by Lisa Lutz
“I’m talking about Harkey,” he said.
“Well, I don’t think giving up is the answer. If I don’t take him down, who will?”
“Retirement or death,” Connor replied.
My cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Morty here. I have news. Big news. The kind of news you might want to be sitting down for.”
“Hang on a second.”
I went into Connor’s office to find a comfortable chair and avoid the distraction of the jukebox.
“What is it?”
“Gabe and the shiksa are engaged.”
“Then it’s time you started calling her Petra.”
“If that isn’t a goy name, I don’t know what is.”
“Do you really think an engagement is sitting-down news? I think the sitting-down imperative should be limited to a more shocking headline.”
“I’m old. I like most of my news sitting down.”
I did then sit down, for the record. “Well, it is newsworthy. I’ll give you that. Although it’s kind of weird hearing it from you first, Morty. Don’t you think she should have called me?”
“I got off the phone with Gabe only five minutes ago. She’ll probably call you any second now.”
As it turned out, my call-waiting buzzed through and it was Petra’s line.
“That’s her,” I said.
“Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Do me a favor, Izzele, eat an apple today.”
“Why?”
“It’s never too early to think about your health.”
I clicked over to the other line.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“I know. I have caller ID.”
“I know you know. That’s why I said ‘It’s me’ rather than my name.”
“What’s up?” I asked. “It’s been a while.”
“It certainly has,” Petra replied. “Your hair must look like shit.”1
“It doesn’t look great.”
“You should make an appointment.”
“I will.”
“What are you doing right now?”
“Uh, nothing, come to think of it.”
“I’ll see you in a half hour,” she said.
On my way out of the bar, Connor said, “Where are ya going now?”
“Haircut,” I replied.
“Well, don’ cut too much off. I like it long.”
His instruction, for obvious reasons, didn’t sit right with me. I approached the bar and leaned in so Connor would have to mirror my move. Then I could whisper.
“It’s my hair, if you haven’t noticed. I’ll do whatever I want with it.”
As I turned to walk away, Connor said in his lightest leprechaun voice, “I’ll see ya later, gorgeous.”
“Don’t wait up!” I shouted over my shoulder. “I have a date tonight.”
That would have been a superb exit line if Ex #12 weren’t a bartender who frequently returns home just before dawn. No matter how long the date lasted, I’d still be in bed before him.
Connor laughed mockingly and said, “Have a lovely time.”
An hour later, as Petra was hacking away at my hair, she finally broke the news to me.
“Gabe and I are engaged.”
“Finally,” I said.
“We’ve only been dating six months.”
“The ‘finally’ was in reference to giving me the news, not the length of your courtship.”
“You knew?”
“Morty called me right before you.”
“Wow. You and the old guy are tight.”
“I guess so.”
“Are you sure you want it this short?”
“I’m making a statement,” I replied.
Petra kept cutting and then there was a lull. This happens when you haven’t seen someone in a few months. History counts for only so much. A lull can happen with anyone.
“You must be happy that they’re moving back,” Petra said.
“Who?” I asked.
“Morty and Ruth.”
“They’re moving back?”
“He didn’t tell you?” Petra asked.
“No,” I replied, trying to figure out what scam Morty pulled to make that happen.
“I just heard the news, so it’s new. I’m sure he’ll tell you any day now.”
“Right,” I said.
Then Petra started blow-drying my hair, which dried up the conversation.
After being coiffed I returned to my car and tried to mess up my hair enough so that I resembled myself. Then I called Morty, hoping for the scoop. But the call went straight to voice mail. Then I phoned Henry to see if he’d gotten those fingerprint results back. Voice mail again. I decided to drive home and change for my lawyer date that night. While struggling with the decision between donning a conservative skirt and sweater set or that potentially perilous wraparound dress, I phoned David for a pep talk. The lawyer date was putting me in a bad mood and I needed a distraction.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Try saying ‘hello’ first and then maybe I’ll answer the question,” David replied.
“Sorry. I’ve been working on my pleasantries.”
“Work harder.”
“So how have you been?”
“Good. And you?”
“Fine. I got a haircut today. Petra’s engaged. Rumor has it Morty is moving back to the city.”
“That was fast,” David casually replied.
“Which of the above are you referring to?”
David thought about it. “All three, I guess.”
“Do you have an opinion on any of them?”
“Not that I feel like sharing.”
“Come to think of it, you rarely feel like sharing.”
“Are you calling for a reason,” David asked, “or is this just one of those ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ calls?”
“So, what are you doing?” I asked again, thinking enough time had passed.
“Reading.”
“What?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Is it porn? Because if it is, you shouldn’t say ‘reading.’ I think ‘looking’ would be the more appropriate term.”
“It’s not porn.”
“Hmmm. I can’t imagine why you’d want to keep it secret. Is it one of those Pot Roast for the Soul books?”
“No.”
“Would you find it in the self-help aisle of your local bookstore?”
“This conversation is nearing its end,” David said.
