The Jewel Box

by C Michelle McCarty

“We are here,” Mei said sweetly, carefully enunciating each word. She was delightful. “Bennie’s helping Gloria bring in some food I make for everyone.”

  Mei had a positive effect on Ben who she endearingly called “Bennie.” Adding “ie” to a man’s name instantly lowers his macho level a notch.

  Gloria walked in with Ben who was lugging a basket of goodies. Conn and Kim followed. Gloria stopped to chat, but the younger crowd made a beeline to our kitchen.

  “Jur hair look berry pretty tonight,” Mei said to Hope.

  “Thank you.” Hope smiled before entering the powder room.

  Gloria made a quick frown at Mei’s broken English, and then blew air kisses at her daughter-in-law as Mei went into the kitchen to help Bennie set up her Chinese cuisine. Gloria squeezed into a tiny spot at the end of our sofa where Gabriel lay sprawled across two cushions.

  “She’s sweet, but it breaks my heart that Ben married outside his race,” Gloria whispered to him. It wasn’t the first time she’d expressed anti-Mei sentiment.

  “You fucking bigot,” Gabriel bolted upright, and passed Hope on his way to our bar.

  “Sorry about his mouth,” I said quietly to Gloria. “But you know Sean would have embraced Mei without bias.” Hope flipped through a magazine. She adored Mei, but turned a deaf ear on her mother’s snide remarks.

  Kent remained financially and emotionally absent, so before school started in fall Gloria finagled the legal changing of Nikki’s last name to O’Quinn. “She’ll fit in better,” Gloria claimed. “Being part of a cohesive family.”

  “Yeah, before long we’ll all have the same last name.” Gabriel winked at us girls. Usually it’s the bride who decides her wedding date, but Gabriel was adamant about ours falling on May ninth—the date we consummated our relationship in 1970.

  “Shake a tail feather, lovey,” I called out for the umpteenth time on Nikki’s first day of school. No response or sighting. I’d gotten an earful of exasperation about the new school when I woke her, but with minutes ticking away, I needed some cooperation. “You can’t possibly still be getting dressed,” I raised my voice a few octaves. I knew she wasn’t applying makeup or fussing with her hair because her idol Hope was into the natural look. “C’mon, Nikki.” This time I screamed loud enough to break windows or at least some cheap wine glasses. “Get out to the street.”

  “I can’t believe I have to ride a stupid school bus.” An unhappy Nikki entered the living room.

  “Suck it up buttercup.” I stood my ground. She’d never been on a school bus before, but our life was changing and we’d discussed the transportation situation, ad-nauseam. “The bus arrives any minute and you’d better be on it.”

  She mouthed something before slamming our front door, almost unhinging it.

  Hours later Nikki blasted through the front door, “I despise Pearland and all the hicks at that school.”

  My heart sank. “It can’t be that bad, Nikki.”

  “These are the most boring, backwoods people in the world.”

  Where had I heard that before? “Things will get better. You’ll soon have all kinds of new friends and I’ll bet most of them won’t be comparing designer labels.”

  “Uh.” She rolled her eyes. “Only because they’ve never heard of Calvin.”

  I wanted to smack the smirk off her face. “Don’t be a little snot, Nikki. Before Randall, you weren’t wearing such high-falutin’ clothes and carrying handbags that cost more than my car payment. Adjust your attitude.”

  “Change my attitude? You want me eating possum for lunch with everyone else?”

  “That’s enough.” My face felt flush with anger. Gabriel was so prideful of this little town, I didn’t want his feelings hurt. “Now promise you’ll make an extra effort for Gabriel.”

  “I’ll try.” She grabbed her books and headed to her room. “For him.”

  I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and prayed to all the gods around us.

  Gloria continued making big bucks as a high-powered travel agent, and before you could say nepotism, she got me hired as part-time assistant to company owner, Eduardo D’Alessio. Our boss did most of his own paperwork, making my job a breeze. Gloria barely tolerated him, and often made negative remarks about his sexual preference. The guy was so gorgeous he likely had a string of women praying nightly he would switch teams. I instantly clicked with this sensible yet sometimes silly, educated but not snooty, bighearted guy. Eduardo was a discreet homosexual, but even if he had flaunted his lifestyle à la Liberace, it wouldn’t have bothered me. “Live and let live,” Mother always said. Eduardo dubbed me Farrah. I tagged him “Roarke”—the character portrayed by Mexican-American Ricardo Montalbán on TV’s Fantasy Island. Albeit much younger than the mysterious Mr. Roarke, Eduardo kept his age top secret, tried to teach life lessons to employees, believed in fantasy vacations, and was super suave even without wearing a white suit. His office décor was eclectic, with unusual furniture and rare art.

