Amazingly, Hoover’s Online had a listing, complete with e-mail address, for a studio of the same name in Hoboken, New Jersey. I quickly fired off an e-mail before rushing out the door to pick up Abbey.
“What’s New Pussycat?” began to play from the copy in the car stereo as I pulled into the car line for dismissal. I hummed along with the funky bass line added to this old standard. Checking the rearview mirror, I noticed Marissa had pulled up right behind me. Between her minivan and the hulking Range Rover ahead, I felt pretty insignificant in my Mini. I caught her sticking her tongue out at me when I glanced up again. Then my cell phone rang.
“What, Mariss—you too lazy to step out of your car and talk to me?”
“Kiss my lily-white ass. You’re up next.” The Range Rover carrying the McGreavy twins pulled out, and I scooted up. I could see Miss Carly helping Abbey with the zipper of her coat behind the glass school door.
“I’ll call you later . . . I may or may not have some exciting news. And you’ll be happy to know, I am now bedless.” Snapping the phone closed, I hopped out of the car. Abbey was carrying a large piece of manila paper that was boldly crayoned.
“Mom! I drew Maxwell MacGillikitty!”
“Hola, chica.” I kissed her forehead in greeting and opened her door for her. “Cool drawing, very beautiful.” Abbey had been on a creative kitty kick for about a week now. We had a watercolor Maxwell, an inkblot Maxwell, and a macaroni-and-glue Maxwell cluttering our dining room table already. I wrestled her car seat buckle closed as she held the picture high to kiss it multiple times. Oy vey.
“Katrina, I think it’s great Abbey has a love of animals . . . but it’s become an obsession with her lately. Did you lose a family pet recently, or has she been wanting a cat?” Miss Carly cocked her pretty blond head and smiled at Abbey through the window.
“No, we don’t have a cat. Maxwell is just her favorite cartoon character. But hey, at least it’s PBS, right? I don’t let her watch all that much television, despite her preoccupation.” I felt my cheeks redden. Was I embarrassed by Abbey’s obsession or my own? I fervently hoped the studio would e-mail me back.
Date: Friday, April 9, 2004 12:02 p.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Adrian Graves contact information
To: [email protected]
Dear Ms. Lewis,
Thanks for your e-mail. I have not been in touch with Adrian Graves for several years. The last correspondence I received from him came from e-mail—[email protected]. I’m sorry, but I no longer have a valid phone number for him. In response to your question, yes, he was based out of New York when he recorded that album ten years ago. Good luck.
Bill Bonovara
Grinning, I quickly cut and pasted the address he had provided into a new e-mail and began to type.
Date: Friday, April 9, 2004 1:12 p.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Program Appearance Request
To: [email protected]
Dear Mr. Graves,
My name is Katrina Lewis and I am writing on behalf of the Lauder Lake Public Library’s Friends Group in Westchester County. We are interested in holding a music program for children at our library on Friday, April 23, and are hoping you might be available to perform. The program is geared toward ages four to eight and includes children from our community, as well as a number of autistic children from a nearby school. It would run about an hour in length. We can supply a PA and would reimburse you for your travel, as well as pay you a negotiable rate.
Thank you for your time and attention, and I hope to hear from you soon.
Katrina Lewis
P.S. Maxwell MacGillikitty rules!
“Whatcha doing?” Abbey asked, her mouth spraying graham cracker crumbs.
“Oh honey, let’s finish eating at the table. I’m sending a letter on the computer. Want to play a game? Go Fish?” I deleted and then rewrote my postscript, wondering if it sounded too corny. What the heck, may as well leave it.
“Can I watch TV?” Abbey asked hopefully.
“Abb . . . I think we need to take a break from TV. We could go take a walk to the lake. It’s nice out.”
“Oh! The lake! Thelakelakelakelake!”
