by Maria Semple
“I’m fine. I’m great, really. I had no choice but to get a little abortion.” Sally grabbed her jeans and stepped into them. “Because of my diabetes.”
“I’m sorry — I —” Violet stammered. “I didn’t know. Here, let me help you.”
“I can manage.” Sally slipped her shirt over her head.
“Gestational diabetes?” Violet asked. “I thought they tested for that later.”
“Regular diabetes. My diabetes.”
“You’re diabetic? Since when?”
“Since I was three. Type one.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Violet. “I had no idea. David never told me.”
“He didn’t?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to make it about me. But I’m just kind of reeling here.” Violet gulped. “Let me drive you home.”
“I’m fine.” Sally grabbed the handful of pads.
“Where’s Jeremy?” asked Violet.
“He’s in Houston. He knows, and all. I’m just going home. I’ll be fine.” The stupid pads wouldn’t fit in her purse. No matter how hard she crammed them, they fell to the floor.
“Here.” Violet took Sally’s purse. “I’m going to drive you to our house. You can spend the night there.”
“I don’t want David to know,” Sally said.
“He won’t.”
They walked down the hall to Diana’s desk. “I am so sorry, you guys,” she said. “Nothing like that has ever happened before.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Violet. “How are we paying for this?”
“I’ll send a bill to the Crescent Heights address,” said Diana, off Sally’s chart.
Before Sally could protest, Violet handed Diana a black American Express card. “How about we put it on this?”
VIOLET drove up the canyon, Sally curled in the passenger seat, her back to Violet. Violet reached for the Tupperware container containing David’s lunch, pulled off the top, and offered it to Sally. “If you’re hungry, I made them.”
Sally took it.
“And for the tenth time, I can’t believe David never told me you were diabetic.” Then it struck her. “Oh, my God. I sent you chocolates on your birthday!”
“I thought that was pretty insensitive.” Sally bit into one of the fritters. “You made these?”
“Chard and quinoa. They’re better when they’re hot.”
Sally rolled onto her back and wolfed down another one. Violet felt Sally studying her face. Sally finally said, “I didn’t have an abortion because I was diabetic. I had an abortion because I found out there’s something wrong with Jeremy. It’s something called — I don’t even know how to pronounce it — it’s a syndrome or something.”
“Asperger’s?”
“You knew?” Sally looked stricken.
“Well, no. But now that you mention it, I’m not surprised.”
“I’m the only one who didn’t know he was retarded?”
“He’s not retarded!” Violet couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s a spectrum disorder. Our accountant definitely has it. People speculate that Bill Gates has it, and Albert Einstein probably did, too. Seriously, it’s no big deal.” Sally stared out the window. Violet continued, “Every woman in America at some point must think her husband has it. You think I never wanted to throw myself off a cliff because David is so unemotional? I mean, not telling his own wife that his sister is diabetic. What is that?”
“Everyone knew but me!” Sally dropped the Tupperware.
“Nobody knows,” Violet said. “And if they did, they wouldn’t care. I think it was Oscar Wilde who said, You wouldn’t care about what other people thought about you if you realized how seldom they actually did.”
There was silence. Then Sally said, “Why did you tell Jeremy to call off our wedding?”
For a moment, Violet was speechless. “I just happened upon him. There was no treachery on my part. He said you scared him.”
“That’s the best you can do?” Sally said.
Sally had been painfully honest with Violet. Now it was Violet’s turn. “I never really liked you,” she said.
“I never really liked you, either,” Sally shot back.
“Thank you!” Violet laughed. “That makes me feel so much better. From the first day I met you, I could tell something was off. And I thought I was crazy. I mean, this whole time, I thought it was me.”
“It was you,” said Sally. “I didn’t like you. I thought you were a snob masquerading as a nice person.”
Violet was impressed. “I’ve never heard it put that way before.” She drove past a eucalyptus grove on Mulholland. “When I was a little girl,” she said, “I remember driving by this exact spot with my father. He was shit-faced as usual, and he told me, If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s drive these canyon roads drunk.”
Sally forced a smile.
“From now on,” Violet said, “it will always be the spot where you said, I never really liked you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Geddy Lee / eBay / Bass What Bills?
Get It Done So That’s How You Wanna Play It? Poison into Medicine
The Number i The Story
KARA DROPPED HER PURSE ON HER DESK WHEN THE PHONE RANG. SHE WOULD have let it go to voice mail, but it was five after ten, and it might be David calling in for messages. She grabbed the phone, making sure she didn’t sound out of breath. “David Parry’s office.”
“Hi, is David there? It’s Geddy Lee.”
Geddy Lee. The name sounded familiar, but Kara couldn’t place it. “He’s not in yet. May I take a message?”
“I’m calling to razz him about my bass showing up on eBay. Tell him if he’s really that cheap, I’ll give his wife the money.”
Kara didn’t have a pen and her computer was asleep. There was no way she would remember what this guy had just said. “Do you want me to try him at home?” she asked, then gasped. David never wanted people put through to his house. “Or,” she said, “maybe he’s in his car, but I can’t reach him because it’s hard to get reception in the canyons.” Kara cringed at how lame that just sounded.