  Eduardo enlightened me on many amazing aspects of indigenous Mexican culture in Texas, since two things he enjoyed as much as theater were Texas history and Halloween.

  “Farrah, did I mention Halloween’s my favorite holiday?”

  “Tattoo mentioned it,” I straightened Eduardo’s personally autographed poster of Dolores del Rio that seemed off-kilter between original Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera paintings. “That’s the day you kick-off your kick-ass annual contest.”

  “That’s right, missy. Whoever sells the most tour packages by the end of November wins the grand prize of a trip for two anywhere on the globe, all expenses paid for seven days. Competition is open to all employees, not just travel agents. Now pony up and sell some trips.”

  Gloria had won the competition five years running, and always took Hope to Tahiti during August, Houston’s hottest month. The woman could sell Brylcreem to bald men.

  I rarely spoke to Beau while he and Lola struggled through issues during their second-go-round, so when he called I was elated. A father figure who actually listened. And listen he did as I told him everything from concerns over Nikki’s disdain for small town living to comfort with my new job. When I mentioned Eduardo’s competition, Beau seemed unusually interested.

  “Baby, I’m going to a party for June Wilkinson this evening, and should see my old buddy Bill Ruel. I might call you with some good news next week.”

  “Actress June Wilkinson? Who married Houston Oiler Dan Pastorini?”

  “Yep, but they’re divorced now, baby. I’ve known June for decades.”

  “Your list of acquaintances amazes me. A Playboy bunny.”

  “Well before Hef discovered her, she was the youngest topless dancer on record.”

  “Is that how you knew her?”

  “Lord, no. She was only fifteen and lived in London. I met her in 1961 when she was doing a West Coast stage production with Milton Berle. I think it was Norman, Is That You?”

  “Milton Berle. Jeez, Beau.”

  “I met Milton in Las Vegas during the late forties, when he was packing showrooms at Caesars Palace, The Desert Inn, and other casino hotels.”

  “How about Elvis. Did you ever meet him?”

  “Oh, we’re still best pals. He’s alive—just not feeling so well,” Beau joked. “But remind me to tell you an interesting story about the King and I some day. Lola just drove up… I’ll call you soon. Bye for now.”

  The following day, Beau called with unexpected news. His friend Bill Ruel was planning a surprise party for his wife’s fortieth birthday and wanted to book one hundred and ten guests into a hotel in Barbados on New Year’s Eve. Beau asked Bill to book through me.

  Employees could not divulge sales (Eduardo kept bookings secret), and excitement ran high during November as everybody including the janitor pushed trips to friends and relatives. Everyone assumed Gloria would win the international travel, but we all sought second place of a four day weekend at Houston’s luxurious Warwick Hotel. Not to mention third pla
ce of five hundred dollars. Clever Eduardo was making more in sales than he was paying in prizes, but it was spirited competition. On December 1st, Eduardo summoned employees into the board room for his theatrical production—red carpet leading to a small stage where a table covered in gold satin held three “Eddie” statuettes. First place was a replica of Eduardo in pilot uniform with cocktail in hand. Second place model had Eduardo dressed as a bellhop, holding a hotel key. And the third place Eduardo statuette was decked out in pimp attire, flashing a fistful of cash.

  “First of all, I want to thank my hard working employees for making this our best competition ever.” Eduardo stood center stage in his expensive emcee suit. “Even those who aren’t called for prizes today will find some extra jingle in their Christmas stocking this year.”

  Everyone clapped and awaited Eduardo’s “Texas History” trivia. He took employees back in time to the mid-Sixties when River Oaks socialite Candace Mossler was charged along with her nephew Melvin Powers of murdering her millionaire husband, Jacques Mossler. Candy’s love affair with her young nephew was common knowledge, and the two were so brazen with their lust, everyone was sure they would fry. Until infamous attorney Percy Foreman joined their team. A bouncy, platinum blonde, former model, Candy charmed reporters with her southern accent and on camera charisma. When asked about allegedly murdering her husband and having an incestuous affair with Mel, she held the microphone and boldly stated, “Well, nobody’s perfect.” After her acquittal, Candy kissed every juror.

