Revenge of the Spellmans

by Lisa Lutz

  After I sent the e-mail, I ordered a coffee and scoped out the café, looking for signs of trouble. But all the patrons looked legitimate for this area of town, this time of day, and this sort of establishment. One of the problems with Harkey’s business is that his surveillance guys look like surveillance guys. You can spot them from a mile away. Hidden in a car, they can slip past your periphery, stay on your tail, and maybe go unnoticed for hours. But on foot, they stand out like sore thumbs. This was one reason Spellman Investigations had a leg up on the surveillance business in the city. Sure, we often hired retired cops or security guys, but we also employed college students, part-time porn shop clerks, 3 and three women of varying ages and sizes (if you count me).

  While I waited for fairydust611’s reply, I checked my e-mail:

  To: Izzy Ellmanspay [I.Ellmanspay@gmail.com]

  From: Henry Stone

  Re: Rae

  Message:

  Isabel, please tell Rae to stop calling me. One message a night is more than enough. And, I should add, not ONE of those messages was an admission of guilt. In fact, she’s never offered a sincere apology for changing my locks or anything else she’s ever done. Tell her “I’m sorry you’re angry” is NOT an apology. Also, don’t tell me to use call block, because she just borrows her friends’ phones.

  Thank you for handling this matter.

  Henry

  I e-mailed Rae, relaying the message, but I had a feeling it would fall on deaf ears or blind eyes. Henry was mistaken in thinking I’d have any more sway than he would, but I admired his hard stand against communicating with Rae. One of these days I would have to try it myself. Sometime during my e-mail game of “telephone,” fairydust611 replied.

  To: Izzy Ellmanspay [I.Ellmanspay@gmail.com]

  From: Fairy Dust [fairydust611@gmail.com]

  Re: Linda Truesdale

  Message:

  Howdy, Ms. Ellmanspay. I don’t remember any Linda Truesdale at B.F. High. Are you sure Truesdale is her maiden name?

  Cheers,

  Betty

  I was happy to learn that fairydust611 had a real name and was quick to reply. I shot her another e-mail straightaway.

  To: Fairy Dust

  From: Izzy Ellmanspay

  Re: Re: Linda Truesdale

  Message:

  Betty,

  Thank you for your quick reply. Do you remember a Sharon Meade?

  She would have been two or three years behind you.

  Thanks,

  Izzy E.

  I waited five minutes for another speedy reply but maybe fairydust611 had to cook meat loaf or dust off her unicorn statues. I slipped my computer into my bag, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and exited the café, scanning the pedestrians on every adjacent street corner to note whether I had a tail.

  I crossed Van Ness Avenue, checking over my shoulder a few more times. As I approached my car, I could see no signs of a tail, so I decided it was time to reposition the GPS that was planted. I sat down on the curb, pretending to tie my shoe, and then I lay down on the cement and checked under the curb side of my vehicle. Rae’s GPS was inside the back rear fender. The new one was just under the front right fender. After I removed it, I looked it over and found a small label: RH . Putting your initials on a tracking device you’re using covertly? Behold the unique blend of arrogance and stupidity that is Rick Harkey. I was amused that he thought so little of me that I wouldn’t figure out his method. But Harkey is famous for believing women are good for just a few things. I scanned the area one more time and placed the device on the cleanest car in the vicinity, figuring that was the one that got driven the most. Then I felt a short surge of elation as I imagined the inconvenience Harkey and his men would suffer at my hand. Then I started letting my mind wander, dreaming of further revenge, but I stopped myself. I had a few other worries that took precedence.

  Fifteen minutes later, as I approached David’s and my house, I saw a new car—specifically, a new Toyota Prius—in his driveway and decided to investigate. I knocked on his door.

  “Why are you always in the neighborhood?” David asked when he saw me.

  “I live here, didn’t you know that?” I replied. I know, I’m becoming reckless. I blame exhaustion.

  “I suppose you want to come in,” David said, not seeming all that broken up about the idea. He was wearing something strange. Loose-fitting clothing in a fabric that looked all-natural or breathable or whatever. Ew. (Sartorial U-turns are always a sign of something—why shouldn’t I be curious?) I refrained from commenting, which took most of the strength I had left, because I wanted to find out about the car first.

  “Not if you have company,” I said, nodding my head at the unknown vehicle.

  “Something wrong with your neck?” David asked.

  “Whose car?”

  “Mine,” he replied casually. It was an effort, the casualness. As if he were trying to convince me that the whole topic was casual and I shouldn’t think twice about it.

  “That’s not your car,” I said.

  “Yes, it is,” he replied. “Are you coming in or not?”

  I followed David into his house. I was distracted by the car and the meaning behind the car and whether my brother was turning into someone new. I honestly didn’t have any valid complaints about the new David—at least what I knew of him. Well, I could complain about the skipping-work part because it cramped my coming-and-going style, but that didn’t seem fair. Still, there were motivations to uncover.

