Plus One

by Christopher Noxon

  “Deal,” he said.

  Eight

  Somehow, in a blur of conference calls and signatures and notary stamps, it was official: Alex and Figgy were the legal owners of the house on Sumter Court. Or to be precise, the house was owned by a blind trust with Alex listed as sole officer—Figgy’s lawyers had arranged it that way to keep her name off public records. It seemed overly secretive—who did they think they were, Brangelina?—but he began to see the sense in it when Figgy brought home a stack of letters she’d received at the studio from a fan with an obsessive, tiny-print scrawl ruminating about her inspiration, her children, her underwear.

  “I’m the sole officer of a blind trust—can you believe that?” said Alex, leaning back in the orange vinyl booth of Hop Ming, the Zicklin’s favorite Chinese place. The table was crowded with platters of glazed pork, hunks of spicy eggplant, and mounds of egg foo young. The kids were squirmy and restless, but Alex couldn’t have been happier.

  Alex had been riding the same weird high since the heavy cluster of keys dropped into his hand that afternoon, signaling they’d officially “taken possession”—how he loved that phrase, almost as much as he hated the phrase “jumbo loan.” To mark the occasion, Clive had invited them out for a celebratory dinner. Figgy was still at work, but Alex cleaned up the kids and made the trek over the hill to Encino for the five-thirty reservation.

  “Mazel tov, Alex,” Clive said. “It’s quite a house. Home for Hollywood royalty.”

  Beside him, Figgy’s mom, Joan, murmured through teeth clenched on a rubber band. She’d been attempting to get a braid into Sylvie’s hair since the hot and sour soup. “I’m just not sure I like this trust of yours,” she said. “What’s to stop you from—”

  “From what?” Alex said. “What am I going to do? Kick everyone out and force my family to move in with you? I’d never do that to my children.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” called Sam from the corner, slumped, bored, done with his dinner and ripping up a napkin. “I’m not moving to Bubbie’s house—it smells like armpits.”

  Joan ignored the remark and kept on braiding, motioning at Alex with her elbow. “I’m just saying—I don’t like it. It’s dangerous. A husband shouldn’t have so much power.”

  “God knows I don’t,” intoned Clive, dipping a shred of duck into a dish of hoisin. “I can barely sign a check without an okay from the boss. Anyway, Joannie—your daughter’s got nothing to worry about. Mr. A here is doing right by Figgy.”

  “Thank you, Clive,” Alex said.

  “And for a goy, I understand you’re quite the dealmaker. I hear you drove a real bargain on credits.”

  Alex was pleased at the thought that Figgy had bragged about his negotiating. “You should have heard him at the end,” he said, launching into the Frost vs. Nixon version of the story he’d told ten or fifteen times over the past three days. “At the front door, on my way out, he grabs my elbow and says”—here Alex lowered his voice into an old-fogey croak— “ ‘Go ahead and dig up the sewer system, bring in hazmat crews, rip off the roof, and start all over again for all I care.’ ”

  “What a piece of work,” Clive said.

  “Oh, he was just getting started. Then he goes…” and here Alex’s voice dropped back down… “ ‘Fair warning, young man. Everyone who comes into this house is going to look around and say to themselves, I’m gonna make my nut right here.’ ”

  “Some people,” Clive said. “They’re just not happy unless everyone else is as miserable as they are.”

  Alex swirled around the contents of his glass. “I honestly feel bad for the guy. What he’s been through?”

  “This man was trying to take advantage—and you wouldn’t let him,” Clive said. “Good for you.”

  “That’s right,” Joan said. “Don’t let anyone spit in your kasha. Ever. Oh! I almost forgot—a little housewarming present.”

  Joan leaned over with a grunt and pulled out her purse, a bulging leather sack with copper clasps that shook the tabletop as she laid it down. “Here we are.” She pulled out a paper bag. “I wasn’t sure how many to get—maybe I overdid.”

  “What’s in there?”

  “Mezuzahs,” she said, spilling out a pile of intricately carved metal cylinders. “Tiny Torah scroll inside each one. You post one on every doorpost—how many do you think you have?”

