Born Under a Lucky Moon

by Dana Precious

  I gave Lucy a ride over to the law firm where she was taking depositions. Then I left her with an extra house key after she assured me she could get a cab back to my place later that night.

  Caitlin cornered me before I even opened my office door. “Katsu and Stripe are in the conference room.”

  “Doing what?” I was incredulous. Rachael had been very firm with Stripe that I was to be leading this effort.

  “Adding scenes to the special shoot. I stayed in there as long as possible to take notes but I couldn’t leave the phones unanswered.”

  Steaming mad, I stormed into my office and threw my purse on the couch. I was supposed to keep the budget under control. It was my ass on the line if I didn’t. And here they were adding more expensive scenes behind my back.

  Caitlin followed me. “That’s not all.” She handed me that day’s Hollywood Reporter opened to the eighth page. There was Katsu’s photo along with a brief story that Katsu would be handling the advertising for Ms. F.U.’s next film. The article then went on to say that Katsu was “brilliant” and “rising fast” at Oxford Pictures.

  Brilliant? He hadn’t even done anything yet. I sank slowly into my chair. I had never seen an article like this. Marketing people didn’t normally get a mention in the trades just because they were working on this picture or that one. It was unheard of. Something politically big was going on here at Oxford Pictures.

  Rachael picked that moment to walk into my office. “Katsu and Stripe are trying to add more scenes to the TechnoCat trailer,” she said without preliminary. “Make that go away, Jeannie.”

  I stared at her. While the studio rulebook had some blurry lines, I knew it wasn’t my job to outright deny a director what he wanted; that was her job. Obviously if a few weeks from now the finger of blame needed to be pointed, she was making sure it would be pointed at me and away from her.

  “We can’t be over budget. I’m under pressure on every one of our movies. No overages. Period.” She stood over my desk and idly rolled my two pens from side to side. “There is no room for fuck-ups on this one.” Rachael headed for the door and then decided to soften the blow. “We really need your magic here, Jeannie.”

  After she shut the door, I reached for the two pens. One had almost rolled off the edge of the desk. Very precisely I aligned them back in their proper places.

  I knew I should go confront Katsu and Stripe. Instead I slowly reached for the phone. I needed information and I knew only one person who might have it. But dealing with him was like dealing with a dozing rattlesnake. You never knew when you might get bitten. He was the consigliere in the small world of ad agencies that specialized in film trailers. At seventy-five, he was perpetually tanned, sported expensive suits tailored especially for him in London, and wore leather slippers with no socks. Oddly, he carried a silver-tipped cane that he didn’t appear to need. A pinkie ring and a Ferrari completed the picture. Since 1964 he’d hobnobbed regularly with top directors, producers, studio chairmen, and movie stars—all the while carefully planting seeds that could make or break a career. Ruben Hoffman, owner of the top entertainment ad agency in Los Angeles, would most certainly be clued in to any deal making at Oxford Pictures.

  I worked with his editors and producers quite often but rarely dealt with the Big Man. So I was surprised when he took my call immediately. “Jeannie, love! How are you?” he boomed.

  I quickly dispensed with small talk and told him I needed his advice. I could practically hear him rubbing his hands together. He loved being consulted. Leaving out no detail, I recounted Katsu’s treachery and my frustration that it seemed like he was out to destroy me.

  “You’re being a little paranoid,” Ruben answered slowly. My stomach turned. I had just shown my insecurity and weakness to someone who might use it against me. “However, that’s not to say you are wrong,” Ruben continued. “You need to think in a different way. For instance, what if you are not the person whom they are after?”

  This puzzled me but he kept going. “You, my dear girl, are small potatoes.”

  Gee, thanks, I thought. But I knew he was right.

  “But if you look bad, who else looks bad along with you?” Ruben asked.

  I felt like a simpleton. Devious thinking is not my forte. Stammering, I told him I had no idea. He sighed heavily, saying that I couldn’t seem to connect the dots. “Rachael. Rachael looks bad.”

  “Why would anyone want to make Rachael look bad?”

