Death of a Neighborhood Scrooge

by Laura Levine

  I jumped up, happy for any excuse to get away from The Return of Tiny Tim.

  Out in the foyer, I saw Lupe rushing out from the kitchen.

  “I’ll get it,” she said, scurrying to the front door and opening it.

  Standing there was a refrigerator of a man with a military buzz cut and muscles the size of volleyballs, clad in a T-shirt and sweat pants.

  “Mr. Marlon,” Lupe said. “How can I help you?”

  “I’ve come to see the sonofabitch you work for.”

  “Tell him I’m not home!” Scotty bellowed from his office.

  “If you’re not out here in three seconds, Parker,” The Refrigerator said, “I’m gonna come in and beat the living daylights out of you.”

  “You and who else?” Scotty asked, emerging from his office, eyes narrowed into angry slits, brandishing a pair of scissors.

  “I’m not afraid to use these if I have to,” he said, waving the scissors.

  Scotty had to have been at least five inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter than his angry neighbor, but amazingly, he showed not an iota of fear.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asked.

  “You ruined my kid’s Christmas, you warped sicko,” The Refrigerator replied. “Telling him Santa was in the hospital with a stroke and that there wouldn’t be any gifts this year. He’s been crying all morning.”

  If he expected Scotty to be touched by this tale, he was in for a big disappointment.

  “Boo hoo,” Scotty said. “It’s time your kid grew up and learned how the world really works.”

  The Refrigerator’s massive fists were clenching and unclenching, like two Rottweilers eager to attack.

  “Tell the little wimp to stop being such a crybaby,” Scotty added with a sneer.

  And that, I fear, was one step over the line.

  “Crybaby?” The Refrigerator echoed, his jaw rigid. “Nobody calls my kid a crybaby.”

  With that, he knocked the scissors from Scotty’s hand and sent them skittering across the floor.

  For the first time, I saw fear flicker in Scotty’s eyes.

  The Refrigerator pulled back his arm and was aiming his fist at Scotty’s gut.

  But Scotty was in luck. Because just then his tenant, Dave, who’d been walking up the path to the house, came rushing in to pull The Refrigerator off Scotty.

  “Help me, Lupe!” Dave cried.

  Somewhat reluctantly, Lupe came to Scotty’s rescue and grabbed hold of The Refrigerator. She was surprisingly strong for such a tiny slip of a thing. Together, she and Dave managed to drag him off Scotty.

  “Get out of here,” Scotty cried, all bravado now that The Refrigerator was outnumbered three to one, “or I’m calling the cops.”

  “Okay, I’m going,” The Refrigerator said, storming out the front door. “But this isn’t over!” he shouted as he headed down the front path. “I’ll be back to take care of you once and for all!”

  Across the street, two neighbors were standing at their front doors, wide-eyed as they caught all the action.

  “Scotty, are you okay?”

  We turned to see Missy on the upstairs landing.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said.

  Not from where I was standing. He looked pretty darn shaken.

  “Bring me a scotch, Lupe,” he said. “Not the watered down stuff I serve to guests. The real thing.

  “And you can go home,” he said to me. “I need to call my attorney to take out a restraining order against that guy.”

  I sent out a silent prayer of thanks to Marlon, The Refrigerator. For the time being at least, I did not have to look at one more word of Scotty’s script from hell.

  I grabbed my purse from Scotty’s office, but I did not go home as directed.

  Instead I headed upstairs to pay a little visit to Missy and Ms. “Scarlett.”

  * * *

  I almost gasped when I saw Prozac.

  There she was sprawled out on the Parkers’ bed, lolling on a faux mink throw, surrounded by a sea of cat toys.

  But it wasn’t the cat toys or the faux mink that had me bug-eyed.

  It was the knitted hat on her head. Yes, perched on her head was a bright red crocheted cap, the kind babies wear, tied under her chin, with holes for her ears. And right in the center of the cap, popping up from her head, was a plastic sprig of mistletoe!

