“This isn’t going to work.” George wags his gnarly finger in my face. I’m about to argue back, when I see Billy pulling up in the van.
Oh, thank God! Billy leaps out and saunters up the path like it’s his own personal catwalk. I smile in appreciation and admire his graceful moves and golden brown curls. Margo runs to meet him, screeching, and Rory stops crying momentarily to see what drama has possibly overshadowed hers. I glance at George and feel instant distaste; I don’t like the way he’s looking at Billy.
“George, this is my cousin and best friend, Billy.” I stand aside to let them greet each other.
Billy gives George a warm smile and offers his out-stretched hand. To my horror, George doesn’t return the handshake.
Awkward!
I glance back at Billy as he lowers his hand to his side. I’m trying to gauge his reaction but his features remain stoic.
“I was just telling Lane, here, that this arrangement won’t work. I actually decided this morning I don’t want a tenant.”
Billy shoots me a horrified look and turns back to George. “What do you mean you don’t want a tenant? You mean Lane can’t live here?”
George shakes his head, and I’m about to interject, when I notice Margo is at George’s side, tugging on his pant leg. “Margo, leave the man alone,” I say. She ignores me and continues to tug at his pant insistently. The old man fixes her with a grumpy, even stare, but Margo gazes back, unfazed. She motions for George to come down to her level.
“I can’t bend that far,” George says. “Here, I’ll have a seat on the stair. Now, what is so important young lady?” Margo climbs a stair and leans over and starts whispering to him.
What is going on?
Billy and I watch intently. I also notice with relief that Rory has cried herself back to sleep. Margo is whispering on and on, and George’s face is deadpan. What is she saying?
Finally, George turns to her and nods a single, decisive nod. Margo rewards him with her mega-watt smile and he smiles back, flashing his dentured teeth. Margo stands up, grinning, and announces with pride that we can start moving our things in.
And just like that, we’re good to go.
7
Upstairs, I swing the door open and step aside for Billy. He enters the attic, eyes bulging in horror.
“Oh. My. God.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“This carpet…” Billy seems at a loss for words.
We stand motionless as I take in the hideous, hairy, green nastiness—I swear it’s grown an inch since yesterday. I shoot Billy a woeful look, but he’s regarding me with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Run like hell?”
“No, better. Let’s rip it out. Right now!”
“Right now?” I glance at Margo, who is hovering near the door, Rory sleeping at her side.
“Come on,” Billy insists, “before all your things are moved in. Go borrow a couple of screwdrivers and box cutters from the old man.” He starts wandering around, exploring the attic, with Margo following closely behind him. Judging by her expression, she’s hardly impressed; but why would she be?
With one more glance at Rory, who’s still sleeping peacefully in her seat, I grab my chance and race downstairs at breakneck speed. We’re getting rid of the Oscar carpet. YAY!
After settling Rory and Margo on the bathroom floor with some Barbies and cookies for entertainment, we get to work. The dust is going to be insane, but Billy says we’re lucky the place doesn’t have baseboards because we’d have to rip those out too.
“No way!” Billy yells, as he pulls up one corner of the hideous carpet.
“What?” Margo and I cry in unison and rush over to Billy’s side. Did he find money or hidden jewelry?
“Laney, today’s your lucky day. Because, my friend, hiding under this carpet is none other than hardwood floors! Oh yeah.”
“Let me see.” I peer at the floor. Sure enough, they are hardwood. Margo doesn’t seem to share our enthusiasm and makes a beeline back to the bathroom. “They need work though,” I say.
“Lane! Would you try to be positive for once in your life? We’re getting rid of the carpet, and you have hardwood. Come on!”
I open my mouth to retort but decide against it, and together we start ripping out the carpet and padding. The carpet has the nastiest stains, and I swear my sinuses all but collapse from the barrage of dust. We fold Oscar into the middle of the space and then pull out the tack strips and staples. Rory starts crying, but her timing is impeccable as we’re just about done.
