“A new job, Sam. I thought I’d keep it a surprise.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s someone you know.”
“She’s talking about Iris, Sam,” Max says.
“Iris O’Conner? When did she call you?”
“Just before New Year’s. She wants some painting done.”
We’re driving up past Lincoln Park. Frank’s place is a big old Georgian with white columns. Over the years, Iris has fixed it up, extending the gardens and putting an atrium off the back. It wasn’t that big when they bought it, but there have been additions. Frank would always come in the office saying, “Iris is up to her old tricks again. Look at these bills, for crying out loud.” As much as he complained, he had pictures of the house framed on his wall. The shingles on the roof were replaced with tile, the front door painted an ivy green. I’ve only been over there a few times. We pass big houses, each with low flagstone walls. Frank and Iris live down near the end. Max starts unloading things from the truck while Ruby and I go up to the front door and ring the bell. Frank opens the door in a purple cardigan, looking like he hasn’t slept. Loose skin surrounds his jaw, the shine replaced with stubble. “Sam,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
“Iris wants some painting done,” Ruby says.
“Painting?” he says. “She never told me.”
“Who’s that?” Iris says from another room.
“What are we painting?” he says. Iris appears in silk pajamas and a yellow dressing gown. Her hair is pulled back, face drawn, no makeup. “Don’t leave them standing out there,” she says. “Come in, Sam. You must be Ruby. Mary’s told me all about you. Just push Frankie out of the way. He’s always getting under my feet. Come in the atrium, we’re having tea.”
“Max is getting things out of the truck,” Ruby says.
“That little bastard?” Frank says. “Christ, why didn’t you tell me you were painting, Iris? Now I’ve got to deal with that little fucker.”
“Come through to the atrium, Ruby,” Iris says. “We’ll talk in there. Do you want tea, Sam?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t just stand there, Frankie. Have Max bring everything to the servant’s door. We’ll start the tea.”
“What did he do with the wiener van, Sam?” Frank asks.
“Took it to the wreckers finally.”
“Good riddance.” Iris and Ruby go to the atrium. “Sam,” Frank says. “A word.” He pulls me over next to his den. “Look,” he says and pauses, “Iris isn’t doing so well. She’s going in for more treatments. We thought we had it nipped in the bud.”
“She looked great up north.”
“I thought so, too. Why’s she getting stuff painted, anyway? The place looks fine.”
“I don’t know. I just found out about it.”
“She can’t have paint fumes, Sam. Or the noise.” Max bumps against something out front. “Jesus wept,” Frank says. “Now I’ve got him around.” He opens the front door. There’s Max with a ladder. Frank’s cell phone rings. “I have to take this, Sam,” he says. “Probably New York.” He goes down the hall.
“Where do I put this stuff, Sam?” Max says.
“Take it around the back. I’ll find out where Iris wants us to start.” Max backs down the steps with the ladder. I go out to the atrium. Ruby’s taking notes. “Have some tea. Sam,” Iris says. “Where’s Frankie?”
“He’s taking a call.”
“All upset, is he?”
“He’s worried about the fumes and the noise.”
“We’ll be at the other end of the house, Sam,” Ruby says.
“What did Frankie think I was doing?” Iris says. Her face is so drawn.
“Anything else?” Ruby says to Iris.
“Frank’s den could use some freshening.”
“My den needs what?” Frank appears.
“It needs painting, Frankie.”
“Like hell it does. I don’t want that little bastard in there.” Max passes by the atrium windows, stumbling over his bootlaces.
“They’re here now, Frankie. We might as well get it done.”
“Iris, you’re in no condition—”
“No condition for what?”
“Just—” he says, rubbing his chin and sitting down. “Never mind. You know what I was about to say.”
“Frankie thinks I’m going to drop dead.”
“That’s not what I meant at all.”
Ruby looks at me. “I’ve got lymphoma, Ruby,” Iris says, pouring more tea. “I need treatments. That’s what the specialists say, anyway.”
“Crackpots,” Frank says.
