This One Is Mine: A Novel

by Maria Semple

  “That’s Jeremy!” Violet half-squealed. “He’s a friend of Aunt Sally’s!”

  “And I keep talking until I say the right thing, then she’s fine, then —”

  “Jeremy?” asked Violet.

  He looked up, his eyes flashed a plea for Violet to help him stop. Then he looked down. “It’s nice for a while and we have fun and I say the wrong thing and then it starts over —”

  “Jeremy!” Violet dropped to her knees and grabbed his cheeks. “Stop it!”

  “And then she keeps talking and I talk and then she says something and then I say the right thing —”

  “Stop it!” parroted a delighted Dot.

  “Dot, it’s not funny. Mommy needs to talk to Jeremy. Go look at the books.” Violet nudged Dot in the direction of the coffee table, then turned back to Jeremy. “You are going to call off this wedding.”

  “I want that,” he said.

  “I want dat!” chuckled Dot, pushing the art books onto the floor. The Robert Williams book thumped down; so did the first edition of Uncommon Places by Stephen Shore.

  “You need to find Sally and tell her,” Violet told Jeremy.

  Dot found the book she wanted, the Andreas Gursky with that marvelous photograph of the Ninety-Nine-Cent Store. “Dot has those chairs.” She pointed to the chair that she did indeed have.

  Violet dipped her head so she was in Jeremy’s line of vision. “You have to do it now. The wedding is in ten minutes.” She stood up, hoping he would follow her lead, but he didn’t.

  “Candy.” Dot pointed to some licorice in the photograph. “Dat candy has no nuts.”

  Violet pulled Jeremy up by a dead arm. “Do you know where Sally is?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Off the garage, in the guesthouse. It’s where the wedding party is gathering.”

  “Meesuz?” LadyGo rushed in, her eyes dancing with excitement.

  Violet held up a finger to LadyGo while she dispensed with Jeremy. “Go talk to Sally. Don’t make it more complicated than it has to be. Just say the words, I want to call off the wedding.”

  “I want to call off the wedding,” he repeated.

  “That’s right. That’s all.”

  “You’ll be here?” asked Jeremy.

  “I’ll be here. Everything is okay.”

  “Meesuz,” said Violet’s agent provocateur, unable to contain her reconnaissance. “Lady go name is Coco Kennedy.” The Spanish accent made the name even more grotesque.

  “Lollipops!” said Dot.

  LadyGo noticed the wreckage of expensive books. “Miss Dot! Very bad girl.” LadyGo dropped to her knees and matched the books to their jackets.

  Jeremy just stood there. “You’ll be here?” he asked Violet.

  “I’ll be here,” Violet said flatly.

  “Everything is okay?”

  “Everything is okay.”

  SALLY, an opaline vision of silk and lace, navigated the carport, careful not to brush against the dirty Bentley and Mercedes. Maryam dutifully followed, holding the bride’s five-foot train.

  “Careful of the bikes,” Sally warned, then stopped suddenly before she stepped in a puddle of oil. Maryam smacked into her. “Watch out!” said Sally.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Uh, trying not to ruin my dress?”

  “Tell me next time if you’re going to stop,” said Maryam. “I can’t see anything.”

  “You know this wouldn’t be happening if I was getting married at the Bel-Air Hotel,” Sally said to Maryam’s tulle head. “Where is Violet, anyway? She should be the one helping me.”

  “I don’t know,” Maryam said, with a tinge of sullenness.

  “You’re not still steamed about me making Violet the maid of honor, are you?” Sally asked. “It’s her house. I had no choice.” The tulle mushroom cloud was silent. Sally lifted her dress with one hand and reached for the Mercedes mirror with the other, careful to keep arm’s length from the dusty car. She hurdled the oil spill. One foot landed. Just before the other one did, her body jerked back. “Aaah!” Sally’s leg swung in the air, but she miraculously regained her balance.

  “Oh God!” cried Maryam.

  Sally turned. Her follower was splayed on the concrete, Sally’s train triumphantly overhead. Sally grabbed the wad of lace.

  “Did I get dirty?” Maryam scrambled to her feet. Black goo covered one side of her dress, arm, and leg.

