The Sleeping Beauty Proposal

by Sarah Strohmeyer

“Even in this day and age of communication?”

  I pat his knee. “It’s Hugh we’re talking about, Dad. He can’t even work a landline. Besides, what does it matter? You helped Lucy buy a house. I know that doesn’t automatically mean I deserve the same, but . . .”

  “You deserve the same. Better, in my opinion. My only concern is what happens if you buy the place without consulting Hugh and he hits the roof?”

  “Hits the roof” is one of my father’s favorite expressions.

  “Let me ask you something,” I posit, curious. “What if I were single again and I wanted to buy a house.Would you give me the same amount of money you gave Lucy? I mean, not adjusting for inflation.”

  Dad grins at my inflation line. He knows I’m clueless when it comes to economics. “And you weren’t getting married?”

  “Hence my use of the word single.”

  "Then . . . no.”

  “Why not?” Though I expected this answer, a part of me secretly wished my father had enough respect for me not to say it to my face.

  “Because what’s the point? A single girl doesn’t need a house. Houses are for families. They’re places to raise kids. All a single girl needs is an apartment, a reliable car, and a closet full of new clothes.”

  My left hand balls into a fist. I must keep my cool if I want to win this battle. I cannot bicker about his erroneous use of girl for woman or his thoroughly insulting statement that houses are for families only.

  I need to remember that he’s not cruel, he’s not intentionally sexist. He’s my father who loves me and he is simply ignorant.

  “But, if I were getting married—as I am—you would have no problem giving me how much?”

  “Well,” he says, pondering his slippered feet. “We gave Jason and Lucy three hundred thousand dollars so they could keep the monthly payments low.What’s Todd’s house going for?”

  “A half a million and Cecily, the owner, wants cash.”

  Dad emits a knowing banker snort. “Good luck. Real estate is an industry that thrives on debt, a system the IRS very much encourages.”

  Oh, no. Here it comes.The banker lecture number 47.

  “It’s the biggest federal subsidy, you know. Mortgages.”

  “Yes, Dad, I know.You’ve told me this a gazillion times.”

  “So you should know your Cecily is blowing smoke. No way someone’s going to show up with a pocket of cash to buy that place.”

  Actually, he’s made me feel much better. It’s a relief to realize I won’t be bidding against doctors and lawyers and drug dealers with Franklins falling out of their pockets.

  Mom is back with the Coke. I’m amazed she went through the trouble of pouring it since Dad immediately puts it on the side table without so much as a sip.

  “Well?” she asks. “Have you reached a decision?”

  Dad gives her a newsy update. “Genie can’t reach Hugh because he’s in Europe and she’s worried the house Todd’s been working on will get snapped up over the weekend if she doesn’t act fast. I think we should give her and Hugh the up-front money, at least.”

  Up-front money? What’s that?

  “I can’t hide my disappointment, Eugenia,” Mom says. “Your father and I planned on doing for you and Hugh what we did for Lucy and Jason. Only, we were waiting until Hugh returned. We were going to have a little party and surprise the two of you with our offer to help you buy a house and now it’s all been ruined.”

  “No it hasn’t, Mom,” I say, getting up and hugging her, barely able to hide the happiness that’s mixed with my frustration. “It’s better this way.”

  “You mean without the party?”

  "Actually,” I say, "without Hugh.”

  Mom says, “You mean without Hugh here.”

  “Right.”

  It turns out that the “up-front money” my father has in mind is enough to put the house under contract, not enough to satisfy Cecily’s whims. Though I’m grateful for his extremely generous offer—no matter how ticked I am that I had to pretend to be engaged to get it—I must recognize defeat.

  There is no way I’ll get the house. In this market, there’ll be enough eager buyers who can gather the necessary cash so Cecily doesn’t have to wait a month.

  It’s over.

  This is the message I leave on Nick’s machine, being mindful that Cecily might be in the room when he plays it.Then I hang up and survey my tiny apartment with its one-windowed kitchen, its makeshift living room barely big enough for a couch, and sit down to cry, Jorge staring up at me, bored. I don’t even bother to answer the phone when it rings. I’m simply too depressed.

