by Sloane Tanen
“Yes,” he said. “Of course I’ll come.”
There was a long silence.
“Are you there?” Henry asked. “Mum?”
“Thank you,” she managed to say in a strange, creaky voice. “Bye,” she said and hung up quickly. She hoped he hadn’t heard that she was about to cry again.
Janine
Janine was sitting in the car outside her father’s house talking to Jürgen. She’d called to thank him for the flowers he’d sent. He’d apparently seen the obituary in the paper. His wife, Birgit, had left it on the coffee table. Jürgen laughed a little, explaining that Birgit was concerned that now Janine was going to come and take back her cat. Birgit had grown attached to the cat, Jürgen said. Janine’s chest had compressed at the sound of Jürgen’s voice, at his use of his old pet name for her, Chippen.
When she’d told him about the will, queerly relishing dropping the news of the injustice so plainly, he’d told her, in typical Jürgen fashion, that she’d been naive not to have seen it coming. “You know there’s a word for that,” he’d gone on. “Drachenfutter. It’s what a man gives his wife to appease her when he feels guilty about something. It means ‘dragon food.’”
Janine thought Drachenfutter would be a good title for a biography of her father.
She wondered why Jürgen’s excitement about the movie and the pregnancy had annoyed her so much. “Are you looking forward to the film?” he’d asked. She was struck dumb by the simplicity of his statement, divorced as it was from the burden of her family’s expectations and disappointments. She didn’t know how she felt. She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do about the part, despite the impending start date and Ransom’s need for an answer. Going back home to New York seemed like the simplest solution. But she was going to have a baby. That much she’d decided. The pregnancy and her father’s death, both so unexpected, felt inexplicably connected. She had to tell Henry, but the logistics of her future were a complete fog.
“You want to rent out your apartment here for a while?” Jürgen asked. “Birgit could do it.” Janine was surprised that she hadn’t even considered it. She’d forgotten Birgit was a real estate agent. “You could get a lot of money for it. Let it out furnished, even better,” he added. “It will give you extra cash and time to sort things out.” Janine liked the idea of making a decision she could undo, although she knew that if she rented out her place, she’d most likely sell it eventually. “Birgit would take a cut,” Jürgen said. “You know, because she doesn’t hate you or anything—but she doesn’t like you that much. Not enough to forgo her commission.”
Janine could get something nice in LA if she found a tenant for her apartment in New York. LA was less expensive than Manhattan. And maybe the part would lead to something. “Can I have some time to think about it?” she asked Jürgen. “I have to talk to Amanda. And Henry. But it might be good.”
Jürgen cleared his throat. “I think it would be,” he said. “Good.”
“For you or for me?” She was suddenly unsure whether he was genuinely helping her or pushing her out of town.
“For you.”
She wanted to know how he felt about her leaving New York permanently but decided there was no reason to ask. “That’s a really nice offer, Jürgen. Thank you. And please thank Birgit.”
“I will,” he said.
“Do you still have the key?” she asked. “What about all my books and stuff?”
“I’ll box it all up and put it in the Queens workshop. Not a problem.”
“Wow. You seriously don’t miss me at all, do you?”
“I do miss you,” he said, emotion cutting his deep voice. “Very much.”
“But you really want the cat?”
“Yeah,” he said, clutching at the humor. “We really want the cat.”
Janine put her phone in her bag and walked into her father’s house for what she knew might be the last time. She hadn’t liked going into the house since Italy, preferring to stay away while the appraisers and agents came and went. She’d been sleeping in Henry’s guest room, which he’d kindly offered, and sometimes on Amanda’s sofa. The house had sold in a swift transaction, the details of which none of the beneficiaries (Janine, Amanda, Gail, Sandro) were privy to. Once Gail and Sandro received their bequests, Amanda and Janine would pay the taxes and split what little was left.