  “Where’s the BMW?”

  “I traded it in.”

  “And why did you get a new car?” I asked, trying to maintain the casual air.

  “I wanted to reduce my carbon footprint,” David replied.

  It was a reasonable response, but nothing is that simple with David—switching from a luxury sedan to a Prius signals more than just a whim of ecological conscience.

  “Are you having a MILFO?” I asked.

  “Why do you insist on reducing complex issues to simple terms? Sometimes people change without some sensational backstory to explain it. Sometimes people need to change and they’re not even sure why.”

  Was it possible that my brother’s mystery was no mystery at all, just some kind of vague life change prompted by divorce, age, and the Discovery Channel?

  “My therapist would love you,” was all I said.

  “So, how is that going?” David asked, casually twisting the conversation over to me. Don’t worry, I can’t be twisted.

  “Nineteen sessions 4 down; five to go.”

  “Have you discovered anything new about yourself?”

  “Of course, but I’m prohibited by professional ethics from discussing what happens in therapy.”

  “No,” David said, both sighing and rolling his eyes, “your therapist is prohibited from discussing your sessions. You are free to talk about them.”

  “Well, I’ll have to research that and get back to you.”

  Long pause.

  “Why is it that you dropped by again?” David said, sounding tired.

  “Oh yes. I remember,” I said, remembering. “Why did you have some woman call Maggie and ask her survey questions?”

  David turned to pour himself a drink so that I couldn’t read his expression.

  “I didn’t,” he said, sounding believable. But he is a Spellman; he knows how to lie and he was lying.
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  “I might believe you if it weren’t for that embarrassing question about the Monkees. 5 Fortunately, she wasn’t sure whether you were referring to the band or the primate.”

  David paused briefly, debating whether he felt like fessing up. He did.

  “I could never date a woman who had a crush on Davy Jones. I just couldn’t. Everyone has their standards,” David said, repeating something I had heard at least a dozen times before.

  “I certainly wouldn’t date a man with a crush on him,” I replied.

  David turned to me. He had a serious question on his mind. I wanted him to ask, so I planted an expression on my face that I’ve learned comes off as friendly and nonjudgmental.

  “I really like her,” David said as if it were a deep, dark secret. He wore his guilt like a Christmas sweater.

  “Dude, I figured that out already,” I replied.

  “What do I do?” he asked.

  My response suddenly seemed really important to me. I don’t remember David ever asking me for advice. And when I say ever, I mean, like, never. I felt a sense of responsibility to get it right. My first reaction, oddly enough, was that it would be kind of fun to have Maggie around more often. But then I had to look at the big picture. Was there any inherent conflict in David dating Henry’s ex-girlfriend? I thought about it—quickly, because David wasn’t going to wait all day for me to mull it over—and came up with something that I have to believe was a sensible response.

  “Nothing just yet,” I replied. “You let Rae continue whatever bizarre matchmaking schemes she’s got planned, and in a few weeks you can ask Maggie out.”

  “What about Henry?”

  “Don’t worry about Henry. I caught him on a date the other night.”

  “You don’t see a problem?” David asked.

  “Nope,” I replied with great conviction.

  The only thing that mattered in this picture was that Henry and Maggie were no longer together and from all accounts were going to stay that way.

  “Let me just give you a piece of advice,” I said. “If you and Maggie start going out, don’t check her pockets, even if you think you’re going to find candy in there.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just remember those words,” I said.

  My work at David’s was done. I just needed to decide whether I would risk a quick dart around the house and into my apartment or if I’d kill time elsewhere until I had a safer entry.

  “Any plans tonight?” I asked.

  “No, I’m just staying in reading my book about blah, blah, blah.”

  Sorry, I should really pay more attention when people talk, but I had the information I needed six words into the sentence.

  “Sounds like a fun night,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

  Once again I took a huge risk: I strode down David’s front steps, scoped the area for nosy neighbors, and circled his residence, stealthily entering through the back door.

  When I checked my e-mail later that evening, fairydust611 had kindly replied.

  To: Izzy Ellmanspay [I.Ellmanspay@gmail.com]

  From: Fairy Dust [fairydust611@gmail.com]

  Re: Re: Re: Linda Truesdale

  Message:

  Hi Izzy,

  I remember Sharon Meade. She was a sweet girl. Two classes behind me, I think. You should e-mail some of the alumni from 1983. They might have her contact information.

  I sent a quick thank-you e-mail to fairydust611 and then hunted for the most active profile from the Benjamin Franklin alumni from 1983. Lavae Aldrich (burbmom28@gmail.com) was my most promising informant. She also had a MySpace page and a blog. 6 I sent her an e-mail and went to bed.

