Chambermaid

  “As you all know, my husband, Bob, was a great archaeologist.” And then she read from his résumé. Literally. All of his awards, publications, education, and all the while, not a word about Bob as the man, the husband, the father. “And I would like to raise a glass to Bob—Archaeologist Extraordinaire.” Those who’d nodded off quickly livened up, raised their plastic cups, and clinked the air. Just before chatting resumed, Mark piped up.

  “And, hi. I’m Mark. I know most of you, and for those of you who I’m meeting for the first time, I am Bob Friedman’s son. And I just wanted to add that, while my dad was indeed a brilliant archaeologist, and therefore didn’t have a ton of time for me, what time he did have, he was nice enough.” Mark suddenly looked embarrassed and quickly sat back down.

  And I thought my family was dysfunctional.

  It was shortly after four and most of the guests had left. “Sheila, I think this was acceptable,” the judge said, breezing by as I cleared off the last of the empty cups and plates. This was as close to a compliment as she could manage.

  “Thanks, Judge,” I said without thinking.

  “What, why are you thanking me?” she asked, suddenly angry. Had I not learned anything? Why hadn’t I stuck to “Yes, Judge”?—never deviate from that script. Before I could apologize for having said thank you, I caught a cane peering out of the bathroom. Oh no. It was Esther. I thought she’d left hours ago. She emerged. And became enraged upon seeing me.

  “You! YOU! YOU!” she screamed, making a beeline. “There was wheat in that! There was wheat in thaaaaaat!” Judge Friedman came to Esther’s offense.

  “What? Sheera, all I asked of you was to just look after my dear sister-in-law—and you couldn’t even do that? Can’t you do anything?” I wasn’t about to let a bit of bread take me down.

  “Matthew!” I called to the other side of the room. He approached, gingerly. “As it turns out, there was wheat in that sandwich you gave to Esther here,” I said, gently patting Esther on the back. Esther clearly no longer wanted to get in Matthew’s pants. Esther whispered something to the judge, who nodded.

  “Matthew, seems that Esther has had an accident—thanks to your incompetence with answering simple questions about sandwiches.” The judge pointed to the bathroom. “Go clean it up.”

  Matthew looked like he’d been shot in the ass with a stun gun. His eyes got huge. He started stuttering. Who could blame him? For a guy who got grossed out by shirt stains, you can imagine the havoc being wreaked by this project. He stood, still staring, horror registering.

  “GO!” the judge instructed, pushing him toward the bathroom.

  I started gathering my belongings to return to the torture chamber, where the judge wanted to have a post-sitting-shee-vah conference. About what, Bob only knew. I was rummaging through my purse when Mark and Maggie came to say their good-byes.

  “Sheila, again, thanks for everything,” Mark said. Maggie jumped into my lap, as she’d done sporadically through the day. Unlike most little kids, she actually liked me for some reason.

  “Bounce me bounce me bounce me,” she demanded. I wanted to bounce back a vodka tonic, not a three-year-old. I nonetheless obliged. Maggie squealed with glee, getting louder and louder with each bounce. “More more more!” I obliged again. Maggie latched onto my chunky necklace, nearly beheading me. I kept bouncing. Matthew emerged from the bathroom, his face contorted in a manner evidencing permanent damage.

  “Let’s go,” he instructed, grabbing my purse for me. Maggie wouldn’t budge. I stopped bouncing. She was pissed.

  “You’re mean! Mean! Mean!” What was it with these Friedmans and saying everything in threes?

  Suddenly I felt drenched in sweat. But I wasn’t even that hot. And was that stench something Matthew brought from the bathroom?

  “Oh my God, Sheila!” Matthew screamed, pointing at my cleanly shaven legs. “She pissed all over you.” I hoped he was blending the literal with the figurative, but judging from the bottom half of my dress, which was soaked, I knew that wasn’t the case. There was, in fact, urine streaming down my leg, creating little puddles around my ankles. The mini-Friedman had already fled the scene of the crime and had joined Esther in the kitchen. Matthew and I held our breath before laughing uncontrollably.

  “Is there wheat in this?!” Esther had propped herself against the counter and was reaching for a leftover, dried-out sandwich. “Is. There. Wheat. In. This?!”

  We didn’t stick around to find out.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Matthew managed to grab a towel for me on our stealth exit from the judge’s house. I wiped my legs, hoping that passersby would think that I’d accidentally walked into a sprinkler.

  “How on earth that woman can turn such a beautiful home into a place of such abject grossness is beyond me!” Matthew exclaimed as we sped down the street.

  “Matthew, that’s your problem—you continue to be shocked by her.” I smiled, mimicking one of his favorite lines.

  “Yeah, sorry if I am shocked by the fact that I just served as the judge’s two-hundred-year-old sister-in-law’s pooper scooper. That is shocking.”

  “Yes, I suppose I, too, am shocked that over the course of the year, I peed my pants for the first time since I was three and got peed on for the first time ever by a three-year-old.”

  We laughed our way to a park bench in Rittenhouse Square.

  It was such a perfect evening that it seemed almost impossible that we could have experienced such a traumatic day. Slight wind. The sun had set into a brilliant orange sky. The chatter of normal people milling about.

  “You know who I really pity?” I asked, looking at Matthew. “Poor Roy. What do you think will become of him?” He and Janet had fought over the last pastrami sandwich, leading Janet to call him “good-for-nothing.” Instead of retaliating—or more appropriate, walking away—he started swaying and crying.

