by Rice, Debby
We rode to the 40th floor. The elevator door swept opened.
Zoya was in the foyer, polishing a mirror. “Hello, Ms. Charmaine. You have good day?”
“Actually no, Zoya. It was a very bad day.” Charmaine dropped her coat and purse on a chair. “Coats, Lucille.” She gestured vaguely toward the chair. “After Lucille puts the coats away, I think she could use a sandwich. Why don’t you take her into the kitchen?”
“Come on, milashka. Bring Ms. Charmaine’s coat. I have sandwich for you.” Zoya picked up her caddy of rags and cleaning supplies and guided Lucille by the shoulder in the direction of the closet.
“Larry? Larry, where are you?” Charmaine opened the dog carrier and let me out. We hurried down the hall to the bedroom. The carrier was left for Zoya or Lucille to put away.
“Hey, Char. How are you doing? Get your sexy ass over here and give your old man a kiss.”
Larry was lying on the bed. He was wearing a pair of black satin boxers and nothing else. His opened suitcase was on the floor by the fireplace. A razor, a can of shaving cream, nail-clippers, comb, hair-dryer and other male grooming aids were spread out on the carpet. A trail of clothes—pants, shirt, socks and tie—led from the bed to the bathroom. The TV was tuned to a football game with the volume full-blast, and nestled cozily beside him in the bed was a supersized bag of chips. The condiments, a crystal bowl of salsa and a plastic container of lime-green guacamole, along with several beer bottles, were balanced precariously on the bedside table. Stray chips, which I was tempted to clean up, were strewn on the bedspread and floor. Several remotes rested on his stomach. The room reeked of cigars and marijuana.
“Oh, I see you got the package from CJ.”
“This room smells like a giant ashtray and look at that mess you’re making. Yes, I got the package. Here it is.” Charmaine heaved the package in Larry’s direction. It landed on his stomach, exuding a little cloud of white powder and knocking the remotes to the floor.
“Hey, are you crazy? You almost hit me in the balls. That package is way too expensive to play Frisbee with.”
“You sent us to a horrible place. Do you know how bad that neighborhood is or what those two do in that house? God, Larry. What were you thinking?” Charmaine’s voice was at its whiniest as she repeated the mantra of the day.
Larry stared at her like she had a horn in the middle of her head.
“Grow up, Charmaine. Where do you think you live—Sesame Street?” He disentangled himself from the remotes, chips and bedspread and got up, slowly picking his way across the slothful obstacle course to the bathroom. The door slammed, and in a few minutes we heard the muffled roar of the shower.
Charmaine flopped on the bed and started to cry. Chips crunched beneath her. I nipped up some stray crumbs. “Don’t eat those, Suggie. They’re not good for you. They aren’t even organic. Zoya got them at Walgreens.”
My snack was interrupted when she picked me up and hugged me to her chest. Mascara and eyeliner ran down her cheeks. Inky tears were raining onto her pink sweater and making a stain which, later, she would be very upset about.
“He’s so mean sometimes, Suggie. I really don’t deserve that, do I? All I do is try to please him. I wear the lip gloss that he likes and that ghetto lingerie he buys me, and look how he acts. You love me, don’t you, Suggie baby?”
And, I had to admit, I felt a sisterly affection. So I licked her face, which tasted of salt and cosmetic chemicals. I had been trapped on the same sinking ship, and I was still rowing the boat alongside her.
Chapter 14
“Of this Samsara, a single lifetime constitutes only a vanishing tiny fraction.”
Gautama Buddha
“Do you want to know a secret, Sugar?” Lucille whispered in my ear. “You are an old soul. Mommy told me. She said you’re looking out for me.”
To me, “old soul” sounded more like New Age jargon concocted by Mrs. Dichter to appease her needy clients than the astral-speak of the afterlife as interpreted by Don Paco. Perhaps Veronica’s unwillingness to cross over gave her another perspective on being dead. Maybe, like the theory of infinite universes, there was a different afterlife for everyone. It was upsetting to consider that things might be so personal and random. I wanted to put my faith in Don Paco’s rules, to believe that there was a set of specific directions, like a recipe for baking a cake, that would guide me back into being. But whether my soul was old or young, the fact that I had one seemed positive. I was also elated to learn that Veronica had acknowledged my presence and my importance to Lucille. That seemed like real progress.
