I ran through my mental Rolodex. “No, never heard of her,” I told Renee.
“Exactly,” she said, folding her arms smugly. When Renee sensed that I was unmoved by the threat of social Siberia, she changed tactics. “It will be a total blast, hon. Go for me, won’t you. Dan has to work all next weekend and I don’t want to go alone.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “How are things going with you two?”
“He’s working all next weekend,” she replied. “And he worked all this weekend. It’s amazing that he isn’t running the place by now.”
“Renee,” I said, extending her name to scold her cynicism. “Maybe he is working.”
“I called his cell phone company and said I was his secretary, and had them fax me a copy of his phone bill for the last month. He makes a lot of calls to the same number, the home of a Cindy Phoenix. Could you puke at the name? His credit card statements show that he’s having some pretty swanky dinners on the nights Dan said he was working. Remember working late on big projects?” Renee asked. I nodded. “Remember where dinner came from? Subway sandwiches or someplace like that, not Philippe’s Bistro.”
I said nothing because there was nothing to say. It was clear Dan was still having an affair and had no intention of calling it off. I wanted to ask her what she planned to do about her philandering husband. I wanted to tell her she deserved better than this. But before I could open my mouth, she shifted gears and continued to urge me to attend the Barrington bash. “You could pitch a story to Parenting magazine about over-the-top birthday parties,” she urged. “I mean, when was the last time you went to a backyard party with Pin the Tail on the Donkey and frosted sponge cake?”
I laughed. “I once went to a kid’s birthday party where Barney showed up drunk off his ass and fell into the swimming pool. He actually hit his head pretty badly and had to be taken away by paramedics. The mom called in a shrink to do a post-party therapy session so the kids wouldn’t suffer long-term damage.”
I agreed to go to the party, and truth be told, I was looking forward to it all week. When I saw Jack and Adam dressed and ready to go that morning, I wondered what I would wear to match their gangsta ensemble. I opted for a yellow sundress and was eternally grateful for the choice when we arrived. The only mother who was pimped out was Faidra, who looked as if she borrowed Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl jumpsuit. Clearly, the unspoken rule was that Faidra was the belle of this ball and the other mothers better not even try to compete. How any woman could wear black leather on an August day was beyond me. I have to admit, though, she didn’t break a sweat. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some sort of surgical intervention to ensure that Faidra would never do something as human as perspire. Renee told me that she had every type of cosmetic assistance available, including the bleaching of her butthole.
“What?!” I gasped when Renee whispered this to me at the party. “Why would she do that?”
“I guess to make it look more youthful,” Renee said, shrugging.
“Who’s looking at her asshole?” I said, incredulous.
“It’s apparently pretty common.”
“It is not common!” I exclaimed. “Come on, tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding, Lucy. Faidra Barrington has a bleached ass. Actually, I think it’s a laser procedure.”
“Jesus,” I sighed. “That’s good grooming.” I made a point to remind myself to squat over a hand mirror later that evening and see what all the fuss was about. It infuriated me that men could walk around feeling perfectly good about their appearance whether they had a unibrow, triple chin, or skin flaps hanging off their eyelids, but stunning women like Faidra felt the need to have an unblemished butthole. The world is insane.
Not only was the world insane, this party was crazy. The closest parking spot was more than three blocks from the house. We found our way to the Sunny Garden by following the pounding rhythm of a band calling itself PG-Unit, the warm-up band for Forty Cent. The Barringtons had a stage set up that looked as if it were an actual rock concert. They had a two-thousand-square-foot wood dance floor surrounded by dainty tables covered with white umbrellas you just don’t see in the hood. The irony of this party was too delicious. Adam and Jack looked cute dancing, but others were more amusing. As I sat under a parasol, gossiping about Faidra’s asshole with Renee, I watched Phil MacInerny, the local pharmacist, gyrating his hips and pumping his arm up and down like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. I always enjoy the sight of white people trying to show how hip they are by self-consciously copying moves they think black people would do.
