The Queen Gene

by Jennifer Coburn

  “To make an offer?” Alfie asked.

  “Uh huh,” Anjoli returned.

  “Very. Why don’t you go over and extend your sympathy or something?” Alfie suggested.

  “Fabulous!” Anjoli exclaimed. “Lay the groundwork. Alfie, run to Jefferson Market and pick up a pie for me, won’t you, darling?”

  “I’m already there,” he said. Then he gasped. “Oh Jesus! Look at what’s under those bangs! Curse the breeze that revealed that to my fragile eyes!” What the? Alfie’s next comment filled me in. “Has she not heard of Botox? I could compose music on that forehead.”

  “It is unfortunate, isn’t it?” Anjoli said.

  “Tragic,” Alfie agreed. “Okay, I’m off to pick up pie. You go do your thing.”

  Chapter Eight

  When Jack, Adam, and I returned home, we were delighted to see that Tom had repaired the front stairs to our house. Before we left, one step looked as if it would break off the next time someone set his weight on it. I hoped he had had similar success with removing the cold spots from the house.

  Later that afternoon, we drove past Tom and Robin’s. We saw Tom unloading groceries from his car and slowed down to chat.

  “Thanks for all your work around the house, Tommy boy,” Jack said, catching his attention. “Make sure you’re keeping track of your hours, okay?”

  “Yeah, I gotta tell ya, bro, something weird’s going on at that place of yours,” Tom said, skipping the niceties of exchanging details of our respective vacations. “Robin and I stopped by on Wednesday to see how much tile I needed to pick up to finish the bathroom. Thursday I come back with all the stuff, and it’s done.”

  “What do you mean done?” I asked from the passenger seat of our Volvo wagon.

  “I mean the job is finished. Done. Someone finished the bathroom tiling between Wednesday night and Thursday morning.”

  “Impossible,” Jack scoffed. “No one else has the key to the house.”

  “That’s not all,” Tom continued. “When we’re there on Wednesday night, Robin tripped on your front steps and broke her ankle.”

  I glanced at Robin who was now standing in the doorway, waving. Her ankle was in a cast.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” Jack said. “We’ll be happy to pay the medical bills.”

  “I’m not worried about that, bro. We got insurance. But what freaks the fuck out of me,” Tom paused, glanced at Adam and apologized. “What freaks me out is that when we went back the next day, first thing we notice — before we even make it inside to see the bathroom tile — is that the steps are brand-spanking new.”

  “You didn’t fix them?” Jack asked.

  “I wish I could take credit. I’d love to charge you for it, but I didn’t do a thing.”

  Jack and I spoke in unison. “Then who did?”

  “No idea,” Tom said.

  Robin slowly made her way out to say hello. “How was Florida?” She brushed her blond hair away from her full face.

  “Fun,” I said. “I’m so sorry about your ankle.”

  She waved a hand dismissively and said she’s always been a klutz. “I’ve been due for an injury for months.”

  “So is your husband just being uncharacteristically modest or did he really not do all of that work on our house?” I asked.

  “No, he really didn’t do it,” she said. “What can I say? You must have elves.”

  We all gave a collective shrug, though Jack and I were concerned. When we returned home, we checked to see if any of our valuable items were missing. Everything was exactly where we had left it. It appeared that we had an intruder who stole nothing and did home repairs.

  * * *

  “I have some news, darling,” Anjoli said the next day when she called. “Spot is doing worlds better.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Spot,” Anjoli said. “It’s Paz’s new name. I know it’s tres passé, but the numerologist says it’s his true name and if we address him as such, he’ll feel at ease and stop chewing his fur.”

  “Really?!” I was amazed. “And you say it’s working?”

  “He hasn’t chewed once today. Oh, no! Stop it, Paz! I mean, Spot. Lucy, darling I’ll have to call you back. He’s at it again!” Click.

  “Who was that?” Jack asked.

  “Who do you think?” I asked.

  “The dog?”

  “No, it was her. Paz was rebirthed last night. She’s calling him Spot now,” I updated Jack.

  “Rebirthed?”

