“I’ve been working on a novel for a year and a half,” I said with a defeated tone. “I have fifteen pages of trite, cliche bullshit about some French woman named Desdemona who gets pneumonia after standing out in the rain too long.”
“Why are you writing about that?” Chris asked, focusing her pale blue eyes on me.
“I don’t know what else I’d write about,” I said, shrugging.
“Why not this?” she offered.
“Thanksgiving dinner?” I asked densely.
“No, what you just told everyone here. About your marriage nearly breaking up while you had a baby, and all that other stuff.”
“Are you a writer?” I asked.
“An agent. Currently with two authors on the best seller list, for which I’m extremely grateful, thank you very much.” She turned to the others, who politely clapped. “It’s your call, but if you ever do decide to write it, I’d like to take a look.”
Jack placed his hand on my thigh and squeezed, remembering the days in grad school when I sent out twenty proposals to literary agents and promptly received twenty rejection form letters.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Chris is going to represent me when I write my selfless nongrieving book,” Anjoli said.
Chris furrowed her brow and reminded my mother that she mainly represented authors of fiction.
“Oh believe me, Chris, my mother writing about selflessness is fiction.”
“Such a smart-ass,” Anjoli teased.
“I hope I don’t sound too shallow,” Kiki chimed in. “I had an exceptional year with my investments and I’m very, very grateful for that because things were a little tight for the past few years.”
Why didn’t I invest in the stock market anymore? Why wasn’t I willing to move past page fifteen of a novel? Ten years ago, if a literary agent offered to look at a manuscript I hadn’t written, I would have been jotting my chapter outline on cocktail napkins right there at the table.
“You should invest in my workshops, Kiki!” Anjoli said. “Get in on the ground floor. You’ll have your best year ever,” she lilted.
“I used to invest,” I said aloud to no one in particular.
“What? “ Jack asked.
“Oh, excuse me,” I said to the other guests.
“Go ahead, say what you were about to say,” Chris encouraged.
“I said that I used to invest,” I said. “I don’t know why I gave it up. It’s how I paid for grad school.”
“Really?!” said Kimmy.
“No, not really, darling,” Anjoli corrected. “If you recall, the market crashed in 1987. Your portfolio was worthless. When I spoke to your broker, he told me the whole thing was worth something like nineteen thousand dollars, so I paid for your grad school.”
“You did? “ I asked, incredulously. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of quiet generosity?” she said smugly.
“Wow, I’m shocked. Thank you. I’m really touched, Mother.” Jack leaned in to whisper to me. “What?” I asked him.
“What happened to the stocks?” he asked. “Did she ever sell them?”
“Mother, did you sell the stocks?”
She looked at Miguel as if to say she’s only half of my gene pool. “I just told you, they were worthless.”
“So you didn’t sell them?” Jack asked excitedly.
“Jack, they were worthless,” Anjoli reminded him.
“Were doesn’t mean still are, Anjoli!” he shouted. “What do your annual statements say they’re worth now?”
“Annual statements?” Anjoli asked.
“For taxes,” Jack explained.
Anjoli shook her head. “Never received a single one, darling.”
Jack pondered for a moment. “Have you ever received solicitations from brokerage houses?”
“Constantly,” she said.
“And let me guess, you throw them away without opening them?”
Anjoli confirmed. “Who has time for junk mail?”
“Where is Lucy’s portfolio?” Jack said, hurried.
“Oh, I don’t know, in the filing cabinet somewhere in her room,” she dismissed.
“Jack, it was all a bunch of worthless junk,” I reminded him.
Adam began to rustle, waking before I’d expected. “Luce, keep an eye on the baby. I want to check this out. What’s the password to get onto your computer?”
“It’s Jack,” I said. “I never did change it.”
An hour later, as we were eating organic pumpkin pie, Jack shouted my name from my bedroom. My first thought was that the file cabinet toppled on him because he never closes one drawer before opening another. When he ran to the wooden rail and started shouting my name again, I was relieved he was all right. “Get up here, Lucy!” he called.
