“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know how you love Kendra.” They were the sort of friends who could go years without seeing each other, but when they caught up, they picked up right where they left off. After Kendra and her family moved to Westchester, she and my mother didn’t see each other as often as they did when they both lived in the city, but she always held the top spot in my mother’s heart.
“It got me thinking about my own mortality,” Anjoli said. Of course it did. We couldn’t have another person dying without somehow making you think about yourself. “So I’ve prepared a living will of sorts so you’ll know how I want things handled should I ever become incapacitated.” As I pulled into Renee’s driveway, I checked my rear-view mirror to check on Adam. He had fallen asleep. I stayed in the car and continued with Anjoli.
“So, do you want to be kept on life support?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, darling,” she said. “Those things are so complicated. It depends on the situation. There are times when it’s completely appropriate and others when it’s totally hopeless. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision based on the circumstances. What I do know is that if you let me grow chin hairs, I will haunt you so bad I’ll make your Aunt Rita look like an amateur.”
“What?”
“I’m not finished, darling. I’m setting up a Schwab account that will cover the cost for weekly manicures and pedicures, leg waxing, and hair coloring. You should have seen Kendra’s roots! I know my Kendra and as soon as she comes to, she’s going to ask for a hand mirror, then promptly drop dead. And that daughter of hers is so damned self-righteous she isn’t even considering what her mother would want. Kendra was an extremely vain woman. I was only trying to do what Kendra would want when Little Miss Know-It-All burst into the room and started yelling at me to leave Kendra be! The nerve, darling.”
“Wait, I’m missing something here,” I said. “Why did her daughter yell at you? What were you doing?” I asked, bracing myself for anything.
“Plucking her chin hairs,” Anjoli said. “I know Kendra, and cancer or no cancer, she would be mortified to see herself looking that way.”
“Mother, you’re a piece of work.”
“And so was Kendra. Don’t be so judgmental. I used tweezers it’s not like I was yanking them out with my bare hands. For Christ’s sake, the woman had a three-inch hair coming from her chin. She looked like a Chinese chef!”
“Okay, so what you’re telling me is that you’re leaving behind a living beauty will?” I asked. “And if you should ever become seriously injured or sick, I should just wing it on the medical decisions as long as I make sure your toenails are polished?”
“Exactly, darling. It’s in the file cabinet in my office. It’s clearly marked ‘For Lucy.’”
Most people have emotional baggage from their parents. I am lucky enough to have a mother who puts it in file folders and labels it for me.
“Mother, I’m in Renee’s driveway. I’ve got to go.”
“How lovely. Be sure to say hello to her for me. Tell her I’ve been thinking of her.”
Most parents encourage their children not to lie. Like absolutely everything else in life, my mother does the opposite.
Chapter Thirty-One
After a day of splashing in Renee’s pool, we returned to the house to look at applications for next year’s resident artists. When I told Renee about last year’s lot — including stages of orgasm in paint — she insisted that she come over and sift through the applicants with Jack and me this year. On more than one occasion, she confided that the bizarre amusements of our household were her only entertainment as her marriage was imploding. In other words, we were good for a laugh. I knew to take her remark as a compliment, as I felt similarly toward her. I loved hanging out with her because she dared to pull off sophomoric pranks I never had the courage to. Once when we were pulling into the supermarket parking lot together, she saw an able-bodied young woman park in a handicapped spot. “Look at her!” Renee said in disgust. “Who the hell does this little bitch think she is?” I had to admit, as the niece of a legitimately disabled woman, I did find the young woman’s arrogance off-putting, but Renee hopped out of my minivan and started surrounding the car with shopping carts. “You go inside and tell me when she gets in the checkout line,” Renee said to me before darting off. By the time Renee was done, she had surrounded the car with more than forty carts. As we slouched in the front seat of my van, Renee and I giggled like teens as we watched the navel-pierced twit wobble in her platform shoes as she exasperatedly returned the carts.