“Just give him the message when he gets in.”
“He’s usually in by now,” she said. “But he was at Coachella for a sound check yesterday and probably got back late to the —” Oh God! Kara had almost told this Geddy guy that David was living at the Beverly Hills Hotel! Even Kara wasn’t supposed to know. “I’ll give him the message,” she said.
“He knows my numbers.”
Now Kara was back at square one. Who was Geddy Lee? How did you spell Geddy Lee? And what was the message? Something about eBay and a bass. She so didn’t want to get fired for this.
“KNOCK, knock.”
Sally roused from an oozy semi-slumber and found herself back in the bridal suite.
“I’m sorry if I woke you.” Violet entered with a breakfast tray. “Egg white omelet with low-fat Jarlsberg, sautéed mushrooms, and ten blueberries. Everything low in sugar for my diabetic sister- in-law.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Sally sat up. On the tray were a vase of flowers and some gossip magazines.
“Your medicine is in the bathroom. Your mail is in the kitchen, and your clothes are there.” Two of Sally’s velour sweat suits were folded on a chair, along with her washed and ironed clothes from yesterday. Sally vaguely remembered having changed into Violet’s silk pajamas and giving her keys to her apartment.
“I really appreciate it,” Sally said. “I’ll be out of here this morning.”
“Don’t even think about it. You’re staying the night.”
Dot, the shiny-eyed force of nature, hurtled in. Nothing had ever gone wrong for this quizzical girl in the crooked pigtails.
“Hi, Dot.” Sally tried not to smile too big.
Last month, when she was planning the wedding, Sally had made an extra effort to connect with her niece. Dot had hidden her face in her hands and told Violet, Mommy, tell the lady to stop smiling at me.
&nbs
p; “You read me a book?” Dot handed Sally a stiff copy of Goodnight Moon.
“What,” Violet said, off of Sally’s look. “You don’t like Goodnight Moon?”
“It was a little weird,” Sally admitted.
“Goodnight nobody. Don’t you love that? It’s so random.” Violet turned to Dot. “I’ll read it to you later, sweetheart.”
“Uppy, uppy.” Dot raised her arms. Violet scooped her up.
“Well, we’re off. I have errands and a playdate, then the realtor wants to meet me at that land we’re not going to buy. Be here when I get back.”
“I will.” Sally watched Violet leave and couldn’t resist. “Violet, those cargo pants . . .”
“I know, I know. They make my ass look gigantic, but I trekked to Everest Base Camp in them a million years ago and I have a sentimental attachment.”
“Wear them around here if you have to,” Sally said, “but get some low-rise jeans to wear in public.”
“I’m starting a new job next week. We can go to Barney’s and blow my paycheck before I get it. You can be my stylist.” Violet left.
Sally picked up a magazine. It was brand-new and didn’t have an address label on it. Neither did the other magazines. Violet must have picked them up especially for Sally. Maybe Sally had it backward: Violet was a nice person masquerading as a snob.
Sally ate her breakfast and took a shower. She carried her tray to the kitchen and tripped on something. An overstuffed laundry bag from the Beverly Hills Hotel had appeared in the hallway.
“Sally.” David stood at the kitchen counter. Violet had said he was out of town. “Are you feeling better? Violet left a note.”
“Hi! Yeah, I’m fine. I hope it’s all right that I spent the night.”
“I have to talk to you about something.”
Sally opened the dishwasher. “Sure, what?”
“I was looking through the mail, and before I realized it was your mail, I saw this.” Swinging between his thumb and index finger was her bankruptcy letter. “You declared bankruptcy?”
“Oh, my God —” Sally dropped a glass in the sink.
“The creditors listed are credit card companies,” David said. “What do I need to do?”
“Nothing. It’s over. The bankruptcy went through. Isn’t that what the letter says?”
“How were you able to file for Chapter Seven? After the Bankruptcy Act a couple of years ago, didn’t they make that more difficult?”
“I get paid in cash, so most of my income didn’t show.”
David considered this and nodded. “Remember that correspondence course I took to get my accounting degree?”
“Yeah.”
“Here’s what it taught me. Those who understand compound interest earn it; those who don’t, pay it. Got that?”
“Yes.”
“Next time, come to me, will you?”
“There won’t be a next time,” she said.
David handed her the discharge letter. “On another unpleasant topic: my wife called me last night, none too pleased that I never told her about your diabetes.”
“Oh.”
“You made me promise not to tell anyone, right?”
“Right.” She had, but that was way back in high school.
“Could you clarify that fact for Violet next time you see her?”
“I’m sorry,” said Sally. “I just assumed, because you were married, it would come up.”
“A promise is a promise, unless I’m instructed otherwise.”
“Well, what do you tell her when the bills come?” Sally asked.
“What bills?”
“My doctors’ bills.”
“I’m paying your doctors’ bills?” David’s head jerked back ever so slightly. She’d forgotten he did that.
“And my insurance.”
“That’s news to me.”
“Wait,” Sally said. “You didn’t know?”
“I believe you,” said David. “Anyone who screws in a lightbulb around here ends up on my insurance.”