“What is he carrying on about?” Anjoli asked, as though I had any more information than she. All heads were turned upward to Jack, wondering what his excitement was about, but I already knew he’d discovered gold up in them there hills.
“Find some good ones?” I shouted back up to him. I looked at the group and reminded them that he’d gone up stairs to scour my old portfolio. They all nodded and mumbled that they recalled.
“Lucy, you’d better get up here!” he shouted. This time, we all got up from the table and raced upstairs, Anjoli at the head of the pack with Miguel behind her. I could have sworn he bodychecked me as I tried to pass them, but I could have been mistaken. It all happened very quickly. For some reason, we all stopped at the doorway and peeked in the bedroom. Instinctively we formed a pyramid of heads so we could all see. Jack turned impatiently. “Lucy, get in here!” We all scurried around the desk where Jack was sitting and looked at the computer screen he was reading. It told us nothing.
“Are some of my stocks actually worth something, honey?” I asked.
“Uh, yeah,” he said, laughing.
I’d never heard so much silence in my mother’s home.
“Great!” I said. “Enough to make a difference in our lives?”
Jack laughed, enjoying his last moment of being the only one in on the joke. “Lucy, you better sit down. I don’t want you to hurt the baby if you faint.”
“And they call Anjoli the drama queen?” Alfie quipped.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jack. Tell me how much we have!” The group echoed my request.
“Tell, tell!”
“Guess,” Jack urged.
“Fifty thousand?” I asked. Jack shook his head and shook his thumbs up emphatically.
“Two fifty?!” cried Chris, as excited as if the money were hers. Again, he gestured higher.
Imitating Dr. Evil in the first Austin Powers movie, George guessed, “One million dollars?”
“How ‘bout one point four?” Jack asked.
“One point four what?” I asked.
“One point four million dollars?!” Anjoli shrieked. Before I could correct her, Jack confirmed.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “You mean my stocks are worth one point four million dollars?”
He nodded, knowing he needed to keep it very simple, for I was in a state of stupefied shock. “Anjoli was right that most of these stocks are worthless, but four of them aren’t. One in particular. Remember investing in a little software company called Microsoft?”
I recalled a phase I went through in college where I was fascinated by computers. A boy in my class had handed in a flawless term paper, and when I commented that I was impressed by his lack of Liquid Paper marks, he told me he’d done it on his PC. He assured me that within ten years everyone would have one in their homes. I doubted that everyone would have one, but even if one out of a hundred families bought a computer, then this software stuff might do pretty well. When I was a sophomore, I put money into four software companies. The others had crashed and burned, but Microsoft, well, you know the rest.
“Mother, are you sure you didn’t sell these stocks?” I said, grabbing
her arm. I begged my heart not to race before I knew for sure.
Jack spoke. “Lucy, I checked it out. Look at me.” I did. “I checked it out. I couldn’t believe it either at first, which is why I checked your account online eight times before I called you up here.”
A celebratory shout erupted in the room, which was like New Year’s Eve on a roller coaster. Amid the shouting of “Oh my God!” there was double-cheeked kissing and hugging as Jack, Adam, and I were passed around the roomful of embraces.
I was caught between panic that this was all a huge mistake and confetti-throwing joy. I felt frenzied and rushed with excitement, like I’d better get out there and start spending my money right away to make up for years of austerity. Even as the group was done kissing me, I kept fluttering to each person for a few seconds, squeezing their hands and moving to the next. As my skin moistened with intensity, it occurred to me that I was now sweating rich woman’s perspiration. My mother suggested that we pop a few bottles of champagne. “And some sparkling cider for you, Lucy,” Anjoli offered. She turned to Miguel and explained, “She’s still nursing.”
After an hour of celebrating, a tipsy Jack turned to me and suggested we call the realtor of the house in the Berkshires. As of last week, it was still available, even reduced another 50 K.
“We can’t call her on a holiday!” I said, still euphoric. “It’s nearly ten.”
“Let’s call!” he urged.