By the time we have the carpet out of the house, sweep, and move things in, it’s nine o’clock. Billy was sweet to order Chinese, as I wouldn’t know where to begin with fixing dinner. And that hotplate, ugh! I don’t ever want to go there. George just about had a hernia when we came downstairs lugging manageable bits of Oscar. He stamped and shook his fist, yelling something about having to hear my rap music now that the insulation is gone. He’s delusional, obviously.
I clear the final take-out container into the garbage and survey the attic. The floor has been swept but is in bad need of refinishing. Boxes litter the space and, as I didn’t pack, I have no idea what was packed or which box contains what. I feel incredibly overwhelmed, and my heart sinks every time I think of Micky. I cannot believe I’m going to be cooped up in this random attic with the kids and no husband in sight, and no idea of what is going to be.
“You look like crap, Lane.” Billy is peering at me closely, one hand propping up his chin.
“I’m overwhelmed. And this place, I mean, come on, what a demotion. I mean, I don’t even have a real kitchen. And George says I can start cooking by microwave! What would the society wives say if they could see me? God…”
“Lane, listen to you. Come on! I’m so bloody sick of having to deal with ‘Lane on a pedestal, all high and mighty.’” Billy’s going to fall out of his seat if he leans any closer to me. “Ever since you met Micky you’ve been a downright bitch; but that’s not who you really are. Drop the veneer, Lane. It’s over. You don’t have to be the bitch anymore.”
I roll my eyes at him, but I can’t help feeling stung. Certainly, I’m not that bad.
“You used to be real. I mean, you’ve always been a bit stand-offish, but you were at least lighthearted until your Mom—”
“Yeah. You know, I think you need to get going.” Margo is entertaining Rory with some baby toys, but I’ve noticed she keeps rubbing her eyes. “You know, we don’t all live in fairyland. Some of us have kids to put to bed.” I give Billy a wry smile, and to my relief he grins back.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” He jumps up and dashes out the door, and I bring the girls into the bathroom to wash up. Billy returns a few minutes later carrying a monstrosity of a flower arrangement featuring lilies, gladiolas and roses. In the other hand, he holds a self-burning fire log.
“These flowers are a housewarming gift and the log is a literal house warming.” He laughs at his joke and continues. “You said you couldn’t build a fire, but with this you just have to light it—and voila!—a roaring fire for three hours.”
“Very nice, Billy. Thanks for all your help today. Really, thank you.” When I accompany him to the door, the feeling of terror that’s gripped me for two days starts to build. “Billy…,” I whisper frantically.
“What?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.
“I’m…I’m scared.” The words sound foreign to my ears. When do I ever admit fear?
“Of what?”
“Uh…” I shift my gaze to the girls playing on the floor, then back to Billy’s face.
“Oh, I see.” Billy seems to consider this, and then he gives a little shrug. “You’ll be fine, Lane.”
“But I don’t know how to be a parent. I have nothing to go by!” The panic rises in my voice, and I feel hysteria start to build. How can I do this?
“You had a really great mom, Lane. If you’
re half as good as she was, you’ll be just fine. Just do as she would have done.” Billy leans over and brushes a light kiss on my cheek, then slips out the door.
And then there were three.
I manage to make my bed after locating the box of linens. Both girls are in their pajamas and ready for sleep. I feel a bit embarrassed not knowing the bedtime routine, but I guess I can make a new one.
“All right!” I command. “Into bed.” Margo hops on the bed and then, enjoying the bouncing sensation, continues hopping and giggling and mangling the nicely laid blankets. “Calm down, you’re going to get yourself hyper and you’ll never sleep,” I scold. Rory kicks and squeals in my arms, enjoying the entertainment.
“Will you read to me?” Margo asks when she finally calms down.
“No. I don’t know where the books are. We haven’t got to that box yet.”
“Well, can’t you tell me a story, then?”
Tell a story? Ugh. The last thing I feel like doing is telling a story; but then, my mom would have. Okay, all I can think of is Goldilocks, so it’ll have to do. I place Rory beside her sister on the bed and sit down on the mattress as I begin telling the story.
