The Queen Gene

by Jennifer Coburn

  Renee laughed. “You say that like it’s something negative, Lucy. Insult me no further by frowning upon my lifestyle.” It was clear she was being funny, but there was an indefinable something sad about her comment. Or her delivery. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but something about Renee hinted that there was pain beneath the fabulous outfits and one-liners. She was like a crystal bowl filled with warm kettle corn. But when you lifted it up and checked the bottom, you could see a layer of burnt, unpopped kernels. The kind that makes you flinch from the unexpected bitter taste. The kind that may cause you to chip a tooth.

  “Abby, you speak French,” Robin chimed in. “Tell us what they’re saying.”

  She listened, knitted her brow, then held one finger up as if to tell us to wait. I decided to use this opportunity to bring the Chinese chicken salad to the table. As I served, Abby began translating.

  “Okay, girls, here’s the poop,” Abby said. “She said that Maxime is a worthless slob who ruined their lives. She didn’t go into details, however she feels quite certain that they shall never be welcome in Lyons again. I believe it has something to do with a business deal.” Abby rolled her eyes and added, “We all know how those can go sour in a heartbeat. Now she’s saying something about a violinist.”

  “Cellist,” I corrected. “Her husband and the cellist had an affair.”

  The room became still with discomfort.

  “Oh,” said Abby. “He seems to be very remorseful about it. He’s telling her how sorry he is and that it wasn’t her fault.”

  “Give me a break,” Renee snapped. “I can see for myself that the guy isn’t even speaking, so how do you expect me to believe he’s apologizing?” I didn’t have to wonder why Renee felt Abby’s attempts were for her benefit. “Look, the guy just walked back into the house and slammed the door. That doesn’t translate to remorse in any language.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As it turned out, Abby and Robin planned the ogling lunch to help cheer up Renee, who had recently discovered that her husband was having a long-term affair. Renee explained that Dan, her husband of twelve years, had agreed to end the affair and go to marriage counseling. But every time she looked at him she said she no longer saw a man. She no longer saw a marriage. She saw an affair. She imagined what Dan and his mistress did together. What they talked about. And whether he’d ever discussed their marriage with her. She wondered how she had been portrayed. Renee said that Dan swore up and down that he had never discussed her or their marriage, but then again, he also promised to be faithful, so she didn’t know what she could believe anymore.

  “Do you mind if I ask why you’re staying with him?” I asked.

  “We’ve got three kids,” Renee sighed. “We have a routine. We have a life together.” Her voice caught. “And I love him.”

  I had been where Renee was now and knew how humiliating a position she was in. My situation with Jack was different because we were technically separated so his relationships were not clandestine affairs, but that is of little comfort to a woman in love. I was tempted to tell her about how Jack and I had become estranged and found our way back to each other. Loathe as I am to admit, I wasn’t willing to expose my own vulnerability. I could easily convince myself that I didn’t want to turn the focus on myself. God knows, after a lifetime with Anjoli as a mother, I know how incredibly invalidating that can be. But the truth was that in our new home, in this new life, Jack’s and my troubles were back in New Jersey. Even the thought of speaking them aloud seemed as if I was packing them in a box and bringing them along. I suppose we always do that anyway, whether we choose to or not. But to the extent that I could control it, I decided not to show these new friends the soft, scarred underbelly of my life.

  “Things can turn around,” I assured Renee. “Many couples go through rough times and find that afterward their marriages are stronger than before.” There. All she needed to know was that there was hope, not that I had a similar experience.

  The lunch went from being a silly escape to a weighty discussion of marriage, children, and midlife. I can’t imagine a group of men ever becoming derailed from their mission of ogling beautiful women. But perhaps strip joints dim the light and blast music to make it impossible for men to engage in heady discussions about their relationships.

  After I stopped laughing at the absurdity of that notion, I cleared the table and turned on the coffee maker. I peeked to see if Randy was outside, but he was not. His curtains were pulled back so I knew he was up and about, but I couldn’t catch a glimpse of him inside.