  Alex ran his hand through the pile. There was no way they were putting up these things all over their house. He’d bring the bag home, stash it in a drawer with the shabbos candles they never lit and the yarmulkes they brought home from bar mitzvahs. Figgy went to temple with her mom for high holidays and had firm and deeply held opinions about the best pastrami in town, but that was pretty much the extent of her Jewishness. But Joan was just trying to be nice. “Including the dog door, we’ve got… twenty doorways? Thirty maybe?”

  “Oh mazel tov, honey—mazel tov,” Joan said, squeezing his wrist.

  Clive made a motion toward the waiter and turned back to Alex. “I got some great news today about Top Dog. Our family just found a location. We’re full speed ahead.”

  Alex settled in for an update in the continuing saga of Clive’s post-retirement campaign to produce his own reality show. Last fall he’d taken his beloved corgi to a groomer in Glendale and got to talking with the owners. The dad was a round, gruff Armenian widower in a blue track suit, “a cross between Tony Soprano and Cesar Milan.” His daughter was brash and fast-talking—“a super extrovert and a real looker,” Clive said. The father-daughter team had recently won a regional kennel club show with a purebred Pekingese and had started a sideline training pets for show competitions. Encouraged by friends in the business (which Alex took to mean the alter kakers at Fitzerman’s Deli), Clive had been developing a reality show around the family ever since. His only real holdup had been the actual family—the daughter had loved the idea immediately, but the dad was unmoved by Clive’s repeated attempts to get them officially on board. “TV only brings trouble,” Mr. Barsaghian had said. “And all those cords and cameras and lights? The dogs lose focus. We’re fine as we are.”

  Today, though, Clive had a breakthrough. “I finally got ’em! The dad tipped when I offered to get them set up in a brand-new shop—we found this amazing spot right over on La Brea! They need some startup cash, and we’ve got a ton of particulars to nail down, but I’ve got interest from the Nature Channel, and I’m looking to get cameras in the new space from the get-go. I’m telling you, Alex, this thing is gold. Huge aftermarket.”

  Joan shot Alex a dubious look. “Tell him he’s crazy, will you?” She pointed a chopstick at her husband. “Who wants to see a bunch of silly dogs prancing around?”

  Clive smiled knowingly. “I keep telling you, hon—it’s not about the dogs. The characters—that’s what all these competition shows forget. And my stars, Al and Gina, they’re screaming at each other one minute, weeping and falling into each other’s arms the next. They’re the next Duck Dynasty people, I’m telling you.”

  “That’s great, Mr. C,” Alex said, uncertainly. He had a hard time picturing old-school Clive as a reality show producer, but unlike ideas he’d floated in the past (last year he’d tried selling a variety show hosted by a hotel piano bar singer), this one sounded halfway plausible.

  “Sylvie, sweetie, pass me those pot stickers,” Clive said, lurching forward. “I’m stuffed but I can’t help it—we’re celebrating over here!”

  • • •

  Over the next few days, as the reality of the house sunk in, Alex began to think harder about whose house it was anyway. Of course it was theirs, at least on paper. Still, he couldn’t help notice Figgy falling into weirdly possessive language: In her version of the New House Story, she’d known the second she walked in that she’d get it. She’d never spent so much money on anything. She had no idea how she’d pay for it, but sometimes a girl’s just got to leap and hope for the best, right?

  Alex had to stop himself from reminding her of all he’d done
to acquire the property. But that would have meant sharing with her the particulars of his black-ops campaign, which he’d decided to keep to himself. And while Figgy might appreciate his underhandedness, it seemed important to Alex that she believe he’d prevailed through nothing more than confrontational, upfront, manly negotiation. And anyway, he didn’t want to start a fight over—what? Semantics? Let it be her house if it made her happy. It was, after all, a basic and unavoidable fact: She made the money. And with production now in full swing and work as awful and dispiriting as ever, she needed all the ego biscuits she could gobble up, however empty-calorie they happened to be.