Lucille was staring rapturously at the seven-foot-tall aluminum tree that had just been installed in the living room. “Isn’t it beautiful? But it stinks,” she said.
Because we were having a green Christmas, this was a metal tree. Cristoff recycled it from one party to the next. It smelled like concentrated Pine-Sol which was actually “essential essence of evergreen.” This, Cristoff assured, would mellow to a “wonderful piney aroma” in time for the party. However, my eyes were watering, and my skin itched. Beside the tree were several enormous boxes of ornaments. Jared and Brandon, Cristoff’s assistants, were on ladders stringing lights. They chatted back-and-forth nonstop like preteen girls at a slumber party, about reality TV, fashion, and their friends’ dating habits. They were wearing formfitting green T-shirts that said “Green Extravaganzas” on the back. Jared’s tight black leather pants limited his dexterity and made his high perch on the ladder worrisome. Brandon was more practically dressed in sweatpants. A green silk scarf was wrapped do-rag style around his head.
I was lying next to Lucille in one of several red velvet swivel chairs that surrounded an egg-shaped black marble coffee table. In the center of the table was a red lacquer bowl filled with a pyramid of green apples. The fruit, which Brandon made the mistake of sampling, was definitely not for eating. Zoya had swiped each apple with a self-polishing dust cloth before placing it in the bowl.
The living room was a vast space encompassing several different seating areas. The floors were black-and-white marble tiles. Black-and-white sheepskin rugs were scattered about like a grazing flock. Floor-to-ceiling windows swagged in red velvet framed a view that swept up the lakefront. It was a majestic panorama and would be just as impressive, perhaps even more so, if the room were empty.
Lucille was wrapping Christmas gifts. Scraps of silver Mylar paper and curly metallic pink ribbon surrounded her chair. She had knitted angora mouse covers for Charmaine, Larry, Zoya and her gymnastics coach. Each cover was wrapped in its own shiny pouch topped with a profusion of metal ringlets. The gifts were meant to be strictly decorative, since the mouse would not function with the cover on. There was also a silver mouse cover adorned with pearlescent sequins for Veronica, which seemed very appropriate for a celestial workstation.
Charmaine had decided that, following the party on Christmas Eve, we would experiment with the Christian custom of opening presents. She told Larry a tearful story about growing up in one of the only Jewish families in Waco, Texas. While every house on the block was bordered in multicolored, blinking lights, with reindeer and Santas frolicking on parched front lawns, the unadorned Ratzingers' home stood out like an L.L.Bean parka in Neiman Marcus. Explaining why there were no decorations was a tricky process, since it required Charmaine to introduce the heretical concept that a seemingly normal American girl might not be a Southern Baptist.
Having grown up in Minneapolis among Lutherans, Larry was sympathetic. As a child, he tried to convince friends that the gefilte fish bobbing in its murky broth in his refrigerator was actually lutefisk. In high school, he bleached his hair, wore shoes with concealed lifts and begged his parents to finance a nose job (they did not agree) in order to better blend with the Svensons, Sondergaards and Lindquists, who were his classmates.
The intercom buzzed. After several minutes, there were footsteps in the hall. I heard Zoya say, “What you doing here? Iris didn’t say you would be coming by. She said
you were away until after Christmas. Good thing Mr. Larry and Ms. Charmaine are out,” she muttered under her breath, sounding as annoyed as a hostess whose surprise party has gone awry.
“Our engagement in Munich was cut short. We got back early and happened to be in the neighborhood, so we thought we’d stop by for a look at the girl.” The voice was resonant and overly formal, like an amateur radio announcer.
The French doors opened, and Zoya entered, followed by two people who I could not believe had passed Darien’s security check.
“Luci, say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Patterson. You going to be staying with them after Christmas.” There was a nervous positivity to Zoya’s tone. It was the voice she might use to persuade Lucille to taste some disgusting but healthy food, like liver or rutabaga.
“Hi.” Lucille looked up briefly and went back to her wrapping as if nothing unusual had happened. Her expression was blank.
The Pattersons, mute as a pair of saltshakers, gave her a once-over and nodded approvingly to each other.