  “To destabilize the marketing department. Someone who wants to put someone else in the position of president of marketing. A whisper here, a whisper there, and pretty soon Rachael is out of a job.”

  “But Katsu just can’t be capable of that.” I was starting to catch on to what he was saying. “He isn’t powerful enough.”

  “No, he’s not,” Ruben answered. “Someone is pulling Katsu’s strings. Who lately has shown an interest in our young friend?”

  For a moment I came up short. Then I breathed, “Stripe.”

  Ruben sounded like he was congratulating a particularly slow student on getting something right. “And why would Stripe do that?” He answered his own question. “Because he has aspirations beyond TechnoCat. He wants to eventually be chairman of a film studio. First he gets his own loyal team into the marketing department, then he starts to disrupt the production department, and voilà, Oxford is a mess and he comes in to save the day.”

  “Where do I stand in all of this?” I had my head down now on my desk.

  “Oh, you’re just collateral damage,” he said cheerfully. “Keep your wits about you and you might just keep your job.”

  I thanked him for his help, and as I was saying good-bye, Ruben casually said, “I hear that new film you’re going to be working on, Cosmic Cruisers, will be a blockbuster.”

  I had no doubt that I now owed him the ad work on Cosmic Cruisers. And I now felt like I needed a shower. Exhausted, I didn’t even try to attend the meeting with Katsu and Stripe. I left work early at 7 p.m. and straggled home. Lucy was already there and had poured herself a glass of wine and lit the gas fireplace.

  “I’d cook . . . but do you care if I just get something delivered?” I flopped onto the couch.

  “No problem.” She waved her hand while studying important-looking legalese documents. I ordered some Italian. When it arrived, Lucy and I ate together and discussed our day. Mine wouldn’t have made much sense to her, so I let her do most of the talking. She seemed to be hesitating about something though and I prodded her.

  “I’d like to see Sammie and Elizabeth while I’m here.”

  “Sure, of course.” I nodded.

  “So I invited them over here to your house tomorrow afternoon. You said you thought you could take some more time off.”

  “Luuucccyyy.” I drew the word out as I threw my head back against the chair. An emotional confrontation was absolutely the last thing I needed right now.

  Lucy pushed her food around on her plate. “It’s been a long day for both of us. Why don’t we just talk about this in the morning?”

  Glad for any delay, I said yes. We both went to bed. I assume Lucy fell asleep immediately as usual. Also as usual, I woke up at 2:30 in the morning and couldn’t get my brain to shut down. At 6 a.m. I finally went to the kitchen to make some coffee and surf the Internet for news. Running water in the shower alerted me that Lucy was now awake as well. When the doorbell rang I looked up, startled. Who in the world would be here at this time of day? Scuffling in my slippers and robe through the living room, I pulled the curtains aside slightly to see who was on my porch. It was Aidan.

  Oh my God. Aidan. And Lucy. Together in my house. No, no, no, this was not going to happen. They were not going to meet. I opened the front door without removing the chain.

  “Hi, babe! I got done early in Vancouver and took a red-eye flight to surprise you.” He was all smiles.

  “Uh, hi,” I said hesitantly. Instinctively I looked over my shoulder. Reassuringly, I could still hear t
he shower running. Lucy wouldn’t come out soon.

  Aidan paused and regarded me. “Are you going to let me in?” He pointed to the chain.

  “It’s not such a good time right now.” My eyes darted over my shoulder again.

  Behind me, I heard a door slam. Aidan heard it too. He took a step back on the porch. “Jeannie, is someone else here?”

  I hung my head and nodded. He was going to be so freaking angry with me that I hadn’t told him my sister was coming into town. Looking up I saw his face had crumpled.

  “I . . . I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you would do this to me. To us. Why didn’t you tell me?” Aidan’s voice was rising. Then abruptly he stopped and spun on his heel. Halfway down the steps I heard him say, “Have a good life, Jeannie.”

  Lucy called out behind me, “Hey, Jeannie, do you have a blow dryer?”