Faidra flitted by every table with her freshly dyed burgundy hair that was flipped above the shoulder like Marcia Cross’s character, Bree, from Desperate Housewives. She kissed Renee on both cheeks and introduced herself to me, telling me how pleased she was that Jack, Adam, and I could attend. Her manners were astonishing. Well over four hundred people were at this party, and she remembered the names of the people connected with me as soon as she heard my name. “You’re the family that turned the Adler place into an arts colony. Anderson and I are very much looking forward to your open house on Labor Day weekend. We’re collectors,” she said matter-of-factly. “Anyhoo,” Faidra continued, handing us two red bandannas. “You are both Bloods, so put these on your heads before the water balloon battle with the Crips later.” Pointing at the red bandanna on her own head, she said, “I’m a Blood too, so let’s kick some booty together, bitches,” she said with a demure giggle chaser. There was something extraordinarily lovable about Faidra. Despite her pearly white asshole and insistence that we dress like gangsta girls, she was warm and sincere in a way I didn’t expect.
Robin joined us at the table and waved her red bandanna at Renee and me. “I guess we’re Bloods together,” she said, leaning in to kiss me. “It’s been too long. We need to get together soon,” Robin said to me.
Glancing across the lawn, Renee took inventory of who was there and what color bandannas Faidra was handing them. “I think all of the Junior League gals are Bloods,” Robin told her as she noticed Renee’s eyes scanning. “And all of the guys from Anderson’s law firm are Crips.” Renee and I burst into laughter as Robin smiled.
“I have got to write an article about this!” I shouted.
Just then I heard the familiar beginning of the Forty Cent song, “In Da House.” “In da house it’s always y’birfday. We gotta party like it’s your birfday,” he sang. We’ve got to party like it’s your birthday? No wonder this man needs good legal representation! Forty wore low-riding jeans and no top and was most definitely sweating. His ripped abs and muscular arms were so shiny they looked almost as if they were oiled. If I squinted, I could see a trail of black hair trickling down from his charcoal black belly button into his jeans. After the crowd finished hooting and hollering, Forty greeted the guests and brought little Anderson on stage to wish him a happy birthday. We all had to give a “shout out for shorty” and repeated several chants Forty led.
“I thought shorties were women,” Renee whispered to me.
“Forget everything you once knew,” I whispered back. “Sounds like it means ‘kid’ today.”
Forty said he wrote a song especially for Anderson and his homeys, and shouted into his microphone, “How many y’all shorties here was titty-fed? Lucky mother suckers, getting all that free titty.” He immediately launched into a song where the chorus was something about mother suckers. Forty held out his mike and urged the audience to shout back at him, “Lucky mother suckers.” Absurdly enough, they did. No one seemed at all outwardly phased by the fact that their kids were being taught borderline obscene lyrics that make nursing babies seem like sex-crazy boob fiends.
“Am I hallucinating, or does this guy keep calling our kids mother suckers?” I finally asked.
“This is classic Faidra,” Renee said.
“Well, I have to agree with Lucy that this is wholly inappropriate,” Robin added. “I’m going to say something to Faidra.”
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Forty continued. “If you love that titty, say, ho!”
“Ho!” replied a mob of self-conscious white people trying to prove how hip they were.
Faidra rushed by us, heading toward the house with a sense of urgency. I may have even seen a bead of sweat peeking out from under her bandana. Robin held out her manicured hand with a diamond that caught the sunlight in such a way that it looked as if her hand just launched fireworks. “Faidra,” Robin said, “we need to talk about these lyrics!”
Faidra brushed by our table, looking back to reply. “Not now, girls. There are some kids snorting confectionary sugar in the kitchen. Be back in a second.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The night after the Barrington hood bash, I drafted an article on how kids’ birthday parties have gone from neighborhood gatherings with cake and ice cream to ostentatious mega events with pop stars and faux cocaine. It was supposed to be a humorous piece, but I found myself growing heavy-hearted at the thought that some kids were sacrificing their childhood rite of passage to make way for their parents’ show of affluence. Three days later, Parenting bought the piece and assigned a follow-up two-part series: blow jobs at bar mitzvahs and sex at sweet sixteens.