Brandon and Jared stopped their frenetic decorating and were staring, gape-mouthed at the couple as if they had encountered extraterrestrials. And perhaps they had. The life-size Pattersons were far more disturbing and strange than I could have guessed from Iris Fletcher’s blurry snapshot. They were Jack Sprat and his wife imagined by Stephen King— invaders from an unfriendly planet masquerading as humans. Mrs. Patterson was obscured in flesh. She wore a long dress made of shiny material that looked like it had history as a window treatment. Her enormous girth was balanced precariously on feet as tiny as goat hooves.
If Mrs. Patterson was the South Pole, Mr. Patterson was the North. Where she was pushed, he was pulled. Where she was hidden, he was immodestly revealed. Where she billowed, he sagged. His skin was a bas-relief of angles and bones. He regarded us from eyes set deep in a cadaverous skull. His head, on its long stem, twisted like a periscope as he surveyed the room. Something caught his eye, and he looked up. My mesmerized gaze followed.
High above, a pointy, foot-long icicle swung precariously in Brandon’s outstretched hand, like a shiny dagger on a string. It caught the light each time he attempted to attach it to the tree. Mr. Patterson shaded his eyes. At that moment, Brandon released the ornament. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He seemed to have deliberately dropped the thing. The missile whizzed past Mr. Patterson’s head and exploded on the stone floor. There was a hideous crash. Then, a collective intake of breath. The Pattersons were covered in glass. Mr. Patterson’s pants glistened with tiny shards. Lucille, whose expression was usually overly solemn, was smirking.
“Oh, my God,” said Brandon. For a moment, he let go of the ladder and almost lost his footing.
“You trying to kill us? What’s the matter with you?” Zoya screamed, glaring at Brandon and Jared. “Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. I go get the vacuum.”
“Jared, did you pull on my arm?” Brandon’s voice was shaking.
“How could I? I’m all the way over here.”
“Someone pulled my arm and made me drop that ornament,” Insisted Brandon whose face had gone pale.
“Brandon, I can’t believe how you’re always making up excuses for your mistakes. Take ownership, girlfriend. Didn’t they teach you that in your last 12 Steps program?”
“What a jerk you are! Just keep your comments about 12 Steps to yourself. Wow, did you feel that?” said Brandon.
“What’s going on? It’s fucking freezing.”
“We better get off these ladders before you drop something else,” said Jared.
The lights on the tree had dimmed and, in an instant, the room was so cold that we could see our breath. The marble table, the floor and the windows were coated with frost. An icy wind came from every direction at once and caused the tree to sway dangerously, blowing broken glass, ornaments, boxes and wrapping paper all over the room. Expensive coffee-table tchotchkes swirled in the arctic hurricane. The Pattersons, Brandon and Jared were huddled under various pieces of furniture with their arms over their heads like 1950s schoolchildren preparing for an atomic attack. Strangely, Lucille and I were in the eye of the storm. Debris whirled around us, but the air was calm and warm where we sat.
Lucille patted me between the ears and whispered, “Don’t worry, Sugar. It’s just Mommy getting rid of the Pattersons.”
Although I couldn’t see Veronica, I could feel her fury. I tried to open my mind, hoping she might speak, but there was only the chaotic sound of the wind scattering things about.
“Who did this? Who open the window? Mr. Larry say never, never, ever open the window!” When Zoya returned with the Shop-Vac and a DustBuster, the wind abruptly stopped, the tree lit up, and the temperature rose to normal, as if she had flipped a switch.
Mr. Patterson and the boys rose slowly from the floor looking dazed and disheveled. Mrs. Patterson remained on the ground with her head covered.
“What happen here? Mr. Larry and Ms. Charmaine gonna kill me. You a mess, Mr. Patterson. You want Dust Buster for your pants?”
“I think we best be going. You seem to have some unusual phenomenon going on here. You can send Lucille to us in a taxi as per the agreement. Beatrix, are you okay? Get off the floor please.”
“I don’t think I can,” said Mrs. Patterson, trying to lift herself up.
Each time she attempted to stand, she toppled over like a roly-poly. Mr. Patterson watched her struggle without offering assistance. Finally, Brandon and Jared took pity, and each grabbed a chubby hand and hauled her up.