Our street was one of eight forming a spoke-in-wheel pattern to the town’s namesake, Lake Lauder. We could walk down the road past about nine houses to where the pavement became gravel, then dirt, and finally sand down to the mile-long lake. As kids, my brother and I would spend hours there, swimming out to the dock. You could see the bottom clearly ten feet in. We loved to stare in amazement at the fish, the stones, and our feet, looking pale and alien under the water. Burying our legs in the cool, quiet sand as evening approached, we’d swap stories about the Indians who most likely lived and died right by our house. One summer, we found five arrowheads between the beach and our own backyard.
Abbey and I pulled on Windbreakers and walked hand in hand toward Karen’s house. I really hoped my e-mail to Adrian Graves would put Karen’s scary balloon-twisting clown out of the running for the library program. We passed the Drimmers’ house, where I spent many a teenage night babysitting their two boys. Then the old Rosen residence, now inhabited by Chuck and Kyle, life partners who commuted to the city with their matching Jack Spade messenger bags. Their toy poodle, Ruby Two Boots, was Abbey’s second favorite thing on the block after the beach.
On past Hilda Franz’s house, which seemed to have eyes looking out each and every leaded glass window. She was my mom’s oldest friend and the self-appointed busybody of the street. She basically knew your business before you knew it was even yours. I didn’t mind her so much now. Like my parents, she had become a snowbird. Her house now sat empty and gossip-free for half the year.
Liz’s old house was next, a small Cape Cod still painted the same shade of puke-green we made fun of in grade school. Her parents divorced her sophomore year, and she moved with her mom and two younger brothers to the west side of the lake, where new condos had gone up. She could stand on her balcony and wave to us down on the beach. A red towel would let my brother know that her mom was out and that he could come over, back when they were dating. A white towel always signified defeat; if she was grounded or stuck doing chores, she would halfheartedly wave it around for a few seconds before hurrying back inside.
The last house on our road was a new build. A McMansion, as Marissa would say. The street’s residents went ballistic over the proposal to build on the modest empty lot of grass closest to the beach, and many shouting matches at the town hall ensued. Joe Cippola, who had bought Liz’s old house, was an attorney who stood to lose the most—his own view of the lake. He practically laid himself on the road as the backhoes came to break ground.
The house was Karen Mitchell’s, and far from a McMansion. Her husband, Mitch, worked with a green architect to make the house environmentally friendly, and it showed—from the bamboo floors and the cement-based fiberboard siding to the rainwater collection system and photovoltaic panels on the roof. The 2,700 square foot house was completely independent of local power, water, and sewer connections, which my father marvels at each time he comes back for a visit. According to Karen, Mitch chose the exact location and layout, with most of the windows facing south toward the lake for maximum passive solar heating benefits.
They composted. They mulched. They recycled with a zeal that bordered on religious. Most of the neighbors had dropped their grudges toward the “new folk” once they saw how committed Karen and Mitch were to preserving the area and minimizing their carbon footprint.
Abbey and I met Karen soon after they moved in. We had been picnicking on the beach, enjoying the late summer weather. Abbey was approaching her third birthday. Her favorite thing to utter at least twenty times a day was a resounding and plaintive “Wazzat?” while pointing and demanding I explain everything f
rom cigarette butts on the beach to moss on the rocks to bird calls from above to the egg salad on her sandwich. “Wazzat? Wazzat, Mama?” I had turned just in time to see her communing with a yellow jacket that was interested in the applesauce on her fingers. Her yowl of pain ripped right through me.
A woman came running up from the water with her hands cupped and outstretched. “The bees are terrible this summer! Here, use some mud. It will raise the stinger and draw out the venom.” She fell to her knees in the sand in front of Abbey and began smearing a mixture of water and dirt from a grassy patch near the shore across the palm of my daughter’s hand. Abbey was still sobbing and hysterical, but also curious as to the mess on her hand. “Wazzat?” she huffed through her tears, examining her hand as the mud began to dry.