“Goldilocks was a little girl who went for a walk,” I begin. I hand Rory her bottle and hold it in place as I try to recall the story details. “There were also three bears that went for a walk because their porridge was—”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Sorry?”
“Where’s Dad? And when is he coming back?”
Ohhh. “Daddy is on a motorcycle trip to work some stuff out.”
“What stuff?”
“Grown-up stuff. But listen I’m trying to tell you about the bears.”
“What bears?”
This is exasperating. “The three bears. And Goldilocks.” I go on recounting the story as Margo listens, her expression placid. She’s staring at me with an intense focus, and I can’t tell if she’s actually listening to the story or thinking about other things. It’s unnerving, and I find myself speeding along to wrap up the storyline. “And Goldilocks ran away, never to return. The End!” I pronounce. Good, done.
Rory’s eyes are growing heavy, and her pudgy little fingers are wrapped around mine, holding the bottle. Even Margo is looking less alert, which is a relief.
“Hey!” I suddenly remember. “What did you say to George?”
“Who’s George?”
“The old man downstairs.”
“Oh. I said he looked like a grandpa and that grandpas shouldn’t be grouchy, they should be nice.”
“That’s all?” I ask, unconvinced.
“Yep. And I said me and my baby sister want to stay at his house so he can be our grandpa.”
“What?” I practically shriek, and Rory’s eyes fly open in alarm. “Why would you say something like that? He’s a stranger, and you already have two grandpas.”
“He’s not a stranger. He’s George. And I don’t see my Grandpas.”
Right. Micky’s dad lives on the East Coast, and my dad…my dad is another story altogether. “I’ll call my dad soon and you can see him.”
“Okay!” Margo is obviously pleased and she snuggles under the covers.
Rory’s eyes are heavy again, and her drinking has slowed down to the point where it’s hard to tell if she’s actually getting anything.
“Goodnight, Margo. Go to sleep,” I say.
“I miss Laura.” Margo’s eyes well up with tears, and her face looks so lost and broken. Our nanny, Laura, has been with the girls since they were born—I feared Margo would have difficulty with this.
Rory’s eyes have closed completely, so I pull the bottle away and begin setting up her playpen. How does this bloody thing even go? And, seriously? The so-called mattress is made of fiberboard and feels about as comfortable as a rock. I wouldn’t sleep on this if my life depended on it. I toss the useless mat back into the playpen. Well, we’ll just all have to sleep in my bed.
It’s unbelievable how I go from having my own suite to having to now share my bed.
There’s a rustling sound, and I look over to find Margo rocking her entire torso back and forth, arms stretched out to the ceiling.
“What on earth are you doing?” I ask in wonder.
“Rocking,” Margo answers as she continues the back and forth motion.
I’m at a loss. “W-why?”
“It’s how I fall asleep.”
Oh my.
While Margo rocks herself to sleep, I start opening some boxes to familiarize myself with everything. So far I haven’t found any of my things, but Denise did pack away some food, including dry goods, spices, and even some wine. Yes! I grab the bottle of Wolf Blass and—thank God for screw tops—take a long swig from the bottle. Forget finding stemware, if there is any.
The floral arrangement from Billy looks more suited to a funeral home than this depressing attic. I mean, a housewarming gift in here? What a joke. Well, time to light the log and see what a homey, crackling fire will do to the joint. I toss the log in the fireplace and— Ooh!
I find a pack of matches on the mantle. I light the fire and flop down onto a chair, heaving a massive sigh. Being a poor, single parent is incredibly rough. This is crazy. I guzzle more wine, and then some. The log is burning, but it’s hardly a roaring or even a crackling fire. Just one small, pitiful log with a meager flame.
The more I drink, the more upset I become. And looking over at the girls, sleeping nestled up to each other, I decide I can’t do this. I can’t be a dedicated parent, let alone a single parent. I’m just not meant for this. To have kids cared for by nannies is one thing, but to care for them myself? I don’t know what to do. And where’s Micky? Where is he? Riding his motorcycle, sure. But where? Is he on his way back? I drop my face into my hands, but I don’t cry. I can never bloody cry, even when I want to. And right now, I just want to curl up and cry and have someone care for me, goddammit. I can’t care for anyone when I’m in this state.