  You’ve got to understand. This is a cat who’s gone ballistic every time I’ve tried to put a Santa hat on her head to pose for our Christmas photo. Her mantra ever since I’ve known her has been, No Hats Ever in a Zillion Years.

  And now, after only two days with Missy, she was sporting a sprig of mistletoe on her noggin.

  “Isn’t that hat the cutest thing ever?” Missy gushed. “Doesn’t Scarlett look adorable?”

  “Yeah, adorable,” I muttered, glancing around the bedroom, last furnished sometime in the Carter administration, its dingy walls adorned with bad flea market art.

  “I went shopping this morning and bought Prozac all these toys,” Missy said, bursting with maternal pride. “And the mink throw, and that adorable hat. I spent my whole allowance on the little darling.”

  Prozac looked up, preening, from the throw.

  I’m worth it.

  “She just loves Rhett Butler,” Missy said, picking up a plush catnip-filled skunk.

  I shot her an exceedingly anemic smile, which no doubt clued her in to the fact that I had not stopped by to admire her pet store purchases.

  “Look who’s come to visit you, Scarlett!” she cooed, gesturing to me.

  Prozac yawned.

  Oh, yeah. It’s you again. June? Jean? Janet?

  I wanted to throttle her.

  Instead, I couldn’t help myself. As much as she didn’t deserve it, I sat down beside her on the bed and began petting her. Immediately I detected the scent of tuna in the air.

  “Has she been eating human tuna?” I asked.

  “She just finished her afternoon snack,” Missy nodded. “She certainly loves her snacks, doesn’t she?”

  “If it’s not nailed to the floor, she’ll eat it.”

  “Not really. She didn’t seem to like the cat food you brought. In fact, she turned up her nose every time I tried to feed it to her.”

  Of course she did, when she knew there was a plate of human tuna waiting in the wings!

  “You really should try to get her to eat the cat food,” I said, dreading having to wean Prozac off her extravagant diet once we got back home.

  “I’ll try,” Missy promised, “but it’s so hard to say no to darling Scarlett.

  “Oh, look,” she said, as Prozac took a lazy swipe at a couple of toy mice. “Now she’s playing with the Tarleton Twins.”

  Missy gazed at her precious Scarlett for a worshipful beat, then plopped down cross-legged on the bed to join us.

  “That was pretty scary what happened downstairs just now,” she said, her brow furrowed in concern. “I hope he’s going to be okay.”

  “Scotty was a bit shaken up, but I think once he has his scotch and calls his lawyer, he’ll be fine.”

  “Scotty?” Missy wrinkled her tiny nose in distaste. “Who cares about him? I was talking about Dave. The poor thing weighs a hundred sixty pounds soaking wet. Marlon could’ve pulverized him.”

  Worry shone in her eyes.

  I’d already seen Dave look at Missy limp with longing. Apparently, he was not alone on the Love Boat.

  “Don’t worry about Scotty,” Missy was saying. “He’ll be just fine. The guy’s got the hide of a rhinoceros. Although, confidentially, and I know this is going to sound awful, I wouldn’t have minded if Marlon had roughed him up a bit. Nothing serious. Just enough to send him to the hospital for a couple of days and get him out from under my feet. I honestly don’t know how much longer I can stand living with him. Always complaining and bossing me around. I feel like I’m one step above Lupe.”

  “If you’re this unhappy, Missy, you really should think about l
eaving him.”

  “I’ve got to do something, that’s for sure,” she said, a determined spark in her eyes.

  A spark I would remember only too clearly in the days to come.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: A Sight to Behold!

  Ahoy, sweetheart!

  I’m happy to report our ship, the Caribbean Queen, is absolutely spectacular—gleaming woodwork and ocean views everywhere you look. Our cabin is gorgeous, with our own private balcony. I just wish Daddy would stop referring to himself as “The Captain,” and calling me his “matey.”