I scanned the room for feedback.
“Darling, she’ll make six percent of the sale of a multi-million dollar property,” Anjoli said. “Call and make her Thanksgiving one to remember. Trust me, she won’t mind.”
Chapter 39
After a thirty-day escrow, Jack, Adam, and I moved into our new home. We opted to leave behind the new couch and seven La-Z-Boy chairs and start fresh, decorating our home to reflect our new phase of life together.
Perhaps it wasn’t prudent of me to plan Adam’s first birthday party just four days after we moved in, but I wanted it to be somewhat near the actual birth date, since this was his first. I looked at the ruins of boxes spread across the living room floor beside a dozen of Jack’s covered canvases and wooden cases of paints. We had a lot of unpacking to do. And yet, I didn’t worry too much about appearances, as the only ones who would schlep all the way out to the Berkshires for Adam’s birthday party were the ones who had seen our life in far worse condition than this.
Anjoli was already at the house. As a housewarming gift, she chanted away any evil spirits that may have been lurking in the house. A few weeks before, she’d taken a “ghost busters” class and was overjoyed with the chance to finally put her de-spooking skills to work. Everyone was now giving us gifts of their time and talents, playfully reminding Jack and me that if there’s something we want, we can afford it. She also helped us by supervising the movers, which in her world meant flirting with them as they delivered boxes of books and dishes to the correct rooms. The day of Adam’s party, she held a “first steps” workshop with him while Jack did something with the cable wire and I drove to pick up the cake. When I arrived home, the table was set and we were as ready for a party as we were going to be that day.
“Did you do all of this?” I asked Anjoli, pointing at the paper plates and napkins on the table.
“Yes, darling. I did suggest to Jack that he pick up some Chinese for your guests. You can’t ask people to come all the way up to the godforsaken Berkshire Mountains, then hand them a slice of cake and fruit juice.”
“Oh, okay, good idea, Mom.”
Anjoli smiled. “Poor thing had to drive to place the order. Didn’t have a menu. But in other exciting news,” she paused, “my grandson is now walking four steps on his own!”
“Really?!” I shouted. “That’s fantastic,” I said, a bit less enthused. I missed it. I missed my son’s first steps.
“Why so pouty, darling?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Tell me, darling. You know secrets are toxic. Express it, release it, and be free of it.”
“It’s just that I would’ve liked to have seen his first steps,” I explained.
She smiled, not dismissively, but sympathetically. “He’ll be taking steps for the rest of your life. You’ll see them.” She perked. “I think I have a natural way with children. He really responded to me.” I imagined her encouraging Adam to “let go, let God” and repeating positive affirmations as he fell on his diapered tush. “You are walking boldly, step by step, and so it is.”
“Mom, are we done setting up for Adam’s party?” I asked.
“On time and under budget,” she chirped. This was her favorite new saying to gleefully follow with, “How silly of me to forget. There is no budget, darling!”
“Cake, drinks, food on the way, plates and cups out on the table? Music in the CD player?” I glanced at the dining room table and boom box on the floor, and was amazed at how much faster these things went with someone actually helping. “We have two hours till people get here,” I said in astonishment. I remembered the sign I saw as we drove past the last snow-dusted main road approaching our home. “Mother, do you mind watching Adam for another hour or so?”
“Of course not, darling. Where are you going?”
“To get some macadamia nuts,” I told her.
“Call Jack’s cell phone and have him pick some up on his way home,” she suggested.
“Not that kind of macadamia nuts,” I said. “The ones I have to go get.”
“Thank goodness Mommy has millions, darling,” Anjoli said to Adam as they sat together on the floor. “Now we can call her eccentric instead of plain crazy.” Turning to me, “Go get your nuts. What time shall I tell Jack you’ll be back?”
“No later than two.”
As I drove up to the wooded property, I realized I should have called to make an appointment. My car snaked into the driveway, and I saw a woman rustling about in the stable in the distance. “Hello!” I shouted to get her attention. Her brown ponytail whipped around and landed on the other side of her well-worn leather bomber jacket. She lifted a leather-gloved hand to wave at me, clearly mistaking me for someone else.
