by Edan Lepucki
My mom would have slept like this and not cared. Her housekeeping is just barely acceptable now, and that’s because my dad and I trained her like a dog. No, Kath, you don’t wash a dish with the same sponge you scrubbed the bathroom floor with. No, Mommy, I can’t wear my underwear inside out and call it clean. The first time my dad came to my mom’s place, date number three, she stuck a marshmallow onto a bent wire hanger and roasted it for him over the stove. “I was appalled,” he told me. “But also, wow, what an adventure!” Sometimes I pity young Steven Shapiro, walking willingly into my mom’s arms, believing he could tame her. (My dad wept when Roy got mauled by that tiger. Not that Roy’s misfortune was the particular issue. He’d have cried if it had been Siegfried too. A little too close to home, Stevie?)
I was trying my best to be Katherine Mary: the bad hair, the sloppy clothes and nonchalance, the drinking not long after the sun set. But I also had Devin to watch; art project or not, I was being paid to keep him safe. One of my professors liked to say that babies and toddlers aren’t as helpless as adults think, which is true, but Devin was still a few months shy of his third birthday: he bent over after using the toilet so that I could wipe his butthole, he kept asking for a gun so he could shoot aminals, and he also seriously believed that he was qualified to operate heavy machinery—if only someone would let him drive a front-loading garbage truck! What I’m saying is this: with Devin in the room, there were limits to how thoroughly I could inhabit Katherine Mary. If Lady wasn’t vigilant, well, Karl would be. Plus: babysitting with a hangover? Torture.
I also couldn’t hold my liquor like my mom could. It was something I needed to work on, and not only because I could barely focus the camera after one drink. I’d had two beers before meeting Lady for the first time, just as a little experiment, and by the time I was driving up her street, everything felt unreal, like I was in a diorama of my own life. When Lady opened the door I almost said, “Yes, yes, y’all!” like a white kid loitering outside a suburban 7-Eleven. Thank goodness I didn’t, Lady wouldn’t have hired me. Or maybe she would have: it seemed like I could have said anything during that first meeting.
Lady was pretty but not beautiful, with light-blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and impeccable eyebrows. She wore her hair in a long blond ponytail that looked effortless but totally required mousse. If I had to name her lipstick, I’d call it coral. Her outfit was probably 100 percent organic, including her jeans. For some reason I’d expected her to be younger; she was in her early forties. Of course she’s older, I thought. The rich start making babies late. All those Brentwood twins start in petri dishes.
It was so hot, I wouldn’t have minded another beer. Lady might have offered me one too. That day, she seemed both wonderful and completely bonkers, like my mother, actually, alternately wooing and alarming the world. Lady wanted to hire me so quickly—but why? I’d nearly shrieked with glee when I saw the Kit Daniels photograph on the wall—Kit Flippin’ Daniels! She’s the sister-in-law?!—and I tried to make up for it by spouting random child-psych facts like an insufferable know-it-all. Lady seemed more interested in showing me her glorious swimming pool than discussing her kid’s development. I got the sense that she occasionally forgot Devin existed.
And then Lady, almost embarrassed, definitely defensive, told me about Seth, and I knew this life in the Hills was her second act. I was much more interested now. In high school, I used to watch VH1’s Behind the Music with my mom. Whenever I tried to get out of it, she would whine, “Don’t do your homework, Esther!” until I came to sit with her on the couch. If there’s one thing I learned from that show, it’s that life always offers you a second—if not third!—act. (Also: that for every female pop star there’s a homely blonde wearing an ankh choker who claims to be her childhood best friend.) Lady was now married to a rich guy who adored his stepson, disability be damned, and she and this guy had a cute little boy and they all lived happily in a multimillion-dollar house high above the city, every sunset a sky of spilled Kool-Aid. Lady said she and Karl were separated, but something about how she explained it made it feel fake: like she too had downed a couple bottles of Stella and was skimming through her life as if it were a Choose Your Own Adventure book, like if it didn’t work out she could just flip back a few pages and start the story over. Ha, Lady. Just, ha.