  After our marathon luncheon, Abby agreed to host the next at her home. Rather than recoiling at the invitation to their next Junior League meeting, I accepted. Reluctantly, but I accepted. These women seemed nice enough, troubled even, which in my book was an asset. As they hobbled out the front door, I told them how nice it was to meet them and watched as they passed the giant spider on my lawn. Jack and Adam returned home and crossed paths with the limping women. Renee told the others that Adam was “a doll,” which automatically brought her up a notch in my book. Funny how someone complimenting your child makes you realize how very wise they are.

  * * *

  When I called Anjoli that evening, I caught her in the midst of Mancha’s latest treatment for his trichotillomania. Apparently she felt psychotherapy was taking too long and Mancha’s group counseling sessions were a disaster. Try being an undersized Chihuahua in a room full of Rottweilers, German Shepherds, and pit bulls trying to work through their own issues. During one session, the therapist returned from a trip to the rest room to find that another dog had dug a hole in a potted plant and buried Mancha.

  “Darling!” Anjoli answered with excitement. “I only answered because I saw it was you. We’re in the middle of giving Mancha a white light bath, and it is absolutely fabulous. I might take one myself as long as I’ve got the practitioners here. You should see how peaceful he looks right now.”

  “A white light bath?” I repeated, not really knowing what more to say.

  “It’s the latest in spiritual healing, darling,” Anjoli explained. “They set out this lambskin mat and have the person — or in this case the dog — lie on it while rays of white light are focused from, oh, I’d have to say fifty, sixty bulbs. It’s so warm and snuggly, it’s all I can do to keep myself from tearing off my clothing and joining Manchita on the mat.” She paused to consider the effects on her skin. “Do you think white light has UV rays?”

  “So, he’s under a heat lamp?” I asked.

  Anjoli pooh-poohed my description. “You make it sound so pedestrian, darling. I’m not treating some jaundiced newborn. This is a special white light bathing machine where the slenderest rays of white light heal spiritual dis-ease.”

  “Are you sure this is safe? How hot is he getting under there?”

  “Darling, Mancha is a highly intelligent animal. Don’t you think he’d protest if he found it uncomfortable?”

  “Not if he’s cooking, Mother! Do you even know what temperature he’s under?”

  “The practitioners do this on themselves every day, darling. It’s sweet of you to worry, but —”

  “How much do they weigh?” I interrupted.

  “Excuse me,” I heard Anjoli say to the white light bathers. “Is there a risk of overheating with this thing?” I heard a male voice answer but couldn’t make out what he was saying. My mother made noises of understanding and approval, then returned to me. “He’ll be fine. You know I would never do anything I thought would hurt my little Manchita.”

  * * *

  Three days later, Mancha had still not regained his vision. Anjoli noticed that when she took him for his walk in Washington Square Park, the poor thing walked straight into a tree instead of stopping in front of it to pee. “His ophthalmologist says he should be back to normal in a few weeks, darling. Please do not make me feel any more guilt about this than I already do, okay, Lucy? You know what I always say about guilt.”

  I fin
ished the thought for her. “Guilt leads to punishment, and punishment resolves nothing.”

  “That’s right, darling. How pleased I am that you remember.”

  How could I forget? Mother espoused this philosophy every time she had intentionally or unintentionally hurt someone, which was daily. When she had affairs with married men, she repeated that she refused to feel guilty because it would only lead to punishment. And punishment, of course, solved nothing. I always hoped that during the course of her hours of meditation, she would have an epiphany and decide to change her ways. She didn’t need to feel guilty, but she might stop thinking of married men as library books that she could borrow for three weeks. Alas, this never happened, as her last affair I know about was with Adam’s former pediatrician.

  “I would imagine you learned quite a bit from having me as a mother,” Anjoli said with some satisfaction.

  “You’d imagine correctly, Mother. How are his spirits?” I asked.

  “Whose?”

  “Mancha’s, Mother! How is he handling his blindness? Poor thing doesn’t know it’s temporary. He’s probably terrified.”