  “Pick up!” Patty screams from the answering machine.“I know you’re there, Sister Eugenia.”

  I pick up the phone and carry it to the kitchen, cupping it on my shoulder as I search the freezer for something inspiring. “Where are you?”

  “At McGillicuddy’s. Your buddy Steve’s playing and Todd’s here doing his award-winning rendition of ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues.’ ”

  “Don’t let him get away with that,” I say, choosing a Lean Cuisine orange chicken. “He didn’t take home first place. He got honorable mention for artistic cue cards.”

  “He’s still got ’em! They’re awesome.Why don’t you join us?”

  I peel back a corner of the plastic. “I can’t. I’m too blue. I just found out tonight that Cecily’s put the house on the market and she wants cash. A Realtor I ran into figures it’ll be gone by Sunday night.”

  There’s murmuring in the background, Todd asking whether I’m coming and Patty explaining my house-induced depression.

  “So forget the house,” Patty says, getting back on. “All the more reason you should come out with us. It’s Saturday night. It’s summer. Everyone is roaming the streets. Even White Bob.”

  White Bob is the nickname we’ve given to a student street musician who, aside from being white and probably from Kingston, Ohio, instead of Kingston, Jamaica, operates under the painful delusion that he’s the reincarnation of Bob Marley.

  “No, really. I think I’ll just take a shower, turn on the air-conditioning, and go to bed.”

  “We’ll get you drunk on Cap’n and Cokes!”As if that is somehow enticing.

  “I don’t want to get drunk on Cap’n and Cokes. I want to buy the adorable Victorian on Peabody.”

  “I give up.Talk to Todd.”

  Todd gets on.“Let the house go, Genie. I’ve been in real estate long enough to know if it’s meant to be, you’ll get it. Otherwise, forget it.”

  My microwave beeps and I give the still-cold chicken a turn. “Todd, that’s how I’ve been living my life, going with the flow. I’m tired of it. I need to act. I need to do something. Take risks, like you said.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Listen, I gotta quickly ask you something while Pugliese’s out of earshot. Is she really marrying this guy?”

  “I don’t know. I guess.” Patty has not brought me up to speed on how far she’s gone with this engagement story of hers.

  “What bothers me is his name. It sounds so bogus. Moe Howard.”

  I stop stirring the chicken. Oh, Lord. Don’t tell me she went with that one.That was her old standby when we were in college, the imaginary boyfriend for when she didn’t want to get picked up. “Is this Captain Moe Howard of the U.S. Navy we’re talking about?”

  “Have you met him? Because this is the first I’ve heard of the guy and suddenly she’s engaged.”

  “Oh, yeah.Those two have been dating for years. His brother Curly’s a laugh riot. Put Patty on.”

  Patty gets on. “Back from the bar, me and my Cap’n.”

  “That’s not the only captain in your life, I gather. Honestly, Patty.What were you thinking?”

  “It slipped out. Force of habit or whatever. Anyway, can I help it if I’m a sucker for men in uniforms?”

  “Claiming Captain Moe Howard as your boyfriend may have been moderately amusing when you wanted to put down obnoxious fraternity br
others in college. But it’s not going to fly at your firm. Pretty soon someone’s going to remember the Three Stooges.”

  There’s a slurp and a crunch of ice.“First of all, you don’t have to use obnoxious as the modifier of fraternity brothers. It’s redundant. Second, I seem to have convinced Todd and he’s not dumb.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s smart. Really smart. And I’m not just saying that ’cause he’s buying. I think he finally appreciates me, now that I’m the object of another man’s infection, as they say.”

  Albeit an imaginary man. “What about Nick?” I ask, testing the waters.

  “What about Nick? He’s a client, nothing more. You know I never step over the line of attorney-client relationships. Geesh, Genie. I may be a slut, but not in the workplace. Only at Whole Foods.”

  Actually, if memory serves, there’s no place, work or otherwise, Patty hasn’t been a slut. But I’m not going to debate the point. I’m just tremendously relieved that she and my brother seem to have finally found common ground. It’s a miracle.

