by Lisa Lutz
Saturday afternoon I commenced a bar crawl, anonymously auditioning bars to be my new watering hole.
I started with a beer at the Kilowatt, but then I decided I needed a place closer to the office, in the event of an emergency. I hopped on the Van Ness bus and stopped at O’Farrell and walked a few blocks to The Nite Cap. I made friends within a few minutes and decided I needed a place with more anonymity. I then strolled down to Polk Street, which is like a bar garden—a vast and incongruous mix of flora ranging from weeds, to daisies, to lilacs, to orchids, and even the occasional plain but snobby rose (which I suppose I associate with wine bars—and those were totally out of the question). I dropped into Lush Lounge and ordered a whiskey. I liked it, but somehow the name seemed too fancy for me. I moved on to Edinburgh Castle, but it reminded me too much of Uncle Ray and it made me sad. Still, I stayed for another drink and honored his memory.
When I finally surfaced again, it was night and the cool air sent a chill through me. My audition wasn’t complete, so I roamed the street a little longer looking for that perfect flower. And then I found it—the Hemlock, a tavern right off Hemlock Street, walking distance from Spellman Investigations. It seemed perfect considering the mood I was in. I sat down at the bar and I ordered a drink. I made small talk with the bartender, but that was it. No point in things getting personal. I was going to learn to keep things professional. That was the only way this kind of relationship could work out.
By seven P.M. I was tanked, out of cash for a cab, and in no mood to take the bus. Since Rae always asks for rides from Henry, I didn’t see any reason why he should deny me.
I made the call.
“Hello. I need a ride.”
“Isabel?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Only a little.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Hemlock.”
“Where is it?”
“On Hemlock Street.”
“Off Polk?”
“Yes. Don’t you think it’s cool there’s a street called Hemlock? It’s more like an alley, but I think it’s cool. Don’t you?”
“I’ll be there soon. Don’t drink anymore.”
I ordered another beer while I waited for Henry. He arrived twenty minutes later, looked at the bartender, and said, “Is she paid up?”
The bartender, whose name I never got because now I’m all into the anonymity thing, nodded his head. Henry took my arm.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“You called me,” he replied, annoyed.
I didn’t forget calling him, I just felt like being difficult.
“Oh yeah,” I said.
“How drunk are you, Isabel?”
“Extremely,” I replied.
Can you blame me for drowning my sorrows? In the past four days, I had been locked in a file room for eleven hours, my boyfriend had broken up with me, and I had been directly responsible for having my sister arrested on felony charges. Plus, every single case I was working on was going nowhere. This was definitely not my best week.
Henry pulled his car into the driveway of my apartment building and left a note on the windshield in the event one of the neighbors needed access to the garage. I stumbled up the stairs; he made sure I didn’t plummet to my death.
“Is Connor here?” Henry asked.
“Nope.”
“You expecting him?”
“Huh.”
“Yes or no. That was indistinguishable.”
“You like big words.”
“It’s not that big a word.”
“It has many letters. I can’t count them right now, but if I did I think you’d be surprised how many letters it has.”1
“Yes or no,” Henry said. Unfortunately I had forgotten the question.
“Huh?”
“Are you expecting Connor?”
“No way, José.” (One of the problems with being drunk is that you say things you wouldn’t normally, and if you say something like that once, there’s always a chance it will pop up again inadvertently.)
I tried to work the key in the door, but it was testing Henry’s patience, so he took it from me and worked the lock himself. Once inside, I threw myself down on the couch. Henry busied himself in the kitchen. Then he made me sit up and drink a glass of water. Then he served me a plate of toast and butter.
I seemed to sober up for just a split second and my mind briefly returned to work.
“Where are my fingerprints!” I demanded.
“On your fingers,” Henry replied.
“Noooo. Not my fingerprints. The ones I gave you. I need them. I need them now.”
“You don’t need them right now,” Henry replied. “Eat your toast.”
“Don’t try to distract me from my work.”
“There’s a backlog in the lab and they’re not a priority. You’ll get them when I get them.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said, which I suppose doesn’t really make any sense.
After that brief exchange, Henry made me drink another glass of water, then take two aspirin and have another glass of water, until I flat-out refused.
“Are you trying to kill me?” I asked.
“You’ll thank me in the morning.”
The next morning, I was in no condition to thank anyone. I got out of bed, ate more toast, drank more water, and went back to bed. Two hours later, I made eggs (loaded with Tabasco sauce) and coffee and once again returned to bed with a pounding headache.
At eleven A.M. Dr. Hangover (Henry) phoned to check on my status. He asked if I needed anything; I said no. At one P.M. Henry dropped by with more pho. And after I ate it, I was at 70 percent. Then Henry handed me a grocery bag.
“I don’t approve of this kind of nourishment, but I’ve heard that it helps with the hangovers.”
“Just say ‘hangovers’. Not ‘the hangovers’. You sound like Morty.”
“Whatever. At your age, you shouldn’t be having ‘the hangovers’ anymore.”