  “It’s a breathing exercise that’s supposed to help you overcome the trauma of birth,” I said.

  “Oh, of course,” Jack laughed. “How silly of me. Why is she calling him Spot?”

  “It’s his true name according to her numerologist,” I explained.

  We both rolled our eyes. Jack said he wanted to take Adam to see Clifford the Big Red Dog who was visiting a local book shop. He asked if I wanted to join. “I’m going to pass if it’s all the same to you,” I said. “Maybe I’ll call Robin and see if she wants to swim laps at the gym since we’re now both members of the bad ankle club.”

  Jack kissed my forehead and went into the kitchen where Adam was playing with a See and Say toy. “Suit yourself,” he said. “You couldn’t keep me away from an overgrown red dog that’s free of nervous disorders. Hey, maybe that should be your next book, Luce — pets who undergo new age healing therapy. I can see it now, Clifford’s First Séance. Whaddya think?”

  “I think you’re adorable,” I laughed.

  “Or Minnie Mouse’s cousin from California who wants to know who moved her cheese?” Jack continued.

  “Or maybe she goes to an acupuncturist because someone moved her chi?” I added.

  Jack pouted playfully. “I hate it when you one-up me.”

  “Go!” I said. “Let me get some work done. Say hi to Clifford for me.”

  * * *

  A week had passed since we returned from Florida, which meant we had only four days until Maxime and Jacquie arrived from France. Although Jack and I had been corresponding with them for months, they were still strangers, and the prospect of having them come live with us until after Labor Day was a terrifying one. They seemed like an easygoing couple, but Jack and I were still nervous about how our first guests would react to our artist colony. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Jack and I sat at Steve’s Lunch in Ann Arbor, eating Bi Bim Bops, sketching our dream on their plain paper placemats. In many ways, it was another lifetime. We were just dating then, and hadn’t been through four miscarriages and a tough pregnancy. We hadn’t nearly divorced, then found our way back to each other.

  Robin and I swam laps together twice, but neither of us saw any progress. My doctor said that sprains could take several months to completely heal and gave me a list of exercises to do at home. Admittedly, I had done none of them, but I blame Robin for my lack of motivation. After her first attempt at self-administered physical therapy, she reported that her ankle actually felt worse. I decided that the most therapeutic route to take was to do nothing.

  As I was shopping for bedding for Maxime and Jacquie, my cell phone rang. The caller identification indicated it was either my mother — or her dog. “You are not going to believe what is happening to me, darling!” Anjoli shot.

  “Hello, Mother,” I said. “How are you?”

  She failed to get my point. “How am I? I am in crisis, darling, that’s how I am. Can you not detect a tone of horror in my voice?!”

  “What is the crisis du jour, Mother?”

  “I’m sure you remember that I put an offer in on the brownstone across the street, darling,” she began.

  “Oh yes, Mrs. MacIntosh’s place,” I said, sadly. “The block won’t be the same without her. I’m sorry we couldn’t make the funeral. How was it?”

  “How was it?” Anjoli snapped. “It was a funeral, what do you want, a review? We drove out to Queens, listened to an hour of prayers and speeches, then stood outside in twenty-degree weather and wa
tched them drop a casket into the ground. People cried, survivors wore black,” she rushed. “Anyway, I specifically told her daughter to talk to me before she listed the property with a realtor.”

  “You told her this at the funeral?” I asked.

  “Don’t be ludicrous, darling,” Anjoli said. “I waited until the reception.”

  “The reception?”

  “You know, darling. The reception. It’s where we all cram into someone’s house, and they put out a crumb cake, some cheese, and coffee,” Anjoli said.

  “So you approached her about real estate at her mother’s funeral?” I asked.

  “I said it was at the reception!” Anjoli defended. “Anyway, she promised she would call me, and the next thing I know, I hear that Mrs. MacIntosh bequeathed the damned place to NYU.”

  “Wow, what inspired that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Anjoli sighed. “Apparently Mrs. MacIntosh is an alum there and wanted to ‘give something back’ to the university.”