  And work, she told him, was truly at its worst—while tensions with the cast had eased, and the network was celebrating huge ratings in the all-important eighteen-to-forty-nine demo, she’d entered that middle portion of the season where she was on three separate tracks, writing episodes, overseeing production, and, whenever she could, dropping into editing. By the time she got home, typically past eleven but as late as two in the morning or sometimes not at all, any semblance of good cheer had been wrung clean out of her. She’d come tumbling through the front door, eyes glazed, stumbling into the kids’ room for a quick smooch and sniff before collapsing into bed with her laptop for a bout of Bejeweled or Words with Friends or some other mystifying IQ-amplifying computer game. She was done, cooked.

  Alex knew better than to tell her about his morning with the boys at Interlingua or the afternoon spent on the phone negotiating with movers and contractors. And he definitely knew better than to press her for details about her day. He wouldn’t try to solve her problems. He knew how to empathize.

  Or at least he could make a good show of it. Still, some nights when she’d come home groaning and anxious, he simply couldn’t work up the energy to play the caring-sharing househusband. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and plead: Why do I get the worst of you? Aren’t I your favorite person in the world? Isn’t that what you say? And what is so bad, really? Isn’t this everything you’d always hoped for? The hit show, the healthy, intact family—and now, the dream house? What part of getting everything you’ve ever worked for is so terrible exactly?

  It was as if Figgy had made a bargain with the Evil Eye that as long as she stayed outwardly unhappy and apparently untouched by her success, she’d get to keep on having it. All of which meant her moods seemed to rise and fall in an inverse relationship to how much there was to be happy about.

  If that was true, then the show’s new ad campaign was cause for deep despair. The network had pulled out the big guns for the new season, plastering every other billboard and bus bench with a super-saturated image of Katherine Pool’s raven-haired, yoga-toned form emerging from an enormous velvet top hat. TRICKS: THE MADAM WILL SEE YOU NOW. Alex snapped pictures every time he saw one, giddy at the sight of that purple top hat. The ads made it official, apparently in a way the Emmys had not: The little show Figgy dreamed up over guava empanadas two years ago had become a piece of pop-culture currency. People who’d missed it the first year were scrambling to get caught up. One night a stranger at a neighborhood wine bar approached the table and asked if it was really her, the real Figgy Sherman-Zicklin.

  The week before, her agent had even gotten an out-of-the-blue phone call from Brad Goodson, the inscrutable media mogul. He’d just watched the entire first season while yachting in the Caribbean and wondered if Figgy had any interest in spending a weekend on his boat off Cabo San Lucas around Christmastime with Diane Sawyer and Lady Gaga.

  Naturally, Figgy had never felt worse.

  Alex had hoped the new house would brighten her mood, but so far it seemed only to add to her agitation. Mostly she was annoyed that they had to wait six to eight weeks to move in. That was the minimum time required to do the repairs Alex had fought so hard for; as an added bonus, it meant they wouldn’t be in the house while Figgy’s crew was there shooting. The timing had worked out perfectly—the show had just entered the arc of the season that centered on the crime boss and her deluxe Mediterranean mansion. Alex decided not to be bothered by the fact that the show’s production designer agreed that the house where they’d raise their children needed hardly any set dressing to stand in for the headquarters of a criminal kingpin.

  • • •

  Alex made disgruntled noises about Tricks filming at the new house, but the truth was he was weirdly excited to watch production up close. While Figgy said the show’s production manager would handle the particulars, he insisted he should be around to ensure the house didn’t get trashed. He’d gotten the house, and now he’d oversee the filming, get the repairs done, and move them all in. Figgy would take care of her business. He’d take care of everything else. Before they knew it, he’d be making frittatas on the Viking range.

  And for a week anyway, he had a semiofficial connection to the show. It would give him and Figgy something to talk about. It would also, he thought, give him a chance to keep an eye on her—not that he put any stock in Huck’s advice, but it wouldn’t hurt to let everyone on set know that the woman in charge had an actual husband.

  Alex made it a point to arrive a half-hour before the trucks rolled up, armed with a clipboard, a pair of leather gloves, and a bullhorn. Today his to-do list included making sure craft services stayed out of the neighbor’s driveway and talking with the transpo chief about trucks blocking the alley. But first he needed to drop gift baskets on the doorsteps of all the houses along Sumter Court, a small gesture he hoped would smooth neighborhood relations and prevent complaints to the city.