  “Not too,” Sally chirped. But she couldn’t keep a straight face as Maryam registered the extent of the disaster. A laugh escaped Sally’s pursed lips.

  “It’s not funny!” Maryam said.

  “I’m sorry — it’s just — how did you possibly get that — it’s in your hair!”

  Maryam started crying. “How can you laugh? In five minutes I have to get up in front of everyone.”

  “You don’t have to get up in front of everyone if you don’t want.” Sally prayed Maryam would take the hint.

  “If I don’t want?!” Tears streamed down Maryam’s face. “I’m a bridesmaid! I spent a hundred dollars on my hair and three hundred dollars on this ugly dress I’ll never wear again. You’re such a fucking bitch!”

  Sally gasped. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “I swear, I hate you sometimes.” Maryam stood on one leg like a flamingo, using her clean leg to wipe her dirty one. “You wouldn’t even know Jeremy if it weren’t for me.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Sally said. “Are you jealous?”

  “Of you?” Maryam cried. “Give me a break.”

  “You are jealous! Because now you’re the only one who’s not married.”

  “Can you stop being a selfish bitch for one minute of your life? I’m covered in black engine oil!”

  Sally took a deep breath. “Maybe Violet has a robe you can wear over your dress.”

  “I’m not walking around all night in a robe!”

  “Or you could turn the dress inside out?” Sally offered.

  “Fuck you.” Maryam stormed into the guesthouse.

  Sally called after her, “How dare you! After I paid to have your makeup done with my own money! And you know how much trouble I went to picking out bridesmaid dresses that you can wear again!” The door slammed. Sally stood there, red faced, holding her own train. She stomped into the guesthouse.

  Jennifer, Jim, David, Vance, Clay, Fern, and Pam were in a tizzy over Maryam. Not a word about how magnificent Sally looked. And still no trace of Violet, her maid of honor!

  Sally went into the bathroom, shut the door, and screamed in frustration. She pulled her diabetes kit from her garter belt and checked her blood sugar. She wanted to inject herself at the last possible minute so she could enjoy a four-hour stretch of unadulterated bliss. Her glucose was 210, on the high side. With the champagne and wedding cake and pure joy, it was certain to climb. Sally drew four units of Humalog into her syringe. Suddenly the door swung open.

  It was Jeremy.

  “Oh!” Sally fumbled to hide her diabetes kit, but it fell from the edge of the sink. Syringes, glucose strips, and insulin bottles showered the floor. Sally swept them into a pile with her foot and stood over it. “Jeremy!” she said. “What a lovely surprise!”

  Sally saw the look on Jeremy’s face and she knew: he wants to call off the wedding. She was so sure of it that a strange calm befell her. She gingerly closed the door behind him. “You know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” she tut-tutted.

  “I have something to tell you.” He met her eyes with a coldness she’d never before seen.

  “Well, I have something to tell you,” she said.

  “No. I have something to tell you.”

  “I want to tell you mine first.” She scrunched her nose.

  “I have something to —”

  “Jeremy —” she said.

  “I don’t want to get —”

  “I’m pregnant!”

  “What?”

  Sally
closed the toilet lid. She tapped Jeremy’s chest and he dropped onto it. “Dr. Naeby confirmed it yesterday,” she lied. “I wanted to surprise you tonight.”

  “I didn’t know,” Jeremy sputtered.

  “We’re going to have a baby!” She took his hand. It was heavy and cold. Her heart began to race. He still wants to call off the wedding.

  “I don’t want to —” he attempted again.

  Sally kissed him, stuffing the words back in his mouth. “Darling,” she said, her lips still pressed against his, “I’ve been so emotional this past month, wanting our wedding to be perfect. And now that all our friends are here, some of them flying in from all over the country, I’m so glad that I did make it perfect. And all your colleagues are here and they’re going to be so impressed. I know I’ve been a little crazy. But now we know it was the pregnancy hormones that made me act a teensy bit cuckoo.”

  Sally withdrew her face just enough to see that Jeremy had the wild, defiant look of a caged animal. He was calm now, but sometimes caged animals looked defeated when they still had one flurry of fight left in them.

  “I don’t want to worry you,” Sally said, hating herself for the lie she was about to tell, “but my diabetes has been out of control this past month. My doctor wanted to hospitalize me. There’s an ambulance waiting on Mulholland, just in case.”

  “There is?” Jeremy said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m stabilized now, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Jeremy stared at the floor.

  Sally felt a rush of relief. “It’s six o’clock!” she said. “You’d better go and take your position.”

  “Okay.” Jeremy got up, shoulders still slumped.

  “You look gorgeous, my love,” she said. “Or should I say, Dad!” She plucked the earplugs out of his ears. “Not today.”

  Jeremy zombie-walked back into the main room. Just then, Violet breezed in with wet hair. She stopped and gave Jeremy an urgent, quizzical look. Sally withdrew into the bathroom to watch. Jeremy said something to Violet. Violet grabbed him by the shoulders. Sally could read Violet’s lips. What happened? So that’s where her maid of honor had been this whole time! Jeremy walked off without responding to Violet, who looked up and spotted Sally.

  “There you are!” Sally said, arms swept outward, like a soap opera grande dame.

  “Sally!” Violet said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Thank you,” Sally said. “But you’ve already done so much.”

  THE ceremony, in all its banal splendor, had come and gone. Dinner, too. After the meal, Violet had found herself maundering drunkenly to some Gap executive, so she plopped herself down at a deserted table, content to be the requisite drunk whom all others avoided.

  The guests were spilled across the lawn, basking in the balmy night and jetliner views. Some had been drawn to the edge by the sound of coyotes attacking an animal. The terrifying screeches and even more terrifying high-pitched clicking sounds were nothing new to Violet, who had grown up in the hills. Tonight, there seemed to be some meows thrown into the clamor. Perhaps the wild things had scored a neighbor’s cat.

  Teddy’s band wasn’t scheduled to begin until after the cake ceremony. Just before, Violet would blame a migraine and slip off to the Beverly Hills Hotel, where she and David had booked a room to avoid the racket of the cleanup. Violet hadn’t seen Teddy since he had dragged off Coco, caveman-style. At first, Violet was appalled that her beneficiary hadn’t come looking for her. But after six Bellinis, she no longer gave a shit.

  She fished the booze-soaked peaches out of her glass and closed her eyes, willing the fruit to deaden her emotions even further. She grabbed an abandoned glass from across the table and scooped the peach mash from it, too.

  In lieu of a wedding cake, Sally had opted for the de rigueur tower of cupcakes. Several caterers had just carried it out and nervously lowered it onto a rose-petal-covered table. The tower, topped by a groom and ballerina, reigned over the crowd, its frosted finery beckoning all to come hither and have a taste. But a caterer-sentinel was positioned nearby to prevent any such thing. Guest after guest was politely but firmly rebuffed. Violet lived for shit like this. She couldn’t stop grinning.

  But the cake ceremony was nearing, time for Violet to make her escape. First, she needed one of those cupcakes. She pushed herself up, then grabbed the table to steady herself. She wobbled to the cupcake tower and reached for a chocolate with coconut frosting.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to wait,” the caterer said, “until the cake ceremony.”

  “I won’t be here for the cake ceremony.” Violet snatched a cupcake.

  The caterer grabbed her arm.

  “It’s my house,” she said.

  The caterer instantly released his grip. Violet smiled. Aah, how cozy it was, being David Parry’s wife with all its attendant perks. She ripped the top off the cupcake and crammed it in her mouth. All she needed now was a blast of caffeine to sober her up for the drive. She stepped unevenly to the bar and ordered a Diet Coke.

  A partygoer approached, eyes on Violet’s cupcake. “Oh! Are they letting us eat those now?”

  “Knock yourself out.” Violet stuffed the bottom half of the cupcake into her mouth, but had forgotten to peel off the paper. She pulled it out, saliva and cake spilling onto her chest. She needed a trash can.

  On the bar sat an empty jar. Taped to it, a grainy color Xerox of a British flag. Written in big letters, the word TIPS. Beside it, a fan of business cards that read “The Rolling Stoners.”