Clearly, her first act had been rough: silver fillings dotted her back molars and everything nice in the house belonged to Karl, from the Eames chair in the living room to the daguerreotypes on the wall along the staircase. She might as well have said, “The only thing I contributed to this house is Seth.” It was obvious she was defensive about her son not being able to speak, but it was only because she was in love with him. That’s normal for a single parent. (Trust me, even after my dad married Maria, he continued to write me florid, sentimental cards on Valentine’s Day.)
I was stone-cold sober when Karl called two days later. And that’s lucky because our conversation was thorough, a real interview, not the witty banter I’d traded with his wife. By the end of the conversation, I’d agreed to enroll in a CPR class and get fingerprinted. I felt sort of bad for Lady. Why had she been so brazen with her own child?
“She can be kind of prickly about Seth,” Karl said, before hanging up.
“What do you mean?”
“She doesn’t want you to treat him differently.” He laughed. “And don’t go on and on about how wonderful Devin is. He is, trust me. I know, and so does Lady. But it offends her.” I heard a phone ring—he was calling from his office—and he said he had to go. “You’ll be fine as long as you don’t play favorites with anyone in that house,” he said before he hung up. “Not even the dog.”
10.
By now Devin was calling me “S for snake,” and he kissed me on the lips every morning, gasping as if bowled over by my existence. I’m not gonna lie, his enthusiasm did wonders for my self-esteem. The night before I’d ordered a Breathalyzer online and as soon as it arrived I planned to start the Katherine Mary Project in earnest, tracking my alcohol intake each evening and recording the sounds of my breath blooming into the machine. The Polaroids were piling up, but I wasn’t sure what I would do with them.
It was our fourth day together, and Devin and I were bobbing on the shallow steps of the pool. Since I’d started working, I’d only seen Seth in passing; he was doing the summer session at school, Lady said. “And he’s been seeing Karl a lot,” she added. Tonight was my evening with Devin—Lady was going to a party—and then I’d have the next three days off. But I didn’t want the free time: not as S or as Katherine Mary. I sort of missed Esther Shapiro, who felt like a Peter Pan–style shadow I’d left up north, maybe in Everett’s bedroom.
Devin was walking up the shallow steps of the pool to grab his beach ball when he squealed.
I looked up. Karl stood on the back deck, grinning, arms akimbo. How long had he been there?
“Daddy!” Devin skipped to him, his legs slick with water. I watched as his father swung him into his arms. Karl’s linen shirt was soon imprinted with the shape of Devin’s tiny wet torso.
“Hey, kiddo!” he bellowed.
I recognized Karl from the photo in Devin’s room, except he was better-looking in person. His hair was as white as Santa Claus’s beard and cut close to his head. It seemed to glow in the sunlight, exactly like Milkshake’s fur did whenever he trotted outside to pee. Karl’s hairline was receding slightly, and the skin at his forehead and scalp was tanned to a rich, I-summer-on-Lake-Como olive. He was tall—six foot three, easy—and thin, but not macrobiotic-thin like so many of the bike-riding boomers in Berkeley. Karl probably took fish oil every morning and pasted his under-eyes with avocado cream every night. He probably went to an H2O Boot Camp class at the local JCC, and drank red wine with dinner. He was hale, as my dad might say. (“Good crossword-puzzle word!”)
Karl’s sunglasses were tortoiseshell and he actually took them off when he waved to me. I wondered if he was the kind of dude who said “Eyes
are the windows to the soul.” He couldn’t be: he was a producer and was probably over fifty, the type of guy who throws a snow globe at his assistant on Christmas Eve. But even though Karl was dressed the part of Older Hollywood Asshole, he wasn’t one. I just knew it. He sweated the word “nice.”
Karl looked away from me to kiss his son, basically hickeying the water off of him. I was relieved. As Katherine Mary, I’d stopped my regular wax appointments, and I didn’t want Karl to see the five-o’-clock shadow that had become my bikini line, or the poof of hair that made a Lycra dome out of my bikini bottoms. In poor conditions, it looked like I was wearing a codpiece.