  My phone rang in the middle of the night. It was jarring, but not as much as it would have been if I’d been asleep. My habit was to keep my phone on vibrate, but I was getting sloppy, as you’ve undoubtedly noticed. I dashed toward my jacket pocket, removed the phone, and inadvertently opened it instead of silencing the ringer. Remember, I was tired. The call was connected and when my eyes were able to focus on the caller ID, I saw that it was my mother. So I figured I should take the call. Besides, even on her worst day, my mom is more interesting than David’s ceiling.

  “Hi, Mom. Is there an emergency?”

  “Not really,” Mom replied, sounding more awake than one should at 3:15 A . M . “I can’t sleep,” she said.

  I slipped into the closet, which I’d come to think of as my own personal phone booth, so that I could speak freely.

  “I hate to break it to you, Mom, but few people find conversing with me soporific.”

  Dead silence.

  “Mom?”

  “I can’t believe you know that word,” Mom said.

  “How insulting,” 7 I replied. “I should just hang up the phone.”

  “I’m impressed. That’s all,” Mom said.

  “Feeling sleepy yet?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Would you like me to sing to you?”

  “I’d like you to listen to my confession,” Mom said, and suddenly I was wide awake.

  MOM’S CONFESSION

  A t first I had no idea what my mother was talking about. She rambled, not using proper nouns, avoiding full disclosure, but eventually I got the gist.

  I gathered that Rae’s PSAT cheating scandal, followed by her throwing-the-test scandal, troubled my mother to an unprecedented depth. For years, my mom’s desperate-mother energy had been focused on me and all my brushes with serious delinquency (and/or jail time). Rae was one of the good kids—a delightful, warm, cheery child who was aggressively self-directed and maybe a bit bullying. However, all of that in the package of a five foot two adolescent who always looked a few years younger than her age came off as adorable. Until recently, that is.

  In sixteen months, my sister would be eighteen. At that point, whatever sway my mother had over her would be lost forever. My mom was suddenly flush with the realization that her daughter was out of control. While it was true that there was something to admire about Rae’s uncompromising sense of what she wanted, there was also something ruthless about the way she went about making sure she got it.

  As far as my mother was concerned, Rae’s going to college was a nonnegotiable edict. However, you can’t make someone of legal age do anything, and since Rae wanted to protect her massive savings and, frankly, had no interest in a college education—I’m assuming this was based on the fact that she felt she could learn whatever she wanted for free—they were in a very uneven standoff. Rae had a gun; my mother had a water gun. And so my mother started doing what any concerned, dedicated, and crafty mother would: She began playing a single-minded game of Gaslight 1 on her daughter.

  This was the game: In order to encourage my sister’s high school work ethic, my mom had her grades doctored during her junior year to make it appear that she was not doing as well as she really was. When my sister actually took to studying and found that her efforts were in vain, she worked even harder. The reasons were twofold: 1) According to the Spellman bylaws, 2 if Rae didn’t maintain a B-plus average (used to be B-minus) she would lose all non-life-sustaining sustenance, and 2) Rae has a healthy sense of her own intelligence and has always believed she wasn’t an A student only because she chose not to be. When she started putting in
effort and began receiving scores in the C-minus range, it made her rethink her perception of herself.

  Keep in mind, the grades that Rae was receiving on her papers and tests were not the ones that would go down on her high school transcripts. At the end of the year, Rae would be clued in to the deceit and receive her actual grades, which for the first time ever just might surpass a B average, if my mom’s ruse worked according to plan.

  How did my mother have Rae’s grades—or at least the appearance of them—doctored? Excellent question. There are two camps of instructors at Rae’s school. Below you will find samplings of quotes from both camps, taken from a variety of parent-teacher conferences throughout the years:

  Pro-Rae

  Mr. Sputter (chemistry instructor): “I appreciate that Rae has a distinct preference for lab work vs. lecture classes, but before she starts experimenting willy-nilly in class, it would be prudent if she paid attention when I mentioned which properties are combustible when mixed.”

  Ms. Baxter (AP English): “Her papers are entertaining, insightful, and well written, if a little on the short side. Having her in class for ninety minutes every other day is a complete delight. Yes, ninety minutes is about my limit.”

  Mr. Peabody (see previous document for further details): “Other than that one incident last term with her obsession with my desk drawer, I find her class comments perceptive and unique, and I think she contributes well. An unusual child, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. She’s not working up to her potential—no news there—but she’s still one of my better students.”

  Anti-Rae

  Mrs. LaFaye (second-year French): “I don’t care if she speaks in English or French—I refuse to negotiate my lesson plan with your daughter.”

  Mr. Blake (U.S. history): “As far as I can tell, the only part of history that interests Rae is digging up dirt on our founding fathers.”