“I can sense that you would like me to switch topics, so I’m going to, because I’m evolving into the kind of person who switches topics when she senses the cue.”
“Well done.”
“Thank you,” I replied, glad for some validation.
“You know that evolution is a constant process, right? Improving yourself doesn’t end when you’ve stopped getting arrested regularly.”
“Are you always evolving?” I asked.
“I’d like to think so,” David replied.
“How does that work, exactly?” I inquired, not to mock, but out of genuine curiosity.
“It’s different for everyone,” David replied.
“But since we’re related, maybe your method could work on me.”
David sighed extra hard, which meant he was done talking with me on this topic. If I wanted to see how David was evolving, or whatever it was he was doing with all his free time, I would have to find another way to unearth that mystery. For now, I changed the subject.
“How’s Maggie?” I asked.
“That was a very clumsy transition,” David replied.
“I’m also working on my transitions.”
“Good.”
“So how is Maggie?”
“She’s fine.”
“She’s not under any unnecessary stress?”
“No more than usual.”
“Have you noticed any changes in her personality?”
> “Why are you asking?”
“I thought maybe Rae or Mom or somebody else was stressing her out.”
“Has she seemed stressed to you?” David asked.
“No,” I said. And that was the truth.
“I asked her to move in with me. Could that be causing her stress?”
This is when I realized I’d blown it. I had no idea what was causing Maggie stress, but now I was convincing my brother that he was the source of it.
“I’m sure that’s not the reason,” I said.
“Maybe she’s just not prepared for all this,” David said.
“You mean prepared for our family?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” I replied. Then I felt kind of bad. Like David’s relationship might run more smoothly if he and Maggie didn’t have all of us to contend with. “Forget I asked the question,” I said. “I’m sure everything is fine and if she is stressed, I assure you it is Rae’s fault.”
I’ve discovered that Rae is the best diagnosis for all stress-related conditions.
“You’re probably right,” David agreed.
There was a lull and then David surprised me with a question of his own.
“And how are things with you and Connor?”
“Who?” I asked.
“You’re hilarious,” he replied without conviction.
“Things are excellent,” I said. “You know I get free drinks, right?”
“Of course. I forgot. The primary selling point.”
“I wouldn’t say primary, but it is up on the list.”
“Do you think it will last, Isabel?”
“Sure,” I replied. “At least through the week.”
“Don’t you have another lawyer date coming up?”
“Oops. Thanks for reminding me. Talk to you later. Bye.”
MANDATORY
LAWYER DATE #4
To refresh your memory, lawyer dates with an even number are chosen at my discretion, minus the predetermined standards. I found www.litidate.com to be an excellent site for finding the available barristers in the area. For my particular situation, the best bets were the most attractive and well educated. I figured I could turn off one of those guys within five minutes flat (maybe less on a good day). The key was somehow getting them to go out with me to begin with. I didn’t feel like faking my educational background, so I admitted to PI work, but I did claim to be a golf enthusiast,1 a gourmet cook, and a killer on the tennis court.2 What I didn’t list on my profile but planned to market on the date, which would make my ill-suited-ness more ill suited, was that I was a new-age enthusiast with an astrological chart obsession.
Conrad Frith booked a table for two at Michael Mina3 for eight P.M. I arrived early to express the eagerness that men so often fear. I smiled too much, looking him up and down, attempting to illustrate approval of the specimen before me. Conrad, I got the feeling, was accustomed to this particular expression of approval. His attractiveness was that standard white-male attractiveness that is typically lost on me. However, I can fake approval with the best of them.
Once we were seated, the gushing phase of the evening commenced. I complimented Conrad’s choice of restaurant, then I complimented his tie, his suit, and after looking under the table, his shoes. He ordered a whiskey; I said, “Oh, that sounds tasty. I’ve never had one before. I think I’ll give it a try.” Then I returned to perusing the menu.
When the drinks arrived, I took a sip, made a face, and then immediately adjusted to its flavor and downed mine in one quick shot, calling the garçon4 over to bring me another. Then we ordered food. While I was pretty sure I had lost Conrad at “Your shoes are yummy,” I sealed the deal over dinner.
[Partial transcript reads as follows:]
ME: What’s your full name?
CONRAD: Conrad Easterly Frith.
ME: What a stately name. Are you a third or a fourth?
CONRAD: No, I’m just a first.
ME: Now, down to important matters. What’s your birthday?
CONRAD: July eighteenth.
ME: [with palpable disappointment] So, you’re a Cancer?
CONRAD: I guess so.
ME: There’s no guessing about it. If you were born on July eighteenth, you’re a Cancer.
CONRAD: I don’t pay much heed to those things.
ME: Well I do.
CONRAD: I see.
ME: I have some bad news for you.
CONRAD: What?
ME: Astrologically speaking, we’re a nightmare waiting to happen.
CONRAD: You don’t say.
ME: It could still work, but we’d be bucking the odds.
CONRAD: Should we even finish this meal?
ME: We already ordered.5
CONRAD: Maybe we should talk about something besides our astrological charts.