  Watching Aidan’s car pull away, I slowly shut the door. “Sure,” I said faintly.

  I got Lucy the blow dryer, then sat, stunned, at the kitchen table. Lucy came out brushing her now-dry hair and trying to pull on a shoe at the same time. “I’m late,” she said. “I’ll just grab breakfast at the . . .” She caught sight of my face. “My God, Jeannie, what’s wrong?”

  Violently, I shook my head. I didn’t think I could speak. But Lucy sat quietly at the kitchen table with me, minutes ticking by, until I finally found my voice. I poured out the whole story, ending with the confrontation with Aidan this morning.

  Lucy eyed me. “So you told Aidan that someone was here at 6:30 in the morning?”

  I twirled my coffee cup between my hands and didn’t meet her gaze.

  “Did you happen to mention it was me, your sister?” Lucy inquired.

  I shook my head no. I mean, who else would it have been? Lucy waited for me to catch on. Then alarmed, I shot my eyes to hers. Oh God. Aidan thought I had another man over last night.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  August 1986

  Dad and Evan studied the broken hose. They couldn’t figure out how Grandma had managed it. Dad finally told us that this had happened before, right before Grandma ran away to Florida. His own father had come home from work, smoking a cigarette as usual, to find their kitchen filled with gas. In that case it was from the stove. The damage had been contained to the kitchen when the gas went boom. Dad’s father had sustained only minor burns. No one else was in the house at the time.

  The next day Mom and Dad sat down with Grandma. I joined them for moral support. What they gleaned was that she was ready to go back to her nursing home and she figured if the house were uninhabitable, we’d have to ship her back. I eyed Mom across the table. Grandma had asked for spaghetti, knowing Mom had to go downstairs to get the sauce. She knew Mom often had a lit cigarette in her hand. Maybe Grandma thought she could get rid of Mom and get sent back to her nursing home in one fell swoop.

  Any other family would have shipped Grandma off so fast that her gray pin curls would have spun. Not Mom and Dad. They understood that Grandma was sick and not truly responsible for many of her actions. In the end, though, they called the nursing home, and they agreed to take Grandma back early. That’s what Grandma wanted and she was happy with the outcome. It didn’t seem to bother her that she had killed our dog to achieve her objective. But her brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

  Dad asked Father Whippet to come up and perform the burial service. Buddy was to be buried under the pine tree by the dock stairs. The last person I wanted there was Father Whippet, but I didn’t want to add one more log to the bonfire of chaos by telling Dad about the good Father. We prayed and then laid Buddy in the hole wrapped in my quilt.

  Back in the living room, Father Whippet tried to lay a guilt trip on my parents. “Events like this occur when the Lord is angry over our actions.”

  My mother’s coffee cup literally trembled in its saucer. I had never seen that look on her face before. He continued, “Pearl spoke to me about how you forced her to stay here.”

  It was like lightning had struck a tree, peeled away the bark, and laid it raw. Mom stood up, crossed the room, and took Father Whippet’s cup from his hand. He did not understand that this was her signal for him to leave. When he didn’t, she tore into him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Pearl is very ill. We did not force her into our home. When she needed somewhere to go, we welcomed her with open arms. That’s not called force, John; it’s called love! And if you think that is so wrong, well, you can just shove it up your ass!”

  “Rose!” Dad and Father Whippet gasped at the same time. Then Father Whippet beat it out of the living room and shut the front door behind him. Mom felt behind her for the couch and sat down heavily. Dad sat next to her and put his arms around her shoulders.

  “What he must think of me!” she said. My mother never used vulgarity. Ever. And for her first go-around she had told off our minister.

  “Now, now, Rose. What you said was right,” Dad crooned.

  “What will my kids think of me? What kind of example am I setting for them?”

  “Yeah, Mom, some role model you are.” I laughed. “We’ll probably be kicked out of church. Hey, Dad, can Episcopalians be excommunicated, or is that only for Catholics? And you know, Mom”—I stroked her hair fondly—“now that we may not have church in our lives, I really feel compelled to go out and drink a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, find a crack house, and maybe knock over a 7-Eleven. You know, because church was the only example I’ve ever had in my life.”