“Garlic also works well if you have no mud handy,” the woman explained, standing and brushing off her hands. “Hi, I’m Karen, by the way. And this”—she smoothed her hand over the spandex of her black bathing suit—“is Jasper.” In all of the chaos, I hadn’t noticed this woman was very pregnant. “Why don’t we go to my house? It’s close by, and you can wash her hand and have a cool drink.” And so it was over mud and organic lemonade that we became acquainted with Karen, her husband, Mitch, and eventually little baby Jasper.
The second time Abbey got stung was an entirely different matter. I saw the bee flying near her face and her hand reaching to swat it. I rushed to her as she began to howl and noticed a rash quickly spreading up her arm. Wheezing replaced her crying, and as she struggled to vomit, I realized something was really wrong. Luckily, we were at a carnival on the grounds of the local fire station. Within seconds, we were surrounded by firefighters and EMTs. Anaphylaxis, explained the first paramedic on the scene. He gave her a dose of epinephrine and we were off to the nearest hospital. I now carry an EpiPen for her and have been trained in how to use it.
No worries about bees on this day; the air still had a frosty nip. Both our noses were runny and numb after a half hour of chasing birds and drawing our names in the sand. “Okay, Abb, time to go home. Time to start thinking about dinner.” Abbey decided she’d hop on one foot from the picnic table down to the water’s edge rather than think about dinner. “How about we race back?” I knew she’d never turn down the chance to win a challenge.
I half jogged, half walked to give her the advantage. As our house came into view, I remembered my e-mail and felt my stomach give an excited pancake flip. Perhaps there would already be a response waiting. I recalled a study I had read recently that reported 6 percent of Americans could be classified as “compulsive e-mail checkers.” I hoped Adrian Graves would be among that elite group.
Adrian
Date: Friday, April 9, 2004 11:58 p.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Program Appearance Request
To: [email protected]
Are you taking the piss?
Date: Saturday, April 10, 2004 9:42 a.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Program Appearance Request
To: [email protected]
I’ve got a four-year-old girl here who lives and breathes your Maxwell MacGillikitty theme song. Your music is as serious to her as peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off—she is passionately serious about what she likes.
You seem to have an interesting approach to children’s music based on other songs I’ve heard, and I thought it would be a nice way to introduce children in the community to live music. The library can pay you a flat rate of $300.00, plus travel costs.
Sincerely not taking the piss,
Katrina Lewis
Date: Saturday, April 10, 2004 1:06 p.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Program Appearance Request
To: [email protected]
Dear Ms. Lewis,
Forgive me for my earlier response. I’m not used to being solicited to play; in fact, I have not played live for some time now. Are you sure the children wouldn’t rather see those Australian blokes in the coloured shirts?
AG
Date: Saturday, April 10, 2004 4:40 p.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Program Appearance Request
To: [email protected]
Dear Mr. Graves,
Not many public libraries have a budget that could afford the Wiggles. That’s the price we pay for the charm of being a nonprofit! I can’t speak for every child, but I know my own couldn’t care less about those prefab kiddie bands. If you are not available but can recommend a reasonable and quality alternative, we would be grateful. Disappointed, but grateful. Again, the date is April 23, and we were hoping for a start time of four p.m. I have attached directions from Manhattan.
Looking forward to hearing from you,
Katrina
Date: Sunday, April 11, 2004 2:15 a.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Program Appearance Request
To: [email protected]
Katrina,
All right, count me in.
See you then.
Adrian
Time Machine
The week before the music program, I became a one-woman street team. Grabbing a healthy stack of promo flyers from the library, along with a roll of tape and a stapler, I headed out to conquer Main Street.
The flyers were cute, featuring a guitar-wielding cat with shades and a cap perched between his ears. I hung several in the windowed entryway of the library, Starbucks, the Korean grocer, and at Stumble Inn, the local dive bar across the street from the YMCA. The owner of the bar laughed when I asked, but he assented to my request. I stapled it right between a flyer for a Van Halen tribute band and a want ad seeking musicians who played the didgeridoo. It takes all kinds, right?
I crossed over to the other side of Main, figuring I would hit the movie theater, the juice bar, and the antique store before heading back to meet Marissa and the kids at the park.