  A miracle that gives me hope. If Patty and Todd can get along, then maybe it’s not so impossible to think that I might be able to buy the Peabody Road house after all.

  Hey.You never know.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My miracle doesn’t take long.

  The next morning, as I’m leaving to go to the gym, I find Patty’s yellow Porsche parked in front of my house, Patty asleep at the wheel. She is in her clothes from the night before. A white halter dress with a big Coke stain right on the front.

  Classy.

  “Are you okay?” I shout.

  Patty shakes herself and groggily rolls down the window. “Freaking tired. I stayed up all night and then, just to cover all my bases, went to the sunrise Mass. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  There is the niggling question as to whether she stayed up all night with Todd, but I don’t dare ask.

  “Get in.” She leans over and opens the door.

  I get in, leaving my gym bag on the sidewalk. Jorge, having made it as far as my front step, eyes us with suspicion. Once again I’m going someplace and not taking him.

  Patty’s car smells of fine leather, coffee, and mint gum—Patty smells.

  “I wanted to make sure I caught you, but I didn’t want to call and wake you up. So I parked here.” She covers a big yawn. “I think I know how you can buy the house today.”

  This is my friend Patty. She never stops scheming. “Are you serious?”

  “It might work. It might not.Todd’s not so sure.”

  “Todd?”

  “Yeah, he hammered out the details with me until the wee hours.”

  Therefore, she did spend the night with him.

  “He loves you very much, Genie. He wants you to be happy and he’s willing to do whatever it takes. Also, he feels guilty for blabbing to Nick about how Steve popped your cherry.”

  “Thanks.” I love my brother, too.

  Taking a healthy sip from her white Starbucks cup, she says, “All you have to do is stop by the house around eleven forty-five when Cecily’s Realtor’s showing it to a couple of doctors. Dress nice and keep your mouth shut.Todd and I will do the rest.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I’d rather not say. It might be”—she pauses—“somewhat illegal.”

  “Oh, brilliant.” Great. First I fake an engagement and now I’m scamming property. How the mighty have fallen. “If it’s too much of a risk, we can forget it, Patty. I don’t have to own this house.”

  She plunks down the coffee. “Yes, you do. It’s your destiny.”

  “It is not my destiny.”

  “Of course it is.Yesterday you ran into two people—Tracy, the real estate agent, and Nick—both with crucial information about the house.That’s the Holy Spirit, baby.”

  “No it’s not. It’s coincidence.”

  Patty slaps her hand on my knee. "Oh, honey. There is no such thing as coincidence. I keep trying to tell you that. Everything, and I mean every little thing, happens for a reason.”

  “It’s nice to believe, Patty, but it’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is. The Holy Spirit is the most powerful force in the universe. Praise God. God is great!”

  Okay, I’m not going to get in a religious debate with her on a Sunday morning in her Porsche. I will smile politely and wait until she’s done giving testimony and then be on my merry way.

  “Do you know,” she says, shifting in her seat to look at me, “that when I wake up in the morning, I say three things? I thank God for giving me another day to live on this planet, basking in His love and asking for His help in returning the favor.Then I say Jabez’s Prayer.”

  “I dread to ask.”

  “‘Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain. Amen.’ ” She crosses herself.“It’s from the Old Testament, First Chronicles 4:10. I say it because it reaffirms for me that all I need is to do my best and trust in God and all will be well. He never lets us out of His sight, Genie. Never.”

  “All right,” I counter. “If God never lets us out of His sight and wants us all to prosper, then how do you explain starvation and murder? How do you explain wars and AIDS and children in Third World countries who are slaughtered in front of their mothers?”

  Patty slaps her steering wheel.“It’s that damned free will.Why do you think I pray? So that He’ll intervene once in a while.

  Frankly, I just don’t know why He doesn’t take free will back.The world would be so much better off.”

  “Also, more boring.”

  “True.”

  Patty and I sit there, staring at nothing, thinking about free will and destiny.

