin, test strips, caps, lancets, alcohol wipes, were scattered everywhere. She grabbed the Humalog. Now she needed a syringe. She couldn’t find one. She shook her bag and turned it inside out, then dropped to her knees and checked behind the toilet. She picked up the rug, turned over the trash can — there it was: a syringe! Among the tissues — in the trash can! Sally laughed. It must have landed there when Jeremy surprised her!
Sally jammed the needle into the little jar. Her hand shaking, she drew out ten units. She didn’t bother lifting her wedding dress. She stabbed the syringe through the satin and injected herself in the stomach. She could finally breathe. Her baby was going to be fine.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Double Secret Probation The Game Show Coachella
Now Do You Believe Me? I Never Really Liked You
“TEN FIVE PER EPISODE?” VIOLET SAID TO HER AGENT AS SHE BACKED OUT OF the carport. Violet’s friend Richard had just gotten a pilot picked up. There was a bit of money left in the budget, and he had asked if she’d consult a couple days a week. “We can close the deal,” she told her agent. “Let me know my start date.” She hung up, tickled to be once again employed.
The night of the wedding, Violet had stayed up for David in their hotel room, bracing herself for his excoriation, but he never appeared. Instead, he had checked into his own bungalow. It was where he’d been living for the past month, coming and going from the house only to see Dot, get the mail, and drop off laundry. He was always perfectly agreeable, exchanging pleasantries with Violet, who trepidatiously followed his lead. It was as if she were on some type of double secret probation.
All Violet could do as she awaited her sentence was live her life, their life. She kept the house in order and tended to Dot. Every night, she’d snuggle in bed with her little girl and, after the books, tell her, “Mommy loves you. And Daddy loves you. And Mommy loves Daddy. And Daddy loves Mommy.”
Teddy rarely appeared in her thoughts. When he did, it was so benign — she’d read a reference to JFK and think, Oh — that Violet would smile at the utter lack of emotional charge.
However, there were some loose ends. First, she had to wiggle out of the George Harrison estate. The geology report was a disaster, which gave her an excuse to cancel the purchase. The paperwork had to be signed and delivered by five o’clock tomorrow.
The second issue was a bit more unsettling. The myriad of gifts stashed in her trunk had disappeared the night of the wedding. Violet resisted calling Teddy, not only because she didn’t want any contact with him, but because her gut said he didn’t do it. His code of honor was rife with nuance, to be sure. But burglary was something that just didn’t fit. There was the additional matter of hepatitis C. She and Teddy had used a condom. Still, she would get a blood test, just to be sure.
Violet reached the bottom of the driveway and stopped at the mailbox. Despite all of David’s success, his face would fill with childlike anticipation at the sight of the mail. She’d bring him the mail, the lunch she had made him, the escrow cancelation papers, and word of her new job. David had wanted her to start writing again. Perhaps he’d be so happy he’d sleep at home tonight. Perhaps he’d already made up his mind to throw her out. There was no way to tell. Yesterday at the market, she had reached for a dozen eggs, and realized they had a good chance of lasting longer at her house than she did.
She dialed David’s office.
“Violet!” burst the startled voice of David’s assistant.
“David’s wife.”
“I know. He was out of the office all morning, I have no idea where, and I’ve got a million people trying to get a hold of him.”
“Oh,” Violet said. “He’s not around?”
“He just got on a helicopter to Coachella. Even though the concert’s not until Saturday, he went today to make sure the sound from the main stage won’t drown out the second stage —” The assistant gasped.
“What?” asked Violet.
“Nothing,” said the girl. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
Violet had been thinking the same thing. “Well, just tell David I called.” She hung up, disappointed she would miss him.
SALLY ascended the steps of her Crescent Heights apartment. Strewn on the landing was a month of mail laced with shriveled wisteria blossoms. The state seal of California jumped out at her. She opened the envelope. “Sally Miller Parry, this letter informs you that your debts have been discharged, blah, blah, blah. . . .” Could she have really gotten away with the whole thing? She was out of debt, married, and pregnant, all in four months. She gathered the mail and opened the door.
Before her was a wonderland of wedding pre
sents, all shapes and sizes. They were just gigantic chunks of cardboard, of course, but Sally’s X-ray eyes saw the light blue Tiffany boxes, gold Geary’s ones, and more! It was as if she had opened door number two and won the grand prize. She half-expected Bob Barker to step in and hand her the keys to a brand-new convertible. The audience would lustily applaud, knowing Sally deserved it all.
She could have ripped open every box on the spot, but she had to organize her medicine before the car arrived. Game One of the NBA Conference Finals was tonight in Houston, and the plane left in two hours. Sally picked her way to the kitchen, where she loaded medicine into her extra diabetes kit for the plane. Hopefully, Houston would be more fun than Sacramento. It ended up that there was only so much you could do, or charge, at the Sheraton Grand Sacramento. She and Jeremy had ventured out once, to the California State Railroad Museum. At the ticket booth, Jeremy got recognized by a bunch of scary black people wearing Kings jerseys. They kept shouting, Hey, Professor! and taking pictures with their cell phones. The newlyweds left before the guide showed up for their VIP tour.
Sally zipped the kit shut, then couldn’t help it. She had to open just one present.
She raced into the living room and chose a giant box from Tiffany. She yanked off the red ribbon. Inside was a peacock cachepot. Sally’s spirits sank. She had registered for it, but what would she do with a five-hundred-dollar cachepot? Maybe start a charity where people gave away their wedding presents to those less fortunate. Sally had once read in Town & Country that Jessica Seinfeld, Jerry’s wife, founded a charity that distributed baby stuff that her friends didn’t want. Now that she was Sally White, she needed to start taking herself seriously like that, too.
Sally looked at the mail. Maybe there was something good there. She recognized a return address as belonging to Nora Ross. The envelope was heavy, the paper thick and expensive. Sally opened it and removed a little book bound with red silk cord. On the cover were the words:
