by Lisa Lutz
“So, she’s home safe. That’s a good thing, right?” Walter said.
“No,” I replied. “It’s not.”
I sent Rae a text.
On the clock yet?
duh.4
GR8.
I clicked my phone shut, satisfied that I’d officially caught my sister in the act. Only now I had to figure out why.
“Do me a favor, Walter: Remember tonight, in case I need confirmation.”
“I’ll never forget it,” Walter replied, almost beaming.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Walter?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I think maybe a little.”
“Most people like the idea of a stakeout but hate it in reality.”
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Walter said.
“I’m glad to hear it,” I replied, “because it’s kind of like stalking.”
“I was thinking it was more like being in a cop show and we’re partners. Detectives Perkins and Spellman.”
“I should get top billing.”
“Spellman and Perkins.”
“That sounds better,” I said.
“I never break routine,” Walter said, almost wistfully.
“It doesn’t have to be like that.”
“Easy for you to say,” he replied. “All you do is break routine.”
“Sometimes it certainly seems that way.”
Two hours later, when I was certain that Rae was going nowhere on her Vivien Blake surveillance, I took Walter home. His power was completely out. After checking with the neighbors, it became clear that only Walter was affected by this mysterious outage. We checked the circuit breaker and then called PG&E. Apparently Walter, with all of his identifying information, had informed the power company that he would be moving out of his residence and wanted the electricity and gas shut off immediately. Walter promptly informed them that the call was a fake and in a few hours the power was restored.
All his clocks had to be reset immediately, which required Walter to call the number for the exact time and reset them one by one. And then call the number again to double-check. Walter’s mental state had clearly taken a turn for the worse.
“Maybe you should stay in a hotel tonight,” I suggested.
“Do you have any idea what goes on in those places?”
“Walter, think about the list. E-mail it to me in the morning.”
“Okay,” Walter said, scanning the room for signs of intruders.
“If it makes you feel any better,” I said, “no one came in.”
“How can you be sure?” he asked.
“Because I put a piece of Scotch tape on the door, just in case. It was still there when we came back.”
“I didn’t see you do that.”
“I didn’t want you to see it.”
“Thank you, Isabel.”
“Good night, Walter.”
If you’re wondering about the tape business, I’ll come clean. It was a lie. But I needed Walter to get some rest that night. Someone was playing games with his head, but I knew they weren’t playing games with his life.
As I walked to my car, upon leaving Walter’s apartment, my cell phone rang. The caller ID said the number was private, but I picked up anyway.
“Hello?”
“Is this Sandra?” a female voice asked.
“No, you have the wrong number.”
“Lorraine?”
“No,” I replied. “Maybe you have the wrong number and the wrong name.”
“Can I ask who I’m speaking to?”
“It’s you again, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Where did you get my phone number?” I asked.
“You are up to some very unusual business,” the woman said, and disconnected the call.
The first call had been a nuisance. The second one left me with a slightly queasy feeling in my gut. I was being watched. As you can imagine, it’s not my favorite condition to be in.
HOME
I returned to what appeared to be an empty house. All the lights were out except for a single lamp in Henry’s study. He was sitting at his desk, tilted back in a chair. A recently cracked bottle of bourbon on the desk, not from any rain boot I know of. A full glass sat next to it. But I could tell from the rings on the blotter that this was not his first drink.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said.
He nodded his head and took a sip. Then he handed the glass to me. I took a gulp because it had really been a long day . . . well, more than a day. It seemed like a week since I’d had a moment to just sit and think. I sat down on the couch. Despite what he’d said in our previous conversation, Henry did not want to talk. I waited just to be sure. And even though I didn’t want to talk, I knew that something was terribly wrong and so I had to talk because sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do. Which seems obvious to most people, but it’s just another item in a laundry list of things I figured out later in life than I should have.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“Maybe you’ve had too much to drink,” I said.
Henry’s not a drinker; in fact, I can’t recall ever seeing him sloshed. Miraculously, he was on the verge.
“Maybe I haven’t had enough to drink.”
“I shouldn’t have left,” I said, assuming the silence was my doing.
“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”
“Do I know what we’re talking about?”
“No.”
“Will you tell me?”
Henry poured another finger and then another. “My parents are getting a divorce,” he said.
“Maybe it’s just a trial separation,” I said as I plotted diabolical plans against Bernie.
“No. They’ve been separated for a while, it seems. My father just filed.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“She’s staying with a friend.”
“What friend?” I asked.
“That woman from college.”
“Have you met her?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No.”
He looked like he needed to be alone and I needed some sleep, so I got up to leave.
“Isabel.”
“Yes?”
“Things change. People don’t stay in one place for the rest of their lives.”
You might assume that Henry was speaking of his parents, but he wasn’t. The message was for me.
“I know,” I replied.
Henry left early the next morning. I phoned Gerty, but the call went to voice mail and I wasn’t sure what kind of message to leave. “Break up with that fat slob” seemed like the kind of thing you should say face-to-face.
I went into the office and found my mother and Demetrius in the living room lounging by the fireplace. Mom was studying for a Russian quiz while Demetrius read her book club selection for the month.
“Ready for your quiz?” I asked.
“Vyshe golovy ne prygnesh,” Mom said.
“Gesundheit.”
“It means ‘You can’t jump higher than your head,’” Mom said.
“Your point is?” I asked.
“One can’t do more than what is humanly possible,” D said, clarifying. I had a feeling he’d been quizzing Mom on her Russian. “Dosvedanya,” I said, heading into the office.
“Surprise family dinner tonight. Everyone will be there,” said Mom.
“Like the Pope?”
“No, I mean, like, the whole family.”
“David agreed to be in the same room as Rae?”
“Opposite ends of the table, but not facing each other, so no eye contact is required. One of these days he’s going to tell me what happened. This whole thing is ridiculous. We’re making coq au vin.”
“When you say ‘we,’ I do hope you mean Demetrius.”
“I’m his sous chef,” Mom said.
Then she turned to D, who was still “engrossed” in the book, which means he was staring at the pages with wide eyes and a baffled crinkle in his forehead.
“How is it?” I asked.
“Poignant,” D dryly replied.
“I hate poignant,” Mom said.
“Mom, why join a book club if you’re never going to read the books and you don’t like the company?”
“One of those women is bound to have a cheating husband and will want to put a detective on the case.”
“I see. So it’s purely a business decision. Still doesn’t explain the crocheting and the Russian lessons and the cooking classes.”
“Sweetie, some of us think that one should have extracurricular activities besides shooting pool and drinking beer.”
“At least I enjoy my extracurricular activities. Is Dad in?”
“Nope. He’s out.”
“Where? On a job?” I asked.
“Chinese wall,” my mom replied.
I entered the office, shut the door, and turned on my father’s computer. It was password-protected but I’d figured his out four years ago and he still hadn’t changed it. “ThreePete.” The name of his bachelor-days dog. A three-legged mutt who came from the pound named Pete. Hence, ThreePete.1 He had the dog for seven years until he met his future wife with the debilitating dog allergies and had to choose. I typed the password as I’d done many times before. An alarm sounded on the computer and the screen went black. Then red bricks surfaced against the black background, slowly building a wall.
Only one computer geek could have been behind this. The number was in the speed dial.
“Speak,” Robbie Gruber, our abusive computer consultant, said.
“You and my sister should hang out. You have similar phone manners.”
“I take it you tried to sign into your father’s computer,” Robbie said.
“Nice job with the wall. Would have been cooler if it looked like the Great Wall of China and not a Pink Floyd album cover.”
“There wasn’t time to get fancy.”
“What’ll it cost for you to give me his password?”
“Too steep for you. But now it’ll cost you fifty to keep the bribe from your dad.”
“Right,” I said, not quite believing.
“I’ll call him as soon as we hang up.”
“Will you take a check?”
“Cash. Today.”
“Seventy-five if you tell me how to make the wall disappear so my dad doesn’t know I tried to log on to his computer.”
Robbie negotiated me up to a hundred and remotely reset Dad’s computer. He told me that if I tried to infiltrate again, the hush money would enter the four-digit range. Robbie’s threats were always real. I learned that lesson the hard way. After my failed security breach, I needed some non-Spellman air.
“Where are you going, sweetie?” my mom asked.
“Out,” I replied.
“I hear it’s nice this time of year. Make sure you’re back inside by dinnertime. Oh, and invite Henry and Gerty.”
“I think I’ll spare them, if you don’t mind.”
The rest of us, however, could not be saved.
GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER?
Some events in your life you wish you remembered perfectly so you could revisit them again and again. This was not one of them, yet I recorded it anyway. In my family’s history, there may have been no better example of domestic misfortune. This night needed to be archived, if only to be used as evidence at a later date.
Mom and Demetrius prepared dinner as if they were cooking an innocent man’s final meal. The kitchen bubbled with delectable sauces and a blend of mouth-watering aromas that my mother is incapable of creating on her own. It seemed like this meal could very well have turned out to be D’s masterpiece. Too bad there was this inexplicable sense of doom hovering in the atmosphere.
I noticed something was amiss when Mom set the table. I’ve got simple math down and there was one extra place setting that didn’t add up.
“Mom, Sydney still uses a high chair.”
“I know that,” my mother replied.
“Then who is the special guest?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“A good surprise or the kind of surprise you’re keeping secret so no one can make a getaway plan?”
“What on earth are you talking about, Isabel?”
The doorbell rang. I answered it. No surprise: David, Maggie, Sydney. The usual family-like hellos were made.
“Sorry I missed you yesterday morning,” Maggie said. “I hope the couch was to your liking.”
“Sorry about that,” I said. “Next time, I’ll call.”
“Or you could sleep in your own home,” David suggested.