“Can we have this conversation in about five years? My head still hurts.”
“Just take the bag.”
I looked inside the offering and saw what appeared to be the entire contents of my sister’s junk food stash from Henry’s apartment. Potato chips, beef jerky, licorice, dark chocolate malt balls, a variety pack of Jelly Bellies, Tootsie Rolls, and Blow Pops.
“I’ll be 85 percent in no time at all.”
“Where’s Connor?” Henry asked, interrupting my brief moment of happiness.
“Not here,” I replied.
“Something you’d like to share?”
“Don’t like sharing. You know that.”
“Is it over?”
Long pause.
“Yep.”
“What happened?”
“Bernie crawled into bed with him while I was locked in the file room.”
Henry sat down next to me and choked back laughter. He put his arm around me and said, “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I replied. “It was over long before that. Do me a favor, though. Don’t tell my mom. I’m not in the mood to watch her celebrate.”
“It’s a deal.”
PHONE CALL
FROM THE EDGE #28
After Henry left, I devoured Rae’s unnatural food stash and watched bad TV. My evening was broken up by Morty, finally returning my call:
MORTY: What’s new, Izzele?
ME: If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.
MORTY: Never stopped you before.
ME: I wouldn’t know where to begin.
MORTY: It’s true. You tell stories funny. You always start in the middle.
ME: Here’s a headline: Rae committed a felony and might actually have to do time in a juvenile facility.
MORTY: That is news. What did she do?
ME: Something very bad.
MORTY: Usually felonies are. Feel like sharing?
&
nbsp; ME: I’m not ready to talk about it. Let’s switch subjects.
MORTY: Okay, how’s your Harkey investigation going?
ME: Nowhere.
MORTY: Your brother still seeing the hooker?
ME: I explained this to you before. She’s not a hooker.
MORTY: Sorry, I got confused. I’m not even going to ask about your Irish boyfriend.
ME: Good. Don’t.
MORTY: I didn’t. That’s what I just said.
ME: Don’t you have some news for me, Morty?
MORTY: That’s right, I haven’t told you yet. We’re moving back to San Fran.
ME: Say San Francisco, not San Fran.
MORTY: Why? Life’s short. No point wasting it on extra syllables.
ME: It makes you sound like a tourist.
MORTY: You’re grumpy today.
ME: You have no idea what the past few days have been like for me.
MORTY: True, because you haven’t told me.
ME: Later. You’ll hear all about it later.
MORTY: Don’t wait too long. I’m old.
ME: I am well aware of that.
MORTY: I got the shirt, by the way.
ME: What shirt?
MORTY: The blue shirt that says “Free Schmidt.”
ME: I didn’t send you that shirt.
MORTY: Who did?
ME: Rae.
MORTY: It came with instructions. A typewritten note that told me I should wear it in public at least twice a week. Who is Schmidt?
ME: A man inadvertently responsible for one of the most traumatic events of my life.
MORTY: So, I take it we don’t want to free him?
ME: No, we want to free him. Definitely.
MORTY: Should I wear the shirt?
ME: Wear it, don’t wear it, I don’t care. I just don’t want to talk about Schmidt anymore.
MORTY: Okay. How’s the weather?
ME: Excuse me, isn’t there some real news to discuss?
MORTY: Are you referring to my forthcoming return to San Fran?
ME: Ahem.
MORTY: Cisco.
ME: Yes. Give it to me straight, Morty. How on earth did you convince Ruthy to move back to the city?
MORTY: Let’s call it divine intervention.
BRIDE OF
SUNDAY-NIGHT DINNER
Rae was in Spellman lockdown when the guests arrived, and there she would remain for the rest of the evening and for several days to follow. I was surprised to find my parents persisting with their rigorous punishment regimen. I say that because the last time I’d tried to get Rae arrested1 (for grand larceny of my car), my parents forced me to drop the charges. This time around, there would most likely be a plea bargain and serious probation—which might interfere with her college applications, which would most definitely interfere with my mother’s dreams for Rae’s future.
Maggie found Rae a defense attorney named Zack Frank. Rae tried to fire him because she didn’t like his two first names, but my mother rehired him and informed Rae that she would be making no decisions of her own until she turned eighteen (five months from the date of Rae’s arrest).
When David and Maggie arrived, my mother and father’s behavior got me thinking that they had heard about the anxiety drugs as well—that and the new rule on the whiteboard.
Rule #55—Be extra nice to Maggie
Within the first five minutes, my mother asked Maggie if she was comfortable, if she could get her something to drink. When Maggie said no, my mom said she’d get her a lemonade, rendering the previous exchange moot. My father then suggested that they light an incense stick and do a pre-dinner meditation together. Maggie found this all very amusing, despite the scowl on David’s face. When Maggie sat down on the couch, Dad slid over a footstool and suggested Maggie put her feet up. David’s scowl remained.
“Such a nice face,” Mom said to David, “and that’s what you do with it?”
David turned to Maggie and said, “You tell them, or I’ll tell them.”