I pulled myself out of the water without using the steps, just like my mom would, and wrapped one of Lady’s gigantic towels around my body. She also had a green Beverly Hills Hotel towel, so threadbare you couldn’t put it in the dryer. The way she folded it, into the tiniest parcel, gave me the feeling she’d stolen it in her pre-Karl days, and didn’t want anyone else using it.
“Good to meet you,” I said, approaching him with a big smile. I’d been practicing this quality of my mom’s—she was outgoing, she loved to meet people, talk up strangers.
Karl reached out to shake my hand while simultaneously trying to keep a giggling Devin from grabbing the sunglasses off his head.
“S!” he said. “I’m thrilled to meet you in person.”
The glass door behind him squeaked open. Seth nodded at me as he stepped outside; he had on the same clothes as the day we met, but this time he was also wearing a pair of old red Converse.
A woman around Karl’s age followed close behind, a glass of pink Champagne in her hand.
She looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t figure out why. Her hair was long and dark and celebrity-perfect; she probably called it frizzy like so many women with great hair did, but it wasn’t, only had been maybe once in her life when she went to Florida for a summer wedding. Her eyes were large and green and rimmed with eyeliner. Blue feathers dangled from her ears. Her dress resembled a potato sack, or a uniform for postapocalyptic factory workers, but she was thin enough to pull it off. Her slip-ons looked like they were made of crinkled tissue paper yet somehow still worked as shoes. Already I was drafting the text I’d send my dad: She was wearing these eccentric booties!
The woman took a sip of the pink Champagne and said, “At least she’s kept the pool clean.”
Was this Karl’s new girlfriend? No, I thought. No way.
I must have looked suspicious, because Karl said quickly, “S, this is Kit. My sister.”
Kit Flippin’ Daniels!
“I love your work,” I said. I couldn’t help it.
“You do?” Karl’s eyes twinkled.
“I’m sure Lady hates that,” Kit said, downing the rest of her drink.
“Lady doesn’t know,” I said.
Karl raised an eyebrow.
“You said not to play favorites.” I was having fun, saying whatever I felt.
Seth snorted and signed something I couldn’t make out. Karl shook his head curtly.
“I love the photograph by the front door,” I said to Kit.
“Thank you.”
“My sister’s playing it cool, but she loves that you’re a fan. Don’t you, Kit?” His sister didn’t answer, only took a sip of her Champagne, and he added, “For Pete’s sake, it’s amazing!”
“Pete skate!” Devin yelled, squirming out of his dad’s arms. “Skate on my penis! Penis crane!” He giggled and Karl put him down, shaking his head.
“What a poet,” he said.
Seth laughed. It was a hearty, surprising baritone. He’d lifted Devin into the air and was stomping toward the pool as if he were going to throw him in.
“So everything’s okay here?” Karl asked.
“It’s great,” I said. We were all watching the brothers.
“Where’s the boss lady?” Kit asked me.
“Writing.”
“Good one,” Kit said.
“No,” I said, “she really is. I think she turned a corner.”
Karl was grinning again. He looked so proud of Lady. If she’d been there to see his face, she’d hate it.
“See, Kit? I told you.” He took the Champagne flute from her, carrying it carefully by the stem. Unlike me, Kit and Karl had been raised to hold crystal correctly. But I was a quick study; Everett only had to correct me once.
“Where’re you guys coming from?” I asked.
“Lunch,” Karl said.
“And…?” Kit said. When Karl didn’t answer, she continued, “We went to a screening of the short film Seth made for school. A midterm thing. It, the film, was fabulous.”
“Oh? Lady didn’t mention—”
“She probably has no idea,” Kit said, and this time Karl didn’t argue.
“Make sure Lady remembers I’m coming at nine a.m. to pick up Devin,” he said. “She agreed I could come as early as I wanted.”
“I’ll make sure she knows.”
“I can’t wait for the slumber party,” Kit said. For once she sounded as enthusiastic as her brother. Clearly, she was wild about her nephew, who was now skipping up to her as if he’d only just noticed her presence.
“Kit,” he said.
“Devin,” she said.
“I come over your house tomorrow?”
“You bet, kid.”
Devin hopped around. “And S for Snake come too!”
