Family Affair

by Caprice Crane

  The doorbell rings, and in walk Leo and Donna Solowitz, a New York transplant who at thirty-four is fresh off her second divorce and likes to announce that all she took was four million dollars, the Maserati, and Leo. Apparently she was married to a man of excessive wealth, since she deems that a bargain.

  “Hi, girls,” she clucks. “Leo had steak tartare on the patio at Clafoutis, so could ya just check his teeth to make sure he doesn’t have bits of meat in them? Thanks.”

  I look at Trish and give her a knowing smile. Trish doesn’t like it when someone asks you to do something and then thanks you in advance before you’ve accepted.

  “C’mere, Leo,” I say. “Let me see those choppers.”

  I pull Leo’s skin away from his teeth and marvel at how much of it there is. He has the cutest rows of saggy skin—they make you want to pull and stretch them, not to the point of pain but just enough to see how much there really is. Leo has regular dental cleanings, so his teeth are in fine order, and when I take a peek inside his mouth there’s no tartare—or even tartar—to be found.

  Donna plops herself on the couch and lets out a sigh. “You would not believe the men I’m dating,” she says. “Trish, you’re better off with women. Layla, don’t ever get divorced.”

  “I’m separated,” I say, although I wish I didn’t.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” she says. “But really—what was your husband? A teacher or accountant or something?”

  “A football coach,” I say. “College. Division Three.”

  “Exactly,” she says. “There’s no cha-ching goin’ on there. He’s doin’ you a favor. Now you can find a guy who’s got some substance.”

  I might not have loved football, but I liked that Brett was a coach. I loved it. I loved watching him connect with the team and knowing that he was doing what he loved. And why am I thinking of him in past tense, like he’s dead? He’s still a coach.

  I hate this. And I don’t want to continue this conversation with Donna Solowitz at all, so I change the subject. “What would you like for Leo’s photo today?”

  “I’ll tell ya—and you’re not gonna believe it,” Donna replies.

  “We will,” Trish answers.

  “Leo is in love with a Maltese named Princess Madison,” she explains. “They met on Dogbook and they are in love, love, love.”

  “Have they met in person?” I ask, as I try not to wince picturing the size discrepancy between a shar-pei and a Maltese, and hoping they haven’t.

  “No,” Donna says. “Not yet. But they will. Princess Maddie Boo lives in Chicago, so we’re going to take a trip soon.”

  “Wow,” I let slip.

  “Her mom and I exchanged phone numbers, and we talk on the phone all the time,” Donna goes on. “We became instant best friends. We’re thinking of starting a line of couture dog collars together called Leo Loves Madison. Leo, of course, gets first billing.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” Trish says, and I suck in breath, because here it comes. “I want to get this straight. You didn’t know this woman at all. You both made online profiles for your dogs. They became ‘friends’—”

  “They fell in love,” Donna interrupts.

  “Right,” Trish says. “They fell in love. Over the Internet. And now you are flying to Chicago to let them meet in person.”

  “And to talk about our company,” Donna reminds her.

  “Got it,” Trish says. “Just wanted to make sure I was understanding the situation fully.”

  “What can I say?” Donna shrugs. “It’s love.”

  “That is just fantastic,” Trish says. “Now, does Leo prefer the mouse, or is he more into using the keyboard?”

  Donna, not picking up on the joke, launches into her plan. Then my cell phone rings. I see Brooke’s name on the caller ID and excuse myself to answer.

  She opens with, “I’ve figured out what my problem is.”

  “I’m intrigued,” I say.

  “I’ve been interviewing with women. Women are jealous bitches. All of them.”

  “That does indeed sound like a problem.”

  “Well, problem solved. I interviewed with a dude today. A hot dude. And guess what?”

  “You got the job?” I ask.

  “No, I got laid.”

  “And then you got the job?”

  “Nice,” she says. Then, “Yes, I got the job.”

  “That’s great,” I tell her. “Congrats!”