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” I said. “I just moved to the area and I saw your sign for trail rides. What a beautiful horse you have there.” The muscular brown stallion seemed to know we were talking about him and nodded his head cockily.
“I’m Gwen,” she reached out her hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Lucy. Lucy Klein. My husband, son, and I just moved into the old Adler place on Wednesday.”
“Welcome,” she said, as she went back to adjusting the bit on her horse. “So you want to go on a trail ride?” I nodded, but said I’d understand if I needed to call ahead of time. “Nah, your timing’s good. I’m just about to take Chester out, isn’t that right?” she asked the horse. “Have you ridden before?”
“Many times,” I said. “But I haven’t since I was thirteen.”
Gwen laughed. “So, today’s the day you want to take it up again, eh?”
She reminded me of my first riding teacher, Marie Costello from Jamaica Bay Riding Academy. Like Marie, Gwen was short as a shoe box with skin that transcended leathery and was the texture of a raisin. Her eyes were cloudy, her teeth yellow. As I helped Gwen check the girth of the saddle, the scent of horses and leather took me back to my youth when I rode in shows, with my father as my fan club of one.
When I was ten years old, I won first place in my division of the Manhattan Classic. The deal was that all first and second place winners between the ages of thirteen and sixteen competed for the children’s division championship. There was no category for children under thirteen. “Pin your number back on,” my father implored as I walked out of the ring with the blue ribbon. “You’re going for the trophy.”
“Daddy, I’m too young,” I reminded him.
“Let me have a word with the judges,” he said, narrowing his focus to the female with the wavy hair
and big smile. As I saw my father talking to her, I started pinning my number back onto my blazer because it was clear I was going back in.
“I’m not going to win,” I told him.
“Not today,” he said. “You’ll be the crowd favorite, though. Everyone loves a little scrapper.” He was right. The moment my horse and I walked into the ring, the crowd let out a collective “Ah.” Even one of my competitors winked at me. If there were a people’s choice award, I would’ve taken it easily. Since it was a contest of riding skills, I placed last. However, three years later I was the youngest girl in the history of the show to win the championship. That was the last time I saw my father.
This seemed like far too much information to give Gwen upon meeting, so I simply said that my riding coach moved when I was in eighth grade, and I became interested in soccer instead. She shrugged and hopped on Chester. My horse, Madison, was a snow-white copy of hers, wearing a chocolate brown English saddle. The feel of my foot pressing into the metal stirrup was both thrilling and terrifying. I leaned in toward Madison and whispered, “Okay, here’s the deal. It’s been a while since I’ve ridden. You go easy on me and I’ll go easy on you.” With that promise, I loosened the rein and stroked his neck.
“Ready?” Gwen asked, then made a clicking noise to signal the horses to go. “You can lead. These guys know the trail.” After a few minutes of walking in the crisp mountain woods, the horses began to trot, exhausting fumes of cold from their mouths. Pine and maple trees were dusted with snow, which carpeted the ground. In some spots I could see the dirt and rocks along the side of the trail that would reveal itself fully in the spring. In a moment, Madison stepped up to canter and I felt the familiar rhythm under my body. My fears of falling dissipated as soon as Madison broke and I heard Gwen hoot behind me. “You can ride, girl!” she shouted.
As hair whipped behind me and wind gushed around the form of my body, I tucked the reins between the saddle and my pants. I held onto the reins as I turned back to Gwen and shouted, “Can I let go?”
“I don’t know, can you?” she shouted back, teasing. With that, I dropped my hands and held them straight out to the sides and gripped my legs around Madison’s body. I’d never used these muscles harder. My nose turned red with cold and tears painted my temples. The top of my body was pushed back by the wind, which rushed through my splayed fingers with the force of an ocean current. Madison and I galloped this way for a few minutes before he slowed back down to a trot, quickly forcing me to pick the reins back up.
Tales From the Crib Page 26