Family Affair

by Saxon Bennett

  "Lacey is opening my eyes to a completely new culture."

  "Wow, you act like you never had a lesbian daughter for the last twenty years. Next you'll be using the word dyke."

  "You've always been hostile about sharing your domain. Lacey isn't." Stella raised her eyebrows and lowered the right corner of her mouth, studying the shoes. "Besides, I thought the word dyke was politically incorrect." She took out an emery board from her purse.

  "Only if you're straight. Gay people can use it," Lacey said. She was lounging on the white couch looking like a bored movie star.

  "I see," Stella said. She sanded the toes of Chase's brand-new penny loafers.

  "Something's wrong with new shoes?" Chase asked, looking mournfully as her recent purchase was being destroyed. She glanced down at her socks. "Do these work?" They were navy dress socks but didn't seem the right hue.

  "Top drawer, right side," Stella said to Lacey, who dashed from the room. She didn't look up from her destruction of Chase's shoes.

  Lacey returned to the living room. "Here, these are much better." She gave her a pair of cream colored dress socks.

  "Now, back to the matter we were discussing before we got into shoes and socks. What are we going to use for a career for you?" Stella said, referring to Chase.

  Lacey flounced on the couch. "I know," and said nothing more.

  Stella raised her eyebrows and tapped her fingers on the arm of the couch. "Ready."

  "Proust," Lacey replied.

  Lacey's favorite dramatic tactic was being cryptic. One-word answers designed to amp up the conversation.

  Stella rubbed her hands together impatiently. "And?"

  "The guy in the movie Little Miss Sunshine was a Proust scholar. Few people know about Proust other than he's a French writer. No one reads him. We'll get her some particulars on Proust and that's her occupation."

  "I have read Proust," Chase said.

  "Really?" Lacey said.

  "In French, no less."

  Stella smiled, which was rarity. "You really are smart. I'm glad to see that expensive education of yours wasn't wasted." She picked up her purse and dug out her car keys. Then as if to make up for that slip of affection she said, "How is your therapy going by the way?"

  "Fine. Can't you tell? We're hanging out. Resolution with your mother is straight out of Freud," Chase replied petulantly. Why did she have to bring that up now? Chase thought.

  "I always thought Freud was a pervert." Lacey picked up her purse and rooted around for her sunglasses.

  "Am I going to need one of those?" Chase said, pointing to the purses.

  Stella and Lacey stared at her and burst out laughing making such comments as "Now, I'd like to see that," and "Wait let me get my camera."

  "Forget I said anything. Let's go," Chase said. Checking out straight people was losing its appeal.

  Stella and Lacey regained their composure. They got in the black Bentley parked in the drive.

  Chase sat in the backseat and Lacey rode shotgun. Stella started the car. She put it in reverse and floored the gas pedal. They flew through the stone gate. She hit the brakes and the car spun sideways. "How was that?"

  "More like what was that?" Lacey said. "I almost peed my pants."

  "I'd give it a nine." Chase nodded.

  "A nine?" Stella knitted her brows.

  "You were a little close on the right side."

  Stella studied the mirror.

  "Why are we doing this?" Lacey said.

  "I used to do it until Gitana got pregnant," Chase said.

  "I missed her doing it. So I took it up. It's actually quite fun," Stella said.

  As they drove up the oak-lined entrance to the country club, Chase thought how easy it would be to describe it in a novel— old, moldy and verbose fit the cliche of money and snobbery. She hadn't been there since she was sixteen for a dance—thrown out later for illicit copulation in the women's powder room with her tennis pro.

  The valet came out to greet them. "Thank you, James," Stella said, handing him the keys and a twenty-dollar bill.

  Her mother did have class, Chase thought. She was never cheap.

  "James, do you remember my daughter, Chase?"

  James studied Chase. "No, ma'am, but she certainly has your lovely countenance."

  "Thank you," Stella said.

  Then James stuck out his hand to Chase. "But I would like to make your acquaintance."

  Chase shook his hand. "It's nice to meet you." He looked to be about her age. His hair was dark and pulled back in a neat ponytail and he had a well-trimmed goatee.

  They walked off and Chase whispered to her mother, "Was he here then?"

  "Yes. He was at University the same time you were. He's a writer as well." They walked up the stairs and into the massive mahogany hall of the club.

  "What does he write?" Chase asked her interest piqued.

  "Sci-Fi," Lacey said.

  "He told me the average book sells approximately two thousand copies and the rest end up on the remainder table. Most authors do not make money. So it is a labor of love," Stella said as she waved at various people in the dining room. "His appraisal of the situation has given me insight into your career. I didn't realize it was so difficult and I commend your efforts."

  Lacey and Chase stared at her open-mouthed. Stella sighed heavily as if disappointed with their predictable response of shock at a compliment aimed at Chase. She pointed to a table.