“Hey, Tree.” Grant Overhill was coming out of the shop just as I was about to reach for the old brass doorknob I must’ve turned a thousand times during my childhood. I often had to remind myself the store was Grant’s now, and not my dad’s. The sign still read UNDERWOOD AND OVERHILL ANTIQUES, which my dad had thought was a clever play on our surnames once he and Grant became partners in the business.
It blew my mind to this day that my adolescent crush had actually become apprentice to my father. Here was a guy who had lived and breathed football, baseball, muscle cars, and girls, in that order, and seemingly overnight, he began walking around with his nose in the latest edition of Kovels’ Antiques and Collectibles Price Guide and discussing with my father the merits of hobnail glass and Stangl Pottery. Marissa, ever the romantic optimist, likes to think he developed the interest out of a desire to woo me. But he began apprenticing a good two years after he had wooed, won, and walked all over me, so I didn’t agree with her rose-colored notion at all. He was just the type of guy who never had motivation or a reason to leave Lauder Lake, with the exception of the unlikely event he would one day be called up and given a six-figure salary by the Jets or the Mets to play pro ball. When no scholarships or scouts appeared, he turned to his available options: community college and a part-time job.
My father, despite being less than happy with the state my ill-fated and short-lived courtship with Grant had left me in, was still a fair man. He must have seen some sort of potential in his charge. Sure enough, after getting his BA, Grant accepted a managerial job at the store, followed by part ownership, and then, when my dad retired, full reign.
“Hey . . . I was just coming in to see if you wouldn’t mind hanging a flyer for the children’s music program at the library. Jake might enjoy it, actually. It’s next Friday.”
He studied the flyer I handed to him.
“Hmm . . . I’m working, but maybe his mom can take him.” Grant never mentioned his baby-mama’s name enough for me to remember it, but they shared custody of Jake.
“Cool, I hope so. It should be lots of fun for the kiddos.”
Grant slipped inside to hang the flyer in the corner window, in front of a display of milk glass. I watched as he gingerly stepped around the display case, his head tilting toward the window. The late afternoon sun hit the top of his blond mop, showcasing all of his golden boy highlights. Poster Boy, Liz had called him. I had to admit, Grant was a rarity among most of the guys from our graduating class; he had managed to retain both his full head of hair and lithe athletic body he had proudly built up in high school. His chiseled biceps strained against the sleeves of his 10th Annual Lauder Lake Turkey Trot T-shirt as he secured the poster prominently in the center of the window. He looked up at me for approval; I gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. He came back out and locked the door behind him.
“Closing time?”
“Yeah. I take Jake to karate class on Thursdays. It’s a slow day anyway. Need a ride home?”
“Um. No. I’m good. Thanks. Heading back to the park. Abbey’s there with Mariss.”
“So what’s up with Marissa and the other ladies of leisure these days?” Grant asked, jingling his keys.
“Hey! No woman with kids under age eighteen qualifies as a ‘lady of leisure,’” I informed him.
Honestly, with the exception of Leanna and her freelance graphic design business, none of our Lauder Lake group was exactly bringing home the bacon. Marissa had worked in retail for years before halfheartedly going for her real estate license. A slump in the housing market coupled with her second pregnancy killed her desire to go further. Karen had spent several years and many dollars getting her MSW at NYU, but her current job duties consisted of running a renewable, sustainable, ethically responsible, and green household. It was an occupation that the rest of us didn’t quite understand but admired her for nonetheless. And me, well . . . I was still studying the blueprint of the life I had built a decade earlier, trying to figure out where the design flaws and weaknesses were that had contributed to its major collapse. It was an endless and exhausting task that didn’t allow for moonlighting. Insurance settlements, plus rent collected from the Manhattan sublet, allowed me to stay home with Abbey. Keeping her happy and feeling safe were my main objectives, even if it meant running our house like an underground bunker protected from any further disaster.
Louder Than Love Page 4