  “Let’s not be too dramatic, Lucy. He spends most of his time in my purse. It’s not as though he’s out burying bones or anything. His life remains as fabulous as ever. The only thing that I do find quite disturbing is the ridiculous glasses the doctor has given him to wear.”

  “Glasses?!” I shrieked, imagining a Chihuahua in wire rim specs from Marganthal-Frederics.

  “They’re not glass, of course, darling. They’re actually black cardboard with hundreds of tiny holes. They’re supposed to strengthen his eyes or some such nonsense. He looks blind in them.”

  “He is blind, Mother. How are his paws? Is he still chewing them?”

  “Yes,” she said with exaggerated disgust. “He can’t see a pothole when crossing a street, but he can still manage to find his paws and pull every last hair from them. Can you imagine how silly this little dog looks with his Ray Charles glasses and scabby little paws?” I shuddered at the thought of this poster puppy for the canine telethon.

  Hours later, Mancha’s paw must have hit the redial button on Anjoli’s cell phone because she was clearly unaware that I was on the line. “I don’t care if it is semester break, you cannot play that music so loud.” A young female voice sounded apologetic and asked if they could compromise and turn the music down in another hour. “You’re playing music from the roof! The whole damned block can hear your party. This is a family neighborhood. Some of us have nieces and nephews who need to wake up early for school!”

  Since when does cousin Kimmy need to wake up early for school? She hasn’t lived with Anjoli in eight years anyway. And when exactly did Greenwich Village become a family neighborhood?

  Multiple female voices began talking to my mother. It seemed friendly, except on my mother’s part. “No, I most certainly would not like to come in!” she said.

  “I would,” said Alfie. I hadn’t realized that he was with her until he spoke. “Come on, love. Let’s go inside and meet the new neighbors,” he suggested.

  Anjoli grumbled and agreed. “Let me see if I have any sterilized cotton for Mancha’s ears. The last thing my poor darling needs is to blow out his eardrums now.”

  I assumed they had walked inside because the music became louder. A few minutes later, both Anjoli and Alfie were raving about the view from the roof.

  “Why haven’t we done a thing with your rooftop?!” Alfie cried. He seemed mortified that a group of college girls had come up with an idea that had eluded him for decades.

  “Oh my God, that is the cutest dog!” said a young woman who spoke with the Friends accent. “Have you ever seen a dog with glasses?”

  I hung up the phone and asked Jack if he felt like barbecuing for dinner that evening. “It’s so warm out tonight,” I said. “It almost feels like summer.” And with the optimism and joy that often accompanies the season of leisure, I suggested we invite Maxime and Jacquie, Chantrell, and Randy to join us.

  “All together?” Jack asked, incredulously. “Jacquie and Chantrell at the same table together?”

  “Act as if we don’t know a thing and leave the ball in their court. What do you say?”

  Jack shrugged and smiled. “If it’ll make you happy, okay. Gimme an hour to get to the store. Shrimp and steak sound good to you?”

  “You take care of that, I’ll go down and invite our guests.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Amazingly, everyone got along beautifully at the barbecue, including Jacquie and Chantrell. Perhaps this was because they now had something in common — they despised Maxime. He didn’t notice much, having sunk into the depths of depression, but looked up every now and then to force a smile. Randy was a pretty easygoing guy and seemed utterly unaffected by the fact that everything he touched shattered.

  In bed that evening, I asked Jack if we might consider taking Maxime to a therapist. “The man is depressed!” I said. “As his hosts, don’t you think we ought to step in and get him help? God knows his wife isn’t going to do anything but shop until it’s time for them to leave. Can you believe she invited Chantrell to go shopping with her tomorrow?!”

  “The mistress and the wife out shopping together,” Jack pondered as he set down his book, realizing he wasn’t going to get any reading done. “Sounds pretty French.”

  I laughed. “When did you get a sense of humor?” I asked. “Really, you were so dour when we lived in Jersey. You’re like a whole new person here.”

  “And this pleases you?” Jack said, smiling.

  “Of course,” I couldn’t resist leaning in to peck him. “Remember when we took that lemon oil bath?”