Maggie merely rolled her eyes and put her feet up.
“We are not getting sucked into their world,” David said.
None of us knew precisely what he was speaking of, but we gathered it was a general dis on the Spellman clan.
“Hey!” said my dad, not really knowing what he was saying “hey” to.
My mother served Maggie her lemonade and turned to my brother for an explanation.
Maggie sipped her drink and said, “I’m perfectly healthy.”
“We’re very happy to hear that,” my mother replied.
“And?” David said, coaxing her.
“And those pills Rae found in my desk were planted there. Okay? Sorry. I did it so she wouldn’t turn on me like she does with you guys.”
It seemed that Maggie’s stress had imparted stress to my parents, who feared that they or their spawn were the cause of it. So once Maggie’s confession was made, the barometer of stress in the room dipped considerably.
“No harm done,” my father casually replied. “What’s for dinner?” he asked.
In case you’re curious, dinner was an only slightly less bland offering than the prison food upstairs (salmon, steamed vegetables, and brown rice vs. a can of generic chicken noodle soup and stale bread).
After dinner, David got up to use the restroom. The doorknob was missing and the latch was taped flat. You could open and close the door by looping your finger through the hole. My parents had attached a temporary flip sign for privacy that said OCCUPIED/NOT OCCUPIED.
“What’s happening to this house?” David said at full volume.
“Nothing,” Mom casually replied. “We’re just doing some home improvement.”
“Then why is everything unimproved?”
I studied my parents as David questioned them. Their deceit was taking on an unusual form. It was vague and uncalculated, as if they weren’t sure exactly what they were hiding.
“We’ve been busy. We haven’t had time to go to the hardware store.”
“Then why didn’t you just leave the old doorknobs where they were?” David asked.
“Excellent question,” I added. “It’s not just the five doorknobs, either. There’s a missing light fixture, a towel rod, kitchen drawer handles, and the curtains in the upstairs bathroom. What are you hiding?”
The unit cleared the table and ignored all further inquiries.
Briefly, David and I convened and agreed to investigate the missing hardware matter more thoroughly. The couple departed shortly after that, but for me, the night was still young.
Over coffee and sliced pineapple Dad said, “In light of your troubles with Rae, we thought we should do something to make it up to you.”
“Are you going to buy me a new car?”
“No,” Mom replied.
“A pony?”
“No,” Dad replied.
“Well I hope it’s not a raise, because I was going to demand one anyway.”
“You’ll get another raise as soon as business and the economy improve,” Mom sourly replied.
“I’ve already lost interest.”
“We’re granting you three wishes,” Dad said, trying to make it sound exciting. “Of course, there are some strict stipulations.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Essentially, you may make three demands upon Rae in exchange for the incident.”
“Don’t call it ‘the incident.’ Call it what it is.”
“In exchange for locking you in a file room overnight—”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You may make three random demands upon your sister,” Dad repeated.
“I’m not dropping the charges,” I said defensively, thinking this was some sort of barter.
“No. This is in addition to her official charges. Okay?” Mom interjected.
“Really?” I replied as the evil machinations of my mind began working overtime. Sadly, all my early wishes were nixed on the spot. The nix
ed list follows:
• I’d like her to shave her head.
• Move her bedroom into the garage.
• Make her audition for American Idol.
• Dreadlocks?
• A tattoo that says “Isabel rocks!”
• Five thousand dollars in an offshore account.
• Clean my apartment once a week until she goes to college.
• Make her watch Scared Straight! in a forty-eight-hour loop.2
• Twenty thousand dollars in an offshore account.
• A tattoo that says “I ™ my mommy.”3
By the time I’d listed my tenth wish and my parents said no, I had little faith that I would be able to come up with a trio of punishments that would a) be approved, b) make Rae suffer, and c) provide me with a satisfyingly sadistic pleasure. But after careful ruminations, I found my three. I hope you will approve; I did the best I could.
THREE WISHES
My parents decided that I should have the pleasure of breaking the news to Rae. She already knew that it was coming and had been warned beforehand to treat me with calm respect. Actually, I think this time around Rae’s contrition was not a face she put on but a real understanding that she had gone too far.
“Are you ready for my punishments?” I asked after I entered her room.
Rae took a deep breath and replied, “Yes. And once again I’d like to say how sorry I am.”
“Number one: When you return to school, for one week straight you must wear a dress every day.”
“I only own one dress,” Rae replied. “And it’s that black one from Uncle Ray’s funeral.”
“That still fits you?”
“Mom made me buy it big, just in case.”
“In case what, someone else died?”
“I guess so. Do you want me to wear that one?”
“No. I’ll have Mom pick out some things for you. She’ll enjoy that.”
Rae sighed with great sadness and held her tongue patiently.
“Number two,” I said. “There’s a bag of shredded paper in the basement. I want to know what it is.”
“The time frame?”
“One week.”
Rae took another deep breath, accepting her fate.
“What else?”
“That’s all,” I replied.