“You poor thing,” Ruby says. “I was diagnosed with lupus three years ago. Turned out to be nothing. Didn’t let me know for two weeks. Otis cried every day.”
“Otis is Ruby’s husband,” I say.
“Otis Cries for You?” Iris says. “He’s funny as hell.”
“That’s my Otis,” Ruby says.
Iris coughs. “We spend all this money on specialists,” Frank says, “and they can’t tell us anything, for chrissake.” He takes Iris’s hand.
“Why don’t you see Dr. Krupsky?” Ruby says. “He’s wonderful. He told me I’m the brightest star in the galaxy.”
“Krupsky’s my GP,” I say.
“He any good?” Frank says.
“He’s not a specialist, Frank.”
“I don’t care what he is. I asked if he’s any good. I want answers, not somebody picking their arse for a thousand an hour. What’s that little bastard doing out there?” Max is trying to get all the drop cloths untied.
“I’d better go out and help,” Ruby says.
“Sam,” Frank says. “See me in my den before you get started. I have to make one call. Finish your tea.”
Iris sits with her hands between her knees. “Frankie doesn’t handle these things very well,” she says.
“He’s scared.”
“You know what they say in Belfast? Anything can be solved by raising your voice.”
“When will you start treatments again?”
“Soon. I swore I’d never own a wig,” she laughs. “I’d rather wear a big fur hat.”
“Frank will buy you a whole mink farm.”
“No doubt he would.”
“Listen, Iris. What Ruby said about Krupsky. He’s a nice guy and everything. I don’t know what he can tell you. He’s not an oncologist. He probably knows more about tango.”
“He tangos?”
“Like a born Argentine.”
“He sounds like quite the person.”
“I’d better go talk to Frank and then get to work.”
“Thanks, Sam.” She stares out at Max cutting cords with a penknife.
Frank is sitting in the den with his arms behind his head. “What’s up?” I say.
“New York,” he says. “Everything’s gone through. I’m fucking rich. Even Margot’s book is doing great. Yours? Not so much. The Japanese market isn’t doing as well as I expected. Now, Sam, this doctor Ruby was talking about?”
“Krupsky,” I say. “I just talked to Iris. He’s not an oncologist, Frank. I don’t know what he can do for her.”
“He’s got to do something, Sam,” Frank says.
“Like what?”
“Something, for God’s sake. I’ll get fucking voodoo doctors if that’s what it takes. You got Krupsky’s number?”
“I’ll call him.”
“Do it now.”
“He’s probably with a patient.”
“Leave a message. Get him to call back.”
I phone and Krupsky answers. “Hello, Sam,” he says. “Saw your name on the call display. My secretary’s off today. You need medication?”
“I’m calling about someone else. A friend of mine. She’s got lymphoma.”
“Nasty stuff. What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. Her husband doesn’t think he’s getting enough answers from the specialists. We’re here paintin
g now. Could you possibly come over after work?”
“I was going to drop in on Judy anyway.”
“Maybe before that?”
“I’ll come by around four o’clock. What’s the address?” I give it to him while Frank eyes a cigar. I hang up. “He’ll be here around four,” I say to Frank.
“Thanks, Sam,” he says.
“Listen, Frank, this probably isn’t the time. I made a decision the other night.”
“About what?”
“No more grammar books. I’m done.”
“Not surprised. It’s all a load of rubbish, anyway. Not you, just the business itself. I did you a favor selling out, you know. Gave you your fucking life back. I didn’t think you’d pick up a paintbrush, but to each his own. Go on, you wanker. Go paint.”
Ruby takes us to the old servant’s entrance. It leads up to a large open studio above the garage. We bump up the stairs with the ladders, drop cloths and paint cans. The room has a cathedral ceiling and four dormers. Ruby mixes paint while Max and I lay down the drop cloths. “Start around the windows, Sam,” Ruby says. “Max and I will do the ceiling. I have to go get another paint color Iris wants. Maybe I’ll do that now. You guys get hustling. I’ll be right back.”