  “I didn’t get laid,” she tosses out. “I was kidding about that part. But I will. I could see him undressing me with his eyes. And I wasn’t wearing any underwear.”

  “Well, I’m very happy for you. And him. But I’m at work right now, and I do need to get back to it.”

  “Fine.” Brooke sighs. “Abandon me. It’s only fair. I’m abandoning you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The job’s in Vancouver,” she says casually.

  “What?”

  “I know. Crazy, right? He’s a producer, and he’s about to do a movie in some rural town in Vancouver and he needs an on-set assistant. How freakin’ fun!”

  “Wow,” I say, a bit stunned, separation anxiety kicking in. “That sounds incredible. But how long are you gone for?”

  “Months! Until the movie wraps,” she says. “Oh my God, that was so fun to say. I’ve always wanted to say my album ‘dropped,’ but a movie wrapping is a close second. I am so cool. You now have a very cool friend.”

  “Lucky me,” I say. “But seriously, I have to go. I’ll call you later, Captain Hollywood.”

  “You won’t be hearing from me for a bit. Seriously, Layla,” Brooke warns. “I hear cell phone service is really spotty where I’m going. Isn’t that exciting?”

  I conjure up the image of her tromping in her Prada shoes through Hicksville, British Columbia, someplace with one Motel 6, where Mom’s Greasy Spoon is the best dining option open nightly until seven p.m., and fight back a snort. I’m sure I’ll hear from her two seconds after she gets off the plane, and she’ll be screaming bloody murder.

  We hang up and I go back to Donna and Trish. Donna is talking. Trish does not look at all amused.

  “So I was wondering if you have a green screen. Princess Madison just changed her profile picture, and she’s holding up a sign that says I love Leo. Well, she’s sitting next to it. It’s placed in front of her, or to the side, somewhere you can see—you get it. Anyway, if you had a green screen we could CGI a street sign that reads Madison Avenue—you know, from New York, my old home and Maddie’s actual namesake. We’ll have Leo holding up a sign that says I love … and pointing up at the sign.”

  “Wow,” Trish says.

  “Hmm,” I add. “We don’t have a green screen, but you could probably do that in Photoshop. I’m just thinking of the best way to get Leo to look like he’s pointing.”

  “You’re so good,” Trish whispers, as she walks past me and over to the kitchen. “You have the patience of Job.”

  “I don’t have Photoshop, and anyway, I don’t know how to do all that stuff,” Donna whines. “If I pay you extra, will you do it?”

  I look at Trish. She isn’t smiling.

  I smile at Donna. What else do I have to do these days?

  • • •

  Actually, I do have something on my plate.

  I don’t consider myself a builder, per se. Per anything, really. So when Trish tells me that PETCO finally called and gave us the specs for the prototype we need to build for them, as well as how much we’ll need to invest to get the TLC Paw Prints pet photo booth up and running, I’m a little leery, to say the least. Not because I’m not willing to try, but because situations like these often find me trying my hardest, messing up majorly, then calling in a professional. I’m just not that handy. So my hesitation at the project is not me being lazy or unwilling, it’s the fact that a) I don’t want to push all the work off onto Trish, and b) I see myself eventually going on eBay and buying an
existing photo booth.

  Sounds dramatic, I know, but there was the time I tried to build a doghouse for Sammy Davis Junior. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that while the Fosters praised me incessantly for the final result, they wound up using it for firewood. When I was in grade school, I couldn’t even make that stupid thing out of tinfoil, cardboard, and duct tape—or its simpler cousin, the slit in the paper plate—to watch the eclipse. I am not handy. This is all I’m saying.

  But Trish swears that “This is where memories are made,” and “This is the exciting part,” and something else about me “sucking it up,” so I go online to do a little research on building your own photo booth. Granted, the listed examples I find are not photo booths in which you’d take pictures of pets, but there is a surprising abundance of how-to articles on the matter, including one step-by-step instructional from an undergrad at Carnegie Mellon. I also check eBay for photo booths just in case, and I am horrified to find that they start at $5,750.00 with a buy-it-now option at $7,900.00. Not an option. Not unless this PETCO deal was written in stone.