  They moved to a corner table, a vantage point that allowed a view of the rest of the room. They sat at the thick wood table with hard chairs. This is stiff business, Chase thought, envisioning a comfortable chair that ought to have gone with the luxury of the place. "So you have a better perspective on writing."

  "No, I expect better of you."

  "You expect me to buck the current publishing trend."

  "Yes," Stella replied.

  "Sit over here," Lacey said, pointing to the middle chair. "So we can talk trash and can't be seen while you observe the person we're backstabbing."

  Stella nicked out her white linen napkin and studied her dinnerware. "It's not backstabbing. It's human nature being observed."

  "Nice repackaging job," Lacey said.

  A waiter in full tails who looked like a penguin came for their drink order. He looked at Lacey.

  "I'll have a gin martini," Lacey announced.

  "I'll have a beer," Chase said.

  Lacey kicked her under the table. "She'll have a glass of Chardonnay."

  "Ma'am?" He looked at Chase inquiringly.

  "Yes, that's a much better idea." Chase rubbed her shin.

  "I'll have iced tea, please," Stella said.

  "Very good." He left.

  Chase had never known her mother to turn down a martini. "You're not having a drink?"

  "I'm on call."

  "On call? You have a job?" Lacey stopped gawking at the other diners and turned her gaze firmly on Stella.

  "It's more like volunteer work." Stella opened her menu with a snap.

  Stella was equally good at dramatics. Lacey leaned forward. Then she looked at Chase who shrugged. They both knew that Stella wouldn't volunteer to pick up a paper clip for a crippled blind person.

  "For?" Lacey said.

  Chase picked up her menu and pretended not to be interested. This was a proven antidote for dramatics.

  "A little PI work for Peggy," Stella replied.

  Chase looked over the top of her menu. "As in Addison's mother?"

  "This is news," Lacey said.

  "New friend?" Chase said.

  "As a matter of fact we have a lot in common."

  The waiter returned with their drinks.

  Lacey sipped her martini. Chase looked at her wineglass. "I don't like wine."

  "It's an acquired taste. Just try it," Lacey said.

  Chase sipped it. "Ick."

  Lacey picked it up and took a drink. "It's fine."

  Stella went back to her menu. She furrowed her brow
.

  Lacey hadn't opened hers. She must know what she wants, Chase thought.

  "Addison didn't mention anything." Chase sipped her wine again and puckered up.

  "She wasn't supposed to," Stella said.

  "And why was that?"

  Stella put her menu down. "I thought it would make you angry."

  "Why?" Chase felt her face grow red as if in anticipation.

  "Turf war." Stella didn't look at her.

  Chase watched her mother's face. Her mother didn't like many people—women in particular. Chase didn't blame her. Women in her mother's possible circle of friends sucked. They were egotistical, jealous and petty snobs. Peggy had her issues, but she was real.

  "I'm just surprised Addison didn't tell me."

  "We threatened to take her backpack away." Stella glanced back down at her menu, thus successfully avoiding Chase's hot gaze.

  "Am I that bad?" Chase asked. She took another sip of the odious wine to fortify herself for the answer.

  "You can be," Lacey and Stella said in unison.

  Chase furrowed her brow and let out a heavy sigh. They waited for her response. "I suppose you're right. Anger was my first emotion; however, I'm glad you found a friend with some good traits—it's beats the icky ones you're forced to hang with."

  Stella smiled. "Lacey, please pick your chin up off the table. Chase is becoming a decent human being and we should support that."

  "Thanks and ditto," Chase said, giving Lacey a good poke in the ribs.

  Stella pursed her lips but then smiled.

  The penguin waiter returned to inquire about their order. "Are you ready?"

  "Yes, thank you," Stella replied. "You may begin, Lacey."

  "I'll have the lobster bisque," Lacey said, her eyes gleaming.

  Chase, who had not had a chance to look at the menu properly, chose the same, thinking if Lacey was drooling over it the stuff couldn't be half bad.

  "I'll have a Caesar salad and the grilled tuna," Stella said.

  The penguin picked up the menus that Stella had slid in his direction. "Very good."

  After he trundled off, Stella commenced with Chase's education on upperclass straight people. She cocked her head toward the large paned windows that lined one wall of the grand eating hall. "Those people over there are poor as church mice, but they never let on."

  Chase attempted discretion and glanced at them as she sipped or pretended to sip her wine. The man was impeccably dressed in a white linen suit with a burgundy ascot. He looked like the writer Tom Wolfe, Chase thought, remembering his photo on the back cover of The Bonfire of Vanities. His wife was frumpy. She wore a simple floral print sundress making her look almost Amish excepting the low cut front that exposed the tops of her large fleshy breasts.