  “What’s the third thing?” I ask.

  “Pardon?”

  “The third thing you say every morning before you get out of bed.”

  “Oh, that.Yeah. Filing deadline. I pray that I haven’t missed a filing deadline ’cause that could lose me a case. Man, the law can be one nitpicky bitch.”

  I have known Patty for almost twenty years and still I haven’t figured out how a ruthless lawyer who swears and drinks and sleeps around and breaks the speed limit whenever possible can also be such a devout Catholic.

  When she’s not praying or going to confession or attending Mass or donating wads of her personal income to charities, she’s cursing the male-run, hierarchical nature of the Church to which she is devoted, body and soul. It’s a contradiction I don’t understand.

  I don’t ask; I just accept.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I arrive at the Peabody Road house at 11:45 on the dot.

  Already, there are a bunch of cars parked at the dead end— Patty’s Porsche, Todd’s pickup truck, a Lexus (which must belong to the Realtor since it’s a statute Realtors in this area must drive Lexuses), and a late-model Volvo. Probably the doctors’.

  Everyone’s inside and I have absolutely no idea why I’m here or what Patty and Todd want me to do.Take a risk, I think. That’s what.

  The Realtor is already showing off the house’s features when I walk in. With great arm flourishes, she gestures to the marble fireplace and then to the high ceilings, emphasizing the space and gushing about the southern exposure and hardwood floors, the excellent schools and unique privacy.

  There is no sign of Nick.Then again, why would there be? He knows every inch of this house, including the upstairs, his home.

  Meanwhile, a couple I’m assuming are the doctors are behaving as if they, too, know everything. He is snapping gum and nodding rapidly, motioning with his hand for the Realtor to get on with it.The woman isn’t even paying attention. She’s punching numbers on her cell. Might be checking a page. Or maybe that morning’s crossword puzzle.

  While . . . Patty.Wait! What’s she doing?

  Patty is in a very suburban Dolce & Gabbana miniskirt and pink, sleeveless cotton top, the exact
outfit someone like Lucy would wear to an open house. Her hair is in a bouncy flip and held back with a black headband and she is dripping with diamonds. A diamond tennis bracelet. Diamond studs. Her to-die-for Tiffany watch with its diamond face and, of course, her new diamond ring.

  The Realtor clears her throat expectantly. "If you’re here to bid on the house, please get a form. Right now, we’re entertaining only preapproved applicants.”

  Geesh. I’m not preapproved for anything except the five thousand credit card offers I get each week in my spam folder. The male doctor regards me over his half-glasses as if he, too, is well aware that I’m an imposter.

  “She’s with me,” Patty says, grabbing my hand. “We’re together.” Between the jewelry store and this showing, we’re going to get a rep. We’re going to have to start buying purple cars and rainbow license plates.

  “Excuse me, Sheila,” the male doctor says. “But can we cut to the chase? My wife and I are on a very tight schedule and I think all of us here are up to speed on the house’s features.”

  “Are we?” asks Patty. “I’m not so sure. There are a few questions I’d like answered before we move forward.” And from her tote, the one that carried the infamous bottle of tequila on that infamous night we forged the Sleeping Beauty Proposal, she produces a long white legal tablet jam-packed with a question on each line.

  The doctor groans and I’m tempted to object as well. I’ve seen Patty in this mode. She can drag out a cross-examination so long even the most ardent plaintiff is moved to settle—or commit suicide, whichever comes first.

  “My first question concerns the percentage of lead in the window paint.” She clicks her pen. "Now, my preliminary research shows that most houses in this neighborhood were built at the turn of the century, which means that all of them likely were painted with a lead-based primer.

  “As you may know, by law a house cannot be sold unless the paint is no more than six hundred parts per million lead.This raises the issue of—”

  “I don’t care if it’s solid lead. I’m going to take down all the walls anyway,” the doctor barks.“I’ll offer ten grand above the asking price.”

  He’s going to gut the place. He’s going to rip out everything and start over. Now, I absolutely cannot let him get it, even if he is offering more money than Nick and I could amass together.