Without another word, the Pattersons turned and left. A second later, we heard Charmaine call from the hall, “Who in God’s name was that?” She rushed into the living room, clutching her fur around her as if she expected to find an army of strange intruders who would rip it away. “Zoya, who let those people in here? What were they doing?”
“No worries, Miss Charmaine. They just went to the wrong floor. They were looking for the Simpsons on 10,” Zoya lied. Brandon and Jared did not correct her.
“The Simpsons have some creepy friends. What do you mean ‘no worries’? What on earth happened here? Why is there glass all over? Oh, my God, is that my Lladro angel? That’s a collectible. Zoya, who did this?”
“I don’t know, Miss Charmaine.” Zoya was stone-faced, as though she had no idea how to emotionally register what had happened.
“It was really strange,” said Brandon. “First someone pulled on my arm and made me drop an ornament. Then the lights went off, it got really cold, and things started flying around. It was like you had a manifestation. You might need Trudy.”
“You should definitely talk with Cristoff,” said Jared. “He knows about this stuff. You might have a spirit you need to get rid of.”
“They will never get rid of Mommy. She’s watching out for me,” Lucille whispered in my ear.
“Thank God Sugar’s all right,” said Charmaine. “A ghost? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Now, somebody better tell me what happened pretty quick or I’m going to assume that the two of you had something to do with it. And if I find out that you wrecked my living room, you’ll have a real manifestation on your hands.”
Chapter 15
“To be born here and to die here, to die here and to be born elsewhere, to be born there and to die there, to die there and to be born elsewhere—That is the round of existence.”
Buddhist Text: Milinda’s Questions 77
There were snails in the toilet. Maggots invaded the refrigerator. The temperature fluctuated wildly. Doors opened and shut by themselves, and objects fell from shelves. Mysterious cracks appeared in the ceiling and the floors. The words “Help Me” materialized on the bathroom mirror, scrawled in pink lipstick. Veronica was addicted to human contact. Once we noticed her, she was helpless to stop the manifestations—even though they were not in her own or Lucille’s best interest. Instead of being the possessor, she was the possessed. The living were junk food, and she could not stop gorging.
> I understood her rage and her motivation perfectly; I had the same insatiable hunger for humanity and the same burden of regret. Don Paco’s “higher-ups” were absolutely right. Veronica needed to move on, or she would bring the house down around us. Her appetite was fueled by guilt. She never anticipated that her abandonment of Lucille would be permanent. And until Lucille was safe, she would not rest. She availed herself of all the ghostly mischief she could command. A closet full of cashmere, leather, silk and fur spattered with a dark, indelible substance was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Charmaine was prepared to do anything to stop the rampant destruction and ensure that the dirty Santa was the only spirit at the Christmas party. And so Trudy Dichter, Chicago’s best-known ghostbuster, was called to seek out the malevolence and destroy it.
Lucille was terrified that Trudy would lock her mother in the dark void, otherwise known as death, from which she would never return. She had been sent to her room with Zoya, who viewed what was being referred to as a “spiritual cleansing” as the most obscene sort of blasphemy.
I was both attracted and repelled by the possibility of seeing Don Paco. I was hopeful that he was still hanging out with Trudy and that his obsessive preoccupation with the rules of death might provide more clues to the possibility of my rebirth in a human body—preferably one that was as attractive as the last one. But as long as I didn’t come back fat, old or ugly, I was willing to make concessions. On the other hand, I was not so naive as to think there would not be a heavy toll for his advice. I was tingling with nervous anticipation as Charmaine and I waited for Trudy and Cristoff to step off the elevator.
The door glided open, and the two of them marched into the foyer, heads turning right, then left as if they were expecting a crowd of paparazzi. They were dressed completely in white and carrying twin black satchels that looked like old-fashioned medical bags. Cristoff’s turban was back. Trudy Dichter’s retro beehive shone like a steel helmet. She was wearing a calf-length white wool skirt that hugged her hips and legs. A white silk shirt with the collar turned up like bat wings cast a shadow across her face. White leather boots with pointy toes and heels much higher than a woman her age should safely consider gave her an imposing forward thrust. A white mink jacket was slung over her arm. The outfit was religious, funereal and slightly erotic.