On that August evening that Jack and I set aside to review artist applications, we had already arranged for Jenna to babysit. We knew from last year’s experience that reading essays, looking at slides, and listening to CDs was an all-night affair. As soon as we finished dinner, the three of us went down to Jack’s studio, where he had been collecting applicant packages. I loved the rich scent of jasmine and honeysuckle that surrounded the property in the summer. It reminded me of the tall wall of bushes I had to pass on my way to the playground in summer camp.
The first application contained a CD from a guy who combined his ethnic heritage into a musical genre all its own — Celtic salsa. We loved his music, but since he needed housing for a five-man band, we had to decline.
A woman named Grace from Amsterdam sent us slides of a room where she glued three million clear plastic straws to the walls. She placed them perpendicular to the wall surface, one beside the next, creating the look of a foam mattress. When we looked at the first slide, I couldn’t see the straws at all, but they were clear in the close-ups. The shots taken straight-on looked like a honeycomb, while the pictures taken from the sides looked like crystallized ice. Grace’s essay explained that she enjoyed experimenting with texture, which explained why her next slides were of pieces made from sewing pins, nails. and broken glass. I almost accepted her on the spot so she could put to use all of Randy’s fumbles.
Laura Jackson from the Bronx sent slides of sculptures she made from a collection of wire hangers that would make Joan Crawford freak out beyond anything seen in Mommie Dearest. She explained that she used nothing more than a set of pliers and hangers to create pieces ranging from simple, elegant figures to perfect reproductions of bridges. She did use orange paint to accent the Golden Gate. The Brooklyn Bridge was painstakingly well-detailed. She made sure we could appreciate this by enclosing a photo of the actual bridge.
Clint Treadwell of Munich sent slides of sculptures he made from shredded newspaper. It was actually pretty cool. I would never think to create balls from old newspaper, but he demonstrated his ability to do so best with a sculpture of a poodle. “Doesn’t anyone paint anymore?” Jack asked.
“I was thinking the exact same thing,” Renee added. Before opening a package from an Austrian minimalist, we opened another bottle of wine and compared our stack of “definitely nots” to our “maybes.” So far we had thirty-two rejects and seven contenders. As we checked again for the contents of the minimalist’s package, we realized that he had actually enclosed nothing, taking minimalism to the extreme of stupidity. We had to wonder if this was his idea of a goof on us, or if he thought he was being clever.
One guy sent us a DVD of something so strange it defied description. Men’s clothing was stuffed with pillows. The figure was lying on the ground with a white pillow head coming from the collar. On top of the man’s head was a safe that had fallen on it and kept him from getting up. Projected onto the white pillow was film of a man’s face who was muttering obscenities. “Stop looking at me, motherfucker!” he said. So we did, and put freaky boy’s application in the reject pile.
By midnight we had agreed on Grace the straw sculptor and Laura the hanger artist, but could not come to a consensus on the third artist. I liked the newspaper shredder, but Renee said that his essay gave her the creeps. Jack and I desperately wanted a harmonious second season, so we eliminated anyone Renee thought might be mentally unst
able. Since we had another few weeks to decide on our third pick, Jack and I decided to call it a night and send our invitations to Grace and Laura in the morning. Rather, later that morning.
* * *
As the sun pierced through our bedroom curtains, I groped for the telephone receiver as it rang persistently. “I didn’t wake you did I, darling?” Anjoli asked urgently. I looked at the blurry digits on my clock. As my eyes began to focus, I could see it was just after seven. “You know how I detest mornings, but I’ve been waiting all night to tell you the news.” Before I could ask, Anjoli continued. “Kimmy and Nick set a date and it is right around the corner.” I wondered why this was such big news. “The wedding will be over Labor Day weekend, so we have little over three weeks to prepare, darling.”
“Labor Day?!” I shrieked, sitting up in bed. Glancing toward Jack’s side of the bed, I was grateful to see he had already risen and started his day. Otherwise, he would have had the shrillest alarm clock. “Mother, does she realize that Labor Day is our open house? I can’t miss it. This is a huge deal for Jack and me. It’ll be the first time we open our artist colony up to the community. It’s already in the local calendar section of the paper, and stores are hanging flyers about it in their windows. Did you both forget that this is the biggest weekend of my life?!”