Amanda was sitting on top of the island in the kitchen, legs crossed, flats tossed onto the floor. They had a long day ahead, packing up photographs and whatever sentimental objects they might want. Her sister looked at home there, Janine thought, more at ease than usual. Amanda had always been so frantic when she came to the house—cleaning, cooking, wrangling the girls, or otherwise engaged in the business of avoiding a conversation with their dad. It struck Janine that there might be a small part of Amanda that felt the same way Janine had felt when her mother died—relieved that the person who judged her was no longer standing there, frowning.
“Hi,” Janine said. She walked through the living room and put her bag on the island. “What is all this?” she asked. There were pink Post-its with the letter G written on them on most of the art and furniture.
“Gail made her sweep last night.”
Janine sat down on a stool. “Already?”
“Yep.”
“God. Did she come in with her assistant and a black Sharpie? They’re fucking everywhere.” The house looked like a deconstructed stage set over which someone had tossed pink Post-it confetti.
The appraiser had calculated the worth of every last tapestry, painting, poster, lamp, and basket. Janine hated having a monetary value placed on the landscape of her childhood. And according to the will, Gail had been given the opportunity to take anything she desired first. No surprise that Gail had claimed everything valuable. More disturbing were the Post-its duct-taped to the rolled-up rugs, the flatware and dishes, the books, the coffee table, and the outdoor furniture. That Gail felt entitled to their family heirlooms was impossible for Janine to wrap her head around. But nonetheless, they were hers for the taking. That’s how her father had left it. Janine wondered what on earth her father had felt so guilty about that he had to feed the dragon everything.
“She doesn’t even have a backyard,” Amanda said with disgust, pointing at the lawn tables and chairs that Gail had pulled inside the living room, apparently so that they wouldn’t be overlooked when the movers came. She smacked her lips together. “She’s just going to sell it all! I stupidly left her a message about maybe setting up something for the girls’ college. Even twenty thousand dollars. She never called me back.”
“I hate her,” Janine said.
Amanda lit a cigarette, clearly relishing the impropriety of smoking in their father’s house. She lay down on the butcher-block island, stretched out, and stared at the ceiling. “It’s so quiet here,” Amanda said and inhaled deeply.
“Too quiet.” Janine looked around for anything without a Post-it. “You want the dining table?”
Amanda rolled her head to the left and looked at it. “God, no.”
They silently considered the Equipale Mexican table and six matching chairs. It was the kind of table used in cheap Mexican restaurants. Their dad thought it was amusing, a nod to the house’s hacienda-style roots. Above the table hung a stunning Tiffany Dogwood chandelier, estimated at $120,000, with a bright pink Post-it on it.
Janine and Amanda walked through the house together, taking in the Post-its, both realizing how meaningless all the stuff was without their father breathing life into it. “I don’t want anything,” Janine said. “Just photos and maybe his passports and whatever art books she didn’t take.”
Amanda plopped down hard on the bed in the guest room. She expelled a melancholy sigh. “Dad always liked you so much more than me. I spent my entire adult life tap-dancing for him and he wasn’t even looking. I was so desperate for his approval. I passed up career opportunities to stay close to him. I thought that’s what he wanted. But I just anno
yed him. You, a million miles away in New York picking your nose, he couldn’t get enough of.”
Janine sucked in her cheeks. She knew what Amanda said was true and that Janine had always taken it for granted, as if it were fair. “I’m really sorry that it felt that way.”
Amanda pulled one of the decorative bed pillows behind her onto her lap. She leaned forward on it and looked fixedly at Janine. “So when are you leaving?”
Janine took a deep breath and screwed up her courage. “I was thinking I could sell my apartment,” she said, deciding at that very moment that this was what she needed and wanted to do. She suddenly had no idea why she’d been in New York, from whom or what she’d been hiding. “I could afford to rent or even buy something nice here if I sell my place.”
“You’re not going back?”
“I think I want to be here. With you. And the girls. Is that lame? Am I too late?”
Amanda didn’t say anything right away but Janine could see the disbelief, the tightening of her face. Was she mad? Maybe Amanda didn’t want her to stay.