  At three o’clock, Trish calls and tells me to meet her at Home Depot so we can buy the wood for the three exterior walls. When I arrive, I’m momentarily stunned by the hordes of Hispanic men standing around the entrance, looking to pick up labor gigs. It bothers me to think we live in this great country, yet people still have to stand around and practically beg to do menial labor every day. Not even a whole sixty seconds later, a lightbulb pops up over my head suggesting Trish and I hire one of these able-bodied gentlemen to do the job for us.

  “No, we can’t hire a Mexican guy,” I hear from over my shoulder. I turn to see Trish wearing a smirk.

  “I didn’t say anything about hiring anyone illegal.”

  “But you thought it,” she replies.

  “Did not.”

  “Come on,” she says, and she tugs at the sleeve of my hoodie and drags me inside.

  The place is huge. Who can find anything here? To the do-it-yourself-ignorant, it’s like Walmart, Costco, and Sam’s Club, but with much less fun to be had and no people in hairnets and plastic gloves handing out snacks. Note to management: People get hungry, especially when the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf next door is out of their favorite muffins.

  As we pass through one of the aisles—I believe it was Doorknobs—and alongside the portable fans and fluorescent lighting, I happen upon a rack of black-and-orange Home Depot baseball caps. I promptly take one and put it on my head.

  “I can see your plumber butt taking shape already.” Trish laughs.

  She whips out the list, and I’m even more terrified of the project. We apparently need six one-fourth-inch sheets of plywood cut four feet by six feet. Had it been up to me, I’d have thought we needed only three. We need wood screws, a screwdriver, molding, a jigsaw—which makes me realize that at some dark point in human history, jigsaw puzzles were actually cut out by hand—a computer, an interface/controller, an LCD monitor, a photo printer, a shelf, hinges, a swivel eye hasp (What the hell is a hasp?), a padlock (Really? In case someone tries to run off with our six-foot booth?), a bench, a curtain, and of course a curtain rod, and a software program that Trish apparently already has. For our prototype, we won’t include some of the hardest parts—like a coin-and-cash acceptor.

  “That would be so cool, though,” I plead, a bit unrealistically. “And one that takes credit cards.”

  “Right. And sensors to tell whether the owner is uglier than the dog and adjust the lighting accordingly.”

  For a second I’m thinking that would actually be a very cool feature, but then I see she’s gone deadpan on me.

  “A lot of stuff would be nice,” she says, “but we have to remember something: We’re semi-broke. Unless you have money to throw in? I imagine with the whole Brett scenario you’re less liquid….”

  “I didn’t plan on my marriage being wrecked,” I remark.

  “No, I’m not blaming anyone. We just don’t need a money acceptor right now. PETCO can take what’s owed at the counter. For now.” She sighs, then adds, “I really believe in this. It could be so big for us. For now, we hold our noses and give it our best shot with what we’ve got.”

  She hugs me, and I’m certain her sniffle is fighting back tears of stress.

  I ponder the sticky situation. According to the PETCO people, the first prototype is due asap, even though they were the ones who delayed on the specs. (Corporations!) We have to simply go forward and hope our first attempt isn’t considered a flaming bag of dog crap on their porch, so to speak.

  As we exit, I look longingly at the dozens of willing-and-able men offering their services. Trish knocks my hat off my head and asks, “Did you pay for that?”

  “I assume so,” I say. “They saw it on my head when they rang us up.”

  “You just stole that hat.”

  “I did no such thing,” I argue. “It was right there on my head. If the cashier didn’t ring it up, that’s her fault.”

  “Check the receipt,” Trish demands.

  “Seriously?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  “No, you look like Ms. Murphy, my mean second-grade teacher who hit my hand with a ruler.” To say Ms. Murphy was a kind woman would be like calling Victoria Beckham fat.