  The door of the big colonial a few doors down was ajar as he approached, revealing a woman in dangly earrings, a Juicy Couture sweatshirt, and sheepskin slippers.

  “Can I help you?” The woman gripped a glass tumbler at her chest protectively.

  “Oh hi—sorry. I’m Alex—I’m moving into the house across the street. The big pink one?”

  The woman kept quiet and took a long draw on her straw.

  “Just wanted to swing by and introduce myself and apologize—you know, for the filming?” He gestured across the street, at the two semis, three flatbeds, five trailers, and two generators rumbling along the curb, watched over by a beefy retired cop on a motorcycle. “And ask if I can help in any way.”

  “My husband told me if I played the radio full blast and opened the windows someone would come over and offer me money,” the woman said. “Is that the kind of help you mean?”

  Alex laughed. “How about a nice basket of jams and jellies?”

  “I like a nice marmalade.”

  Alex fished around in the basket, pointed out a jar, and then handed the whole thing over.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, squinting down and examining the contents. “You’re getting some house over there. I’ve only been here six years, and I swear there’s been a parade of people in and outta there. I’m sure you know about all that, though.”

  Alex frowned. “You mean besides the Benjamins?”

  “Let’s see—few years ago it was the Braggs? Nice family—at least I thought so. Three daughters. Wife did a giant renovation, redid the kitchen, added that solarium, took eight months and at least three or four hundred thou. Craziness! When it was all done, she marches into the gorgeous new bedroom and tells her husband she wants a divorce. Fallen in love with the contractor, Grant. Moving out with the girls. To Grant’s tract house. In Valencia.”

  “Seriously?” he said. “Valencia?”

  “I know,” she grinned. “Have you ever heard anything more terrifying? You wanna come in? I just made smoothies.”

  Alex held up his clipboard and shrugged. “I wish I could,” he said. “I’ve gotta get back to the crew. But thanks for the intel—”

  “Oh there’s much more,” she said. “The people after the Braggs? Southern couple—he was a hedge-fund guy? Here less than a year, moved in after adopting one of those babies from Russia. Apparently the mom had some sort of mental issue—she thought everyone who stepped on the p
roperty was trying to kidnap her little precious. Had a total conniption one day right here on the sidewalk, hollering and screaming, accusing the mailman of trying to snatch away little Caitlin. Next thing you know they’re moving out. Nasty custody battle. You sure you won’t come in?”

  Alex took a step back and shook his head. “I’d really like to,” he said. “But I’d better get back—gotta keep a close eye on these guys! Enjoy the marmalade!”

  • • •

  Heading back into the yard, Alex’s first instinct was to find Figgy to share the news from the gossipy neighbor. The story about the housewife and the contractor? And the imaginary plot to kidnap Caitlin the Russian toddler? Alex could only guess what other horror stories awaited him if he’d gone inside for smoothies.

  He walked past a group of grips as they unspooled tangles of cord, the crackle of their walkie-talkies buzzing from their utility belts. Beyond them, Alex saw a bank of scaffolds rising over Mr. Benjamin’s prized azaleas. Alex barely recognized his own backyard. The garden of tranquility was now a battlefield.

  Alex finally spotted Figgy on the patio, perched on a canvas director’s chair wearing a pair of headphones. She sat with her chin in her hands, face lit up by a monitor. She seemed to like what she saw, her mouth bent into a wry little smile. Alex craned his head to the side and saw that she wasn’t smiling at the screen at all—she was looking down to her side, where, kneeling down with a stack of camera equipment, was none other than Zev the Israeli DP. The two of them exploded in laughter.

  Alex took a few steps toward them and stopped. Zev’s hand was on the lower part of Figgy’s leg, held there not in greeting or for balance. Just planted. Alex felt his face go hot.

  “Okay—moving on!” Figgy bounded up from her chair and signaled to the crew. At once, Zev hoisted a camera, and the tech guys who’d been loitering on the fringes popped up and sprang into action, hauling in fresh banks of lights, tangles of cable, and carts of equipment.