“I think that part could be good for you,” Amanda finally said, her voice level. “And obviously Hailey likes having you around. It’s been nice watching you together. You could get to know Jaycee better too.”
Neither one of them spoke for a minute, both unsure how to navigate this new terrain.
“LA might be a healthy change of pace for you,” Amanda continued. She was trying to sound unemotional but Janine could see that her hand was shaking. Amanda looked down and started thumbing the inside of her palm. Then, in a desultory fashion, she added: “Maybe it would be good for me too.”
Janine started to say something but Amanda interrupted her. “What about a mattress?” She fished another cigarette out of her pocket and slowly placed it between her lips. “You’ll need stuff to furnish your place here.”
“Maybe.”
“No pressure. You can keep staying with us until you start getting paid or sell your place. Or I guess go back and forth between our apartment and Henry’s.”
Janine didn’t know what was going on with Henry. He’d been nothing but helpful and accommodating since Italy, but, except for a few brief moments, she felt as though they were just friends now. Grief, or maybe too many practicalities, seemed to have smothered the passion. He wasn’t pushing things either. If anything, he was too polite, too respectful of her space. She missed the way they’d been together before, but she hadn’t a clue how to get back there again. Maybe being friends was better. She didn’t want him to feel obligated to be with her, but she figured that’s how he’d feel once she told him about the baby. In any case, she didn’t want to think about Henry right now. She was thinking about the effects of secondhand smoke on a fetus. “You probably shouldn’t smoke in here. It stinks.”
“That’s true,” Amanda said, puffing away. She stood up and opened the door to the yard, her back to Janine, and exhaled bit by bit as she spoke. “I always loved this house. Once it’s gone, it’ll be like none of it, none of us, was ever here. Jaycee and Hailey deserve better than that shit-box apartment. College loans and a shitty rental. I hate that I can’t give them more than that.”
“Jim Keating made it clear we can’t afford the house,” Janine said. She was tired from standing. She leaned on the dresser and looked at the familiar Miró lithograph hanging over the bed. It had a pink Post-it stuck to the glass. Drachenfutter, she thought again, hoping her dad would have been disgusted by Gail’s behavior. She felt an irrational urge to take a picture of that lithograph and send it to him, wherever he was, to prove to him the kind of person Gail was.
“That Keating guy is the worst,” Amanda said, turning around. She sat back on the bed, cigarette still dangling from her lips as loose ash dropped onto the white duvet. Absently, she rubbed the ash until it almost disappeared. “He always sounds so annoyed on the phone. It’s like he can’t wait to wash his hands of us, like he can’t get the money to Gail fast enough, right? There’s something deeply, deeply fucked up about us having to sell the only thing Dad left us in order to pay Gail’s gift taxes!”
Janine nodded, exhausted by Amanda’s rage, and narrowed her eyes at her sister’s cigarette. “But either way, the new owners won’t appreciate it reeking of smoke.”
“You’re so calm about this whole thing! Since when did you get so Zen? It’s infuriating.”
Janine flicked a rubber band off the dresser onto Amanda’s bare foot. “Maybe it’s the baby. Can you stop with the cigarettes? It’s seriously making me sick.”
“Baby?” Amanda sat up and stubbed out her cigarette in a candle on the bedside table. “Holy shit.”
“I know.”
“You can still get pregnant?”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just—shit. Is it Henry’s?”
Janine nodded.
“Are you getting married?” Amanda asked. She threw out the last word like gristle in a piece of chicken. “Did he ask you? Does he know? About the baby? Are you keeping it? How long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me before?”
Janine couldn’t help but be charmed by the muddle of her sister’s questions. “Yes, I’m keeping it, and no, he doesn’t know. Not yet. We’re just…I don’t even know what we are. I haven’t known about the baby that long. I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m going to do.”