  “That’s incredible,” I said, astounded. “That place has four apartments. It’s worth a fortune.”

  “You’re telling me!” Anjoli said. “Are you ready for the worst?”

  “I always am, Mother.”

  “Sit down for this one, darling,” she said.

  “I’m sitting,” I lied, as I browsed the selection of sheets and duvets, wondering if an artist would find floral prints appealing or pedestrian.

  “The leases run out this summer, and they’re turning the place into student housing — for girls! It’s going to be a goddamned sorority!”

  Even I felt for Anjoli this time. Here was a woman who made unthinkable sacrifices to maintain her youthful appearance. She drank 10 glasses of purified water and four ounces of wheat grass juice every day. Anjoli ate organic vegetables and legumes, avoided all meat, wheat, sugar, honey, gluten, and dairy. She did yoga, tai chi, and spinning class religiously. Vampires had more contact with the sun than Anjoli. She had hats with brims that could double as umbrellas. The idea of her opening her window every morning and seeing bouncy co-eds bopping down the stairs of the old MacIntosh house was Anjoli’s version of Dante’s Hell.

  “Oh, Mother, that is hard,” I said, careful not to address the real issue. “I know how noisy students can be. What will you do?”

  “What will I do? I’ll do as I have always done, darling. I will go on. I will survive. I shall overcome.” It’s tough to manage sounding like Scarlett O’Hara, Gloria Gaynor, and a one-woman civil rights movement all at the same time, but Anjoli pulled it off with aplomb.

  “You’re a true inspiration, Mother,” I said.

  “You think I’m something? You should see your cousin Kimmy. She got herself all dolled up and took the train up to New Haven this afternoon. She could pass for a 25-year-old,” Anjoli said with admiration. “She obviously paid attention to all of those makeup artists from her modeling days because she looked smashing. Anyway, she packed a small purse with nothing but lipstick and a change of panties. She said she wasn’t returning to the city without an Ivy League zygote. How’s that for determination?”

  “Wow, she’s really going through with this whole baby thing?” I asked.

  “Uh huh,” Anjoli replied. “She said we’ve inspired her, darling. Isn’t that touching?”

  “How did we inspire her?” I asked.

  “You with little Adam, and me with Paz, I mean, Spot,” Anjoli said. “Between us, Lucy, I detest this new name. Who would name their dog Spot?”

  “Dick and Jane?” I suggested.

  “Precisely,” she said. “Do I strike you as a Jane? Do I even know a Dick?”

  “So change it back to Paz,” I suggested. “How is he anyway? Has he stopped chewing his fur?”

  “No, his front legs look like raw chicken,” she said. “It kills me to see him chewing, chewing, chewing the way he does. Kiki thinks I should give him a colonic.”

  “Mother, do not give that dog an enema!” I shouted, noticing shoppers staring at me. I suppose this is not the sort of thing they’re used to hearing while selecting pillowcases and towels. I lowered my voice. “If you do that, I’m going to report you to animal cruelty. Seriously, Mother, no dog should have to live this way.”

  “What way? Spot is spoiled rotten. Do you know what he had for supper last night, darling? I fed him steak tartar!”

  “Then let the dog enjoy his steak tartar without fear of it being sucked out of his ass the next day,” I said.

  “It was just a thought,” she said sheepishly. “What do you think I should do? You know I can’t stand to witness suffering.”

  “Well, Mother, you might try taking him out of your purse every now and then and letting him burn some of his energy doing normal dog things.”

  “Such as?” she inquired.

  “I don’t know, chasing sticks, burying things. Maybe you could take him to Washington Square Park and toss around a Frisbee.”

  “He couldn’t get his mouth around a Frisbee, darling!”

  “Then one of your old diaphragms, Mother. The point is that he needs to burn some energy.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. Let me give it some thought.”

  “Our guests are coming in four days,” I told Anjoli.

  “Guests?”

  “The artist and his wife, remember? I’m buying sheets for the guest house. It feels so real all of a sudden,” I said.

  “It must,” she returned. “I spoke with your aunt Bernice yesterday.”