“And it’s about to get bigger, darling,” Anjoli said with a drum roll delivery.
“What do you mean?” I asked. I hated how my mother teased in her delivery. I always had to ask, “What do you mean?” or somehow encourage her to go on with the rest of her news. Instead of getting right to it, she gave a seemingly endless preamble that left me wondering if she’d forgotten the point altogether and had simply drifted off to another topic.
“Kimmy and I went to the Needle Park Gallery for her dress today, and we were talking about what type of dress would fit with the ambiance we wanted to create,” Anjoli began. Perhaps this would be a good time to explain that the Needle Park Gallery, despite its name and location, is the hippest bridal dress maker in Manhattan. In order to get an appointment, women have to submit a headshot for consideration because as the designer, Mingi X, was quoted saying in Vogue, she does not waste her talent on ugly brides. I believe the exact quote was something like, “To preserve the integrity of my art, I must hand-select women to wear my gowns because my work becomes polluted when worn by ugly brides.” Instead of alienating potential brides, Mingi found that her hideous comment launched her into superstardom. Brides from across the country hired professional make-up artists, hair stylists, and photographers so they could show Mingi that they were pretty enough to wear a Needle Park bridal gown. Needle Park wasn’t even called Needle Park anymore. The East Village had been so gentrified over the last ten years that heroin addicts had to relocate to make way for kids to play on the jungle gym. Yet the pretentiously unpretentious Mingi opted to name her dress shop after an outdoor heroin shooting gallery. Instead of being repelled by this, women from even the most wholesome states sent giggly notes to Mingi, begging to be initiated into the ranks of the Needle Park brides. They promised to make the pilgrimage to New York for their fittings, and agreed to sign a contract allowing Mingi to destroy any wedding photographs that weren’t flattering to her dresses. “Anyway, darling, naturally after taking one look at Kimmy, Mingi accepted her application and even waived the file review fee. Such a sweetheart, that Mingi. She’s making a hat for me that will match Kimmy’s dress. Not that I didn’t qualify for a dress, of course, darling. I may yet be a Needle Park maid of honor, but I have to feel out Alfie and see if he’ll be crushed if he doesn’t dress me for the wedding.”
“How sensitive of you, Mother,” I said.
“And guess who else is going to be wearing a Mingi original to Kimmy’s wedding?”
“Me?” I asked tentatively. I wasn’t sure I wanted this nasty woman sighing with exasperation as she measured my hips and waist.
“Oh,” Anjoli’s voice fell. “No, darling. I didn’t think you were into that whole scene.” I wasn’t, but it would have been nice to be the one rejecting the idea. I wondered if my mother thought Mingi would turn down my application. Then I shook off the entire, ridiculous notion of having to apply for the right to pay top dollar for a dress named after a rehabilitated druggie park.
“Good,” I said. “I don’t have time to come in to the city for fittings with the open house coming up. Oh, right! Tell me how we’re supposed to handle my being in two places at once on Labor Day.”
“Don’t you want to hear about J.Lo’s dress?”
“J.Lo’s dress?” I repeated. “Ah yes, the dog. You’re getting a dress made for your Chihuahua? Did Mingi agree to this?”
“Agree to it?! It was her idea, darling.” Unbelievable.
“That’s terrific then. The three of you should look very coordinated.”
“You don’t feel left out, do you, darling?” Anjoli asked. “If you want Mingi to whip up something for you, I’m sure she’d do it for me. We won’t let her see you until all the papers are signed.” Ouch! It took a long time for me to come to peace with my weight. I wish the rest of the world would hurry up.
“Don’t bother, Mother. Renee’s going to cut a hole through a canvas tent so I can put my head through it. I’ll just wear that.”
“She is so creative,” Anjoli said.