  “Wait — what are these?” Violet said to the bartender.

  “Some guy started putting them around. He said David Parry, whose house this is, said it was cool.”

  Violet scanned the soirée. Tip jars had sprung up on every conceivable flat surface! She stuffed the business cards into the tip jar and thrust it at the bartender. “Throw this away!”

  “But David Parry said —”

  “I’m his wife. Go. Get rid of all of them. Now!”

  “Aaaaah!” A shriek erupted from inside the house. A woman’s voice? Coco’s voice? Violet staggered toward it.

  “Aaaaah!” There it was again, coming from the master bedroom. Violet flung open the door. The bedroom was quiet, tranquil. But someone was in the bathroom — a woman — and sobs, too.

  “It’s okay, don’t worry,” said a soothing voice.

  Violet hurtled through the door.

  A whimpering boy stood in the corner. A woman with kind eyes stroked his hair. “Hi,” she said to Violet. “I apologize. J.J. was using the bathroom and saw a spider.”

  “Oh!” Violet laughed with relief. “A spider!”

  “It’s there! It’s there!” J.J. pointed to the bathtub.

  “That’s a big scary one, all right,” Violet said. “Do you know what we do with spiders here?” The boy was silent. “We help them.” Violet picked up a newspaper and brushed the spider onto it. “If you open the window, I can put him outside.” The boy did. Violet shook the newspaper and the spider fell off. “Now he’s back with his friends.”

  His mother stuck out her hand. “I’m Nora Ross. Thanks for your patience. He’s on the autism spectrum and can get a little fixated.”

  “He’s a sweetheart,” Violet said.

  “He’s my teacher, that’s for sure!” Nora tousled the beautiful boy’s hair.

  Violet wanted to hug this shell-shocked woman who still somehow managed to radiate such tenderness. The boy sprinted through the bedroom and out into the thick of the party.

  “I’d better go,” Nora said, and followed.

  Violet stepped into the yard. People were being herded in the direction of the cupcake tower. Violet needed to split. She didn’t need to say good-bye to David. And Sally, well, who cared about Sally?

  “Violet!” It was David. He was holding Dot, who devoured a cupcake the size of her face.

  “Hi. I was about to come find you. You know what? I’m not feeling wel
l. . . .” Violet trailed off. Under Dot’s arm was a dirty pink Ugg boot.

  “Violet, what’s going on?” David asked.

  “What — what do you mean?” Her stomach tightened.

  “Did you book this band?”

  “A friend of mine plays in it.” Shit. She’d forgotten to lie. “Why?”

  “Apparently there’s a girl with them who’s in the house causing some kind of commotion. The wedding planner tried to kick her out, but she claimed she was a friend of yours.”

  “Shit. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Shit,” said Dot in her small voice.

  “Since when do you have a friend who plays in a Stones cover band?” David asked, incredulous.

  “He’s the nice guy I met on the street that day. He’s a nice guy, a friend, who needs the money. His name is Teddy.”

  David practically dropped Dot. “Teddy Reyes?”

  “Yeah,” Violet said as casually as possible. She furiously tried to remember if she’d ever mentioned Teddy’s last name. Oh God, David’s face was reddening. His jaw was working. His neck was tensing.

  “That’s it,” he said. “I’m done.” He shook his head and walked away.

  Violet caught up and grabbed his arm. “David! David!” A nearby group of Sally’s girlfriends glanced over. Violet lowered her voice. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re smart about some things,” David said, heedless of the girls who had paused their conversation to listen. “But you’re not smart about others. You grew up around intellectuals and loveable eccentrics. I grew up around poor people. What do I always say?”

  There was no way Violet could answer that. David was always inculcating her on so many different topics.

  “Troubled people are trouble,” he said.

  It was one of their common themes: that Violet didn’t understand people. Sure, she floated with ease among the most rarefied strata of society. But her idea of a scary lowlife was someone walking around with JUICY COUTURE emblazoned across their ass.

  David continued, “Some people think the worst thing in life is to wear white after Labor Day. Others think nothing of throwing their babies into dumpsters.”

  “What babies, Dada?” Dot asked.