“Oh my God,” Amanda said, putting her head in her hands. “My life sucks! You’re going to be a movie star and have Bunny Small’s grandchild, and my kids’ new stepmother is named Gilbert! Why is it the universe just shines on you and shits on me?”
Janine laughed at the absurdity of Amanda’s observation. “I’m about to be a single mother with no place to live and exactly one, finite, job opportunity. You have two great, albeit slightly weird, children, a career you like, and you’re still beautiful. I don’t pity you.”
“You should.”
“I don’t.”
“You should,” Amanda said, trying not to smile. Then, clapping her hands, she said, “A baby. I get to be an aunt. Dad would have been excited.” She knit her eyebrows. “I think?”
Janine smiled. “I don’t know how he would have felt either.”
“Screw this. We have to do something.”
“What do you mean?” Janine asked.
“I need revenge. When does Gail take his car for good?”
“I think as soon as she gets the title transfer or whatever it’s called. Probably this week.” Janine hesitated a minute before pulling a small envelope out of her back pocket. She handed it to Amanda. It said Marty on it. The handwriting was square.
“What’s this?” Amanda asked. She wrinkled up her forehead and opened the letter. Janine watched the smile spread slowly across her sister’s face. She read aloud:
Dear Marty,
You’ve become so important to me this past year. You’re generosity and kindness have meant more to me than I can say. I’ve never felt so truely treasured as I did on my thirty-fifth birthday. What a night. That necklace! I know your going through a hard time but I just want you to know I am always here for you. You have touched me in a whole new way.
With so much love and a million little kisses,
Nicki
“Where did you find this?” Amanda asked.
“I wrote it,” Janine said. She touched her stomach, as if maybe doing such a petty thing might hurt the baby.
“Fuck.” Amanda popped off the bed and squinted at Janine. She pointed to the letter again. “This isn’t your handwriting.”
“It’s Henry’s,” she explained, remembering how willingly Henry had jumped in last night to help her execute her childish prank. He hadn’t been judgmental. If anything, he had seemed to like being included in the duplicity; it was as if Gail had wronged him too. And they’d kissed afterward. A not so nothing of a kiss either. It was a great kiss, actually, much as Janine was trying not to think about it. She was committed to keeping things clea
n with Henry. Until she figured out what the hell the rest of her life was going to look like.
Amanda read the letter to herself again. “You used your and you’re wrong. And you misspelled truly.”
“On purpose.”
“Won’t it just make Gail think she’s dumb?”
“It’ll make her think she’s uneducated, maybe a little helpless. A perfect side dish. Henry said it was a nice touch.” She thought she felt the baby kick her, though of course it was too early for that. “Jesus. Is it too mean?”
“JJ,” Amanda said, using her old nickname, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Janine felt inordinately pleased with herself as Amanda purposefully started for the kitchen. Janine trailed after her and nodded obediently when Amanda handed her the letter and walked into the pantry. She came out with a can of tuna fish.
“It’s not lunchtime.” Janine felt a wave of nausea pass over her. “And I hate tuna.”
Amanda peeled the lid off and tossed it into the trash. “Come on. Bring the letter. Come.”
Janine followed Amanda back through the house and out into the driveway. Amanda dangled the car keys from her index finger as she carried the can of tuna ceremoniously, in the flat of her palm. She opened the car, took the letter from Janine, and carefully slipped it between the pages of the owner’s manual in the glove compartment. She proceeded to pour tuna juice under all the floor mats, between the seats, and finally into the trunk. Then she cranked the heat up to high and sat down in the passenger seat. She looked at Janine, beaming. “What?” Amanda asked, taking in Janine’s stunned expression. “Hailey showed me a bunch of revenge videos on YouTube. This is a lot more benign than some of them.”
“We’re really pathetic,” Janine said, unsure whether to be amused or appalled by their petty acts of revenge. “You know that, right?”
“I could always kill her,” Amanda said, wiping her hands on her pants. “But jail seems like a drag and I’m curious about what’s going to happen now. This orphan thing is oddly liberating.”