  I pull out the receipt and do not see the hat listed anywhere. I put it back in my pocket. “There, I checked the receipt, just like you asked. Can we go now?”

  “What are you, twelve?”

  “I suddenly feel like it,” I admit. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Go back in and pay for the hat,” she commands. “I can’t have your shoplifting fantasies bringing our project bad karma.”

  “Okay,” I say, “but a) I did not shoplift. I honestly didn’t even think about the hat when we were checking out. And b) I don’t like your attitude.”

  But I walk back into the store and tell the cashier that she forgot to charge me.

  “You can have it,” the cashier says. “It’s okay.”

  “I’d really rather pay for it,” I say.

  “Why?” she asks, perplexed.

  “Because my partner is outside, and she’s crazy and will seriously go loony tunes if I don’t produce a receipt. So can you just ring me up, please?”

  The cashier looks at me like I’m the one who’s one beak short of Daffy, but she takes my $9.99.

  • • •

  The building of the booth takes a shorter time than I’d imagine, and Trish and I get into only two fights, which is kind of amazing, considering the magnitude of the task. I had us slotted for at least four. All in all, we put the thing together in about two days—the casualties being my thumb and her sanity. (Is it my fault that I like to listen to greatest-hits CDs? I don’t think that’s a crime. And p.s., listening to any whole album just for the rare gem of a song you might like doesn’t make up for the time spent listening to sucky stuff for the other seventy minutes. To which she’ll say, “Don’t listen to sucky artists,” to which I’ll say, “Show me one band besides Radiohead that continuously puts out a solid entire record.”) (Or Wilco.)

  When it comes time to test the booth, we bring Sammy Davis Junior over and sit him on the bench. And our first photos are … blank. We open the curtain to make sure he is indeed still sitting there like a good boy, which he is, and it takes two more tries before we come to the realization that either Sammy Davis Junior is a vampire who does not show up in photographs or we didn’t take into consideration the height of the animals versus the specs of the people booth. This probably needs to be addressed.

  What we subsequently realize is that animals come in many heights and sizes, so we’ll need an adjustable bench or removable ledges that will work to prop the pets up within view, support owners who want to make it a “family” portrait, and at the same time not be an eyesore. This takes an additional day’s work. But after about one hundred or so fits and starts—overexposures, underexposures, the back of my head appe
aring as the camera goes off late, blank sheets pouring out of the printer in pairs and triplets—we finally witness a miracle: With about two sheets of photo paper left in the printer tray, we see an undeniably cute trio of snapshots of Trish forcing a smile for the hundredth time, Sammy proudly, if nervously, perched on her lap.

  The TLC Paw Prints photo booth is born. Or whelped.

  ginny

  November 18

  Dearest Ev,

  I wish you lived closer so you could have joined us at the corn maze, or as Layla calls it, the maize maze. Isn’t she clever? She brought a friend, a girl named Heather, and we had such a nice time.

  I had the worst nightmare last night and I can’t tell Bill because I fear it would frighten him, so you’re the only person I can talk to about it. Last night I dreamed that Bill died. It was the most terrifying dream I’ve ever had. He went to bed before me but only by about fifteen minutes. I was washing up and doing the ten thousand things we do before bed—why is it so much easier for men, Ev? I swear we got the short end of the stick on so many levels.

  Anyway, I finished up my before-sleep routine and crawled into bed next to Bill. I leaned over to kiss him and he didn’t respond. I thought for sure he was teasing me, because for all the times he falls asleep watching TV, he never falls asleep before we kiss good night. So I climbed over him and bit his nose—not hard, just teasing him back, since I thought he was trying to pull a fast one. Then as my eyes adjusted to the light in the room, I thought I noticed that his eyes were slightly open. So I shook him. And he didn’t wake up. I jumped over him and turned on the light, and, Evelyn, it was the most frightening thing I’d ever seen. Bill’s skin was all purple or brown or blue—dark and dreadful. And I screamed. I screamed so loud in my dream that thankfully I woke myself up.