  The swimming pool is magnificent, and there are so many restaurants and lounges. There’s even a miniature golf course! Most spectacular of all is the Christmas tree in the main atrium, which soars up practically two stories. What a sight to behold. I’m positively in awe!

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: A Sight to Behold!

  Well, Lambchop—I’ve got to admit this ship is really quite a beauty. The pool, the lounges, the casino—all fantastic. And the most magnificent sight of all, as I’m sure Mom has already told you—the twenty-four hour buffet!

  Just think! Anything you want to eat, any time, day or night. What a spread! Salads, hand-carved meats, all kinds of potatoes and pasta, and desserts to die for. The chef here is famous for his chocolate éclairs, which he only makes on certain days.

  Of course, you’ve got to be careful at these buffets. Your old Daddy happens to be a Buffet Master. You’ve gotta skip the salads and froufrou stuff and go straight for the big ticket items like roast beef and lobster. That’s where most people make their mistake. They load up on salad, don’t save room for roast beef, and the cruise line makes a profit. Well, they’re not going to cash in on Buffet Master Hank Austen. I happen to have a black belt in strategic buffet planning.

  In fact, Mom and I are heading off right now to grab some lunch. I heard the chef’s chocolate éclairs are on the menu today.

  Love ’n munchies from,

  Daddy O

  Aka The Buffet Master

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Back from Lunch

  Back from lunch, sweetheart. Very delicious indeed. But I refuse to be one of those people who gain weight on cruises. I’m determined to stick to a healthy diet. I had a sensible low-cal tuna salad, with just the weensiest cookie for dessert. (Okay, two cookies.)

  Daddy, on the other hand, piled his plate with enough food to feed a small South American army. I kept telling him he could go back for seconds, but he insisted on cramming as much food as possible onto one plate, blathering some nonsense about being a “buffet master.”

  He was most miffed however, when they ran out of éclairs for dessert.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Annoying Little Brat

  The most annoying thing happened at lunch today, Lambchop. My triple-decker turkey and roast beef sandwich and potato salad were delicious, but when I got to the dessert section, there was only one chocolate éclair left. I was just about to grab it, when a bratty redheaded kid came racing out of nowhere and nabbed it out from under me.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “I was about to take that.”

  “Better luck next time, gramps!” he sneered.

  And to make matters worse, he took one bite of the éclair and, staring me straight in the eye, tossed the rest of it in the trash. He didn’t even want the darn thing. Just took it to spite me. What an annoying little brat.

  Oh, well. I’ve got to look on the bright side. The clattering false teeth I ordered for Lydia Pinkus’s Secret Santa gift are tucked away safe in my suitcase, and now, while your mom is off listening to one of The Gasbag’s lectures on Christmas Celebrations Around the World, I’m going to wrap it. You’ll be very proud of me, Lambchop. I went down to the ship’s gift shop and asked for one of their jewelry gift boxes. I’m going to take the false teeth out of its original Yakity Yak wrapping and put it in the fancy gift box, so Lydia will think she’s getting something really nice.

  Ah, yes. What’s a missing éclair compared to the joy of watching Lydia’s face when she opens her Secret Santa gift and sees those Yakity Yak false teeth clattering away?

  Love ’n snuggles from,

  DaddyO

  Chapter 7

  I got a break from script hell the next morning when Missy called to tell me that Scotty would be out all day Christmas shopping.

  Freedom, blessed freedom!

  No more Tiny Tim and his heinous acts of vengeance on the English language.

  I used my time wisely to catch up on missed episodes of House Hunters and do one last bit of Christmas shopping.

  Determined to avoid the mobs at the mall, I’d already done the rest of my shopping online. Holiday shopping is quite stress-free, I find, when done in the comfort of one’s own home, with a credit card and a glass of chardonnay at one’s side.

  And at that very moment my carefully curated gifts (peanut butter fudge for everyone!) were winging their way to their soon-to-be grateful recipients.

  Due to Lance’s misguided conviction that fudge is not one of the seven basic food groups, I’d ordered him a Hugo Boss tie.