My mother grabbed Sydney from David and started making some very strange noises and asked ridiculous questions, like “Where’s your nose?” “Do you have a toe?” “Who’s my little banana?”
“Don’t say that word!” David said, pulling Sydney away from her grandma.
Speaking of bananas, the doorbell rang again. It was Rae. David gave her a wide berth when she entered the house and refused to make eye contact. Maggie, more forgiving, gave her a kiss and asked her how she was doing.
Rae was about to reply but was interrupted by Sydney shouting her name from across the room, her arms outstretched as she tried to wriggle out of David’s grasp.
“Rae Rae. Rae Rae. Rae Rae.”
David mumbled, “Mengele.”
“What did you say?” my mother asked.
“Nothing,” David replied.
“Hi, Sydney,” Rae said in an extremely high-pitched voice.
Sydney continued her escape attempts only to have David spin her around to keep Rae out of her line of sight.
“David, let her walk or she’ll forget how,” Maggie said, not for the first time.
The moment David put Sydney on her feet, she rushed to her younger and apparently far more appealing aunt and gave her leg a warm embrace. Rae bent down and kissed Sydney on the cheek.
“Did you miss me?”
Sydney repeated Rae’s name several more times.
“Why don’t you say hello to your aunt Izzy?” David said, trying to maneuver his daughter in my direction.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I said.
David scowled.
Sydney clocked me and turned back to Rae.
“Why do you talk to her like that?” David asked.
“Like what?”
“Like she’s your mechanic or something.”
“We could use a mechanic in the family.”
“Leave her alone,” Maggie said. “If you’re always snapping at her, Sydney will pick up on it.”
“You need to babysit,” David said, “and bond with your niece.”
Before a date could be set, my dad arrived home with our “surprise” guest. Silence washed over the crowd the moment she passed the threshold. It was as if we were all frozen in place. No one could summon the appropriate words. Of course it was David, the one Spellman who aspires to normalcy, who spoke first. He even tried to toss some enthusiasm into his voice, but it merely added volume.
“Grammy Spellman, so good to see you.”
I learned at an early age to avoid eye contact with Grammy, so I spent an awful lot of time staring at her feet. What I first noticed is that she was wearing the same black orthotic shoes as always, paired with opaque pantyhose in a flesh tone that made her legs appear like those of a mannequin. Since she’s always wearing polyester pants, the pantyhose seem unnecessary. When I was twelve I made the mistake of asking her if she knew about these new things called socks. She insisted that I go to bed without supper. My mother, not in the mood to get tangled into another disagreement with her mother-in-law, simply sent me to my room and, when Grammy was out of sight, snuck up half the contents of the pantry into my bedroom, since she had a feeling I would be there for a while. Even when you slice away the emotional debris
and just take in her physical appearance, Grammy still cuts a severe impression. Her short gray hair sits on her head like a helmet, and her frown lines have burrowed so deeply into her flesh that you can’t imagine her muscles can fight the gravity to form a smile. And yet she still possesses an odd streak of vanity, which manifests itself primarily in her physique. I’ve heard at least one hundred and ten times that Grammy still weighs one hundred and ten pounds. When I was fifteen, Grammy repeated her announcement, after becoming alarmed to learn that I weighed one hundred and twenty-five pounds; I responded with “Who gives a fuck?” That was another night I was sent to bed without dinner—at least not that Grammy knew about.
When Rae was a little girl and I was reading her the Brothers Grimm, she once told me that every time there was a mean old woman in the story, she pictured Grammy. David was more diplomatic and said, “Not everyone can be like Nana Montgomery” (my mom’s mom who died when I was six, a loopy old lady who always had candy and comic books stuffed in her massive handbag). My dad offered no excuses for his mother and simply apologized whenever she arrived and thanked us for our patience when she departed. Mom always acted as the guard, doing her best to shield her children from a very mean, bitter old woman. And while it is clear that no one in my family liked Grammy Spellman, I was her enemy number one.
David approached the Spellman matriarch and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. Other reserved greetings were made. Grammy looked Maggie up and down with generalized disappointment and said, unconvincingly, “Welcome to the family.” One can assume that Grammy was still holding a grudge for not being invited to the wedding. In fact, I think David and Maggie kept the group under thirty for that very reason. Grammy turned to Sydney and asked if she had been a good girl. Sydney did not reply. My mother managed a Stepford-wife smile and gave Grammy a stiff embrace, which was not returned. Then Grammy was introduced to D. I think she thought he was the butler or something, because she handed him her coat.
“This is Demetrius. He works for us, but not as a valet,” my mother said as she took the coat from D and hung it up.
People started grabbing drinks immediately. Not Grammy Spellman, a teetotaler who doesn’t even drink tea. When I was seventeen, I slipped some brandy in her apple cider, hoping she wouldn’t notice, but she smelled it immediately and demanded that I be grounded for a week. My parents thoroughly embraced grounding during my teenage years, but this was one act of defiance that I got away with. In fact, my mom slipped me a twenty just for trying.