“Anyway, tell me about this Labor Day wedding.”
“Oh yes, how could I forget, darling?”
Because you’re a flake, Mother!
“Kimmy and Nick have decided to have their wedding on Labor Day weekend.”
“I know that! How am I supposed to be her matron of honor if we have our big art show that weekend?”
“Because Kimmy and Nick’s wedding will be at your place. That’s how, darling,” Anjoli said with great satisfaction.
“We’re having an art show,” I reminded her.
“This will be part of it! Think of it as performance art, darling. Everyone adores watching beautiful people get married. I bet you double attendance when people hear that a model is getting married on your commune.”
“Mother!” I shouted, not knowing where to begin. I took a deep breath and tried to reason with her. “Jack, Maxime, Chantrell, and Randy have worked really hard to make this show a success. If we throw a wedding in the middle of it, it’ll detract from their work. Besides, do Kimmy and Nick really want a bunch of strangers at their wedding?”
“As long as they bring gifts,” Anjoli said, laughing. “Seriously, darling, if you’re worried about money, I’ll pay for all of the champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Plus, consider how much exposure these artists will get if I infuse the party with our fabulous guest list. We’ll make your open house the place to be on Labor Day weekend. The townspeople will feel like absolute bumpkins if they don’t show up.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Oddly, I was the only one who objected to Kimmy and Nick relocating their wedding smack dab in the middle of our first open house. Jack agreed with Anjoli that hosting a wedding would be a huge draw. And bringing two hundred well-heeled guests from the city couldn’t help but result in art sales for everyone. Randy immediately asked if he could design an abstract glass bride and groom ornament for the cake top. Chantrell offered to play her cello for the bridal procession, and Maxime insisted on creating the invitations. I never thought a wedding invitation done entirely in ink dots would looks quite as elegant as it did. Even Jacquie got into the act. At first, I assumed her contribution would be shopping for party supplies, but she stunned us all when she announced that she was a classically trained opera singer and belted out an absolutely spectacular Ave Maria.
The next day, I woke up to the sight of Jack and Adam dressed in white undershirts, backward baseball caps, and unusually large medallions made of fake gold and rhinestones. “Is today Anderson’s hip hop birthday party?” I asked.
“Gangsta party, woman,” Jack corrected. As he smiled, I saw that my husband had wrapped a front tooth
in gold foil. He picked up his water gun and tucked it into his low-rider pants and instructed Adam, “Word to your mother.” Whatever the hell that meant. “You best start gettin’ dressed, woman,” he said to me.
There was something more than a bit ironic about a ghetto theme party in honor of a five-year-old named Anderson P. Barrington IV held on a multimillion dollar estate so large that the invitation included a map. Not a map of how to get to the Barrington estate — a map of how to get from the driveway to the “Sunny Garden.” Apparently, Anderson P. Barrington III provided legal representation for Forty Cent, a cheap imitation of the half dollar mega-star. Forty agreed to entertain the kids for an hour.
I couldn’t even imagine why Adam was invited to this party. We’d never met the Barringtons. When we received the invitation last week, Renee was at the house helping Jack paint the car. She informed me that every family in town with children ranging from newborns to high schoolers would be attending the Barrington bash. When I told her it was Jack’s turn to take Adam to the party, she gasped. “You have to go!”
“I took Adam to Devin’s fire engine party three weeks ago, and I still hear sirens blaring in my head,” I reminded her. “Don’t I deserve a break?”
Renee took a serious tone and explained, “This party is going to rock in ways that people like you and me can’t begin to imagine. Bebe told me that MTV was going to make a surprise launch of its new G-rated music television station live from the Barrington party!” I could not care less about MTV or its new kid station, but I found Renee’s excitement contagious. I began wondering if I should attend. “Plus, if you don’t go, Faidra will take it as a huge snub and you’ll be on her shit list forever. Believe me, you do not want that. She had a huge falling out with Felicity Griswold six years ago. Do you know her?”
The Queen Gene Page 21