  Matthew had removed him from the living room, taken him outside, and listened to the horrors of his life and “that bitch,” who could have been Janet, the judge, or his abusive wife.

  “I don’t know, but it can’t be any worse than Janet,” Matthew replied. “That woman, I understand why you feel bad for her, but she sure can be mean, and she’s going to die all alone.” Speaking of dying alone—Bob’s shivah had involved (1) a résumé reading, (2) allegations of absenteeism, and (3) a clogged toilet.

  “Sheila, um, not to add any more drama to a very dramatic day, but I just wanted you to know that I talked to the folks at Goodman,” he said nervously. Goodman was the law firm in Los Angeles where Matthew would be starting in three weeks. “And they said they’d have no problem letting me start in the New York office. You know, with all the litigation out here right now, they said it might even be preferable. Spitzer really did a number on that town.”

  I sat, staring at him, heart pounding, imploring him to continue.

  “Um, the only reason I’m bringing this up right now is that I obviously would have to take the New York bar in that case and the deadline to sign up for the October test is next week and—”

  I leaned forward and planted one on him. If the dude was willing to take another bar exam for me, he was clearly committed. We made out for what felt like seconds but must have been much longer. When we pulled away, a half dozen Maggie clones had gathered around us and were clapping, jumping, and screaming, “Gross! Gross!” They had a lot to learn about gross.

  My cell phone started ringing. It was the judge. We’d totally forgotten about the post-shivah conference. As far as I was concerned, the two of us owed the judge nothing more for the day. Or forever, to be more exact. But today wasn’t the day to stand her up.

  “Hey, Judge, we’re on the way,” I offered. Silence. Heavy breathing.

  “I am taking Roy and Janet to Pagano’s for dinner. You and Matthew will come.” Pagano’s was a sandwich shop in the food court of a mall. My legs were sticky with dried pee, and the pigeon that nearly landed on my shoulder sounded more
appetizing than another sandwich. I turned to Matthew and relayed the order. He shook his head emphatically and mouthed, “No! No! No!” I smiled, taking a deep breath.

  “Judge, you know what? I think we’re going to pass. Why don’t you, Roy, and Janet go have a nice dinner?” It was the right thing to do. After all, in a few short weeks, Matthew and I would be out of the judge’s bun for good. But Roy and Janet were there for the long haul. It was about time the three of them broke bread together. Maybe something good could actually come from Bob’s death.

  “Er, um, OK, Sheila. ROY! ROY! JANET!” Click. OK, that didn’t necessarily sound good, but it was a step in the right direction I supposed.

  I sighed with relief: “Skipping a meal never sounded so good.”

  Matthew took my face in his hands and just smiled. I got a weird stomach feeling, but not the kind I normally had in Philly. Namely fear, loathing, indigestion. This was different. Something resembling happiness. Could it be?

  “Sheila Raj, you are definitely not skipping a meal, at least not tonight. I am taking you anywhere you want to go! Hey—how about that new Stephen Starr place?” He smiled, before bending down and kissing me on the forehead.

  “Matthew, let’s save Stephen Starr—you know he just took over New York. How about Ralph’s?”

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my agent, Kirsten Neuhaus, for her unwavering dedication and belief in this project from the very beginning. Most of all, thank you, Kirsten, for never screening me out in the face of what can only be described as high-level paranoia. Deep appreciation goes also to Peter McGuigan for providing critical guidance at every step.

  My editor, Lauren Wein, is an expert word surgeon; she shaped the amorphous into a working novel. Thank you, Lauren, for your fresh, observant insights and for making me feel funnier than I am.

  Thanks to the following people for listening (or pretending to listen) to me drone on about “the book”—patience is particularly virtuous when interminable soliloquies are involved: David Bardeen, Sarah Birdsong, Wendy Browning, Heather Cotter, John Court, Puja Dhawan, Sarah Ellison, Kane Geyer, Sahil Godiwala, Michael Greenle, Patrick Grizzard, Katharine Marshall, Mike McHenry, Jill Meilus, Ana Patel, Kevin Patterson, Suzanne Paul, Lexi Reese, Jill Royster, Erin Russell, Mike Silver, Neil Talegaonkar, Will Tims, Lisa Turvey, Karin and Dan Visnick, Anna Weber, Goldie Weixel, and Christin Wingo.

  I am especially grateful to Ben Faulkner and Derrick Robinson for bringing a bit of levity to a decidedly unfunny situation; to Carey Albertine, Dana Schoenfeld, and Rachel Taylor for providing invaluable comments on an earlier draft; to Karen Newirth for her astute (and free) legal advice; and to Betsy McPherson for always agreeing with me, an often dicey venture.

  The Govindans—Madhavi Achamma, Rajan, Suman, Vik, and Héléne—have been faithful cheerleaders throughout. Thank you all for your encouragement.

  My parents, Sybil and Jaikar Rao, and my second mother, Mary Baj Viegas, are endless sources of love and support. Let’s just say that my appreciation for the absurd came from somewhere. Thank you thank you thank you for everything.

  I am deeply indebted to my sister, Nita Tooth Rao, for just about everything. Not only has she been my best friend and mentor for as long as I can remember, but she is also the most talented writer I know. This book couldn’t have been written without her generous—and gentle—input.

  Finally, tremendous thanks to my husband, Shiv Govindan, who sings and dances for me each and every day. Less devoted performers might shy away from this sometimes temperamental audience of one. Thank you, Beagle—you are a prince and I love you wholly.