We paint through the morning. Ruby returns around noon. “They didn’t have this color anywhere,” she said. “I had to get it made up in the end.” It’s a shade of violet I’ve never seen before. “Nice,” Max says. Iris’s housekeeper comes upstairs with sandwiches. They’re all cut like the ones served at cocktail parties.
Just after four o’clock, Krupsky shows up. I find him sitting with Iris in the atrium. He’s holding her hand. “I’ll see what I can do,” Krupsky’s saying. “I have a friend at the General. One of the best. He’ll look at your charts.” Krupsky sees me standing there. “Hello, Sam,” he says. “How’s your painting going?”
“We’ve made a good start,” I say. “How’s everything here?”
“Absolutely marvelous,” he says. “Iris and I are having a nice chat. She’s a tango dancer. Imagine that. We’re going to dance once she gets through her therapy. Are you off now?”
“Just cleaning up. You coming back to see Judy?”
“I’ll be along in a bit.”
Frank comes in the atrium. “Everything sorted?” he says.
“We’re fine, Frankie,” Iris says. “Go do your work.”
On the way home, I light a cigarette. “Give me a puff, Sam,” she says.
“Ruby,” Max scolds.
“This is it,” I say. “I’m stopping.” We pass the cigarette back and forth. Max opens his window. He says the smoke puts him the mood for something charbroiled.
Chapter 92
Krupsky is here at Frank and Iris’s every day. He’s cutting down on patients. He says he’d rather spend time with friends.
The room over the garage is finished. Once Iris feels better, Krupsky wants her to start tangoing with him. They’re turning the room into a tango studio. Krupsky’s already brought over his tango records, and he and Iris sit in the atrium listening to the music. Frank’s on his cell phone as usual, talking away. We’re working on Frank’s den now. He hates having us around, especially Max. Knowing Frank, he thinks Max is after his cigars and liquor. “I don’t want your cigars, old man,” Max says to him.
“Who are you calling old, you little bastard?” Frank says.
He got up on a ladder yesterday, showing Max he could paint a straight line. “What do you think about that?” he said. “I painted for a living back in Belfast. Did plaster, too. Try that, you little prick.”
“You missed a spot,” Max said.
“I did not.”
“Over there. You need glasses.”
“I’ll punch your lights out in a minute.” Frank stepped off the ladder and took a header into the wall. Ruby laughed her head off. Paint dripped down Frank’s cardigan. “My auntie knitted this, for chrissake,” he screamed.
“Give it here,” Ruby said. “I’ll get it out.”
Frank took the sweater off, then tried to kick Max in the ass for calling him an old man. “Little snipe,” he said. He went off in a huff.
“How are you going to get the paint out, Ruby?”
“I don’t know yet, Max.”
“Want some turpentine?”
“That’ll fade the color.”
“How about urine?”
“That gets out paint?”
“No, I just wanted to piss on Frank’s cardigan.” Ruby laughed herself silly. I laughed, too. Why not? Frank’s pissed on enough things in his day.
Chapter 93
Krupsky and Iris are starting to tango. Late last week, Emma came over and was introduced to Frank. They actually get along. Emma speaks six languages. She’s teaching him Russian and Polish, just in case he wants to tour with Margot’s book. They’re out in the atrium every day.
We’ve been going over there some evenings ourselves. The studio has a decent sized tango floor. Krupsky’s set up lanes with chalk, showing us how to move up and down the room. Frank sticks his head in every now and then. Emma even got him out tangoing a few times. “Look Iris,” he said, “it’s a piece of cake,” and promptly fell on his ass. Sometimes, when we finish up, Frank takes Krupsky outside for a cigar. I’ve given up smoking altogether. “I’m glad you’ve stopped,” Mary says on the way home.
Muller and Judy still play Scrabble, but they don’t argue anymore. Muller can use all the proper names he wants. Judy’s face is this bright pink, the color of motherhood. As soon as the baby comes, they want to start tangoing again. “Muller’s going to get fat otherwise,” Judy says. He’s already fat, but he’s her Big Bear. The rest of the crowd misses him, or his brownies. On our way to a house on Evergreen Avenue, Ruby said, “He grows on you, doesn’t he, Sam? Just like Otis.” Krupsky put Otis’s arm in a sling the other night. Otis pulled something doing that stupid windmill dance.