  “I know you all dig tales of Texas oil money and greedy cheating spouses that lead to murder without convictions,” Eduardo continued, “but I suspect you’d rather learn the winners of our contest. Interestingly enough, this year’s three largest producers could easily impersonate some famous Texans.” He took his sweet time looking around the room at each employee, making us wonder who the hell we resembled. Some people fidgeted in their chairs, a few women crossed their arms as if to say “enough already” and two men lit smokes.

  “So with this said,” Eduardo finally continued. “Will the freshly tinted blonde who now resembles Hot Wells native Texan, Mary Kay Ash, and could sell Bibles to an atheist, please come forward?” He nodded toward Gloria who was already halfway to the stage.

  “Next up is the man who looks so much like native Houstonian Kenny Rogers—it’s been rumored he sells trips by promising women he’ll sing Lady to them all night.” Daryl Moss rushed forward to stand beside Gloria.

  “And last but not least, can our other Texas celebrity lookalike, the lovely Ms. Farrah Fawcett please join us?” Eduardo stretched out his hand. I walked forward, tickled pink, but thinking I should update my layered haircut.

  A collective gasp filled the room. Thanks to Beau’s assistance, I had outsold some hard-hitting agents. Still, Gloria and Daryl had hustled big time the past thirty days, so I figured my take would be the five hundred bucks. Employees applauded through forced smiles; their chances of winning gone. I stood beside Gloria, who squeezed my hand while we waited for Eduardo to announce the big winner.

  “And I’ve got a twenty dollar bill for the first one who can name Farrah’s birthplace.” He winked at remaining employees.

  “Corpus Christi,” was shouted in unison by at least five guys.

  “Can’t believe so many of you knew that one.” Eduardo shook his head, and slowly passed twenties through the crowd. “But then most of you probably still own a sticky copy of her famous ‘red swimsuit’ poster.”

  Gross Neal from accounting let loose a long whistle. Gloria shifted impatiently, and squeezed my hand tighter than ever. Eduardo was attempting to amplify suspense, even though everyone knew Gloria would win the top prize yet again. I was mentally spending my cash on Luke and Nikki’s Christmas.

  “Drum roll, please.” Eduardo thumped his microphone several times. “Our third place winner with sales of one hundred and seven travel packages goes to. . .” Long pause. Longer pause. And, finally—“Goes to our bearded gambler, Mr. Daryl Moss.”

  Daryl’s look of defeat was obvious as he ungraciously accepted the glittery pimp statuette with its fistful of fake money. He had bragged about beating Gloria this time, thus grumbled a measly “congratulations” her direction and rudely left the stage. Then it hit me. Daryl’s loss meant I had won the mini-vacation at the Warwick’s Black Label Suite.

  “And now. . .” Eduardo winked at me and Gloria. “Since we’re down to two lovely ladies and only one can win the international trip, let’s fast forward to our second place winner.” No fast forward. Eduardo milked his moment in the spotlight—left eyebrow arched high while he pensively scratched his chin and strutted between Gloria and me. He looked dashing with his sable hair slicked back.

  Gloria and I smiled as we held hands on the stage. We were visualizing our vacations as Eduardo continued to draw out his presentation.

  “Houston’s Warwick Hotel,” Eduardo elaborated, “has hosted celebrities such as Princess Grace of Monaco, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Imelda Marcos, the Shah of Iran, and Bob Hope.”

  “You’re going to love it,” Gloria whispered in my ear. I was giddy.

  “Okay, then.” Eduardo began thumping the mike like Ringo Starr on acid. “The winner of a four day stay at Houston’s grandest hotel for selling one hundred and eleven packages is Gloria O’Quinn.”

  Gloria dropped my hand. I stepped forward to accept the tiny bellhop statuette and was reaching for it when Eduardo stopped me. “Farrah’s in shock. Should I slap her?” he joked. “Cherie, this award belongs to Gloria.”

  I looked at Gloria. Her cheek muscles tightened and her eyes narrowed as she smiled. I stood stunned.

