White Plains

by David Hicks

  Agh. See? This whole thing is giving me agita.

  Anyway, Famous Author, whose name shall henceforth never be uttered in our household, that one is cold. We heard about her for months but we’d never met her, because Flynn is apparently now embarrassed by us, his own flesh and blood. Then, we finally met her. Here’s what happened. I’ll tell you. Flynn called us from his house, well it was pretty much Rachel’s house then since they were separated, in a total panic. He was watching the kids, and Rachel said she’d be back home by seven but when he said “Okay good because I have to be at the airport by eight,” she apparently got a little gleam in her eye and by now it was eight thirty and Famous Author was sitting alone at the World’s Shittiest Airport and who knows when Rachel would be back so could I please please go to the airport, pick her up and bring her back to our house and by that time Rachel would surely be home? And when I said “Geez, just bring the kids over here! Or I’ll come over there!” he said the kids were sound asleep and he had sworn to Rachel that nobody else would be present whenever he babysat and that included family and he also swore to her that he wouldn’t take them anywhere without her knowing and he didn’t want to piss her off and she would absolutely freak if she knew he had a girlfriend visiting and then he’d never get to see the kids and she was not answering her phone so I said “Oh for Christ’s sake all right” and I asked Mom to come over and watch the kids and told Mitch to grab the blue cop light and we blasted down to the airport to pick her up, I mean we flew down the Van Wyck so fast I swear Mitch hit warp speed. Took us seventeen minutes, new world record. When we got there we spotted her right away, (A) because we googled her picture and (B) there was a crowd of people like always but she, she was the only one standing there all annoyed with her hand on her hip like her chauffeur was late.

  We didn’t get much out of her on the way back. Sullen. Like Mari when she misses her nap. And I don’t recall her ever saying thank you for the police escort. When we got to our house, Flynn was waiting in the driveway with the car running, looking embarrassed beyond belief. When I told him he should bring his new girlfriend inside so she could meet Mom, he said “Some other time, Annie,” and drove off. Now how do you think Mom felt about that? I mean, we saw her looking out the window and all. It broke her heart, that’s how it made her feel. She couldn’t even talk about it. She just handed me Robbie’s binky, told me they were both sound asleep, and went back into her house. That’s right, we live next door to Mom. Flynnie always teases me that it’s symbolic or whatnot but it’s not, because, again, I have to say this: practical. Have you seen what real estate is going for around here? So we just built onto Mom’s and wal-la! Affordable property in Westchester County, and an instant babysitter, on-call 24/7.

  Anyway, Flynnie stopped showing up for Sunday dinners after that, or he’d show up but he wouldn’t say much, or he’d show up without the kids because Rachel, after she got wind of the new girlfriend (okay, because I told her), she went into Defcon V and started telling the kids their father was an adulterer who would go to hell for his sins and they couldn’t see him anymore. So when he came over he’d just sit in Pop’s old armchair and stare out the window like something was out there, something besides the train tracks I mean. Then he missed one of his weekends with the kids because Famous Author was visiting again and then the next weekend he flew out to Colorado, and I had to say something then, I had to say listen, little bro, I love you, you know that, but these are weekends you should be spending with your kids, right? And what’s the deal with missing three days of work? And—I had to say this—I wouldn’t have loaned you that money, I said, if I knew you were going to donate it to United Airlines instead of your lawyer. And he was like “Annie, don’t do something nice for me and then impose conditions on it, okay? I’ll give it back. You want it back now?” But we both knew he didn’t have it. Please.

  “Listen, Flynnie,” I said, “I read her book.” (I’m talking about the paperback, not the one that’s out now in hardcover. Who spends $24.95 on a book?) “This girl,” I said, “forget about it, she’s messed up. What do you get out of living like that, out in the freakin’ wilderness? I’ll tell you what you get. You get dead.”

  I had just seen that movie, Into the Wild. Great film, stupid kid.

  “Or you grow hair on your tits,” I said, which is my way of saying the girl might be a little too, you know, testosteroney.

  “Please, Annie,” he said, and he put his hand on my arm, right here. “I’m in love with her,” he said. Which of course melted my heart. And scared the shit out of me.

  “No you’re not,” I said. “You’re in love with that,” and I pointed out the window, at the “out there.” You know, the “out there” that everyone’s in love with. The “out there” that everyone thinks is going to solve their problems until they realize that they can go way out there, as out there as they want, but they’re still going to be walking around with whatever’s in here. “This is what counts,” I said. I was pointing at my chest—which let me tell you, is pretty impressive. I use it to make all kinds of points.

  “I’m thinking the two are connected,” he said.

  Whatever.