The phone rang. Aunt Bernice called to ask if I would like a laser treatment next time I came to Florida. “Turns out, I refudd so much business that I get a free lasah job, but what do I need with it now that my vaginer is as smooth as a baby’s?” Why she felt the need to give me the status of her pubic hair every time we spoke was beyond me. “Thank you for sending that adorable t-shirt your friend Ronni painted. I’m the hit of the Hallmark with it on.”
“Oh, you’re the hit of the Hallmark even without it, Aunt Bern,” I replied.
“True,” she chirped. “Why isn’t Ronni selling these gorgeous creations at boutiques?”
“Renee,” I corrected. “Her name is Renee.”
“Whatevah her name is, that goil has talent.”
As much as I adored Aunt Bernice, talking to her made me miss Aunt Rita. Rita would have had some negative comment to balance Bernice’s sunshine. She would say the t-shirts were ugly. She’d add that the paint smelled so bad it was giving her a migraine. As lovely as Bernice was, half of her was missing without Rita. I understood how she felt. There was an empty space in my home now that Rita and Arnold were gone — and they were haunting my house. If only Rita could have been a well-behaved ghost. But why would she be different in death than she was in life?
Before I could pick up the phone to call Robin to ask her about the next Junior League luncheon, I heard Jack shout from the attic. Hoping he hadn’t hurt himself, I ran to the ladder leading up to the attic and asked if he was okay. “Come up here, Luce,” he said. As I ascended the rungs, I asked what the problem was. “Look at this,” he said, gesturing to the walls. I looked puzzled. “Look closely,” Jack said. I stepped close to the walls to see that the wood beams and walls were lumpy and torn. “Termites,” Jack said. “It’s pretty extensive. We’re gonna need to get the place tented. We’ll need to move out for a few days.”
“Can it wait until after the open house?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Why don’t we get the place looked at, then take off for a few days if we need to get tented. Maybe leave Adam with Bernice and cruise down to the Bahamas or something.”
“It’s going to be sad to see them go,” I said of our visitors. “Where will Maxime and Jacquie go?”
“I don’t know,” Jack said, shrugging. “They seem to be the type that always lands on their feet. Ya know, we bought this place less than two years ago. I think the guys who did the termite inspection need to cover this.” With that, he began climbing down the ladder. “Come on down, Luce. Where do we keep the house stuff?”
“In the bottom drawer of the file cabinet,” I told him as the phone began to ring.
“Hello,” I said, answering the call.
“The wedding is a fiasco! Kimmy can’t settle on a dress, darling,” Anjoli launched. “Honestly, she is so high maintenance.”
“Hello, Mother.”
“Darling, I am in crisis. We spent all day in that gritty little hot box by Needle Park looking at design after design after design, and absolutely nothing pleased madam.” I could see my mother rolling her eyes at Kimmy’s world-class divatude. “Finally, Mingi started shouting at us in Chinese or whatever language she speaks. When she finally calmed down, she told us that no one rejected her dresses and kicked us out. Can you imagine being asked to leave a dress shop?”
“Mother, you’re forbidden from returning to several Eastern European countries,” I reminded her.
“Precisely why being banned from her dinky little bridal sweat shop is so insulting, darling,” Anjoli said. “I think the woman is a complete fraud. Do you know what she said?” Not waiting for a reply, she continued. “She said we weren’t nice. Not nice?! Who the hell wants to be thought of as nice, anyway? It’s such an insipidly pedestrian compliment, it’s practically an insult. I thought she was one of us.”
“One of us?” I inquired.
“An artiste, darling,” Anjoli clarified. “Someone who didn’t have an interest in being characterized as nice. For God’s sake, the woman said she didn’t allow ugly brides to wear her dresses. I respected her for that honesty. Now it turns out that she’s a simpy little mouse cake like all the rest interested in dealing with people who are ‘nice’ and ‘good’ and other such blandness. Nice! Who the hell wants to be nice?”
“Mother, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t find you the least bit nice.”