  “Oh?” I said, wondering how much she revealed.

  “I think the woman’s losing her mind,” Anjoli said. “She was carrying on, telling me I had to shave off my pubic hair. Can you imagine? She says you told her it would keep her vagina cooler. Anyway, she’s convinced all of the women in her condo to try it, and apparently it’s the rage among seniors in south Florida right now. I’m very concerned about her stability, darling.”

  “Well, it seems harmless enough and —”

  “Hang on a sec, would you, darling? I’ve got a call waiting.” After two full minutes, she returned. “I’ll call you back, Lucy. It’s Kimmy. She’s lost in New Haven.”

  Chapter Nine

  I had just put Adam to bed for the night when Jack’s car pulled in to the driveway with Maxime and Jacquie. It was a snowy Valentine’s Day, which I thought was an appropriate, however coincidental, time to bring French artists into our lives to fulfill a dream concocted on Jack’s and my first date. My heart raced with anticipation.

  When a cold rush of air burst in the front door and I saw their faces, I knew everything would be fine. Maxime had a wide, weather-beaten face with black razor stubble that matched his shoulder-length wavy hair. He had high cheek bones, icy blue eyes, and a dimple in his chin. When he smiled, one side of his mouth opened a bit wider than the other. Jacquie’s eggplant-color leather coat was the first thing I noticed about her. That and her brightly colored Kandinsky-patterned silk scarf. Her hair was long and wavy, mostly pepper, but some salt too. It was twisted and pinned up in the back. The couple seemed utterly unafraid of appearing their age, which I knew from their application to be early forties. They placed their one suitcase in the foyer and immediately made their way over to me for kisses and hugs. I was unprepared for such warmth from strangers.

  After both cheeks were double stamped by each of our new guests, Jacquie informed me that she and Maxime brought a bottle of wine from near the town where they live. Or used to live. They gave up their apartment in Lyon and planned to travel through the United States after they left our place after Labor Day.

  “Your accent,” I said without thinking. “You sound American, Jacquie.”

  “This is what I tell her,” Maxime said, laughing. “Which is perfect when she speaks English, but not so good when she speaks French,” he said with the zeeses and zats of a man whose native tongue is French.

  “I was raised in the United States until I was twelve,” said Jacquie, seemingly not offended b
y Maxime’s comment. She then turned to him and snapped something in French. I hoped the two wouldn’t have their private asides in French. I hated when people did that.

  Before I could fret about our relationship dynamic, Jack offered to show our guests to their house. “You have a beautiful home,” Jacquie said. “Rustic and yet modern.” I knew I liked her. Those were the exact words I told the decorator when he asked about the look we wanted for our home.

  Fifteen minutes later, I had poured four glasses of wine and started a fire. Funny how Jacquie saying that we’d achieved a modern rustic ambiance made me want to create more of it. Suddenly I was setting logs in the fireplace and breaking out the Frank Lloyd Wright coasters.

  Jacquie settled into Maxime’s arms as they sat on the couch. “We made it, cheri,” he said, brushing his wife’s long hair with his fingers. She had let it down while the two got settled in the guest house.

  “Rough trip?” Jack asked.

  “You can say that again,” affirmed Jacquie.

  “The past five years has been a rough trip,” Maxime said. No one followed up, lest Jack and I seem like nosy Americans. By midnight they filled us in on how they met seven years ago when Jacquie went to see her then-boyfriend playing soccer one weekend. “I saw her standing on the sidelines and I thought to myself, ‘Who is this beautiful girl cheering for the wrong team?’” Jacquie giggled.

  “Maxime was amazing,” she recalled. “You couldn’t help notice him on the field. I was stunned when he came over at the end of the game and asked me if I understood how it pained him to see his future wife rooting against him,” she said. “I thought he was just being, well, French. He told me that all his life he had a vision of the woman he would marry and I was her. I laughed, but he said that I should at least give him a chance, and insisted that I come to watch his match the next week. He said, ‘You weel zee, cheri, next week, you weel come and watch for me and I weel score zees time. You weel zee.’ I thought the man was crazy, but charming.”