  When she'd finished her inspection, she said, "How does that work?" Wealthy people always confused her despite her privileged background. Her life before she met Gitana had become a blur of patchy memories, which explained her apparent lack of knowledge when it came to straight people's ways. She'd been hanging out with mostly gay people for so long that she'd forgotten the old ways. She realized her comfort zone and it wasn't in this world, but perhaps this would make her a keener observer.

  Stella sipped her tea and then pontificated on the woes of the pretenders. "Her wealthy father regularly bails them out. Richard, the husband, resents this but is too inert to change his behavior."

  "What does he do, sit on the couch, fingers poised on a calculator that he never turns on?" Chase knitted her brow and studied the portrait of inertia.

  "They charge everything and when it gets bad, Daddy settles it all up to avoid an embarrassing bankruptcy," Stella replied.

  "Would you do that for me?" Chase asked.

  Her mother sipped her tea. "No, I would not."

  "I didn't think so." Chase remembered asking for what she needed and getting it when she was growing up. Money was never mentioned. She knew that Lacey paid for everything with a credit card that her accountant took care of. Lacey's father had left her mother for another woman when she was six. Her mother moved to Italy to lick her wounds and sent Lacey to boarding school. Lacey had been on her own since she was sixteen. Stella was the most mother Lacey ever had and Lacey was the daughter Stella really wanted.

  "Now that couple over there positively hates each other but to part company means dividing up the assets and admitting failure which neither will assent to."

  Chase looked over at the attractive well-dressed couple on her right. They looked straight out of Town and Country. "Are straight people all miserable money-grubbers?"

  "I wouldn't say that, but money doesn't necessarily make for happy, loving couples," Stella said.

  "Poor people are the opposite. They bicker about money, thinking that if they had money life would immediately right itself." Lacey kept glancing at the paneled door which led to the kitchen.

  "How do you know that?" Chase said.

  "The lottery."

  "What?" Chase often felt the urge to cure Lacey of her cryptic speech pattern by beating it out of her. Instead, she pinched her thigh.

  "Ouch! Why'd you do that?"

  Stella smiled at Chase in apparent approval. "We'd like you to elaborate. Lacey, you have the annoying habit of replying in incomplete sentences, which your audience finds annoying as it creates a seeming endless set of questions in order to make sense of your enigmatic statement. It's tedious as well as rude," Stella said.

  "I couldn't have said it better myself," Chase said. "Thank you, Mother."

  Lacey looked hurt for a moment and then seemed to cast the criticism aside as so much linguistic trash. "I see people waiting in line at the convenience store buying lottery tickets on Saturday night for the big Powerball. They're always talking about how they'd spend the money. They seem so certain that money would make them happy. Is that thorough enough for you people?" She snapped open her napkin as if abusing it would dispel her anger.

  "Well done," Chase said, neady unfolding her own napkin.

  The penguin brought their order on a rolling cart topped with silver covers set on white linen. He lifted the covers and set the plates down with much ceremony as if the lobster bisque and tuna would object if they were mistreated. "Anything else, ladies?"

  Stella looked around the table and then replied. "We're quite well."

  Lacey dove into her lobster bisque.

  Chase choked down more wine and thought wistfully of a taquito. She tried the bisque. It was saucy with lumps in it. She was not impressed.

  Her mother's cell phone beeped. She quickly retrieved it from her purse. It was a text message. She texted back. Her fingers flew over the keypad.

  Chase was impressed. She had difficulty navigating her phone and had a tendency to leave it at home, behavior motivated by her lack of technical skills and her anti-social behavior. With Gitana's pregnancy she did carry the phone now but still maintained her animosity, agreeing with Garrison Keillor who once remarked that it was amazing how we went to the moon and back without a cell phone but wouldn't dream of going through the produce department without one.

  "We have to go," Stella said.

  "Why? Where are we going?" Chase asked.

  "To spy on Dickhead. Peggy wants photos of his infidelity so she can file for divorce on grounds of adultery. She's afraid he will fight for custody of Addison just to spite her. As you know, Addison despises him."

  "Let's go," Chase said, getting up abrupdy.

  "What about my bisque?" Lacey said, looking down mournfully at her bowl.

  Chase threw a napkin on top of it. "Take it with you."

  Lacey was mortified. "I can't do that."

  "Why not?" Chase said.

  "Etiquette."

  "Have some balls, Lacey," Stella said. She picked up the supporting plate under the soup bowl and grabbed a spoon. "There, now let's go."

  Chase was actually liking her mother which freaked her out. She remembered an old Civil Rights ditty, "The times
, they are a changin'." Maybe her animosity for her mother had taken a sudden holiday without giving notice.

  Lacey set her shoulders back and walked out of the dining hall with the plate. No one said a word.