  Every year, Lance picks out a tie he wants me to buy him, and I pick out a book I want him to buy me. Every year, Lance ignores my wishes and gets me a cashmere sweater instead.

  Which is one of the reasons I love the guy.

  Normally, I give Prozac a pair of brand new pantyhose to destroy, but this year, having seen all the toys Missy had lavished on her, I really had to up my ante.

  So—after reading about my parents’ buffet adventures on the SS Caribbean Queen—I spent a good hour at Mrs. Van H’s kitchen island, surfing the web on my laptop, before finally plunking down one hundred dollars for something called a Mowse, an egg-shaped toy with a feathery tail that was guaranteed to scamper around, mimicking the movement of an actual mouse. Surely, this piece of computerized wizardry would put any gift of Missy’s to shame.

  I’d finished processing the order, paying twenty-seven dollars extra for express delivery, my MasterCard groaning in protest, when Lance came rushing in the kitchen with a bag of groceries.

  “I just ordered the most fabulous fifteen-pound goose for our Christmas dinner!” he announced.

  “A fifteen-pound goose, for two people? Are you crazy?”

  “What’s the big deal? We’ll have leftovers!”

  “What about Mrs. Van Hooten’s oven? What if you get it dirty?”

  “If there are any spills, I promise I’ll clean them up. You’ve got to stop being such a worrywart.”

  With that, he started unloading groceries from his bag, a most unappetizing lot of rice cakes, wheat germ, and soy milk.

  “And I’ve got some very exciting news!” he beamed, shoving a hunk of tofu in the fridge. “While I was on line at the supermarket, I met the most adorable guy.”

  “What happened to Graham, the mailman? I thought you were in love with him.”

  “Not for me, silly. For you! He’s absolutely gorgeous, and most amazing of all, he actually wants to meet you.”

  “And exactly why is it so amazing that an adorable man would want to meet me?” I huffed.

  “You know what I mean, honey. You’re a darling woman, attractive as any woman could possibly be in a CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS T-shirt, but you’re not exactly walking the runway at Milan.”

  “Thanks loads. I’ll be sure to print that out and save it for my epitaph.”

  “Anyhow, I’ve got you all set up. His name is Randy and you’re meeting him for coffee next Wednesday night. That’s the same night I’m going out with Graham. Isn’t that exciting?”

  “Forget it, Lance. You know how I feel about blind dates. They’re nature’s way of telling you that nu
ns don’t have it so bad.”

  “Okay,” he shrugged. “Be that way. Stay home, grow old and lonely with only your cat to comfort you. Oh, wait. I forgot. Your cat seems to have dumped you for another woman.”

  Ouch. He had me there.

  I must admit that Prozac’s burgeoning love affair with Missy had wounded me to the quick.

  How could she be so fickle?

  I thought back to all the belly rubs I’d given her, the love scratches, the hairballs I’d picked out of my freshly washed laundry, the anchovies I’d ordered on my pizzas especially for her. After all that devotion, all that pampering, all that love (and shrimp with lobster sauce) we’d shared, here she was deserting me for a flashy blonde with a catnip skunk and a faux mink throw.

  Well, two could play at that game.

  Lance was right. It was time I got out there and made a little love connection of my own.

  “Okay, I’ll do it!” I cried.

  “Good for you! I just know Randy’s going to adore you. Especially after your makeover.”

  “What makeover?”

  “You don’t think I’m going to let you go on a date looking like that?” he said, with a dismissive wave at my sweats. “When I get through with you, you’ll look fantab, not the least bit like yourself!”

  Grrrr.

  All I can say is it’s a good thing he had that cashmere sweater waiting for me under the Christmas tree.

  * * *

  “No more procrastinating, Jaine!”

  Dressed for work in Armani splendor, Lance plopped a shopping bag on the sofa beside me where I was watching Kevin and Luanne, a couple on House Hunters, decide between a charming Victorian and a hip city condo.