  Mom wiped her eyes with Kleenex. “Jeannie, don’t be irreverent!” Then she started to giggle and we had ourselves the best laugh we’d had in days.

  Part III

  The Breakup and the Breakdown

  2006

  The Murder, the Babies, and the Sex Scandal

  1986

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  September 1986

  It’s getting to be that time of year. When you start your truck in the morning twenty minutes before you leave so it will be warm when you hit the road. When the leaves are turning yellow, orange, and red. When bow hunters anxiously wait for the results of the early license lottery for doe-hunting season.” Evan was puttering around the kitchen making frittatas. He gestured to the camera with an egg. “And the salmon. Henry Williamson wrote one of the definitive books on the subject. It’s called Salar the Salmon. ‘Salar,’ for those of us who didn’t have Latin in school—okay, that’s all of us—means ‘leaper.’ This is the time of year when these heroic fish swim against ferocious currents, up and over waterfalls, rocks, logs, and fish ladders to return to the waters of their birth. They do this for one reason only: to reproduce.”

  Evan poured olive oil into a pan and chopped a red pepper before continuing. “No one knows why the salmon need to return to the site of their first breath to spawn. Pacific salmon will leave the ocean and swim back up the rivers from whence they came. These fish might swim literally hundreds of miles to make it to the one place they know instinctively as the one and only location to give birth. Then, ironically, after these salmon give everything for their children to be born, they die. Is this a kind of spiritual rebirth?” Evan smiled. “Or is it just that they don’t want to raise the kids?”

  Mom sputtered her coffee out as she laughed. I buttered toast and watched my brother. “And don’t forget,” he continued, “once those salmon turn red they’re usually no good to eat.”

  Chuck turned to me. “Why?”

  “Because their meat is mushy. It’s because they’re dying,” I said through a mouthful of toast, wondering if he was going to put something decent on over his boxers. Elizabeth leaned back and rubbed her belly. She did that a lot even though she was only three months along and her belly was flatter than mine. Elizabeth, Lucy, and Chuck had arrived two weeks earlier.

  I knew Mom was gearing up to extract the truth out of Elizabeth. Every time she talked to her eldest daughter about the situation, Elizabeth would only say, “I’m just exhausted. I don’t think I can pull it t
ogether to work and I want to be close to someone who has been through this five times.” I knew what Mom was thinking, that if Elizabeth was telling the truth, then she was being a ninny. Mom had worked straight up until her ninth month with all of us. And if she wasn’t telling the truth, then there was a bigger story there. Like, where was Ron? Elizabeth hadn’t even mentioned her husband since she got home. So Mom was keeping her counsel until she had analyzed the situation and knew from which angle to attack.

  Lucy, on the other hand, slept all of the time. She only got up to eat and go to the bathroom. Mom was actually more concerned about Lucy than about Elizabeth. But all of us were worried about Evan. Anna slammed down the phone every time he called her. I had run into her at Keefe’s Pharmacy a few days earlier and she pretended not to see me, which is pretty hard to do in a store that small. I caught up with her in the parking lot.

  “What do you want, Jeannie?”

  Was I supposed to apologize for my family? Or tell her that Evan missed her and sat in the gazebo by himself every night? “Are you moving to Florida?” I finally got out.

  She brushed her dark hair from her eyes and leaned against her car door. “Yes. I’m going at the end of the month. You can tell your brother.”

  This was not the answer I had been expecting. “But why?” I asked in shock.

  “I love Evan,” she said without looking at me, “but I just can’t fit in. I never should have married him. It’s awful to be married to a man who has four sisters who don’t like you.” She got into her car and pulled away.

  Another Milwaukee. All of us, even Evan, had assumed that Anna was upset by the weird things that happened to the family. But it wasn’t really that at all. She didn’t feel loved by us. And that, in my opinion, was much, much worse.

  I did the only thing I could think of: I called Sammie. She listened to me as I poured out the story.