  No matter what you might think right now, let me tell you something. My brother has a good head on his shoulders. Not for nothing he got a PhD when nobody else in our family graduated college. (I went for two years but then I married Mitch and got my PhD in Pregnancy—two friggin’ miscarriages and one stillborn before Mari was born.) But when it comes to women, he’s always been a dork. He never had a date in high school, but in college, as soon as his zits went away, he got so cute so fast that he had a lot of girlfriends all at once, not that he knew what to do with them. Mostly he dated these artsy forlorn types and then all of a sudden Rachel who’s the opposite of artsy forlorn. And now Famous Author, same as Rachel, very outspoken and opinionated, I can’t stand people like that.

  Anyway, when we met her for the second time, that’s when it was at the fancy-schmancy restaurant and that’s when the shit hit the fan, so to speak. Flynn wanted to bring her over for dinner and finally meet Mom—she had already met Nathan and Janey in secret once, out at the park, and according to Flynnie it “went very well” but according to Nathan “she bought us puppets.” (Hello? You cannot buy the affection of children. They are too smart for that.) And Janey just made a face, what a mug she has on her, she looked like she might start crying, and as for Rachel when that happened, it was the first time she had let him see the kids in a long time, when that happened it pissed her so off she said he would need a court order to see them again—but anyway as I was saying we were all set to host this momentous get-together, we were all set to cook up a big dinner and eat in the back yard, my Mitch had actually cleaned the grill the way you’re supposed to instead of just scraping the crusted meat off with the dirty metal brush, but then Flynn called to insist we meet at a nice restaurant instead, Famous Author’s treat, even though he knew damn well that us and Mom in a fancy-schmancy restaurant is not a good combination. But what was really going on was that Famous Author must have said no dice on going to a place where she didn’t have any power, meaning Mom’s house or my house, looked up “best places to meet your nasty future in-laws in White Plains without causing a scene” on yelp.com or some place like that, and came up with this restaurant with a French name, “La Reserve.” Regardless. We wanted to be nice to Flynn, we all have to treat the baby of the family with kid gloves (it was always like this, poor Flynnie, such a sensitive boy, he doesn’t have any friends, he needs a little extra love, that’s all), so we said okay okay and went downtown and met them at “La Reserve,” which was, let me tell you, there’s no other word for it, swank. Which is probably the reason why we never heard of it before. The Hawkins clan doesn’t exactly traffic in swank.

  Flynn was all smiles. Mister Sunshine Blowing Up Our Asses. Mister Head-Over-Heels. Mister I’ve Seen the Rocky Mountains and They’ve Calmed Me th
e Fuck Down. He can light up a room, that boy. He’s tall, he’s got the thick wavy hair (seems to be growing it out these days, no comment, *cough* hippie *cough*), and those long eyelashes I was always jealous of. (Once in middle school I actually trimmed them when he was sleeping, but we’re not going to get into that.) But me and Mitch and Mom, we saw right through it. We knew the deal. And there, right next to him, with a new haircut (like a forty-year-old trying to look like a twenty-five-year-old) and this flowing Asian sarong-type thing (to cover up her belly, which looked like mine when I was four months pregnant, no make that five), and a pair of those hipster glasses celebrities wear when they can see just fine without them, there was Famous Author. “So,” I said after shaking her hand for the second time, which is, by the way, like a man’s, “our place not good enough for you?” But Flynnie, he kept chatting about how Famous Author was kind enough to take a break from her book tour to visit with us and blow us to a big meal, then he kind of leaned in, grabbed my arm and said, “She didn’t want to go straight into the lion’s den, surely you can appreciate that, so just roll with it, okay sis?”

  I nodded—Mom can be a handful, this is true (as he well knew, I once went an entire year without talking to her), and I do love my baby bro, I do—so I gave Famous Author my nice smile, how-do-you-fuckin’-do, good to see you again. And I’ll give you this, she has a presence, that one. I mean, people notice her. She looks like a fucking lioness. Real pretty, plus a cute nose, nice smile, smoking hot boots. When I asked her where she got them, she lit up and talked about some little shop in Tibet and she gave the exact location even though we both knew I would never be caught dead in Tibet (and yes I do know where that is so shut your face), and then she went on to tell us, with Mitch looking bored out of his mind and Mom squirming in her seat like she was going to shit her pant suit over the cost of the drinks, where she had gotten everything she was wearing—the Asian sarong thing was from Laos, one ring was from a Hopi jeweler in Telluride, another was from a quote-unquote artisan in Morocco, her brooch was from an ironsmith in Selma, Alaska, her socks were from a wool factory on the Aran Islands (okay, now that, I have no idea where that is)—and that’s when my stupid husband butted in: “You ever travel to someplace normal, like France?” and that set her off.

  “I think that what we, or the Western world rather, calls ‘normal’ is typically a place that’s been overrun by tourism and where everyone speaks English and there’s a McDonald’s and Starbucks downtown and they’ve lost their true character” blah blah blah “so that’s why I choose not to frequent such places.”

  “Except for book signings, of course,” Flynn told us, like I care. “Her last book was translated into German and Italian, so she had to travel there to give readings. Sweet, huh?” He put his hand on her back, but like he was afraid of hurting her. My Mitch would never do that. What my Mitch does is he grabs my shoulder and pulls me into him like he owns me. I love that shit. Total turn-on.