We’ve got a long day ahead of us. It’s outdoor work, but now it’s getting warmer. I can’t wait to get on the ladder. I like being up there with the bees. I’ve also bought an iPod and downloaded some songs. I sing along, making Max look at me funny. I’m probably off key, but I move with my brush, hitting high notes with an upward stroke. “You missed a spot,” Max says.
“Where?”
“Over by the corner.”
“I’ll get it on the next coat.”
“You’re pretty tone deaf, you know.”
“I’m holding a loaded brush, Max.”
“Who’re you listening to?”
“Tony Bennett.”
“Isn’t he dead?”
“He’s doing fine, Max.”
“What is he?” Max says, “A hundred or something?”
“He’s not a hundred.”
“How old is he then?”
“I don’t know, Max. We don’t celebrate each other’s birthdays.”
Chapter 94
The winter and spring practically flew by with work, putting the final touches on the nursery, and Muller catering. Mary rented an industrial unit, hiring people to help Muller out. It’s all covered under Margomax. We jokingly refer to each invoice as “Frank’s concern.” He and Iris have started travelling, but Frank’s a Skype addict now. Margot likes to put him on mute while she watches his lips move.
She’s bilking the hell out of him. As she says, the man’s been bilking people for years. “I outta know,” she says, and does up another invoice on the new Margomax letterhead. Frank added an ivy green banner at the top. That’s just in case Margot forgets it’s his money she’s throwing around. She gave us bonuses last week. Frank just about had a fit. He called Margot an “old bat” before she put him on mute and mouthed the words, “Suck on it, Frank.”
We gather over at Frank’s on Friday nights, at least when Frank and Iris are in town. We’re getting pretty good at tangoing. Frank and Margot go out on the floor occasionally. It looks more like jitterbugging than a tango. Krupsky tries introduc
ing some form, holding up Frank’s arm, turning his chin. Frank looks like he’s waiting for a snapshot.
It’s nice with the windows open, a breeze coming in off the lake. Iris still can’t overdo it. She likes to sit with Judy while Muller dances with Emma. Judy calls her Auntie Emma and Margot Auntie Margot and now Ruby’s Auntie Ruby. You’d think she’d have enough aunts, but now she’s calling Emma, Gramma Emma. It doesn’t seem to bother Emma one bit.
Max finished his business course and now has three people working for him, including Zack. We suspect Zack’s selling seafood out the back of the van again. It smells like a tuna boat.
Another bit of news: Max’s expanding into interior decorating with a woman he met on Otis’s show. He was filling in for Otis one night and she called in to say she liked Max’s choice of song, The Tempree’s “Dedicated to the One I Love.” It’s still early days in the romance department, but he brought her over once to Frank’s, and Krupsky got them doing a basic samba. Frank still calls Max a scheming little git, blaming him for his purple sweater smelling like a marsh. “I didn’t do anything to your stupid sweater,” Max says.
He doesn’t push it, though. Frank is paying for the House Manicure advertising, although he doesn’t know it. Margot slips everything through under general expenditures, something Frank suspects, but he’s too busy taking care of Iris.
Last month, we received three gold stars in one of the trade publications for “Best House Painters in North Chicago.” That brought in a lot of calls. We’ll be painting solidly right through the summer, then Iris wants us staining their decks up at Lake Geneva. Otis isn’t crazy about the idea, telling Ruby her absence will leave him “sorely in need of human interaction.” Margot says that’s a hoot. “You can’t even spell interaction,” she says.
Frank thinks he’s getting a deal on the staining, but Margot’s charging him through the nose. They argue over pricing while they dance. Sometimes Frank tries to strangle her. They end up smoking cigars on the patio.
The grass brownies are a thing of the past. Everyone’s been weaned off except Otis who’s been trying to bake them himself. They look like flattened turds. Bisquick won’t even touch them. “Ain’t we hoity toity,” Otis says. Bisquick doesn’t think much of Otis’s nipples now, either.
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