  “How could I forget?” Jack asked, laughing. But he hadn’t been laughing when it happened. I had bought aromatherapy oil, which a woman at the health food store had said would be relaxing if I diluted it in a tub of hot water. It was soothing for about twenty seconds. Then our skin began burning and itching uncontrollably. Jack was more than a little angry about losing his top layer of flesh, but the rage he felt toward me was years of built-up resentment.

  “What if that happened to us now?” I asked, hoping he would say that we’d pull together better and that he wouldn’t blame me.

  “Why would we take a lemon oil bath now?” he asked. “We know it’ll burn the shit out of your skin.”

  Men.

  “What if we didn’t know, and we took a lemon oil bath together, and the same thing happened. How would we handle it?” I clarified.

  “I don’t know. We’d get out of the tub and rinse that crap off like we did last time,” Jack asked.

  “But you wouldn’t be angry at me like you were, would you?” I asked.

  Jack knew I was hoping for assurances that we would handle such crises with greater compassion for one another this time around, but he refused to play my game. “I think I’d be angrier at you this time, Luce, ’cause now you know how harsh that stuff is on the skin. Ach, that stinging,” he said, clutching his arms with the memory.

  “Seriously, what do you think we should do about Maxime? It’s like Night of the Living Dead whenever he’s around. Did you see how bloodshot his eyes were tonight? I think he cries pretty much all day.”

  “Let me talk to him man to man,” Jack offered. “I’ll see if I can get him to tell me what’s going on.”

  Not to make sweeping generalizations about men, but I can pretty well guess how this conversation would go down.

  Jack: Everything okay? You seem down in the mouth lately.

  Maxime: It is fine.

  Jack: Okay, just checking. See ya.

  ***

  The next week Aunt Bernice called with her past-due Snatch Report. “We’re awl getting lazah beamed. Sylvia, Ida, and Shifra were awl tawking about how hard it is to keep shaving aw pubic hayahs every few days and someone suggested we get a wax job. I don’t go for awl of that hot wax nonsense. You kids are crazy with that pulling-it-out-with-wax busi
ness, but theyah’s a new thing you can do with lazah beams that takes the hayahs awf and they nevah grow back.”

  “You’re getting laser hair removal?”

  “Whaddya think?”

  “I think they use those lasers to open bank vaults,” I said, flinching with the thought.

  “Only when they’ve forgotten the combination,” Bernice replied.

  Clearly, she’s missed the point.

  What do you say to an eighty-four-year-old aunt who informs you of such plans? “If it makes you happy, Aunt Bernice, then I’m glad for you.”

  “You don’t know how hot it can get down heyah,” she informed me. I wasn’t sure if she meant “down here” in Florida or “down here” in her nether regions, but decided to simply move on to a new topic — any new topic.

  “What’s going on in the condo?” I asked.

  “Would you believe Fanny Lipshitz had a heart attack and died at her own birthday party?” Bernice told me. “That’ll make people think twice about throwing a surprise party for a ninety-year-old woman.”

  “She died at the party?” I gasped.

  “Yeah, we awl yell ‘surprise!’ and she held her chest and fell to the ground. We were pretty surprised, I’ll tell you. The whole thing was so sad and a little bit confusing to tell you the truth. No one knew whethah we should eat the cake or what. What are you supposed to do when the guest of honah drops dead at the beginning of a party? Anyway, the whole meshugas reminded me of how Rita went at the Red Lobstah,” Bernice sniffed. “I miss her so much.”

  “So do I,” I said. But I knew it wasn’t the same. Rita and Bernice were inseparable. I remember going to Mah Jong games, Jewish Women’s Federation luncheons, and the Catskill Mountains with them. They were never apart, even when they were. They were the best of friends.

  * * *

  It was with the hope of meeting new friends that I attended the Junior League luncheon that Renee called to tell me about. “It’s a good group, and they really get a lot of community work done. Try not to let the sea of theme sweaters freak you out too much, though. First time I went to one of these things, I counted fourteen of them.”