“I have to stay here, Dev,” I said. “But I’ll see you Monday morning, okay?”
He began to cry.
“See that?” Kit said to Karl, so quiet I had to lean forward to hear. “Notice who he isn’t crying for.”
Karl was stone-faced. “Give it a rest, Kitty.”
I knew, from her LACMA show, that Kitty was her real name.
—
After I changed Devin out of his wet swim trunks, I put him down for his afternoon nap. I went back downstairs to clean up the pool toys, the towel still wrapped around me like rice on a California roll. My bathing suit underneath was clammy-wet (Come on in, yeast infection), but I wouldn’t take it off just yet. The afternoon sun was high in the sky, baking the back deck, and I wanted to go for another swim.
Seth lay on one of the chaise lounges with a T-shirt spread across his face. I looked away from his bare chest, narrow and covered in hair from practically his collarbone down. Then I looked again. The T-shirt lifted at his nose, and dented at his open mouth, and moved up and down with his breath. He had a hand on his furry stomach.
A year ago I probably would’ve been disgusted by the sight of Seth’s body. All that hair. But a year ago, I hadn’t yet met Everett, who is as hairless as a little boy, and I hadn’t yet had my heart chewed to meat gristle by said boy. I used to be really into Everett’s smooth body. It reminded me of an ancient sculpture. But now? Those sculptures weren’t always white, their paint faded over time so what we see now isn’t what we would have seen back then. That day by the pool, I decided that Seth’s body was somehow more complete than Everett’s. It was authentic. A man should have grit, I decided, and like my mom always did, I cannonballed into the pool.
Seth was sitting up when I swam to the surface. He had the stomach rolls of the very skinny: like wide-wale corduroy.
“Sorry,” I called out, and swam closer. It struck me that I was waiting for a reply. The expectation was habitual and automatic, like flipping a light switch during a power outage.
He shook his head, as if to say No worries.
I reached the edge. Was I supposed to say something, keep a one-sided conversation going? I probably wouldn’t, but I knew my mother would. Katherine Mary would kill to chat with a mute.
“Congratulations on your film,” I said. “Kit said it was really good.”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head, but his expression was more nuanced than those two gestures alone. He had learned to communicate with a single look. Maybe Lady was wrong and Seth was a genius.
Then he held out his hand
, palm down, and wiggled it from side to side. So-so.
“So, so, suck your toe, all the way to Mexico,” I chanted, and pushed off the edge of the pool. It was total Katherine Mary in one of her goofball moods.
Seth laughed and I knew I’d said what I said so that I’d get that reaction. That sound again, I wanted to elicit it over and over again.
“Is the film a secret from your mom?” I asked.
He nodded, and I pushed back to tread water for a minute, my legs pumping hard through the silky water. He couldn’t elaborate—of course he couldn’t. I had to figure out how to get answers. My mom would think of it as a game, even though it wasn’t, Seth was a person. Not that that would matter to Katherine Mary.
I stopped treading and floated closer to him.
“Why don’t you tell her about it?” I asked.
He shrugged but not sullenly. He really wasn’t sure.
“I can’t believe your aunt is Kit Daniels. This guy I used to date, Everett, he, like, worships her.” I stopped. Just because someone can’t speak doesn’t mean they want you to go on and on.
Seth reached for his iPhone on the table next to him. My stomach fizzed like soda as he typed. What would he tell me? I pulled myself to the edge and lifted myself up to read the screen he was turning to me.
Shes famous I know
“Do you like her work?”
Sometimes
“Sometimes?” I wondered if Seth was more forthcoming because he didn’t have to speak. His life was one long Gchat, which had to be liberating.
Sometimes I think she exploits ppl
“Wow, really?” But I’d heard this before. In my Contemporary American Photography seminar we’d read a recently published article called “A Love Affair with Poverty: The Kit Daniels Effect,” and another: “Holding the Camera, Controlling the Narrative: Kit Daniels and the Politics of the Body.” A kid in class had claimed she photographed women like a man would, that her gaze was deliberately masculine. The class had gotten into an argument about whether this was a critique of sexism, or the propagation of it.