  “So you’re like one of those anti-American artists?” Mitch said, and I thought You hit that nail on the head, hubby and of course that set her off again, this time on a liberal tirade against capitalism and how we are destroying the planet and spreading our quote-unquote consumerist values to other countries “much to the detriment of their native cultures” and she used words no normal person uses like jingoistic and, uh, wait-let-me-think ethnocentric and in the middle of all this the waitress came by, smelled trouble, and gave us the “I’ll come back after the tsunami’s over to collect the dead” look and at the end of it Mitch said “What’s wrong with consumerist culture? Isn’t that how you got rich, by us capitalists buying your little books?” and even I had to cringe at that one, ’cause he said “little books” like he would say, I don’t know, “ditties.” My dear husband does bring a lot to the table, mainly Overtime Cash, but one thing my dear husband does not bring to the table is couth.

  “Well, not us capitalists specifically,” Mom said, because no one in the family had ever bought any of Famous Author’s books. (Okay true confessions, mine I “borrowed” from a friend.)

  Famous Author gave Flynnie a look, and Flynnie cleared his throat and glared at Mitch, who had that face on him, like he had just grilled a perp in the examination room and gotten all the information he needed without even buying the guy a Subway sandwich. No further questions, we got everything we need, lock this scumbag up. “Are you done?” Flynn said, and Mitch put his hands up, like it wasn’t his fault, he didn’t do nothin’. “Because we have something to tell you guys,” Flynn said. And that’s when he said it, and man did that shut my Mitch up. And Mom, she sat there with her mouth open and her eyes welling up. Me, I looked at Famous Author but she was doing her best Mona Lisa impression. I knew I promised my baby bro I was going to be nice, but that did it for me.

  “You have any idea what you’re doing?” I said. I may or may not have poked Famous Author in her chest. “You’re separating this man from his children. From his family.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” she said.

  Then Flynn dropped Bomb Number Two. “We’re pregnant,” he said. “I mean, you know, she’s—.” And she looked at him like we agreed you weren’t going to say anything about that. Mom let out a groan like she’d been stabbed in the gut and her innards were coming out. Me and Mitch, we were too stunned to speak. I don’t know if you can tell but I am not one who is typically at a loss for words, but there I was, I couldn’t speak. I literally had no words. Then Mitch sat back and blew out his cheeks, like game over. Like the perp they just booked had killed himself in his cell. That actually happened once.

  “How!” I blurted out, but then I felt like an idiot. “Never mind,” I said.

  The waitress came by again—by the way, she was wearing a tux, and she was super hot, and yes, I saw that, in spite of the situation, my Mitch managed to give her the once-over, twice—but she pulled another U-ee and went right back to the bar.

  “You shouldn’t be flying in your condition,” I said to Famous Author. I don’t know why I said that. But she just waved her hand, like it’s no big deal to fly when you’re pregnant. “How many months?” I asked, thinking, like I said, about five, but she held up two fingers. What? If she looked like this now, what kind of whale was she gonna resemble when she was ready to burst? Humped-back?

  “Don’t do this, Flynnie,” I said to my baby brother. But I could see that my baby brother wasn’t my baby brother anymore.

  “His name is Flynn,” Famous Author told me, and that’s when I almost jumped her. I swear to God, I almost jumped her and gouged her eyes out with my fingernails. I didn’t even feel Mitch’s grip on my arm until afterwards. It left a mark.

  “I am doing it,” “Flynn” said, looking me right in the eye, like I’m not afraid of you anymore, but I could tell he was. “At the end of the semester,” he said. He looked around. “And I really would love some support from my family.” But when nobody said nothing, he looked at Famous Author and held his hands out like this. “I’m sorry,” he said to her. Then he looked at us. “We’re leaving,” he said. And they got up to leave. And the waitress came by again.

  “Are they leaving?” she said as they were leaving.

  “They’re leaving,” Mitch said. Mom put her head down and folded her hands like she was praying. Then Mitch told the waitress we were leaving too, we wouldn’t be needing the table after all, thank you very much he said while checking her out again, and we all got up, kind of like zombies, and we left.

  The agita!

  Out in the parking lot, Mitch took the keys from me—I was too shaken up to drive, you know?—and he drove us down Mamaroneck Avenue to Walter’s for some hot dogs.

  “We’ve lost our golden boy,” Mom said, dramatic as usual. She was in the passenger seat, of course. I was in the back.

  I patted her on the shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” I said. “He’ll come to his senses. I’ll talk to him.” Bu
t I knew she was right. We all knew.

  What a dumb-ass, right? He always was a dumb-ass. Stupid little shit. He was like this as a kid. A dreamer. He used to just sit and read for hours. “Our Little Professor,” Pop used to call him. But you know the problem with books? They’re not real life, that’s the problem. They’re not real life.