  “Congratulations, my darling Cherie,” Gloria said as she snatched the statuette. My feelings were mixed. Having never won anything in my life, I was elated to win Eduardo’s “Tripping the Light Fantastic” contest, but felt awful for Gloria whose smile seemed frozen on her face.

  “And for selling one hundred and fourteen packages.” Eduardo handed me the tiny replica of himself as airline pilot with cocktail in hand. “Our first prize goes to Cherie Parnell.” I remained stunned. Even though I hadn’t paid attention when Eduardo was announcing the number of packages sold, I knew Beau’s friend had only booked one hundred and ten. There must have been a mistake. I revealed my thoughts to Gloria, which turned her gloomy expression to a happy one. We needed to confer with Eduardo once the room emptied. When the last person finally trickled out, we cornered our boss. Together we learned that Beau had called the agency days earlier when I was at a doctor’s appointment. He spoke directly to Eduardo and booked an additional four packages for a trip to Las Vegas with Lola and her parents. Beau had sworn Eduardo to secrecy, wanting to surprise me. Poor Gloria. Her glimmer of hope was now completely gone and her face fell sad again.

  “Thanks to you I won the grand prize by three packages.” I called Beau from work.

  “Good for you, baby,” he congratulated, but his voice echoed despair.

  “What’s wrong, Beau?”

  “I’m not going to bend your ear with my problems.”

  “Then I’ll never yap about mine to you. Talk to me, please.”

  Silence filled the airwaves and when he finally spoke, his voice was shaky. “My marriage is falling apart and this time I can’t seem to pull any tricks from my sleeve to make Lola happy.”

  “I’m so sorry. You know I’d be there in a New York minute for you if I could. But Lola wouldn’t appreciate my presence, so here comes a giant phone hug.”

  “Thanks, baby. I needed that.” He sounded a little more upbeat before ending the call, but still couldn’t hide his pain.

  Mixed emotions swirled in my head, dulling the thrill of my win. I felt bad Gloria was miserable, but it saddened my heart to know Beau was dealing with the excruciating misery inflicted by lost love.

  19

  “Gloria never dreamed you’d outsell her,” Gabriel said when I got home. “Otherwise, she’d have ba
ked something other than laxative brownies during the contest. She wanted all competitors busy on the throne instead of the phone. Luckily you only eat sugar-free crap.”

  “She did not do that,” I chastised.

  “Tip of the iceberg, Blondie. She even buys laxative gum.”

  I’d seen Gloria passing out gum, and Daryl missed a couple of days due to stomach problems. Surely Gabriel was joking.

  “Gloria’s a sore loser. Don’t take any food or drinks she offers the next few months.”

  “Stop it,” I responded reprovingly.

  Gabriel couldn’t hide his excitement about our seven day trip to France, while Nikki’s excitement sprang from her and Mistletoe spending time with eighteen-year-old Cousin Jim, home for college break. My decision to visit Paris two weeks before Christmas was such short notice, finding a hotel became a head banger until Eduardo offered a marvelous bed and breakfast on the Right Bank in the Marais district. It’s great to be connected.

  The quaint B&B was cozy yet romantic, and Paris was all I dreamed it would be. On our first day: Eiffel Tower for photo ops. Our first evening: dining at La Closerie des Lilas where I closed my eyes and visualized Hemingway (the young, handsome, square-jawed, rosy cheek version) sitting nearby, writing diligently. Okay. I’d consumed lots of French wine. Gabriel indulged all my adventures from walking along the river Seine in an area where Ana s Nin reportedly lived on a houseboat, and even strolling Pére Lachaise Cemetery, burial site of famous folks like Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, Frédéric Chopin, Marcel Proust, Gertrude Stein, and its number one attraction, Jim Morrison. No objections to visiting Parisian cabaret, Le Crazy Horse Saloon for an hour of tasteful burlesque, or taking cooking classes, traveling the cobblestone streets of Rue Cler, viewing Monet paintings at the Musée Marmottan, or shopping at all the quirky, funky shops near our B&B. We returned each evening to share a gourmet French meal with other guests, before flying up to our room to drink wine and engage in multi-orgasmic sex, complete with giggles. As a courtesy to other guests, Gabriel’s loud screams got ramped down to quivering moans of “Oooh... baby, baby.”