“You’re such a love,” she said, sniffing. “So get ready for my next piece of news. Are you sitting?”
“Mother,” I said, sighing. “I have never once fainted on account of your news. Why do you always ask if I’m sitting?”
“Oh, I don’t know, darling. Does it really matter? Does every word I say need to be hyper-analyzed by you?”
“I suppose not,” I dismissed. “Okay, I’m sitting. I have my sniffing salts by my side and a handmaiden ready to assist me should I keel over from the shock of Kimmy’s wedding dress news.”
Anjoli burst into laughter. “Your delivery is just like your father’s, darling. God, I miss that man. Why he had to leave this plane is beyond me. It wasn’t as though he was so spiritually evolved.”
Mother saw death as a graduation from earth. Whenever people passed away, Anjoli nodded her head somberly, declared them evolved souls, then darted off to Pilates. “Were you able to change Mingi’s mind?”
“Change her mind?!” my mother gasped. “I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s beneath me and beneath Kimmy to grovel for the approval of anyone, much less a hyped-up seamstress.”
“Oh, did you want me to call her?” I asked.
“Ha!” she laughed. “It’s beneath you too, darling. How did you ever get such low self-esteem with me as a mother? Anyway, Kimmy decided she’s going to forgo the whole wedding dress thing altogether. She says it’s too mainstream.” There were certain words that were emotionally loaded in my family. “Mainstream” was one of them, along with “pedestrian” and “common.”
“So what’s Kimmy going to wear, a pantsuit?”
“Think again, darling.”
“Um, a skirt?”
“One more guess!”
“A tuxedo?”
“That’s clever, but more your style than Kimmy’s. Ready to give up, darling?”
“Yeah, tell me.”
“Are you ready?”
“Mother, I need to go in a minute. Either tell me or don’t tell me,” I bluffed. I was dying to know after such build-up, but couldn’t stand to let my mother know how effective her game was.
“Nothing!”
“What do you mean nothing?” I asked.
“I mean she’s not going to wear one stitch of clothing, darling. Nothing, nada, neit.”
“Are you telling me that Kimmy’s going to get married naked?”
&nbs
p; “Well, there’s more to it than that,” Anjoli said, enjoying herself. “You’ve heard of body painting, haven’t you, darling? It’s all the rage among the kids these days. Apparently, all the girls at the Playboy Mansion adore body paint.”
“Oh yes, how could I have forgotten? Last time I was hanging out at Hef’s place, I got painted like a mermaid before I posed for my centerfold.”
“Very funny, darling. My little friends at the KAT house told me about it. You don’t mind if I add them to the guest list, do you?”
“Will they be dressed or painted?” I asked, half serious.
“Dressed, of course. It takes a while to do a good paint job. I imagine Jack will be busy for two-to-three hours on Kimmy’s body.”
“Excuse me?” I said, hoping I had misunderstood.
“I said that it will take Jack between two and three hours to paint Kimmy’s body, especially considering the glitter glaze she wants on top. You know how brides are, they always wants that extra little sparkle.”
“Yes, but it’s usually on their eyelids, not their nipples, Mother. I’m sorry, but Jack cannot paint Kimmy’s naked body,” I said.
“Why not?! He’s always working on that car of yours on the lawn. How is this any different, darling?”
“I’ve never feared Jack would get sexually aroused by a VW bug, Mother! Why does she have to get married in the nude, anyway? First she jilted her groom, then she married herself in a gown made of disco ball mirrors, and now after having screwed half the Ivy League, she decides to marry an anthropology professor in nothing but a coat of paint?!”
“And glitter,” Anjoli added.
“The point is that this is not normal!”
“Who wants to be normal?” Anjoli shrieked. “Normal is boring. Normal is insipid. Normal is a complete bore and I, for one, think it’s fabulous that Kimmy marches to her own tune. Why do you begrudge her this? Look at you, living on an artist colony. You’re not exactly Donna Reed, and thank goodness for it, darling. I’m proud of how unique my girls are.”
The Queen Gene Page 22