The phone rang. David answered it. Sally held herself up, both hands on the counter. Her insides stung as if she’d just been eviscerated.
David handed her the phone. “Dr. Naeby, for you.”
“Oh,” said Sally.
“Okay. I’m going to the office. See you later.” David left. She waited for the door to shut, then took the call.
“Hi, Sally,” said Dr. Naeby. “How are you this morning?”
“Fine.”
“No cramping or excessive bleeding?”
“No, everything’s fine.”
“That’s the good news.” Dr. Naeby changed gears. “Now, about your blood test. Something of concern showed up in the first one, and that’s why I wanted to run another. . . .”
KARA stood proudly before David. Not only had she pieced together Geddy Lee’s message, but she’d also found the eBay auction and e-mailed David the link. David seemed unusually interested in it and had asked her to get Geddy Lee on the phone. David had just hung up and called Kara in.
“The bass?” he said.
“Yes?” Kara had pen in hand, ready to take notes.
“Pay for it with cash. I want that bass, the seller’s name, and where he lives on my desk before lunch.”
It took Kara a second to realize she was committing the number one cardinal sin of an assistant: standing there with the deer-in-headlights look. She had to say something, but all that came out was “Muawh —”
“Get it done,” David said.
“Of course.” Kara calmly walked down the hall to the office of the guy who did the bookings. “Hi, would you mind covering David’s phones?” she asked his secretary.
“Sure,” said the older Hillary, who had no choice. As David’s assistant, Kara outranked her.
Kara returned to her computer and found the auction. There was an option that let you “Buy It Now.” Which was a whopping $10,000. The actual auction had only reached $1,200 and it closed at five. It seemed stupid to pay $10,000 now, when David could probably buy the bass in a few hours for much less. Kara rose from her chair to point this out, then sat back down. It wasn’t her job to second-guess David. She bought the bass, contacted the seller, and got his address. He wanted to know more about her, but she said nothing. Any information was too much information.
The messenger from the bank arrived with the cash, and Kara walked him into David’s office. David tore open the plastic envelope, counted the money, and signed for it.
“I have the address and I’ll leave now to get the bass,” Kara said.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Really close: 8907 Sunset Boulevard.”
David’s head shot back. “That’s on the strip, right?”
“A place called Mauricio’s Boot Shop.”
David blinked. And blinked again. “Mauricio’s?”
“Yeah.”
David stood up. “I’ll get it myself.” He started out. The brick of hundreds was still on his desk.
“Don’t forget the money!” said Kara.
“Go to the bank and deposit it back into the account.”
“Of course,” said Kara.
Now she’s fucking Kurt Pombo! David fishtailed onto Sunset Boulevard. All he could figure was that Violet had moved on to Kurt Pombo and was funneling him rock memorabilia to sell on eBay. Had the great Violet Grace Parry truly stooped this low? It was impossible to fathom. David double-parked outside Mauricio’s and left the front door of his Bentley open. He flew into the boot shop. If he had a baseball bat he would have been wielding it.
The joint was empty. But not for long. Kurt entered from the back room. “Hey, David,” he said with a yip. “What’s up, bro?”
“So that’s how you wanna play it?” It must have come out pretty fucking menacing, because Kurt fled into the back like the little bitch he was. “You want to fuck with me?” David charged him. Kurt had nowhere to run in the tiny workroom. He cowered in the corner. David grabbed
him by the Hawaiian shirt and threw him against the wall.
“I’m sorry,” Kurt yowled. He slid to the floor. “I’ll give it back. It’s right there —”
“I don’t give a fuck about the bass.” David kicked Kurt in the gut. After two lonely months of Saint David, kicking the shit out of a wannabe lowlife sure hit the spot. “I’m here because of my wife, you asshole. But I don’t want her back, either. Whatever the fuck you two are doing together, she’s all yours.” He kicked him again.
“I swear — I didn’t — I swear. I’m not the one fucking your wife.”
David stopped.
“I just stole that shit from the car.” Kurt stood up. “I took the shit she was about to give to that other dude — the guy in the Stones cover band.”
David cocked his head and walked himself through the logic of this new information.
“I promise you, man,” Kurt said, “I never touched your wife. Take the bass. And the phone and the golf clubs. It’s all there. And your kid’s cough syrup.”
On the cobbler’s bench, among cowboy boots in various stages of finish, sat Dot’s eczema medicine. David had to smile. He extended his hand to Kurt, who recoiled. David grabbed his daughter’s medicine and left.
VIOLET sat in her car at the bottom of George Harrison’s former driveway, flipping through the escrow papers. Gwen had insisted on meeting at the property before Violet made any “rash decisions.” Violet had finally acquiesced. She felt a strange tenderness toward this older divorcée, her very own Ghost of Christmas Future. Violet then noticed that David had forgotten to sign the middle of page four.
“Shit,” she said.
“Shit,” said Dot.
“No, darling, we don’t say shit.”
“Mama? Out. Out.”
“We can’t get out.” Violet turned on the stereo.
Bobby . . . Bobby . . . Bobby . . . Bobby . . . Bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-Bobeeeee.