And then I think of Micky’s mom. Elsa. Yes! Elsa can take the kids. She is, after all, their flesh and blood. Perfect. I grab my phone and dial her number. After four rings, the voicemail clicks on.
“Elsa, it’s Lane. Micky left and I have the kids, but I can’t do this. I need you to come get them ASAP. ” I hang up, feeling better. Maybe she can even come tomorrow. I finish the last of the wine and let the bottle fall to the floor.
Oops, it’s not carpet anymore. Shit. Broken glass.
Tomorrow.
I nod at the fire, its warmth finally taking the last of the stress away.
Why was I upset? I don’t remember anymore.
We’re on the beach, Micky and I. His hazel eyes sparkle with laughter, and he looks deep into mine. We hold each other, laughing, foamy waves crashing all around. A loud, high-pitched noise is there too. We continue holding each other and laughing, but the sound keeps blaring. I’m frowning. What’s that noise? Something’s wrong.
Huh? I shake myself from my dream, and the alarm is ever present. Oh my God, a fire alarm. It sounds like it’s coming from downstairs. I scramble to my feet and sway from the effects of the wine.
Shit. The kids!
The fire alarm continues blaring. I fumble for my phone and dial 9-1-1. I can absolutely smell smoke. OH MY GOD!
“Wake up,” I scream, and I dash over to Rory and Margo.
“Nine one one. Police, Fire, or Ambulance?” asks the dispatcher.
“Fire!” I yell and give the address. How I managed to remember it, I’ll never know. Both girls are startled awake and break into wails, no doubt bewildered at the unfamiliar surroundings and my hysteria. Grabbing Rory in one arm and pulling Margo with the other, I dash over to the fire escape, fling the french door open, and stick my head outside. The bloody thing is as horrific as I remember. If we stay and wait for help, we may not die; but if we try to chance that rickety thing, we will die.
“OH MY GOD!”
“Mommy!” Margo screams, and Rory screams
right along with her.
The stairs! Yes. I run over to the door and feel the knob, which isn’t hot. I remember hearing if the knob is hot in a fire, don’t open the door. I fling it open and some smoke drifts in.
We stumble-sprint our way down the stairwell as I scream for George. Where is he? On the second landing, I sway, still incredibly drunk. I pause, calling his name, as smoke billows from under one of the doors. Do I run downstairs with the girls to get them to safety, or try for the old man? Screw the old man, he’s in his eighties anyway and my girls are just little, with their whole lives ahead of them. I abandon George and stagger down the stairs, two screaming, crying children in tow.
8
Outside, the air is cool. Having escaped the burning house, I feel tremendous relief and want to laugh and cry at the same time. The fire engine sirens are blaring; they must be right around the corner. Margo and Rory are still hysterical, so I bring them down the stairs and up the cobblestone path to the sidewalk.
I check them over, and they appear to be shaken but otherwise fine. I look back at the house and the bright light from the fire is illuminating one of the rooms on the second floor, and black smoke is billowing out the open window. The first fire engine arrives and a fireman rushes over to us with blankets, while the others go about unraveling hoses and unloading equipment.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
“Yes, but there’s an eighty-year-old man still inside.” My voice is high pitched and breathless. With that, the fireman takes off to join his team.
“Mommy, will George be all right?” Margo shivers with hysteria and huddles close.
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. How can the bloody old man be so deaf—he didn’t hear the alarm or me calling for him? Rory is whimpering but has calmed down, and we all collapse together and watch the firefighters battle the angry flames. I hear yelling from down the street and recognize that crispy old voice at once—it’s George! Margo leaps to her feet and runs to greet her new “grandpa.”
“OH MY GOD, MY HOUSE. WHAT ON EARTH?!” George is absolutely freaking out.
Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem. Page 6