ME: That’s an idea.
CONRAD: You’re a golfer, I believe.
ME: Yes. One of my many loves.
CONRAD: What’s your handicap?
ME: I think the preferred term is “physical challenge” and I don’t have one as far as I know.
CONRAD: What’s your golf handicap? Your profile says you play golf.
ME: Oh, that. What’s yours?
CONRAD: Nine.
ME: No way! Mine too!
CONRAD: Excuse me?
ME: So, aside from golf, what do you do for fun?
THE “FREE SCHMIDT!” EXPLOSION
My punishment, after my mother heard the recording of Lawyer Date #4, was playing chauffeur for Rae the following Saturday. At one P.M. Rae’s final stab at the SAT would be over, and so would her chance to sway all those Ivy League schools my parents had forced her to apply to.
I waited outside Mission High School (the test center) for fifteen minutes until the exodus of weary, test-addled students began. Out of the corner of my eye, something struck me as off, but I didn’t turn my head from the newspaper until it was impossible to ignore.
Picture this: A swarm of close to two hundred awkward and not-so-awkward students of various sizes, shapes, and ethnicities, all in the now-familiar blue T-shirts with yellow felt letters:
Free Schmidt!
Just as all penguins look alike to most nonpenguins, I didn’t even notice my sister until she approached the car and knocked on the window. Intriguingly, she was accompanied by none other than that secret boyfriend with the bicycle, although he did not have his accessory with him. I unlocked the car door.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
“Only time will tell,” Rae vaguely replied.
“You didn’t throw it again, did you?” I asked, annoyed. It was a reasonable accusation. She’d thrown the PSAT (pronounced Psssat) last year.1
“No, not this time,” Rae answered.
By now both my sister and the relatively unknown male were safely ensconced in the car. I thought introductions were in order.
“Who’s the intruder?” I asked.
And then the fresh-faced young male leaned over the seat and held out his hand.
“Hi, I’m Fred. Nice to meet you, Isabel.”
“Fred what?”2
“Fred Finkel.”
“Seriously?” I said, because if Rae was in the mood to make up a name, this would be it.
“Do you want to see my ID?” “Fred” asked pleasantly.
“Sure,” I replied. “Why not?”
“Fred” presented an authentic school identification card. He wasn’t lying.
“I’m sorry,” I said, handing it back to him. The apology was less about demanding the ID and more about his unfortunate name. Fred picked up on that.
“It’s okay,” he replied. “After seventeen and a half years, you get used to some things.”
“I like your attitude, Fred.”
“Thanks.”
“Where’s your bike?”
“How’d you know I rode a bike?”
“There’s a wear mark on your right pant leg from a leg strap.”
“A friend o
f mine is riding my bike home. But your observation was impressively Holmesian.”
“Thank you,” I replied, pleased that my fake deduction got its due notice. Fred was growing on me in leaps and bounds. Aside from the company he kept and the FREE SCHMIDT! T-shirt he wore like a uniform, no obvious faults were apparent in this boy. Was it possible that Rae had better taste in men than I did?
“Rae, what have you done to all these people?” I asked, staring at the swarm of blue T-shirts with bright yellow lettering.
“I mobilized them,” Rae replied.
Trying to avoid a repeat of the same conversation I’d been having for the past several weeks, I kept quiet and waited for my driving instructions. Because celebrating was in order, and celebrating with the unit is hardly celebrating (especially these days), Rae insisted that I drive the pair to Henry’s house. I couldn’t imagine what he had planned for the duo, but I didn’t bother asking.
“They’re everywhere,” I said, slowly fighting my way through the traffic of FREE SCHMIDT! fashion campaigners.
“It’s not too late for you to join the cause, Izzy,” Rae said.
“It looks like you’ve got it covered.”
“Schmidt’s not the only one.”
“I have my Schmidt, Rae. I don’t need another.”
“We’ll talk about this later,” my sister said.
And we did. Sort of.
THE FINGERPRINT FAIRY
I delivered Team Schmidt to Henry’s house a few minutes later. He patted the delightful Fred on the back and said, “Dude, how you been?”
“Dude”? Since when did Henry use the word “dude”? Also intriguing: his familiarity with the previously unfamiliar Fred. Before I inquired into professional matters, I needed some background information.
“You know Fred?” I asked with a touch of accusation.
“He’s great, isn’t he?” Henry replied.
Meanwhile, Fred and Rae ignored the adults and raided the shelf in Henry’s pantry that contains my sister’s stash of food, all of which lives somewhere in the heavens of the food pyramid—specifically, a blend of salted and heavily sugared items that Henry thoroughly disapproves of and yet agreed to accommodate under the duress of a rather lengthy negotiation.
“He seems more likable than I would expect,” I replied, “but sometimes that’s a sign of a true con artist.”
“No con,” Henry said. “He’s exactly what he seems: nice, honest, humble, smart, geeky, curious. You couldn’t assemble a better kid if you got a kit and made one on your own.”